Death on Deadline (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “All right,” Wolfe said. I shot a look at him, but his big mug revealed nothing.

  “I’ve also talked to our editor-in-chief, Lloyd Williams, and he concurs with me that Lon Cohen is the man to write the story, because you know each other so well.”

  “Tell Mr. Cohen he’s welcome to call me—immediately, if he wishes.”

  “Excellent,” Bishop said. “I can be at your office anytime today. As for the other three, here’s the situation: David and Donna insist on seeing you together—preferably tomorrow afternoon. Scott doesn’t mind coming alone, and he says sometime tomorrow is fine; he’s not particular.”

  Wolfe looked at the wall clock. “Can you be here at six? I invite you to stay for dinner, as well. We’re having pork tenderloin.”

  “Six is fine,” Bishop said. “I’m sorry I’ll have to decline on dinner, though. Lon’s told me what marvelous meals you serve, but I have a previous engagement.” Wolfe left it to me to handle the Sunday appointments with Bishop, and we worked it out that the brother-sister act would come at two and the nephew at four. Any other day Wolfe would be up with the orchids at the later hour, but Sundays he strays from his schedule.

  Moments after I hung up with Bishop, Lon called for his interview, and I listened in at my desk. It was fairly brief, a few basic questions asked by a skillful reporter and answered tersely by Wolfe. “You know what this means, of course?” I said sourly after he’d finished. “We get flooded-with media calls all over again tomorrow after they see the Gazette. And I’ll have to field every damn one of them.”

  “That’s only fitting,” Wolfe said, one corner of his mouth turning up slightly, “since you devised the fiendishly clever stratagem of playing on the Gazette’s debt to us. With that debt now more than paid, they feel comfortable in extracting favors.”

  I opened my mouth to really flatten him, but before I could get it out, the doorbell rang. I went to the hall, and flicking aside the curtain, saw the thick figure of Inspector Cramer, who looked as if he was ready to eat a bear.

  “Come in,” I said heartily, swinging the door open. “It’s nice to see you again.” Of course, he steamed by me like I was invisible and made straight for Wolfe’s office, where he homed in on the leather chair, slammed his size twelves on the floor and stuck his chin out. Before he could start in, Wolfe asked if he’d join him in a beer.

  “You’re darned right I will. Now, what’s this crap about murder? Can’t anyone die in the five boroughs without you trying to butt in and promote a goddamned case out of it?”

  “I do not have a client,” Wolfe replied coldly.

  “Balls!” Cramer roared, jamming an unlit cigar into his mouth. I’ve never seen him fire one up.

  “Whether or not I am being paid should be immaterial to you. Rather, you should want to know why I think Harriet Haverhill was murdered.”

  “Okay,” Cramer shot back, “let’s say I’m curious. Oh, thanks, Fritz,” he said as a cold bottle of beer and a glass were set on the small table on his right.

  “You may be aware that I placed an advertisement in the Times earlier this week,” Wolfe said, shifting his bulk.

  “Yeah, I saw it. I should’ve known that was the start of trouble.”

  Wolfe ignored the comment. “As a result of that open letter, Harriet Haverhill came to see me on Wednesday, along with her lawyer, Mr. Dean. Our talk centered on the Gazette, specifically on the other shareholders and whether they would be disposed to sell out to Ian MacLaren.”

  “And?” Cramer said, gulping down half a glass of beer.

  “And she seemed to feel there was a strong likelihood that her late husband’s children and his nephew might indeed sell their shares.”

  “There’s your reason for suicide,” Cramer said triumphantly, waving the stogie. “She was going to lose her paper.”

  “No, sir, I don’t believe it. I saw enough of the woman to know she was not suicidal. She was too self-possessed and had too much pride and character to succumb to that ultimate admission of failure.”

