Death on Deadline

by Robert Goldsborough

  It was ten-forty when I got back to the office. Although all three editorials were identically worded, I opened each paper to that page and placed them on Wolfe’s desk blotter on top of the day’s mail. I was still sore at him, so when he walked in at eleven I kept my eyes on the books I was balancing.

  He settled in behind the desk, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up. I could hear the rustle of newspaper. “A childish redundancy,” he grunted.

  “What is?” I couldn’t keep my head down any longer.

  “‘Unprincipled charlatan,’“ he sneered, tossing the papers aside and attacking the mail. He made a couple of stabs at starting a conversation, but I wasn’t having any, and it was more of the same at lunch.

  We were back in the office with coffee when the doorbell rang at two-thirty-five. The Elliot Dean I saw through the one-way panel looked older than he had a few days earlier. Maybe because his eyes were red-rimmed. I matched his somber face with my own as I opened the door and gestured him in. He muttered something, wheezed indignantly while I took his raincoat and hung it up on the big old walnut rack, and marched by me into the office, homing in on the red leather chair and nodding to Wolfe as he sat.

  “I’m only here because Carl Bishop asked me to come,” he announced curtly, smoothing his white hair. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes, no more. And I should say before we start that I don’t approve of this monstrous murder talk. For that matter, I don’t approve of you.” He took a long, wheezing breath, which turned his face purple.

  Wolfe cocked an eye at him. “As Pope wrote, ‘Be candid where we can.’ I appreciate candor, sir; it allows us to dispense with the trivialities that masquerade as friendship at the outset of a discussion. And given the short time you are allotting Mr. Goodwin and me, an economy of words is doubly essential.”

  Dean started to reply, but Wolfe held up a hand. “Please, if you’ll indulge me, I’ll do what I can to honor your desire for brevity. You knew Mrs. Haverhill for many years, and indeed were her confidant, her closest adviser. Are you utterly convinced that she took her own life?”

  “Of course,” Dean bristled. “What other explanation is there?”

  “I’ve obviously been wondering that myself. In the days before her death, would you have guessed her to be a candidate for self-destruction?”

  Dean shifted in his chair and began to wheeze again. “She was under a lot of pressure, with that man making his move to take over and all.”

  “But was it a pressure intense enough to fuel a suicide?”

  “Lord, I don’t know!” Dean wailed, spreading his long arms, palms up. “I wouldn’t have thought so, knowing Harriet, but I guess it must have been.” He stared at the floor in front of Wolfe’s desk, shaking his head. For a minute I thought he was going to cry.

  “Very well.” Wolfe nodded. “I understand you spoke to Mrs. Haverhill last Friday morning. I’m interested in the essence of that conversation.”

  “See here,” Dean spluttered, “I was in with Harriet almost every day. That was not unusual.”

  “I’m not suggesting it was,” Wolfe said quietly. “But she may have said something—perhaps it seemed insignificant to you at the time—that might provide insight into what happened just a few hours later. For instance, what about her mood? You of all people would be sensitive to even subtle changes in her behavior.”

  Dean made a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a groan. “I said she was under a lot of pressure. Of course it showed, and it wasn’t subtle. Harriet was a strong, strong woman, but that bastard MacLaren had gotten to her. She was tenser than I can ever remember.”

  “Did she ask you to come to see her?”

  “Yes. As you are aware, I have an office in the Gazette Building, as well as my firm’s offices downtown. Lately I’d been spending the greater amount of my time at the newspaper, to be nearer Harriet, because of . . . this takeover business.” His little mustache quivered.

  “Did she discuss the takeover with you?”

  Dean nodded. “She’d just seen Donna, and from their conversation, it was obvious she was going to sell her shares. ‘That’s one of them gone,’ Harriet told me, and she smacked her fist on her desk as she said it.”

  “Did she talk to you about the other two, David and Scott?”

