Silver Spire (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 6)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Thank you, Mr. Goodwin.” His voice had all the warmth of a glacier.

  “My pleasure. Did you enjoy watching the services from the Silver Spire?”

  If the question surprised Wolfe, he didn’t show it. He tilted his head and scowled. “That was not a service, it was a performance. And every ten minutes, the ritual was interrupted and Mr. Bay appeared on the screen making a tasteless appeal for money. If I had dialed a telephone number, I would have received a Bible with a hand-tooled cover that was autographed by Mr. Bay. Preposterous.”

  “Yeah, I agree. Those of us in the church missed that particular bit of marketing. Could you spot me in the crowd?”

  “I wasn’t searching for you.”

  “Too bad. Well, now that you’ve had a chance to see Bay and Company in action on the tube, what’s the plan?”

  Wolfe treated me to a world-class growl. “My plan is to continue with what I was doing when you interrupted me,” he snorted.

  “All right,” I shot back, “I’ll leave you to your precious puzzle. But before I go, you should know it is my intention to turn in my resignation to you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Twaddle.”

  “No, sir, not twaddle. You see, I have this good friend—actually, he saved my life once, and I know he’d do it again, given the opportunity. He’s in a terrible jam now, accused of a crime that I know he did not commit. Anyway, nobody else seems interested in helping him, and as long as I’m working here, my duties prevent me from devoting full time to proving him innocent. I really have no choice.” I shrugged. “I am honor bound to do this. Because my weeks as your employee always end on Sundays, I will finish out the day. And I’ll even be here tomorrow morning at eleven—in the office—to go over with you the status of the orchid-germination records, the correspondence, and your other files. And I’ll show you where I keep the disks for the personal computer. If you do not choose to come down at eleven, I will leave a detailed memo on your desk.”

  Wolfe glowered at me. “I know you’re probably angry,” I went on, “and I don’t blame you. After all these years, you have every right to expect at least two weeks’ notice from me, maybe even a month. Well, I can’t give you that—at least not now. My friend’s predicament is too grave. However, in lieu of notice, I will pay for two weeks’ salary for a first-rate temporary secretary. And while that person is here working, you can be interviewing my replacement. Fair enough?”

  He glowered again, saying nothing. I nodded, did a snappy about-face, and left the room.

  I have wondered since what would have happened if Wolfe had not come down to the office that Monday morning. As my watch hands inched toward the hour, I tried to busy myself with what paperwork there was. And yes, I was prepared to write that memo.

  At eleven, I heard the elevator start. I kept working as it descended and then stopped. I heard the footsteps in the hall and then in the office. “Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?” Wolfe asked as he skirted his desk and settled in behind it.

  “Like a baby,” I responded, not looking up.

  “Good. As Swinburne wrote, ‘Sleep, and be glad while the world endures,’” he said as he began going through the mail I had placed on his blotter. At least I assumed that’s what he was doing, because I refused to look up from typing my letter of resignation, although at one point I heard him leave his chair and walk to the bookshelves, then return. When I had finished the letter, I swiveled and saw that he was leaning over an open Bible reading, and three others were stacked on his left.

  I kept typing, then shuffling papers, and glancing at Wolfe as he turned pages in first one Bible and then another, and another. This went on for a half-hour. I was running out of ways to look occupied when he exhaled loudly, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes. One of two things had happened: He had given up, or he found something. I froze and watched him. For ten minutes, he was as still as I was. Anyone peering in the window would have written both of us off as either dead or catatonic.

  Then it happened. At first, there was just a twitch on his upper lip, but I knew what was coming. He gripped the chair arms tightly with both hands, and his lips began pushing out and in, out and in. Fritz, probably wondering why Wolfe hadn’t rung for beer by this time, appeared in the doorway, and I silenced him with an index finger to my mouth.

  Fritz returned to the kitchen and Wolfe’s lip exercise continued for nineteen minutes, which is short-to-average for these things, and I should know; I’ve timed them for years. When he opened his eyes, he looked at me and growled. “Inexcusable,” he muttered.

  “What is?”

