The Last Coincidence

Eleven

I spent what was left of Friday, not counting dinner, trying to get Wolfe to discuss the James-Linville case, but he wasn’t having any, and when he digs his heels in, there’s not a lot I can do, despite my bragging to Noreen that I am able to push him better than anybody else on the globe.

I finally gave up after we’d been in the office for about an hour following dinner. “Lord knows, I don’t ask a lot,” I had said to the covers of the open book that hid Wolfe’s face from me. “Just a set of basic instructions to get me moving in the right direction. Here we’ve taken money from this trusting young woman, who for whatever reasons has confidence in your detecting abilities. At this very moment she probably is sitting at home wondering about how you are progressing on this—”

Wolfe set his book down deliberately and fixed me with a glare that would have done credit to Bela Lugosi. “Archie, you are becoming a Momus.”

“Yes, sir. I must be getting edgy because of that maddening middle-class Midwestern conscience of mine; you know, the one that whispers to me that I should be industrious at all times.” That sentence and a few more variations on the same theme accomplished absolutely nothing, other than to send Wolfe back to the sanctuary of his book. I sulked at my desk for several minutes, then got up, yawned loudly, and walked out.

It wasn’t as though I had nothing to do: Just before dinner, Saul Panzer had called to announce that he was putting together an impromptu poker game that night. Normally, a group of us gets together at Saul’s on Thursdays, but this was a bonus session, called by the host because an old friend was passing through town. “You don’t give a guy much notice, do you?” I had told Saul at the time, saying the odds were against my making it because we were working on a case. Now, however, with Wolfe having gone into hibernation, I was only too glad to get out of the house, which I did.

I’d like to report that the evening spent with spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, chips, and five other dollar-ante gamblers was a success, but in truth I was forced to open my wallet several times during the evening to underwrite my continued participation, and when a merciful halt was called to the hostilities a little before one, I was able to say that I had added to the financial well-being of at least three of my tablemates.

So much for Friday. The next morning, I was determined to somehow jump-start Wolfe. The Saturday routine in the brownstone is exactly like that on weekdays, with the lord and master of the manor devoting his standard four hours — two in the morning and two before dinner — to his orchids. So I knew I wouldn’t have a crack at him until he came down from the plant rooms at eleven, being as how he views interruptions during his playtime about the same way he views anyone who dares to use “contact” as a verb in his presence.

Both morning papers had stories on young Michael James’s arrest, with the Daily News splashing it on page one in the form of a photo showing Michael with his lawyer just after he made bond. His head was down in the picture, which was headlined ARREST IN YUPPIE MURDER, and the lawyer was putting up an arm, presumably to shield his client — but not himself — from the glare of publicity. Even the Times gave the story front-page play, with a two-column headline in the lower-right-hand corner and a short, relatively unenlightening story about Michael’s arrest and release along with biographical information on both Megan and Doyle James that stressed their well-upholstered life-styles. But both stories reported that Michael had given no motive as to why he killed Linville.

I knew Wolfe had digested all of this too, because he reads two papers thoroughly while demolishing the breakfast Fritz delivers on a tray to his bedroom.

After my own breakfast, I busied myself typing letters and massaging the orchid-germination records in the personal computer. I’d run out of work by ten-twenty and was trying to improve my vocabulary by working the Times crossword puzzle when the intercom line on the phone rang, meaning I was getting a rare call from Wolfe during his orchid session.

“I have instructions,” he said, his tone clearly indicating his displeasure at conducting business from the plant rooms.

“Shoot.”

“I believe Mr. Linville’s funeral is later today. You should be present.”

“It’s at twelve-thirty, and I’d been planning to go — whether or not you asked.”

He grunted and went on. “I also would like to see Inspector Cramer at eleven.”

“This morning?”

“Of course,” he answered testily. Wolfe always assumes the entire world is poised for an invitation to the brownstone.

“And if he can’t make it then?”

“He’ll make it. Tell him Michael James is our client. And ask Miss Rowan to be here this afternoon at three. You should be back by then. Further, I wish to see Michael James tonight. Nine o’clock. His sister may wish to accompany him. However, if she does, I will insist on conversing with Mr. James alone.”

“All right. What else?”

“The what-else is yet to be determined, but it is probable that you will have assignments for tomorrow.”

“On Sunday? My day off? I’ve got box seats for the Mets-Cardinals game.”

“Give them away,” Wolfe sniffed. He had me and he knew it. I was mad because of the likelihood of missing the game but at the same time pleased because he appeared to be using his mental faculties. I went to work, starting with Lily, who was at home.

“Mr. Wolfe would like the pleasure of your company,” I purred into the mouthpiece. “This afternoon, no less. At three.”

