CHARLES MEYERHOFF: Age, about fifty. Has been managing director of the Symphony for six years. Home town, Pittsburgh. At one time a violinist with orchestras in Minneapolis and Cincinnati, later had management position with Pittsburgh orchestra before joining Symphony. Known to have quick temper, resented Stevens and his power in the orchestral structure. The two argued frequently. Divorced. No children. Lives alone in the Brompton Arms residence hotel.
DAVID HIRSCH: Age, early forties. Has been associate conductor of New York Symphony for five years. A top-notch violinist, he also is an aspiring composer, but has been unable to get Symphony to play any of his works. Was hostile to Stevens because of this and also because he felt he was passed over for the conductor’s job. Austrian by birth, moved to the States in his teens, Remmers thinks. Married, no children, lives in Ridgewood, New Jersey.
DONALD SOMMERS: Age, twenty-eight. Outstanding flutist, has been with Symphony three years, a soloist on numerous occasions. Juilliard graduate and native of Boston, he was a prodigy, played in concert with Boston Symphony as a teenager. Had a deteriorating relationship with Stevens, told Remmers he thought Stevens wanted to drive him out of orchestra. Single, lives on Gramercy Park.
Just as I got back to my desk, the phone rang. It was Lucinda. “Archie, I just remembered something that might be important—you know, on the subject we talked about yesterday.”
“Okay, shoot,” I said, poising a pencil.
“No, I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. Couldn’t you come up?”
I tried to tell her the telephone lines were perfectly safe, but it was obvious she was holding out for another personal visit. I looked out at the snow and shuddered, but said I’d be along as fast as I could. Leaving a note on Wolfe’s blotter next to the sheet of biographies, I pulled on overshoes and heavy coat and charged out into the mini-blizzard.
By some miracle I found a taxi within a block and was at Lucinda’s ten minutes later; all sane New Yorkers were at home and the streets were deserted. This time I didn’t get any of the boredom-and-snobbery routine from the lobby crew. They seemed to be expecting me, and the hallman even gave a fair impersonation of somebody trying to be friendly, which I halfheartedly returned.
Things also went more smoothly inside Lucinda’s apartment than the day before. This time I didn’t get a twenty-four-minute shuffle. In fact, she was waiting in the white-on-white-on-white sitting room, wearing a gauzy full-length number the color of raspberry sherbet when Miss Mouse ushered me in. “Archie, I’m glad you could come so quickly,” she said from a sofa, looking up to be kissed. I aimed discreetly at her cheek, but damned if she didn’t turn her face at the last instant and lay one square on my lips, with her own slightly parted.
I had to brace myself or she would have pulled me down on top of her, and for a second I came pretty close to letting her do it. But I finally broke the hold and slid, almost gracefully, onto the sofa next to her. “That was a four-star welcome,” I said, smiling and running a hand through my hair. “And as much as I’d like to find out what you do for an encore, I think we’d better get to business. For starters, what was it you remembered that’s so important?”
“Oh, Archie,” she said, returning the smile and putting an arm across the top of the sofa behind me, “I apologize if I came on so boldly, but I told you yesterday how good-looking I think you are. I guess I just let myself …” She trailed it off, and in too studied a way, I thought. “Archie, after you left yesterday, I got to thinking about all the times I had been with Milan, all the things he had ever said that had any connection with the orchestra. There was something once, it must have been close to a year ago. It seemed so unimportant at the time …” She really liked using the trailing-off trick.
“Tell me about it,” I said, lighting a cigarette.
“Well, as I remember it, we were right here in this room, having drinks. By the way, can I get you something?” I shook my head and she went on. “Milan was quite upset that evening. It seemed that he and Mr. Hirsch had a meeting in Milan’s office at Symphony Hall to talk over some orchestra matters, routine things. I gather they would meet often to do that. Anyway, this day there was a strong argument—I can’t even remember if Milan said what it was about. But Mr. Hirsch started the argument and became very agitated. Milan said that at one point he stood up, banged his fist on Milan’s desk, and said something like I’d kill before I saw this orchestra go to hell. And if things keep on this way, that’s where it will go.’ I may have the words a little wrong, Archie, but that’s basically what he said. And he used the word ‘kill,’ although you know how people talk sometimes.”