  “So now we’re playing the amateur psychiatrist,” Cramer snorted. “Well, let me just fill you in on what the facts show: First, Harriet Haverhill was found dead in her office with her own pistol in her hand. Second, cause of death, a bullet to the brain, from that same gun. It had been the only shot fired. Third, her fingerprints were the only ones on the weapon. Fourth, the lady had had a very rough day. We talked to both of her stepchildren, and they told my men that they’d informed her of their intention to sell out to the MacLaren Organisation. The nephew—what’s his name, Scott?—was apparently waffling, but he too was leaning toward grabbing the money and running. We also interviewed MacLaren, who told us his meeting with Mrs. Haverhill late yesterday afternoon was hardly cordial. He told her that he had commitments for a majority of the Gazette stock and even offered to buy hers. She apparently threw him out of her office on his ear at that point.”

  “What time was that?”

  “He says a few minutes after six. They had started talking at five-thirty.”

  “Who saw Mrs. Haverhill after MacLaren left her?”

  Cramer leaned forward in his chair. “Nobody, but what does that prove? Her secretary, who has a small office next door to Mrs. Haverhill’s suite, went home at five-thirty, just after she ushered MacLaren in. She always leaves at that time.”

  “Does it strike you as strange that Mrs. Haverhill left neither a letter nor some kind of message?”

  Cramer worked the stogie around in his mouth. “It’s a common misconception that everybody who kills himself scribbles a farewell note. In this city last year, probably half the suicides didn’t see fit to explain why they did it. My guess is she was so depressed after MacLaren left that she acted on impulse—reached into her desk drawer where she kept the pistol and …” He spread his hands, palms up.

  “Nonsense,” Wolfe snapped. “Under no circumstances would this woman have destroyed herself.”

  “Listen to the expert,” Cramer said, his face turning red. “You talked to her for how long—twenty minutes? A half-hour? And now you claim to know just how she’d react in the worst crisis of her life. I never thought you’d stoop to this to get a case,” he snarled, getting to his feet, throwing the chewed-over cigar at the wastebasket, and missing by a foot. “A woman is dead, tragically, and you want to twist this to your own advantage. Well, just remember you can only operate if you have a license.”

  He turned on his heel, and I got up to follow him, but he stomped out the front door and down the steps before I got to the hall. All I saw from the one-way panel was his broad behind as he climbed into the unmarked black sedan waiting at the curb.

  “He seemed a touch angry,” I said when I was back in the office.

  Wolfe looked up from his book. “With reason. He now sees a murder case looming, one he wishes would go away. But it won’t, and neither will we.”

  Eleven

  AT SIX O’CLOCK I WAS in the office looking over the Saturday Gazette’s coverage of Harriet Haverhill. They gave it their banner headline, along with a two-column picture of her, a portrait by that famous Canadian photographer that probably had been taken at least five years ago. The article was a straight reporting job and referred to her death as “an apparent suicide.” No mention was made of Ian MacLaren or his visit to the Gazette Building. As I read the story a second time, I wondered how they’d play Lon’s piece about Wolfe in the Sunday editions.

  The elevator rumbled and the doorbell rang at the same moment. I went to the hall, saw through the glass that it was the publisher himself, and let him in, hanging his trench coat on a hook and directing him to the office, where Wolfe had just gotten seated.

  “Good evening,” Bishop said. “I wish we were meeting under more cheerful circumstances.” He apparently knew about Wolfe’s handshake phobia and went directly to the red leather chair.

  “Sir,” Wolfe responded, dipping his head a gracious eighth of an inch. “Would you like a drink? I�
��m having beer.”

  “Scotch, thanks, with a splash of water,” he replied, unbuttoning the coat of his gray suit. He still looked like he’d had a sleepless night. I went to the serving cart in the corner and mixed a Scotch for him and another for me, while Fritz came in with Wolfe’s standard order.

  “As you know,” Wolfe said, pouring beer and watching the foam settle, “Mrs. Haverhill visited here three days ago.”

  Bishop nodded. “Yes, she told me about it. Your letter in the Times was quite a surprise to her. Let me ask you,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, “why is it you’re so sure Harriet was murdered?”

  “You knew the woman well, sir, I met her but once. Are you convinced she took her own life?”