  “My utter lack of perspicacity. I should be publicly flayed.”

  “I’ll try to arrange it,” I said, but got no reaction. He was hunched over one of the Bibles again, writing rapidly with a pen on a sheet of bond. When he finished, he pushed back and rang for beer.

  “Well?” I asked. The folds in his cheeks deepened, which means he’s smiling. He moved the sheet across his desk toward me. I could read his precise handwriting—that was easy—but I had no idea what I was supposed to be getting from it. He had copied the seven verses Meade had listed:

  I Tim. 6:10

  For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.

  Job 5:16

  So the poor have hope, and injustice shuts its mouth.

  Acts 17:28

  For in him we live and move and have our being. As some of your poets have said, “We are his offspring.”

  Matt. 2:12

  And having been warned in a dream not to go back to Herod, they returned to their country by another route.

  Psalms 86:13

  For great is your love toward me; you have delivered me from the depths of the grave.

  Eccles. 5:17

  All his days he eats in darkness, with great frustration, affliction and anger.

  Romans 13:14

  Rather, clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ, and do not think about how to gratify the desires of the sinful nature.

  I read through the verses twice and then looked at Wolfe, who was leaning back with his eyes closed and his hands interlaced over his center mound. “Okay, you’re gloating, and the reason—or at least part of it—is that I don’t have the faintest damn idea what to make of all this.”

  He opened his eyes and nodded thanks to Fritz, who had just brought in beer and a glass. “Gloating? Hardly,” he intoned, pouring beer and watching the foam settle. “Given my utter lack of inspiration, I am in no position to gloat to you, or to anyone else.” He then laid it all out for me, chapter and verse, so to speak. The way he explained it made perfect sense, although I never would have doped the thing out myself.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  He drained his glass and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. “Type those verses into your computer just as I have written them—they will easily fit on a single sheet. Then print out a dozen copies. We will need them tonight.”

  “Which means I’ve got to call the Spire bunch and try to cajole them all into coming here.”

  Wolfe came forward in his chair. “Is this not the night the Circle of Faith meets in the church?”

  “That’s right—Mondays, at seven-thirty.”

  “Very well. We will become a nondocketed item on their agenda.”

  It took several seconds for what he said to sink in. The mountain was going to Mohammed.

  SEVENTEEN

  AFTER RECOVERING FROM THE SHOCK of Wolfe’s decision, I went to the kitchen with the news that we would be leaving the brownstone about a half-hour before we normally sit down to dinner. Fritz looked at me as if I’d just salted his cassoulet Castelnaudary without first tasting it.

  “But—to go without eating, Archie,” he pleaded. “That is bad for him … it is terrible!”

  “Oh, come on. As good as your shrimp bordelaise is, it’ll do him good
to bypass a few calories now and again. It’s not as if he’s been wasting away. Besides, you’re the one who likes to see him working.” I avoided mentioning that there would be no fee on this escapade; if I had, Fritz’s jaw, already sagging, would have dropped all the way to the parquet floor. As I left the kitchen, he was staring at the stove, shaking his head, and muttering something in French—probably a curse on me and all that I hold dear. And I was cursing myself for missing the shrimp, to say nothing of dessert—Fritz’s incomparable pistachio soufflé.

  The rest of the day seemed like a week. After lunch, which was curried beef roll, I balanced the checkbook and entered the Bible verses into the PC, per Wolfe’s instructions. I then printed out twelve copies and slipped them into a manila envelope. All the while, he sat at his desk reading and drinking beer—until it was time to go up and dally with the orchids, that is.

  Instead of coming down to the office at six from the plant rooms, as is his usual routine, Wolfe went to his bedroom, presumably to change for the trek to Staten Island. At six-fifty, he still hadn’t descended, so I told Fritz I was leaving and walked to the garage on Tenth Avenue. I got the Mercedes and pulled it around in front of the brownstone. Wolfe was standing on the stoop, clad in his dark cashmere overcoat and homburg despite the warm weather and armed with his red thorn walking stick.

