Murder in E Minor

by Robert Goldsborough

  Of course Maria gave an emphatic yes when I called her at Lily’s. “You’ve found something out, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “I can’t say for sure, but I do know that Mr. Wolfe wants several people to be present—including Gerald Milner.” She promised to bring him along and kept pressing me for more information until I politely ended the call.

  At ten, Fred stopped in to get his instructions. He was a little unhappy that Saul had been the one to locate Mindy, but it was more than offset by his relief at being able to quit what he called “the great hooker hunt.”

  Just after he left, Remmers called back, saying that all three from the Symphony would show up. “They don’t like it much though,” he said, “especially Charlie and Dave.” I told him that was life and said we’d see him at nine.

  Wolfe came down from the plant rooms on schedule. He rang for beer, and after a quick shuffle through the mail, asked about my progress. When I said we’d lined up everyone for the evening, he told me to dial Inspector Cramer. “With pleasure,” I said, punching out the number from memory and staying on the line.

  “Mr. Cramer? Good morning, this is Nero Wolfe. I wanted you to know that several people will be here at nine tonight, at which time I’ll be discussing the murder of Milan Stevens. I think you will want to be present as well.”

  “Goddammit, I’ve told both you and Goodwin to butt out of this. As far as I’m concerned, the department’s finished its job on the case,” Cramer said.

  “It’s your privilege to think that, of course. But I should tell you that whether you’re here or not, I plan to proceed. You can read about it in tomorrow’s Gazette, as Mr. Cohen will undoubtedly be interested in the results.”

  Cramer spat a word. “Is this going to be one of your asinine charades in front of a big crowd?”

  “I wouldn’t choose that phrasing, but if you’re asking if my office will be crowded, the answer is yes. Despite that, we’ll have room for you, and for Sergeant Stebbins as well, if you care to bring him.”

  “I’ll bring whoever I damn well feel like!” he bellowed, hanging up.

  “Count on Mr. Cramer being here—with a friend,” Wolfe said, leaning back and closing his eyes.

  The day crawled by, maybe because I was checking my watch every two minutes or so. At four-ten, Saul called to say he’d found Tom Hubbard at home. “He was just as happy to see me as Mindy had been,” Saul said. “I laid out what we knew about last Wednesday, which got him. He told me he had to work tonight, but I said that if he didn’t come, the cops would probably show up later in the evening and drag him off anyway. That did it; while I was there, he called somebody to substitute, and I’m picking him up at eight.”

  I gave Saul a “Satisfactory” and then called Lon to tell him we’d have something late tonight for tomorrow’s editions, an exclusive. He wanted it all right then, but I insisted that he’d probably have to wait until at least midnight. He said he’d be in his office all night, if necessary.

  After dinner while Wolfe was sitting at his desk with coffee, I began setting up: extra ashtrays, chairs from the front room, a fully stocked bar on the small table in the corner. Fred had come at seven-thirty and was upstairs in the South Room with Mindy Ross, who’d gotten a fresh change of clothes, courtesy of a shopping trip Maria had made in the afternoon.

  Saul arrived on schedule at eight-thirty with a jittery Tom Hubbard, who looked like he was going to pass out when he saw me. When he recovered, he tried to ask me what was going to happen, but I just nodded to Saul, who steered him into the front room and closed the door behind them. Now we were ready for company.

  At eight-forty-three, the bell rang again. It was Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbins. “Ah, Inspector, you could make it after all,” I said as they tramped in. “And you brought a date. It’s been a while, Purley.” Stebbins, who’s worked with Cramer for eons and has had what he considers too many dealings with Wolfe and me in the past, nodded his long bony face but didn’t smile. But then, Purley Stebbins isn’t noted for his smiles, particularly when I’m around. At that, I guess you could say we’ve gotten along, more or less, through the years, considering our respective lines of work. He may not be the smartest man in the department, but you’ll never hear me knock his courage or his loyalty. If I had to pick one guy to be on my side in a bar brawl against the Pittsburgh Steelers’ defensive line, it would be Purley, although I’d never give him the satisfaction of telling him that.

