“That’s where you are wrong, my dear. He thinks very highly of you.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, but it’s nice to hear anyway.”
Several people left Katonah Sunday afternoon, including Serena and her consort, William Phelps of the Metropolitan Opera Company. I said my good-byes to her at the front door as Phelps loaded their bags into a waiting limousine.
“It has been very nice making your acquaintance, Archie Goodwin,” Serena said, standing on tiptoe and kissing me on the cheek. “And I understand that your employer, the famous Nero Wolfe, is wanting to see me about the death of my former husband. I look forward to speaking with him. Will you be present?”
I said I would, which landed me another kiss on the cheek. As the limo pulled away, I turned back to the house, where Lily was waiting in the doorway. “Not one kiss but two. Whatever am I to do with you?”
“I’ve often wondered that. I guess it’s fair to say that my charm is also my curse.”
“Ah, so that’s what it is? Well, even though some of the folks have departed, there are lots of us left, and tonight we will be dancing to the music of a six-piece band I’ve brought in from Poughkeepsie that is said to be quite popular with the girls over at Vassar and their dates. I expect to have the first dance, the last dance, and several in-between with you.”
“I find nothing whatever to object to in that statement,” I said. “Let us show the folks here how it’s done.”
As it turned out, Lily and I were impressive on the dance floor that night, if I do say so myself. But as good a time as I was having, I couldn’t help but think about Serena Sanchez and how the lady would react to meeting and being grilled by Nero Wolfe.
Chapter 22
By the time I got to the brownstone Monday night after dropping Lily off at her penthouse, I was too tired to report to Wolfe, so I went straight upstairs to my room, bypassing the office.
At breakfast the next morning in the kitchen, Fritz wanted to hear the details of the weekend. He had been at the Katonah retreat himself several years earlier to supervise the preparation of a feast for a hundred or so guests at one of Lily’s charity fund-raisers.
I filled him in on our activities, although he was far more interested in hearing about the new, top-of-the-line range and refrigerator Lily recently had installed at Katonah. He had been urging Wolfe to get new kitchen appliances for years, and this information would no doubt spur him on.
At my desk in the office, I found bills that needed paying and orchid records to be entered on file cards, but no notes from Wolfe. He came down from the plant rooms at eleven and, after placing a raceme of orange Laelia in his desk vase, he rang for beer and asked if I had enjoyed the long weekend.
“Very much,” I replied. “Miss Rowan sends you her warm greetings. And lest you think I did not devote at least some of my time in Katonah to work, I made the acquaintance of one of the other guests, Serena Sanchez.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Did you bewitch her?”
“Only to the extent that I often bewitch beautiful women. While she was under my spell, Miss Sanchez agreed to come to the brownstone and talk to you about Cameron Clay.”
If Wolfe was pleased, he chose not to show it, concentrating instead on uncapping one of the two chilled bottles of Remmers beer that Fritz had just placed before him along with a pilsner glass.
“When would you like to see Miss Sanchez?” I asked. “She is expecting a call from me.”
“Tonight,” he grumbled, realizing he would have to go back to work sooner than he had anticipated.
“She is teaching a master class in voice at the Juilliard, so I might not be able to reach her until later,” I told him. “But when I told her you wanted to meet with her, she was agreeable.”
That did not impress Wolfe, who, after his first sip of beer, had riffled through the day’s mail I had stacked on his blotter. He found nothing of interest in the mail and opened his current book, 84, Charing Cross Road, by Helene Hanff.
To hell with it, I thought; maybe I could catch a break and reach the lady at home. I dialed the Churchill Hotel and asked for her room. To my surprise, she answered.
“Hello, Serena.”
“I recognize that voice,” she said with a laugh. “It is Archie Goodwin, the great dancer, is it not? And you are, of course, calling to invite me to meet your Mr. Nero Wolfe. I shall endeavor to make myself available.”
“Would it be inconvenient for you to come to Mr. Wolfe’s home tonight?”
There was a pause at the other end. “No, I could come. When would you like me to be there?”
“What about nine o’clock?” I gave her the address.
“That is good. And I will be on time, Archie.”
“I would never doubt that for a second,” I told her. “But to make things easier for you, I can arrange to have a taxi pick you up at the Churchill and then take you back home when you leave here. The driver is an old friend of mine named Herb Aronson, who has been helpful to us for years. If you don’t hear from me in the next half hour, Mr. Aronson will be at the front entrance of the hotel at eight forty-five.” I gave her the number of Herb’s cab.
“That is most gracious of you, Archie.” After hanging up with Serena, I called Herb’s home number, knowing he was usually off-duty at this hour of the morning.
“Hey, Private Cop, I haven’t heard from you in days, maybe weeks. Is it something about my driving style, or did you just decide to stop riding in hacks?”
“None of the above, cab jockey. In fact, I have a round-trip fare for you tonight, and one that I think you’ll really enjoy.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I happen to know you are a fan of opera, and your passenger tonight will be a prima donna, Serena Sanchez.”
“Damn! I saw her at the Met in Carmen six or seven years back. She’s the real goods. Lead me to her.”