“And you don’t know what the argument was about?” I asked.
“I’m not sure Milan ever said. What I remember most was how upset he got about Mr. Hirsch’s temper.”
“Was he afraid for his own safety? Did he say anything about that?”
“Oh no, no, he never mentioned it. Milan didn’t ever seem to fear for himself. I think his main concern was for the orchestra. And he felt his associate conductor wasn’t supportive of him.”
“Not from the sound of it,” I agreed, drawing on my cigarette. “Tell me, why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”
Her answer was a coy smile. “You made me nervous, Archie. I guess you could say I wasn’t thinking straight … all those questions, all the strain after what happened.”
She was one hell of an actress, that was for sure. She knew where to make the pauses, which words to accent, how to tilt her head. It was almost like watching one of those British whodunit plays Lily drags me to every so often.
“While I’m here and we’re on the subject, do you happen to know Donald Sommers?” I asked.
“From the orchestra?” Lucinda paused and pushed back a stray hair. “I don’t really know him, but I’ve met him a few times.”
“Did Stevens ever say anything about him, anything negative?”
“You mean he’s another one who is suspected?” she asked, shifting to face me.
“I didn’t say that.” I grinned. “I was just curious because I’ve heard his name a few times.”
“I think perhaps he and Milan had fought over a solo once. But he is so young—he looks so young. I would think of him as just a boy.”
“A boy who’s pushing thirty.”
She shrugged. “Well, I somehow got the feeling that Milan wasn’t fond of him, that maybe he would be happier if he were not a part of the orchestra.”
“You seem to be remembering all kinds of things that you couldn’t yesterday,” I said lightly.
“Oh, Archie, please don’t tease me. I really can’t recite anything specific that Milan said about Mr. Sommers. It’s just an impression I got.”
“Okay, one last thing before I go. How would you describe Stevens’s relationship with Charles Meyerhoff?”
Another shrug. “Maybe somewhat strained. But to be honest, I don’t ever remember Milan talking at all about Charles to me.”
“Could that have been because you used to go out with Meyerhoff?”
“That of course is possible,” she said. “But I never once got the feeling Milan felt any bitterness toward Charles for any reason, and although I haven’t seen Charles that much recently, I never sensed any dislike for Milan on his part. But then”—she stretched out both arms palms up and did another eye-roll—“what do I know?”
“You know a great deal,” I said, “but whether I’m hearing all of it is a different matter.” When she started to protest, I held up a silencing hand and said I really had to go, but that she’d be hearing from me or Wolfe. We wrapped our arms around each other at the door, and I was the one who finally broke the clinch, or we might still be there.
It was harder getting a cab back, and it was after one when I walked into the office. Wolfe looked up from a book, his face a question mark.
“Lucinda F-M is really something,” I said, slipping into my desk chair. “Seems she had a sudden burst of recolle
ction and had to share it with me.” I then gave him a verbatim report, leaving out only the details of our opening and closing embraces, which he wouldn’t have appreciated anyway. “Has your opinion of her changed since yesterday?” he asked after I had finished.
“I think I trust her less than I did. Maybe it’s all those damn theatrical poses she strikes,” I said. “Also, she seems to have a very selective memory. If you’re looking for odds on whether she did it, I’m still not ready to give any, though. Maybe that’s because she kisses so well.”
Wolfe grimaced and picked up the sheet with the thumbnail biographies. “They’re all still coming?”
“Yes, sir, at least as far as I know. I talked to Remmers this morning—that’s where I got the biographical stuff. Do you want to see them all at once, or should I hold them in the front room and bring them in one at a time?”