  He glowered at the car before walking down the steps. I stepped out and played footman, opening the rear door, and he got in, the glower still holding. The only thing I know of that Nero Wolfe dislikes more than riding in a car is riding in an airplane. He mistrusts all vehicles and endures them only when he feels he has absolutely no recourse.

  Once settled—or as settled as Wolfe gets in a car—I eased from the curb, steering a course south and then east, eventually passing into Brooklyn through the tunnel at the Battery. The evening traffic was light, and I’m the best driver I know, but Wolfe sat rigid on the front half of the seat and clung to the strap as if it were a rip cord.

  “We’re about to cross the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge,” I said a few minutes later to be chatty, knowing he’d never laid eyes on this engineering wonder. “It is the longest single-span suspension bridge in the world, completed in 1964.” He grunted his lack of enthusiasm at my knowledge of local trivia, so I clammed up for the rest of the drive.

  It was early twilight when we pulled onto the black-topped parking lot of the Silver Spire Tabernacle. About fifteen cars dozed under mercury-white lighting on the Vermont-sized expanse of tarmac, all of them near the entrance. I swung the Mercedes into the nearest available slot to the door. “This is the place,” I said, shutting off the engine and turning to face Wolfe. “Chez Bay.”

  He scowled and I got out, opening the rear door on his side. As large as Wolfe is, he’s never clumsy, and he climbed from the car as if he did it every day of his life, rather than on visits to the barber plus his annual trip to the Metropolitan Orchid Show. He stretched his legs and gave the building the once-over.

  “Like I told you, it’s a whopper,” I said.

  “That deceit should dwell in such a place.”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Paraphrased. I omitted the adjective ‘gorgeous,’ which this edifice clearly does not merit.”

  We went in through the glass double doors. A bony, dusty-haired guard in the seat occupied during the day by the redhead put down the dog-eared paperback western he was reading and squinted at us through half-glasses. “Sorry, church’s closed now,” the geezer droned after freeing a toothpick from his mouth. “First tour tomorrow’s at nine.”

  “There’s a meeting going on in the executive conference room,” I told him evenly. “Reverend Bay is expecting us.”

  The guard peered doubtfully at a page in the loose-leaf notebook that lay open on his desk. “Don’t have any record of visitors; what’s the name?”

  “Wolfe and Goodwin. Call Reverend Bay and tell him we’re here,” I snapped.

  He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t interrupt a meet-in’.”

  I leaned so close to his leathery face that I could tell you what kind of spaghetti sauce he favored. “Look, I know damn well there’s a phone in the conference room,” I said, stressing each word. “Call Bay or I’ll do it myself. And if I have to, you aren’t going to like it.”

  The guard’s watery eyes met mine, and he must have swallowed hard, because his Adam’s apple bobbed. He picked up the instrument, punching a number.

  “It’s Perkins out front, sir,” he rasped. “Sorry to disturb you, but there are two gentlemen here to see you. Named Wolfe and Goodwin … Yes, sir … Yes … All right, I’ll tell them.” He cradled the receiver, swallowed again, and glanced at me, then at Wolfe.

  “The reverend’ll be out in a minute,” he wheezed, returning to his paperback and making a point of ignoring us. Wolfe looked at the angular contours of the guest chairs and grimaced, wisely choosing to stay on his feet. I did likewise. In about two minutes, a male silhouette appeared, moving toward us from the shadowy far end of the lobby, his footfalls echoing. Well before he emerged into the light, I knew it was Barnabas Bay.

  “Mr. Wolfe. Mr. Goodwin. This is something of a surprise,” Bay said, giving us a weak smile. “We’re in the middle of our staff meeting, so—”

  “Sir, I will be blunt,” Wolfe told him. “Mr. Goodwin and I are cognizant of your meeting, and we chose this time to see you and your cadre together. The subject of our visit is Mr. Meade’s death.”

  Bay, looking dapper in a brown herringbone sport coat, white shirt, and brown-and-gold-striped tie, puckered his lips and motioned us to move away from the guard’s desk. When we were out of the old buzzard’s earshot, Bay looked earnestly at Wolfe and cleared his throat.