  Bishop studied the glass in his right hand, then looked up, meeting Wolfe’s steady gaze. “I’m just now, a day later, getting used to the fact that she’s gone. We’ve worked together for more than twenty years. Yes, I believe she did kill herself. I know she didn’t seem a candidate for that kind of ending, but this MacLaren business had really been eating her up. It had depressed her terribly. Far more than she let on.” He shook his head and took another swallow of Scotch, bigger than the last. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and jammed it into his mouth, but noticing Wolfe’s grimace, he didn’t light up.

  “How do you feel about the possibility of Mr. MacLaren running the Gazette?” Wolfe asked.

  “Ruining the Gazette would be more like it, and it’s the worst thing that could happen. I’ve known for weeks that it’s a strong possibility, but I’m still not prepared to accept it—any more than Harriet was.”

  “I gather you would not have sold your shares to him?”

  “You gather right, although I’m just small potatoes. I don’t think he gives a damn about my holding. Same with Elliot Dean’s,” he said, chewing on his pipe. Shades of Cramer. “Elliot has an even smaller piece of the company than I do—together we’ve got a little more than seven percent.”

  “Still, a tidy amount,” Wolfe nodded. “Is Mr. Dean as strongly opposed to a MacLaren takeover as you are?”

  “Hell, yes. Elliot was a tiger where Harriet’s interests were concerned. He would have walked on hot coals for her.”

  “The family’s younger members obviously lack the same degree of fealty,” Wolfe remarked dryly.

  “Hah, that’s for sure,” Bishop agreed. “I know I can be candid with you; together, I wouldn’t give a subway token for those three—wait, let me modify that. I really can’t say that I know Donna all that well. She actually seems to be bright and at least reasonably honest. But as for those two clowns … I’d almost rather see MacLaren get the paper than have either of them running things.”

  “My impression is that Mrs. Haverhill held the same opinion of them, particularly the stepson.”

  “Absolutely. If MacLaren had been just about anybody else, instead of the unprincipled slime that he is, I think she might have sold out without a fight.”

  “You had great admiration for her.”

  Bishop smiled ruefully. “A fine newspaperwoman. She ran the paper the way Wilkins would have wanted. Her first concern was always editorial excellence. I don’t mean to say she wasn’t interested in making a buck—the Gazette turned a nice profit every year. But she plowed a lot of money back into the product. I’ll give you an example of her priorities: I spent thirty years on the news side—as a reporter, a copy editor, city editor, managing editor, and then eleven years as editor-in-chief. She was publisher at that time, and one day she comes to me and says, ‘Carl, I want you to take over as publisher.’ I told her I didn’t know a damn thing about how to do it, and she answered by saying the publisher ought to come from the editorial side of a paper, to ensure that it never loses sight of its primary mission.”

  Bishop waved away my offer of a refill. “Do you know that I’m just about the only publisher of a major U.S. daily that didn’t come up through the business or advertising ranks? I’m not going to speculate on how good I’ve been at the job—others will have to make that judgment—but I’ve always tried to keep in mind that we’re a news organ first and an advertising vehicle second. I must say, however, that I’ve learned to be diplomatic in dealing with our big advertisers, as hard as that sometimes is.”

  “Would you have been willing to serve as Mr. MacLaren’s publisher?”

  Bishop made a face. “Definitely not, although it’s moot, because he wouldn’t want me. He has a history of bringing in his own team at the top whenever he buys a newspaper.”

  “Then what? Were you prepared to retire?”

  “I’m sixty-three, and financially I’m well enough off. I still feel good and I love to work, but yeah, I would have said to hell with it. Our kids are grown and my wife and I bought a great place in the Bahamas where we’d like to spend more time.”

  Wolfe poured the second bottle of beer into his glass. “You were at the Gazette when Mrs. Haverhill’s body was found?”

  “Yes. I knew she’d been meeting with MacLaren, and I was mainly waiting around to see how it had gone—my office is just down the hall from hers on the twentieth floor. Earlier she said that she’d call me when they were done. The first I knew there was trouble was when Sal Milletti—he’s captain of our security force—barged in on me. One of his men, Eddie Reimer, had found her when he was checking the floor on his rounds and called Sal on the radio. They were the only ones who’d been in her suite before I got there.”