“All at once. The interaction may be instructive to watch, particularly if Mr. Meyerhoff does indeed have a quick temper. Has Saul or Fred called?”
I said they hadn’t and he nodded, then picked up his book and submerged himself while I went back to playing catch-up with the orchid records.
If nothing else could be said for that Sunday-afternoon visit, at least they arrived promptly: My watch read two minutes past four when the doorbell rang. Through the one-way panel, I didn’t have any trouble figuring out which body was attached to which name. Meyerhoff was standing in front of the others, and he didn’t look happy. He was the shortest of the three, with wavy brown hair that was retreating up his forehead and probably would disappear altogether in the next ten years. The one with horn-rimmed glasses had to be Hirsch, if for no other reason than age. He was three or four inches taller than Meyerhoff and had a scraggly mustache, and his face wasn’t filled with sunshine either. Sommers was a head taller than Hirsch, and even with his black topcoat on, I could see that he was nearly as thin as the instrument he played. He had shaggy black hair and eyebrows, and his own expression was one of worry rather than anger.
The bell rang for a second time just as I swung the door open. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, please come in,” I said in a hearty tone. “Awful day, isn’t it?” I got only grunts in reply, and my calling each by name as I helped him off with his coat didn’t seem to make an impression. “Where’s Wolfe?” Meyerhoff demanded. “I want to get this over with fast.”
I led them to the office, still playing the hearty butler role. Before I was finished with the brief introductions, Meyerhoff had attached himself to the red leather chair and thrust his chin at Wolfe as if daring him to challenge the choice of seats.
It didn’t get a rise. Wolfe acknowledged each of them with a nod, then slipped the gold strip into his book and put it down deliberately. His eyes settled on Meyerhoff, then went to Hirsch, seated next to him in a yellow chair, and finally to Sommers, who had been left with the yellow chair closest to me.
“We can give you a half-hour, no more,” Meyerhoff said loudly, looking at his wrist. “We wouldn’t have come at all, except that Jason asked us to. I can’t see any reason for this, what with—”
“A moment, please,” Wolfe said, holding up a hand. “If you’ll indulge me in a preface, Mr. Meyerhoff? Thank you. I assure you my admiration for brevity is at least equal to your own. Before we begin, would anyone care for refreshments? I’m having beer.”
Meyerhoff gave a vigorous shake of his head, which seemed to set the mood for the others. They also declined, although more graciously.
“Very well,” Wolfe said, touching his buzzer and giving them the once-over again. “As Mr. Remmers told you and as you have no doubt read in the papers, I have been hired to identify the killer of Milan Stevens. Now, I—”
“This is crazy!” Meyerhoff roared. “Everybody knows who killed Milan. The police got the right person, and they got him fast. Why can’t we just—”
“We seem to be interrupting each other, Mr. Meyerhoff,” Wolfe snapped. “If you please. You’ve all taken the trouble to brave execrable weather to get here, and I thank you for it. You moments ago expressed your desire that this meeting be brief. It can only be so if you allow me to continue. You’ll all have your turn to speak.”
“God, you’re every bit as arrogant as I’d heard,” Meyerhoff said, crossing his arms. Then he gestured to me. “Is he going to stay in here taking notes?”
“Arrogant?” Wolfe asked, lifting his shoulders a quarter of an inch and dropping them. “Perhaps, although I prefer ‘self-possessed.’ As to Mr. Goodwin, yes, he is present at all meetings in this room. And his faculties are such that if he did not take notes, he could nonetheless reconstruct verbatim a conversation of several hours’ duration. I had no idea anyone would object to his attendance. After all, each of you also is a witness to everything that will be said here.” Wolfe focused on Meyerhoff, who scowled but didn’t open his mouth.
“Now, if I may go on,” Wolfe said, pouring beer, “Mr. Milner has of course been charged with murder. He is known to have been in the Stevens apartment on Wednesday night, and is also known to have had a confrontation backstage with Mr. Stevens recently, a confrontation that centered on Mr. Milner’s relationship with Maria Radovich. These are well-documented occurrences, and I do not quarrel with them. For my own reasons, however, I believe someone other than Mr. Milner killed Milan Stevens.”