“We’re flattered,” she responded with a purr of her own, better than mine. “May I assume this has something to do with Michael, or has your boss finally succumbed to my not inconsiderable charms?”

“Some of each, no doubt, although he’s requesting your pleasure ostensibly because of the former.”

“See you at three, then, lover. Ta-ta.”

“Ta-ta, yourself,” I said, hanging up and dialing Cramer. I got a sergeant whose name I didn’t recognize who said the inspector wasn’t available. I told him Nero Wolfe was calling, and that it was important. A pause followed, then muffled conversations.

“Wolfe?” It was Cramer, who didn’t sound like he’d just won the lottery. “What is it?”

“It’s Goodwin, calling for Mr. Wolfe,” I said. “He wondered if you could stop by, say at eleven?”

“Why the hell should I? Is he announcing that he’s moving to Montenegro?”

“Nothing so exciting. He’s taken on Michael James as a client, and I suppose he wants to talk about the case.”

Cramer spat a word but apparently wasn’t happy with the pronunciation because he spat it again. “I knew it. The minute I learned you were involved in all this — ah, hell.” He slammed his receiver down, which I took to be an acceptance of our invitation.

I then dialed Megan James’s apartment, where Noreen had said she would be staying for the weekend. Carmella answered and after asking who I was called our real client to the phone. “Archie! Has anything happened?” Noreen asked in an out-of-breath tone.

“Nothing you don’t know about,” I told her. “How’s Michael?”

“He’s... ‘distant’ I guess is the best way to put it,” she said. “He hasn’t wanted to talk to anyone since he got, you know... out.”

“Is he staying there?”

“Yes, for now. He’s pretty much closed himself in one of the bedrooms. The lawyer we have, Mr. Hargrove, said he shouldn’t go back to his apartment while he’s out on bond. He doesn’t want him accessible to the press or anyone else. He doesn’t want him talking to anybody.”

“Well, something’s got to give, then, because Mr. Wolfe needs to see Michael — tonight.”

“I’m not sure I can get him there, not the way he’s been acting.” Noreen sounded worried.

“Try hard. You’ve hired Mr. Wolfe, and even though he’s a genius, at least some of the time, he can’t do a hell of a lot without talking face-to-face with the accused.”

There was a silence before she answered. “All right, I’ll do everything I can. What time should I tell him?”

“Nine.”

“Should I come too?”

“Not necessary. If playing chaperon is the only way you can get him here, okay, but Mr. Wolfe probably will ask you to wait in the front room while they talk.”

I phoned upstairs to Wolfe, filling him in on my calls and getting a grumble for my trouble. Five minutes later, I heard the whirr of the elevator, marking his descent from his posy paradise.

“You’re early,” I said when he got settled in his chair and began attacking the mail.

“Early? Perhaps by one minute,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I had completed a delicate repotting — there was nothing more to accomplish this morning.” Heaven forbid he would ever admit to altering his schedule, even slightly, for a visit from anyone, let alone an officer of the law. As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to come down early, and when he finished the small and uninteresting stack of mail, he plunged into his book.

At five past eleven when the doorbell rang, I let Fritz do the honors; Cramer was riled enough without having to deal with me as an official greeter again. It didn’t seem to matter who opened the door to him, though, because he barreled into the office like a locomotive under full throttle anyway.

“All right, dammit,” he bellowed, jabbing a thick forefinger at Wolfe as he steamed toward the red leather chair, “you’ve got my attention. What is all this crap about you and Michael James?”

“I assume Mr. Goodwin was lucid during your telephone dialogue,” Wolfe responded mildly, closing his book and marking the place with the gold strip he was given by an appreciative client years ago.

“For God’s sake, the kid has confessed!” Cramer roared. “He says — or rather, he said once — that he bumped off Linville. Now, of course, his Harvard lawyer is squawking that the confession came under duress.”

“Did it?”

Cramer used his favorite word again, this time only once. “Hah, he practically handed it to us when he came down to headquarters.”

“Which raises a point,” Wolfe said. “What led you to Mr. James in the first place?”

“What difference does that make?” the inspector retorted, coming forward in the chair.

“Quite possibly it is of no significance whatever,” Wolfe conceded. “But the question seems innocent enough.”

Cramer squirmed and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, jamming it into his mouth. “I had men out asking questions in the bars Linville was known to frequent. One of them talked to a bartender at that Orion place who said Michael James was there looking for Linville the night he was killed, and that he, James, was hot — really hot. Said he wanted to find Linville because of—” Cramer snapped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes, looking at me, then back at Wolfe and at me again.

“Go on,” Wolfe prodded.

“I assume both of you know why James was looking for Linville. Oh, hell, of course you do, what with Goodwin here being such a good friend of Lily’s.” Cramer scowled. “And that also explains why Goodwin was mixing it up with Linville out in front of Morgana’s, right? But I still want to hear you say why young James was so fired up that night,” he went on, pointing his cigar at Wolfe. “I need to know that you know.”