  “You’re the first,” I said, leading them to the office and explaining the seating. “Mr. Wolfe will be in shortly, and so will some others, I hope.”

  “Hah, he’s waiting till they’re all here so he can make one of his grand entries,” I heard Cramer say to Stebbins as I went back to the hall. And he was right: Wolfe had gone to the kitchen at eight-fifteen, ostensibly to help Fritz with the menu planning for the next week, and said he’d be back in when everyone was seated.

  They all arrived within about three minutes: first Maria and Milner, holding hands and trying to look brave; then Meyerhoff, looking just as mad as when he’d come last Sunday; then Hirsch and Sommers together, both tight-lipped and grim. Right behind them came a smiling, pipe-puffing Jason Remmers, and finally, in a white fur stole, Lucinda Forrester-Moore, who reached up and pecked my cheek as I closed the front door. “I’m the last one, aren’t I, Archie?” she said with an impish giggle as we went in.

  “Last is often best,” I whispered, steering her to the chair nearest my desk.

  Everyone else had taken the seats I’d directed them to. The front row had Maria in the red leather chair, Milner next to her, then Sommers, and of course Lucinda next to me. In the second row were Remmers, farthest from me, Meyerhoff in the middle, and Hirsch behind Lucinda. There were two more chairs against the wall, but both Cramer and Stebbins chose to stand.

  I made such introductions as were necessary, including Cramer and Stebbins, then went behind Wolfe’s desk and pressed the buzzer to signal him. Next I asked for drink orders. “What’s this with drinks?” Meyerhoff demanded. “I certainly didn’t come here to socialize. In fact, I didn’t want to come at all; I’m only doing it as a favor to you, Jason,” he said, turning to Remmers. “And for the second time, at that. And where the hell is Wolfe, by the way?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Hirsch piped in. “And I agree with you, Charlie. This is ridiculous. Here we are in a room with a man who’s been charged with murder, and we’re going to listen to another man who isn’t even an officer of the law. And yet”—he turned to look at Cramer and Stebbins—“the police themselves show up and seem to tolerate this. It’s absurd!”

  Remmers cleared his throat. “I want to say thanks to you both, and to you too, Don, for indulging me tonight. And as long as I’m here, I’d like to order, Mr. Goodwin. Scotch on the rocks, please. Am I drinking alone?”

  Sommers also had a Scotch, and Lucinda ordered brandy, but the rest passed. Just as I handed out the drinks, Wolfe appeared at the door, surveyed the scene, then strode in, detouring around the crowd to get behind his desk. He bowed slightly before easing into his chair.

  “I, like Mr. Remmers, appreciate your coming tonight,” he said, eyes moving from right to left and back again. “I’ve met you all except Mrs. Forrester-Moore. Madam.” He dipped his head a quarter of an inch and she nodded, smiling. “I trust you’ve all been introduced, and that you’ve met Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins?”

  “Yes, and I want to know why they’re here,” Meyerhoff rasped. “This gathering wasn’t presented to us as official police business.”

  “And indeed it is not, Mr. Meyerhoff,” Wolfe said. “These two gentlemen are here at my invitation and remain at my sufferance.” He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think any of you would object to their presence, though. Or am I incorrect?” His eyes swept the arc of faces again and were met with silence.

  “Good, then we’ll go on,” he said, readjusting his bulk and ringing for beer. “O
ne week ago tonight, as we all know, Milan Stevens was found stabbed to death in his apartment by his niece, Maria Radovich. As you also know, Mr. Goodwin had been waiting downstairs and arrived on the scene just moments later. The reason he and I knew Miss Radovich was that she had feared for the safety of her uncle and approached us for help.

  “The source of her anxiety was three threatening letters her uncle had received by mail in the previous two weeks. She brought them to Mr. Goodwin and me, and they now are in the possession of the police. Miss Radovich told us her uncle had thrown these notes away and that she had retrieved them from a wastebasket. Is that correct?” he said, turning to Maria. She nodded and shifted in her chair.