  The purple was easing out of Dean’s cheeks. “She was going to see David later that morning, and she held out almost no hope there. For that matter, neither did I, although I didn’t bother telling her what I thought. She was depressed enough as it was.”

  “You knew her stepson would sell out?”

  “Of course,” Dean said irritably. “David is a drunken opportunist who doesn’t give a damn about anything or anyone but himself. He knew he’d never nave the chance to run the paper, thank God for that, so he was delighted with the opportunity to make a financial killing. It was obvious to anybody who knew him.”

  “That leaves the nephew. What did Mrs. Haverhill say about him?”

  “Harriet thought she might be able to hold on to him.”

  “By offering him the job of publisher?”

  “What! Where did you hear that?” Dean croaked. “Absolute nonsense. She may have liked Scott better than David, but make him publisher—never!” He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “He didn’t have the brains or toughness, and she knew it.”

  Wolfe raised his shoulders a quarter-inch and let them drop. “It was just speculation. I thought perhaps that was the kind of enticement necessary to keep his shares in the fold.”

  Dean leaned forward in the chair. His face was getting mottled again. We were really putting him through the wringer. “Harriet may have wanted desperately to keep the paper away from MacLaren, but she wasn’t that desperate. I can assure you that she never would have placed Scott in that position. The man’s a liar and a cheat and Harriet knew all too well that he’d destroy the paper in no time if she handed it over to him—”

  “Even if it were her only hope of keeping control of the paper away from Mr. MacLaren?”

  Dean nodded vigorously. “As she told you when we were here last week, she felt confident of holding Scott on her side by offering him one of the three chairs on that board of trustees she was setting up. When I talked to her Friday, she was still taking that tack.”

  “Did she have a contingency plan if he balked?”

  “She didn’t think he would balk,” Dean said sharply. “As I told you before, she would not have offered him the post of chairman or publisher. Out of the question.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Haverhill again after that meeting?”

  Dean looked at the floor, and his “No” wasn’t easy to hear.

  “Sir, where were you on Friday between six o’clock and when you learned of Mrs. Haverhill’s death?”

  “In my office on the twelfth floor.”

  “Alone?”

  “The whole time. I was waiting for Harriet’s call. In the afternoon, she had sent a note to all of us—the stockholders, that is—saying she wanted to meet after she had seen MacLaren. And when a call did come . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Who called, and at what time?”

  “Carl Bishop. I think at about a quarter to eight.”

  “Did you know that Mrs. Haverhill kept a gun in her desk drawer?”

  “Oh God, yes,” Dean said, shaking his head. He looked teary again. “I was the one who got it for her.”

  “Indeed?”

  “That was several years back, I can’t remember how many. But an editor had been kidnapped, you might recall it, and I was worried that some lunatic might get the same idea here. I convinced Harriet’s chauffeur to carry a pistol for a while, too, although he finally quit toting it. As for Harriet, she hated the idea of having a gun around, and until Friday I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Wolfe poured beer and glowered at the foam. “Why did she keep it?”

  “I don’t know,” Dean said, his prickly tone returning. “Maybe she’d forgott
en that it was there.”

  “Perhaps,” Wolfe said. “Had she revised her will recently?”

  “I can’t see that that’s any business of yours,” Dean snorted. “But it’ll be public soon enough, so you’re not getting any secrets. All of her holdings in the Gazette are going into that trust she mentioned when we were here last week.”

  “What about the rest of her estate?”

  “God, you need to know everything, don’t you? Virtually all of the rest is being left to a couple of charities that she held dear, plus some relatively small bequests to her secretary and her household help—a maid and a cook here in the city and a gardener at her place out on Long Island.”

  “Did she leave anything to you?”

  “Certainly not! Now, if you don’t mind, and even if you do, I’ll be leaving. I’ve given you a lot more than your allotted fifteen minutes. I still don’t know what you’re trying to prove—or why. You don’t even have a client.”

  “But I do, sir,” Wolfe corrected blandly.