  “This is somewhat awkward, to say the least. As I have reiterated to both you and Mr. Goodwin, we all know that the killer—your Mr. Durkin—has long since been identified and charged. I know how much that must pain you, but I see no need for my staff to be put through any further pain by forcing them to relive the terrible tragedy. I feel I already indulged you by allowing Mr. Goodwin to question my people at length.”

  Wolfe, who hates conversing on his feet and who was angry to begin with, tapped his rubber-tipped walking stick once on the terrazzo, which for him is an act approaching violence. “Mr. Bay, either I talk to your assembled staff—I will not unduly prolong the session—or you will read what I have to say in tomorrow afternoon’s edition of the Gazette. I assure you it will not be pleasurable reading.”

  I don’t know what Bay was thinking, but it probably ran along the lines that he couldn’t afford to take a chance on turning us away. “All right,” he said after studying his tassel loafers. “I would first like to know what your message will be.”

  “No, sir, it doesn’t work that way. You will all hear me simultaneously.”

  More silence. “This bothers me very much, I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Wolfe. Can you give me some indication of what you’re going to say?”

  “I already have. It concerns Mr. Meade’s murder. We are wasting both time and breath.”

  “All right.” Bay sighed. “But I reserve the right as chair to cut off the discussion at any time.”

  Wolfe, knowing that once he got started nobody was going to cut him off, dipped his chin a fraction of an inch, and we followed Bay down a shadowy hallway.

  The minister swung open the door to the conference room, and we were greeted by six shocked expressions. “We have guests,” the minister announced before anyone could recover. “All of you have met Mr. Goodwin. And this is his employer, Mr. Nero Wolfe.”

  “What’s all this about, Barney?” Sam Reese rose halfway out of his chair as the others nattered angrily. “These are the last people who ought to be showing their faces around here.”

  “Please, if I can explain,” Bay said, holding up a hand. “I concede that this is unexpected, but Mr. Wolfe has asked for a few minutes to discuss … what happened to Roy.”

  “What’s to d
iscuss?” Marley Wilkenson barked. “Durkin killed Roy—we all know it, and so do you, Barney.”

  “We went to Mr. Wolfe originally, seeking help,” Bay said in a soothing but firm tone. “We owe him the courtesy of hearing what he has to say.” That silenced them, at least for the moment, although nobody around the table looked to be oozing the milk of human kindness.

  Bay gestured Wolfe to a chair at one end of the dark, highly polished conference table, and I helped him off with his overcoat. The chair was a couple of sizes smaller than he’s used to, but he gamely wedged himself into it. I took a seat slightly behind and to the left of him. As Wolfe looked down the table, Lloyd Morgan was on his immediate right hand, with Sam Reese next to Morgan, then Carola, and finally Marley Wilkenson. Gillis was closest to Wolfe on the left, with Elise Bay and then her husband farther down that side. The table could seat at least twice the number that were gathered, so the far end was vacant.

  Wolfe adjusted his bulk and studied the somber faces before him. “I can appreciate the genuine animosity with which you greet my presence,” he said. “Each of you, save one, is convinced, with apparent good reason, that Mr. Durkin killed your colleague, and the evidence would seem to point in that direction.”

  “Amen,” said Morgan, who got a glare from Bay.

  Wolfe took a breath and went on. “You all embrace many tenets solely on faith, and for the moment, I ask you to accept something else on faith: My unswerving conviction that Fred Durkin is incapable of committing the crime with which he has been charged. Mr. Durkin is—”

  “That’s asking a lot of us,” Carola Reese murmured, brushing a tendril of hair from her cheek.

  “It is, madam, but I request your forbearance for only a short time. Mr. Durkin is, after all, innocent until proven guilty in our society.”

  “And you’re going to tell us he’s innocent because he was working for you, right?” Reese stuck out his chin belligerently.

  Wolfe pursed his lips. “Sir, I intend to prove Mr. Durkin’s innocence—by revealing the identity of the murderer. And to correct you, Mr. Durkin was not in my employ on this particular assignment. Now, does anyone—”