  “The first of the notes,” Wolfe went on, “was mailed to Mr. Stevens shortly after he and Mr. Milner had quarreled in a corridor backstage at Symphony Hall, an exchange that was witnessed by several people. Not surprisingly, news of the quarrel quickly spread throughout the Symphony structure. The subject of this argument—actually it was more a diatribe by Mr. Stevens—was Maria Radovich, whom Mr. Milner hoped to marry.” Milner’s face and neck were red, and he kept his eyes aimed at his lap.

  “Simplicity itself,” Wolfe said. “The incident in the corridor, followed by the notes, and then by Mr. Milner’s visit to the Stevens apartment on a night when the uncle, who was violently opposed to the marriage, was known to be home alone.

  “And then the body, discovered shortly after Mr. Milner’s visit. It would all seem to fit together, which is what the police and the district attorney’s office even now believe. In fact, it was so neat and clean that I briefly considered Mr. Milner a suspect myself. Could he not have planned and executed this murder, intentionally having all the evidence focus on him, and then argue that only a fool would so totally incriminate himself? Possibly, but he did not make that argument at any time after the murder. And I was also quick to reject this theory because, with due respect to the officers present, the police department has not been noted for its appreciation of subtlety. One might well commit a crime and purposely make all the signs point to himself in order to be thought innocent—only to have the police arrest him anyway without looking further. And in the murder of one as well-known and esteemed as Mr. Stevens, the law-enforcement establishment would be—and was—especially anxious to make a fast arrest. If there was an obvious suspect, they would quickly seize him to still the public outcry and relieve the pressure from above.

  “I was also troubled by the notes. Mr. Milner may indeed possess the cunning and courage to plan and carry out a murder, but the sending of those notes made no sense. What would he gain by such action? No, the notes were intended to make Mr. Stevens suffer additionally before his death because the intensity of the murderer’s hatred for him was such that even killing was not sufficient punishment. Mr. Milner’s animus toward Mr. Stevens, if indeed it may be called that, was a recent development, brought on by their conflict over Miss Radovich. Were he the murderer, his motive would not be revenge, but simply the removal of the only obstacle to his union with Miss Radovich. And the notes were patently vengeful instruments.”

  “Look, this is mildly interesting in an academic sort of way, but it really doesn’t prove a damn thing,” Meyerhoff said. “No court would give the least bit of weight to what you’ve just told us.”

  “Perhaps not, sir. This was just by way of telling you why I know Mr. Milner is not the murderer. Now I—”

  “Excuse me, but I’d like to ask the inspector what he thinks of your line of reasoning,” Hirsch said, twisting to face Cramer.

  “I think it’s so much bull,” Cramer said, “but I’d also like to hear what else Wolfe’s got to say, so we can all go home before sunrise. I know him better than any of you, and I can say this: Nobody’s going to rush him. He’ll have his say—all of it—so if you’re smart, you’ll keep quiet and listen.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said. “I’m an admirer of brevity, but we’re dealing with a complex consecution of events, as you’ll see. Now, after eliminating Mr. Milner, I looked at the other possibilities: There were a number of persons known either to actively dislike Milan Stevens or to at least have reason for being less than friendly toward him.” His eyes traveled over the room again.

  “Mr. Remmers, you had placed the full weight of your considerable reputation and integrity behind Mr. Stevens’s appointment as the Symphony’s music director, and the selection had turned out to be disastrous. It would hardly be surprising if you were to feel betrayed by your appointee. Mr. Meyerhoff, you had resented the new conductor’s high-handed methods and also questioned his musical depth. And Mr. Hirsch, you were bitter, perhaps with justification, because you’d wanted the music director’s job yourself, and also because your composition was ignored by Stevens. As for you, Mr. Sommers, you felt that the music director was unjustly critical of your performance and was trying to drive you from the orchestra.” Sommers nodded but said nothing. “Miss Radovich, you were unhappy because your uncle was violently opposed to your choice of a mate.” Maria recoiled like she’d been slapped, and started to say something, but checked herself as Wolfe went on. “Mrs. Forrester-Moore, you were frustrated because you did not receive a proposal of marriage from Mr. Stevens.”