  “Were the others still in the building—the stepchildren and the nephew?”

  “Donna was in with David—and David’s wife, Carolyn. The three of them were talking in the conference room on the twelfth floor. Scott was alone in his office just a few doors away.”

  “Why was Carolyn Haverhill there?”

  “I guess I should have mentioned her before,” Bishop said. “She’s a powerhouse. I frankly don’t know what the hell she ever saw in David, other than his dough, of course. Although I think she comes from money herself. I could live with her running the Gazette, I think—she’s bright enough, and knows how to make decisions. The big negative about her is the joker she’s married to, though. Anyway, you asked why she was there: she usually is, when there are big corporate decisions to be made.”

  “Did she come by invitation?”

  Bishop nodded. “David likes to have her around when things get tense. He knows she’s a damn sight smarter than he is.”

  “How do she and Donna get along?”

  “All right, as far as I know. I think Donna’s happy to have her on the scene, too, as a steadying influence on the turkey.”

  “What is the cousin’s attitude toward Carolyn?”

  “Scott? Oh, I think he resents her. He detests anything to do with David—guilt by association.”

  Wolfe pondered the desk blotter for several seconds, then leveled his gaze at Bishop. “I would like to have Carolyn Haverhill come here tomorrow with her husband and his sister. Is it too great an imposition to ask you to arrange that?”

  “Not at all. I was going to suggest it myself when we talked on the phone. I’ll try to reach her tonight. Actually, David would probably welcome having her along.”

  “Back to the Gazette Building,” Wolfe said. “Was Mr. MacLaren still there when the body was discovered?”

  “I’m not sure—I think he’d gone. I do know that after he talked to Harriet, he went off looking for Elliot.”

  “And found him?”

  “Uh-huh. Dean has a private law practice, but as Harriet’s counsel, he also has an office in the building. MacLaren apparently met with him there after he left Harriet.”

  “May I assume you are familiar with the terms of Mrs. Haverhill’s will?”

  “Yes. At one time, she was going to divide her Gazette holdings among her stepchildren and Scott, with David and Donna each getting forty percent of her stock and the other twenty going to Scott. But in recent months, she decided to will her shares to a trust—are you aware of that?”
/>   “She touched briefly on it when she was here.”

  Bishop studied the ice in his glass. “The bottom line was that she felt none of the kids was up to running the operation. Rather than turn it over to them when she died, she would sink her holding into a trust, with the trustees being me, Elliot, and a banker.”

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Wolfe put in.

  “Right. And all the papers—God, there were a lot of them—got drawn up a couple of months ago. What a lawyer’s dream.”

  “And what were the reactions of the younger Haverhills?”

  Bishop decided another Scotch would be okay after all, and I went to the table with his glass. “From what I heard, some of it from Harriet and some second-hand, they didn’t like it very damn much—especially David, who went on a two-day binge when he found out. Scott apparently did some whining too, but I’m not sure about Donna, who’s more removed from the scene.”

  “With this action, was Mrs. Haverhill not cutting herself off from possible rescue from a takeover? Either one of her stepchildren’s shares, coupled with her own, would ensure absolute control of the newspaper.”

  “Of course I’ve thought about that myself—and I came close a couple of times to asking Harriet about it,” Bishop said. “For what it’s worth, I have two theories: One, at the time the trust instrument was being drawn, there was no hint whatever of a MacLaren takeover. He was rumored to be more interested in a Chicago paper and had pretty much publicly stated the New York newspaper market was too fragmented for him—despite all that publicity about his wanting a paper in the biggest city of every English-speaking country. Second, if the idea of a takeover did occur to Harriet, I suspect that she felt somehow she could play on the family angle to convince one of them—probably Donna—to sell to the trust.”

  “What about the trio trying to take over?” Wolfe posed. “The two stepchildren’s shares together would effectively checkmate Mrs. Haverhill. Add the nephew, and you’re at forty-five percent.”

  Bishop shook his head. “David and Scott didn’t get along very well—ever. It’s hard to visualize them in bed together.”