“And what might those reasons be?” It was David Hirsch, his Austrian origins showing in a slight accent. He cleared his throat and fidgeted.
“No, Mr. Hirsch,” Wolfe said, “as I stated, they are my own reasons, and I’m not prepared to share them right now.”
“This sounds like a fishing expedition to me,” Meyerhoff barked. “Your reputation for exorbitant fees is well known in this town. You’ve got a client who doesn’t want to believe the man she loves committed murder—the murder of her own uncle. Enter Nero Wolfe. She turns to you, and you accommodate by calling in anyone who ever had words with Milan. Oh, don’t think we don’t know why we’re all here; we talked about it on the way over. Each of us has at one time or another gone at it with him—and me more than anybody, it’s true. But we’re not alone; there are others in the orchestra who’ve fought with him or have some reason to resent him. I’ll be glad to supply you with names—then you can spend the next month questioning them, too.” Meyerhoff, who’d been leaning forward during his little speech, slouched back into the chair and folded his arms again.
“I appreciate your offer,” Wolfe said dryly. “I also appreciate the mention of your various disputes with Mr. Stevens. It saves me the trouble of having to bring it up as the raison d’être for this gathering.” He paused for a sip of beer. “Mr. Meyerhoff, since you brought up the subject, I’ll ask you first: What were the bases of your disagreements with Milan Stevens?”
“I assume you know at least a part of the answer to that question already, from your talks with Jason. But as long as I’m here, I might as well indulge you, to use your own word.” He leaned forward again, elbows on the arms of his chair. “I’ve been managing director of the Philharmonic for a little over six years now. When I joined it, the orchestra was in chaos. The music director at that time was incapable of exercising authority and maintaining discipline—I think that’s a fair statement, isn’t it, David?”
Hirsch nodded, grim-faced. “Yes, in fact an understatement. ‘Chaos’ is the word I’d use, too.”
Meyerhoff went on. “The Symphony board decided after several years of badgering from a number of us that a change had to be made. It was about then that Jason became chairman, and he was strongly in favor of hiring Milan, who at that time was in London. Milan had a well-known name in music circles, particularly in Europe, but from musicians and other orchestra people I’d heard things about him that I didn’t like.”
“What things?” Wolfe asked.
“Well, for one, his choice of repertoire. Instead of trying to introduce his audiences to some of the lesser-known composers and some more contemporary music, he invariably to
ok a safe ‘popular’ tack: a lot of familiar, comfortable works—by all the favorite composers. But you’d rarely see him conduct Berg or Schonberg or Bruckner, or give the premiere of a new work. I felt the Symphony should be more innovative and experimental in its repertoire. You need some of the traditional and the popular, yes, but there should be a balance. Stevens simply was not the man to supply that balance.” All the while Meyerhoff spoke, Hirsch nodded at varying speeds.
“Another thing was Milan’s personality,” Meyerhoff continued. “The Symphony needed discipline, yes, but not despotism. This is an orchestra of great individual talents, Mr. Wolfe. For instance, Don here is the finest flutist in the United States, perhaps the world.” Sommers flushed and muttered a denial. “Yes, you are, Don, and I’d say it whether you were sitting here or not. Anyway, the Symphony is loaded with great talent, and it takes a skilled, tactful music director to make these marvelously gifted individuals play well together. You don’t do that with an iron hand alone; there must be a subtle mixture of understanding and discipline. I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but the truth is that Milan Stevens simply didn’t have the warmth to handle the situation. He could keep order, but he lacked the humanity necessary to coax greatness from his players.
“Time and again I talked to him, urged him to loosen up and be more flexible. But the answer was always the same: There is no substitute for firmness, and they must know who is boss.’ And whenever I suggested he modify his approach, he became angry.”
Murder in E Minor Page 13