  “That is simply not true!” Lucinda said, leaning forward and clenching her fists. “I know that’s been said around town, but it’s cruel and it’s wrong. As I told Archie—Mr. Goodwin—when he came to see me, I didn’t want to get married again any more than Milan did. I won’t deny I was fond of him, but marriage … no, not at all. You can believe that or not, as you choose.”

  Wolfe scowled and shrugged. “In any event,” he said, “I evaluated these various grounds for hostility toward Milan Stevens. Each of the affected parties may well have had just cause for at least some degree of anger or bitterness, but is any one of these reasons sufficient to fuel a murder?” He looked around the room again, stopping at each face. “I think not. No, whoever ran that letter opener into Mr. Stevens’s back had to be driven by more deep-seated emotions—indeed, by an enmity far more intense than would have been generated because of his relatively innocuous acts of insensitivity and callousness.”

  “Do you call it innocuous when one person tries to destroy the career of another?” It was Sommers’s voice.

  “I’ll answer one question with another, sir. Would—or did—such an action toward you cause you to commit murder?”

  Sommers turned from Wolfe’s gaze. “Of course not,” he said.

  “Now, if I may continue,” Wolfe said. “Almost from the beginning, I realized that last Wednesday night’s violence probably took root some time ago, perhaps long before Mr. Stevens’s arrival in the United States. Had I been less sluggish and more visioned, I would have reached the truth earlier, but …” He raised his shoulders an eighth of an inch and dropped them.

  “Before you start launching into Stevens’s life history, let’s get a little more basic,” Cramer snapped. “How do you explain Milner and the apartment building? Nobody else went in the front way, and the back door is locked from the outside.”

  “If I may correct you,” Wolfe said, “the hallman says he didn’t see anyone else go in the front way. And I believe him. However, what if he was away from his post at some point during the evening?”

  “Conjecture.” Cramer sneered.

  “No, sir, not conjecture,” Wolfe retorted. “The hallman, Mr. Hubbard, was away from his desk—indeed, outside the building—for a period of perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. It was that absence that made possible the murderer’s unseen entry into the building.”

  Everyone started talking at once, firing questions at Wolfe and at each other. “Please!” Wolfe said over the hubbub. “If I may go on.”

  “You’d better back up what you’re saying,” Cramer said, “or I swear to God that you’ll be retired permanently this time.”

  “I’ll be the one to decide when I retire, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said coldly. “And I’m q
uite capable of backing up what I say. It would be much simpler, however, without interruptions.” He leaned back and closed his eyes until all the chatter had stopped.

  “Mr. Thomas Hubbard, the hallman in the building where the murder occurred, has an excessive fondness for … women of the streets, particularly redheaded ones. This is well-known along the block where he works—it’s even something of a joke among his fellow doormen and hallmen, as one of my agents found out on a visit to the block.

  “Milan Stevens’s murderer also must have discovered this fact—it wouldn’t have been hard to do—and put it to use. A prostitute with red hair was located and was paid well to stroll into the building lobby, engage Mr. Hubbard in conversation, and entice him into a car that had been parked down the block expressly for this purpose. It was while the two of them were in the car and Mr. Hubbard was distracted that the murderer entered the building. This was before Mr. Milner was scheduled to arrive and after the doorman had gone off duty for the night, so the front of the building was unguarded. The murderer took a chance on being seen by some other tenant or visitor in the lobby or the elevator, of course. If someone had indeed happened along, the project could merely have been postponed and restructured in a different format; those determined to kill can always find opportunities. Mr. Stevens would have been puzzled by the arrival of Gerald Milner, but beyond that, the evening would have been uneventful.

  “But the plan went as scheduled. No one was encountered in the lobby or elevator. The murderer took the elevator to Stevens’s floor and rang the bell. Stevens doubtless thought it strange that there was someone upstairs when the hallman hadn’t called from the lobby first, but he opened the door to his killer—after all, it was someone he knew well. That the stab wounds were in the back is additional indication of this.”