“Of course you do,” Wolfe said, inclining toward Cramer and spreading his hands palms down on the desk blotter. “As indeed you should, before you tell us anymore. This is a sensitive matter. To put your mind at ease, Archie and I are aware of what apparently transpired between Mr. Linville and Miss James — the occurrence that aroused Michael James’s anger.”

Cramer snorted. “All right,” he said in a tired voice, shaking his head slowly. “This has taken a lot out of me, dammit. You’re aware that I’ve known the family for most of my life. Hell, I knew their father before Lily and Megan were born — Rowan helped get me on the force. You know that. I feel damn near related to those kids.” He looked at Wolfe and set his jaw. “Not that it would ever interfere with my job,” he said, daring contradiction.

“How did the bartender know Michael James’s identity?”

“He’d spent some evenings in that Orion spot himself,” Cramer said. “I’m told it’s quite a meeting place for the yuppies and preppies and whatever.”

Wolfe winced at the terms. “And young Mr. James told the bartender why he wanted to see Barton Linville?”

“In effect. Apparently he stormed in with a snootful and did some hollering about Linville, wanting to know if he’d been around that evening and saying he had a score to settle with him. Noreen’s name apparently got mentioned once or twice. The bartender said the way Mike talked, it didn’t take an Einstein to figure out what must have happened between Linville and Noreen.”

“And what happened when you took Mr. Linville in for questioning?”

“Like I said before, he practically spilled it all when he walked in the door. Said he’d looked for Linville in a few of his haunts — Morgana’s, Orion, a couple of other joints — then went by his apartment and tried to get in. The doorman on duty confirmed that for us and identified Mike as having been there that night around twelve-thirty, drunk as a skunk and demanding to see Linville, who of course wasn’t home. Then, Mike says, he started walking west on Seventy-seventh, when who should pull into the parking garage a few doors down in his brand new Porsche but Linville.

“Mike says he followed the Porsche into the garage on foot, while the big doors were still open. He says that just inside the doors he found a tire iron and went over to the Porsche, which Linville had by this time parked. He was getting out of the car when Mike called him a bastard, telling him he knew what happened between him and Noreen. Linville took a swing and James coshed him with the tire iron — not once, but several times, he said. Claimed he couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to stop himself.”

“Did Michael James ever tell you why he wanted to kill Linville?” Wolfe asked.

“Nope,” Cramer said, folding his arms. “Some notion of protecting his sister’s honor and reputation, I guess. Every time we asked him about it, he clammed up. Wouldn’t discuss Noreen at all.”

“Have you found the weapon?”

“Not yet. Mike says he ran out of the garage and can’t remember what he did with the iron. Apparently he wasn’t seen — there’s nobody on duty that time of night, and permit parkers, which is all they allow, have to open the auto door with a key.”

“And you believe that story?”

Cramer made a production of shrugging. “Why the hell not? The kid was in a panic after hammering Linville. He probably tossed the iron into a Dumpster or a garbage can. We’ll be lucky to ever find it. No doubt it’s on a trash barge by now, headed out to sea or wherever they let the things go these days.”

“The news reports on Mr. Linville’s death suggested that he was killed with a heavy instrument, likely a tire iron that was missing from a collection of tools on the floor near the front doors of the garage,” Wolfe remarked.

“What of it?” Cramer snapped.

“Only that Mr. James had sufficient information and details to construct a plausible tale.”

“Just a minute, dammit!” Cramer was up out of his chair and leaning on Wolfe’s desk with both hands. “You already know that I’d like nothing more than to see the kid be innocent, but there’s just too much going against him. We got the right guy.”

Wolfe and Cramer locked glares, and then the inspector took a step back from the desk. “What the hell, it’s in the D.A.’s hands now anyway,” he said, doing a crisp about-face and heading for the hall. Replaying a scene we’ve both been part of dozens of times, I followed about three paces behind and watched as he went out, slamming the front door behind him.

“He took the cigar with him,” I said in wonderment when I was back in the office. “Maybe he finally got tired of missing the wastebasket.”

“Mr. Cramer is deeply troubled,” Wolfe ventured, ringing for beer.

“Uh-huh. He didn’t sound very convincing in saying they had got the right guy. Also, he didn’t even bother telling you to butt out this time.”

“Miss Rowan will be here at three? And Mr. James at nine?”

“Lily’s a for-sure. Right now, James is a maybe, although his sister thinks she can get him to come. He’ll be here if I have to drag him by the heels.”

“And you have a funeral to attend,” Wolfe responded, unimpressed by my chest-thumping.

“I was just leaving, sahib.”