  “Huh,” Dean sniffed, rising and drawing himself up to his full height of maybe five-eight, then turning to go so fast that he nearly stumbled. I followed him to the hall, intending to help him with his coat, but he was too fast, snatching it from the hook on the fly and hustling out the door before I could open it. Some people just won’t take any help.

  “Charming fellow, isn’t he?” I said as I returned to the office.

  “Huh,” Wolfe answered. I started to ask if he was mimicking Dean, but I checked myself. He was working now—sort of—and I didn’t want to risk getting him angry. He might just have a relapse, if only to spite me.

  SEVENTEEN

  Wolfe was in no mood to talk after Dean left. He retreated behind the covers of his book, and for once, I didn’t bother him. Theodore had dumped an unusually large batch of germination records on my desk the night before, so I had plenty to do, entering them on the proper cards in my files. I got so involved with this that I didn’t notice when Wolfe waddled out, but I did catch the whirring of the elevator, and it surprised me that my watch read four o’clock. As they say, time flies when you’re having fun.

  A half-hour later, the phone rang. “Mr. Goodwin, it’s Audrey MacLaren.” There was a little catch in her voice. “Something crazy just happened—Ian called me and demanded to know why I had hired Mr. Wolfe.”

  “And you of course denied it?”

  “I tried to, but he’s always been able to see right through me. I make a terrible liar.” That was open to question. “And besides, I seem to have been sighted entering and leaving your house.”

  “Who by?”

  “A television reporter, a woman. She recognized me, I don’t know how, and she called Ian for a comment.”

  I swore, but to myself. “Okay, so your little secret is out. Is that really so bad?”

  “I suppose not. But as I told you, Ian can be terribly vindictive. I worry about the children.”

  “Do you really think anything would happen to them?”

  “Oh, probably not,” she said softly. “I just wish . . . he hadn’t found out.”

  “What did he say when he called?”

  “What did he scream, you mean? He informed me at the top of his lungs that I’d regret this. He talked about legal action.”

  “Mrs. MacLaren, that’s all it is, talk,” I said, trying to sound comforting. It wasn’t the kids she was really worried about, it was the whopping monthly payments he might decide to withhold, and we both knew it. “Have the TV people talked to you?”

  “No, but I have an unlisted number.”

  “That’s never stopped them before. I think I’d avoid answering the phone for a while if you’re shy about publicity on this thing. If I need to call you, and I probably will, I’ll let the phone ring once, then hang up. The second time, I’ll ring four times before hanging up. The third time, answer—that’ll be me.”

  “I—all right,” she said, but the voice was shaky, which surprised me after seeing her in action in the office.

  “Look, are you getting cold feet? Do you want to pull out of this?” I didn’t want to ask, but I thought I’d better find out right then what kind of client we’d gotten saddled with.

  “No!” Her tone became suddenly crisp. “You’re absolutely right, I shouldn’t worry about Ian. After all, he’s the reason I’m doing this. I can’t quit now. He has to be stopped.”

  “Well said,” I told her warmly, and gave a breath of relief. After saying I’d keep in touch, I buzzed the plant rooms.

  “Yes?” Wolfe is a master at making his irritation show in a single word, especially when he gets disturbed during his playtime.

  “Our client called. Seems her ex found out she hired you. He’s mad, she’s upset. I soothed her, as only I can do, but you can bet he’ll be calling anytime now, probably demanding an audience. Instructions?”

  The sigh was for my benefit, to show that he was, to use one of his terms, beleaguered. “Very well,” he said. “If he calls, I’ll see him tonight at nine, or tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  “One more item to cheer you,” I said. “The house is being watched, by reporters. That’s how MacLaren knew that Audrey had been here.”

  The receiver slammed. He can take only so much bad news in a single conversation. I timed it. Twenty minutes later, MacLaren called.

  “I want to see Wolfe—as soon as possible,” came the burr.