I gave Herb the particulars, and he sounded as excited as a high school sophomore learning he was getting a date with the homecoming queen.
“Miss Sanchez will be here at nine tonight, per your instructions,” I said to Wolfe, who showed no reaction, other than to sigh. Once again he would have to go to work.
Serena was on time, which did not surprise me, given Herb Aronson’s efficiency. He even escorted the diva to our front door, tipping his cap to her. “I will be right here at the curb the whole time you are inside,” he said, “ready to take you back to the Churchill.”
“You are too kind,” she replied, giving him a wide smile as she stepped into the front hall. “What a nice man,” she told me as I helped her off with her sable coat. “He said he had seen me perform at the Met. Do you think he was truthful, or just flattering me?”
“I happen to know that he was truthful. Would I select just any driver to chauffeur a famous Carmen? Mr. Aronson loves the opera and goes often, and when I mentioned your name to him, he was absolutely enthralled.”
At that, Serena, who I could tell loved flattery, actually blushed and smiled shyly, showing her dimples. As I led her down the hall to the office, I hoped she was not the one who had sent Cameron Clay to his final reward.
“Good evening,” she said to Nero Wolfe, who looked up from his book and gave his usual dip of the chin.
“Madam,” he said as she slid into the red leather chair at the end of his desk, “would you like something to drink?”
“Do you have sherry?” she asked as she crossed one nyloned leg over the other. They were good legs, and her skirt was short enough to show them off. I wondered if Lily Rowan had told her of Wolfe’s admiration for a well-turned gam. I made a mental note to ask her.
I handed Serena a glass of sherry, and she took a delicate sip, nodding her approval. “You wish to see me because you think that I killed my former husband,” she said to Wolfe. I could tell he was surprised by her frontal attack.
“You come straight to the point,” he replied.
“I see no reason to waste your valuable time, Mr. Wolfe. In truth, I have been expecting someone to accuse me of killing Cameron, and much to my surprise, no one has—until now.”
“I accuse you of nothing,” Wolfe said. “I am conducting an investigation on behalf of a client who is of the opinion that Mr. Clay was murdered. I have come to no conclusion.”
“From what I understand and have read, the police say he committed suicide.”
“That is their position. Have they spoken to you?”
“Yes, but only very briefly. They asked if I could account for my time on the night—or really the early morning—when Cameron apparently had been shot.”
“And could you account for your time?”
“No, not for all of it. I had been at a party with a number of members of the Metropolitan Opera at a restaurant, and it went on quite late. I am afraid I had more to drink than I should have, so to clear my head, I walked the several blocks to the Churchill, as it was quite a mild evening for February. And when I got to the hotel, I don’t recall anyone seeing me come in.”
“Not even an elevator operator?”
“The elevators there are now self-operated, I am sorry to say. I liked the old way better, with those nice, friendly men in uniforms taking you up and down.”
“Do you believe Mr. Clay killed himself?”
Serena shrugged. “I really don’t know. It has been a few years since I have seen him, and he may have changed. Based on the things he had said about me in his column since we were divorced, though, he seemed like the same nasty man I came to know in our last days together. Why he would want to kill himself, I can’t imagine. I suppose you never met Cameron?”
“I did meet him, madam, but only once.”
“One time should have been enough for you to see the type of individual he was.”
“So I have heard from others. Do you own a firearm?” Wolfe asked.
She rolled her eyes. “That always comes back to haunt me. I suppose that you are referring to the time many years ago that I shot a man in Madrid.”
“I am, although I realize that stories, as they are retold, often become altered, sometimes beyond recognition. I would like to hear your version of the events.”
She squared her shoulders, as if she were about to begin a recitation in a classroom. “I was young, not quite twenty, and I was beginning to make my way in the operatic world in my native country of Spain. I started noticing a man who was attending all of my performances, sitting in one of the front rows. His eyes were always on me, even when I was not singing.
“Then he would wait after the opera and try to talk to me. He even tried to hand me a bouquet of roses once, but the guard at the stage door stopped him when he saw that I did not want the flowers. Next, he started following me on the streets of the city. He found out where I lived and would wait for me and try to talk to me when I stepped outside. That is when I purchased a pistol through a friend.”
“With the intent of shooting him?” I asked.
“No, not at all, just as—what would you call it?—as something to discourage him if he became too persistent.”
“But the gun was loaded,” Wolfe said.
She nodded, soberly. “That was a mistake, but my friend, the one who got it for me, said I needed bullets in case something happened. And something did happen. The man who had been following me came right up to me one night on a street near where I lived. He grabbed me and started trying to kiss me. I broke away and he ran after me. I pulled the pistol from my purse and shot him in the leg. He screamed and fell down on the pavement, yelling and holding on to the leg.
“I started screaming myself, but screaming for the police to come. People came out of their homes to see what had happened, and soon the police did arrive, along with an ambulance that took the man to a hospital. I got taken away to their headquarters, and eventually, I went before a magistrate, I think he was called. I was already making good money with my singing, so I hired a very good lawyer, who learned that the man I shot had been in trouble before for attacking women. I was released with a warning, and I had to surrender the pistol. That was all right with me, because I was done forever with guns. I have never even held one since then.”