  “I’ll see if that can be arranged,” I responded in a calm, businesslike tone. I wasn’t about to be shoved around by the likes of him. “He’s busy at the moment, but I’ll certainly try to arrange an appointment. May I tell him what it’s about?”

  “You know damn well!” he gruffed. “Audrey.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, but I’ll try to get through to Mr. Wolfe. Wait a moment, please,” I said, pressing the hold button. I watched the seconds blink on my digital watch until a full minute had passed, then I punched him back on. “How about nine tonight?” I asked. When he allowed grumpily as to how that was acceptable, I added, “Remember, Mr. Wolfe and I are insistent on one point: Boy George stays in the car. If he’s even standing at the door with you, you don’t get in.”

  That made twice in a row I got hung up on, but at least this time I’d asked for it, and had a little fun in the process.

  When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six, I gave him the verbatim on the calls from both Audrey and her ex-husband, including the hold-button razzmatazz, which brought a satisfying twitch to the corner of his mouth. But then he started scowling into his beef, which he always does when he knows he has to see someone after dinner.

  “Cheer up,” I said. “Maybe he’ll try to outbid her for your services.” The glower that this brought, aimed at me, would have withered limbs, so I shrugged and walked over to the liquor cabinet, where I treated myself to two fingers of bourbon and added a splash of water.

  As long as Wolfe was stuck with an after-dinner visitor, and one he wasn’t fond of, he made sure he was well-fortified. He helped himself to four servings of Fritz’s braised pork fillets. For the record, I had three myself, and we evenly divvied up the baked apples in wine, leaving only crumbs and not many of those. As we sat in the office with coffee, I tried to restart our dinner-table conversation, which had been about the validity of I.Q. tests, but he was back in his funk again, and I didn’t feel like trying to jolly him out of it. I was relieved when the bell squawked at six minutes to nine; now maybe we’d get some action.

  Through the glass, I could see that MacLaren stood alone on the stoop; presumably George was sulking in the Lincoln, which was where he belonged.

  “Come in,” I said politely, but without a smile or, I hoped, any trace of warmth.

  He said something that sounded vaguely like thank you and handed me his topcoat, then stomped into the office. “All right,” he snapped even before his fanny hit the cushion of the red leather chair, “what’s all this crap about Audrey hiring you to investigat
e Harriet Haverhill’s death?”

  Wolfe looked up from his book, blinked, then closed it deliberately, studying the binding. “May I offer you a drink, sir? I’m going to have beer.”

  “No, you may not.” He lovingly dipped each word in acid before releasing it. “I didn’t come here to socialize, as I’m sure you’re aware. I came to find out why the bloody hell my former wife is doing business with you, although I already know the answer.”

  “Go on,” Wolfe said, holding his gaze on the furious Scotsman.

  “She’s hired you—don’t try to deny it. I confronted her today, and she admitted she’s been here.”

  “Then perhaps she told you of the substance of our conversation.”

  “No, I couldn’t get that out of her, but I didn’t have to. It’s obvious. She loathes me, has since our divorce— and before. There’s only one interest she could possibly have in the Haverhill death: she wants it to look like I killed the woman. She’s hired you to hang this thing on me somehow, to contrive to make it look like a murder. You don’t like me to begin with, and you already think it’s a murder, so the two of you make perfect bed partners in this vile thing. She’s going to turn you loose on me. By heaven—”

  “Come now, Mr. MacLaren.” Wolfe raised a palm, leaning back in his reinforced chair. “Surely you can’t believe such twaddle. One of the stipulations I invariably make to clients is that no constraints of any kind be placed upon me. I start without preconceptions, at least as much as is humanly possible, and will under no circumstances agree to produce a culprit to order. If you doubt me, I invite you to speak with Inspector Cramer of Homicide or Mr. Cohen of the Gazette. I suggest them not as references—my work speaks for itself—but rather as cynical and impartial observers.”