“However, you have threatened Cameron Clay,” Wolfe said.
“Only in anger. After our divorce, we have run into each other several times, I am sorry to say. Once, a year or so ago, we both were in the same restaurant here, and that was just after he had said some insulting things about me in his column. When I saw him, I shouted at him.”
“Is it true that you said ‘I will kill you’?” I asked.
She exhaled and nodded. “Yes, yes, I did say that, but I was not serious. I do have a temper. That much is true. Others will tell you that about me. Too often, I say things I do not mean.”
Wolfe drank beer and set his glass down. “When is the last time you saw Mr. Clay?”
“It was that very night, in that restaurant. I never laid eyes on him again, that is the Lord’s truth, although he continued to write hurtful things about me in his newspaper.”
“Madam, I believe you have a taxi waiting for you. Archie will see you out,” Wolfe said, rising and walking out of the office.
Serena turned to me with a puzzled expression. “Is Mr. Wolfe angry with me? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”
“No, he is that way. He does not waste time on small talk. He felt there was nothing more to be said.”
I helped Serena with her coat, and we went outside and down the steps to Herb’s waiting cab. “Get this fine lady home safely,” I told him, handing him some bills to cover both the round-trip fare and the waiting time.
“I should pay him myself, Archie,” Serena said, reaching into her handbag.
“No you should not; this one is on me,” I told her. “After all, when we were up at Lily’s place in Katonah, you taught me the habanera. Now I have something new that I can use to show off with on the dance floor.”
She laughed. “You are a quick learner, Archie Goodwin.”
“I try to be. Now let Mr. Aronson ask you more about your opera career. He is a good listener, and I’m sure you have many more wonderful stories that he would be delighted to hear.” I waved as they pulled away from the curb, with Herb grinning and looking over his shoulder adoringly at his famous and glamorous passenger.
Chapter 23
“Would you care to comment?” I asked Wolfe when I got back inside and he had returned to his desk chair, free from the presence of a female in the brownstone.
“The woman is most self-possessed.”
“Probably comes from all those years of performing. Do you think she is capable of murder?”
“Assuredly.”
“Yet she came to see you without the least bit of complaining or reluctance.”
“As you said, she is a performer. How best to deflect suspicion than to appear eager to cooperate with one’s interrogators.”
“That sounds cynical,” I told him.
“Cynical? No, realistic,” Wolfe said. “But you are the expert on the vagaries of the female of the species. Once again, I should be questioning you about her.”
“Ah, you want to know if I think she killed him. I’d give long odds against, say seven to one, maybe seven to two.”
“I asked earlier if you had bewitched her. Has she bewitched you?”
“That is a fair question, and my answer is no. An attractive woman? Absolutely. A shrewd one? Yes again. Someone I would like to develop a serious relationship with? No … in capital letters. I am not drawn to mercurial women. They simply take more effort than I am willing to expend. But is she a killer? No … despite her antics with a pistol in Spain many years ago. That is my take on her. Do we talk to the developer next?”<
br />
“Mr. Andrews, yes,” Wolfe said.
“May I assume you want to see the gentleman—and I could be using the term loosely—as soon as possible?”
“You may.”
“These nine o’clock séances are getting to be a habit. I will do what I can to deliver him to you with dispatch.”
The next morning after breakfast, I telephoned Lon Cohen. “Any success involving the case of the dead columnist?” he asked.
“We are hard at work, of course. But I need a favor.”
“Of course, you do. What else is new?”
“At present, and this is not for publication, Wolfe has talked to four of the five individuals Clay seemed to fear most. That leaves Kerwin Andrews.”
“The self-styled master builder. What do you need from me?”
“I’m trying to figure out how to approach him. Any suggestions?”
“Let me talk to our real-estate writer. He knows Andrews, of course, how could he not? The man is a publicity hound, sending out press releases by the scores. I’ll get back to you.”
I had not heard from Lon by the time Wolfe came down at eleven, and I was about to tell him of my lack of progress when the doorbell rang. I went down the hall and saw the bulky figure on the stoop through the one-way glass.
“Cramer,” I told Wolfe back in the office. “Do I admit him?”
“Yes,” he muttered as the doorbell continued to sound.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, we were in conference,” I told the inspector, who tramped in without speaking and marched down the hall to the office.
“Good morning, sir,” Wolfe said. “Would you like some coffee? I realize you do not imbibe this early in the day.”
“Nothing for me,” Cramer grunted, settling into the red leather chair. “I dropped by to see how you’re doing with your Cameron Clay investigation.”
“I am mildly surprised at your interest. I thought you and the department had firmly settled on suicide as the cause of death.”
“I’m still convinced of that, but we, specifically Humbert, are feeling some heat from the folks at the Gazette. Me, I don’t much give a damn about what the newspaper people think—that’s off the record—but the commissioner spends a lot of time worrying about his image—also off the record. So in a nutshell, that’s why I’m here.”
Stop the Presses! Page 14