Stop the Presses!

by Robert Goldsborough

  “I have nothing of substance to report to you,” Wolfe said. “Archie and I are still at work. I do have a question, however.”

  “That’s typical,” Cramer said. “You’ve got nothing for me, but I’m asked to fork over what I have to you.”

  “My request is modest, sir. Have you talked to Mr. McNeil, the columnist’s assistant?”

  “Yeah, and McNeil’s clean, if that’s what you’re asking. He said he was at a bachelor party during the overnight period when Clay died, and he gave us the names of the other guys who he was getting loaded with. They corroborated his story, all six of them.”

  “It would be difficult to get that number of persons to lie for you,” Wolfe commented.

  “That’s what we thought, too, not that we ever suspected him. Anything else you want to know?”

  “No, sir. If I come to a conclusion regarding Mr. Clay’s death, you will be informed.”

  “Well, I am certainly glad to hear that!” Cramer snapped, rising. “It’s always nice to know that you are thinking of the department.” He walked out without another word.

  “The inspector is not a happy man,” I said when I got back to the office after locking the front door behind him, “but that is hardly anything new.”

  Wolfe started to reply but he was cut short by the telephone’s jangle. “Archie, this is your lucky day,” Lon Cohen said.

  “I’m delighted to hear that, news hawk. Did I win the Irish Sweepstakes?”

  “Even better. You have a chance to meet the great Kerwin Andrews this very afternoon.”

  “Great, eh? To what do I owe this opportunity?”

  “The developer himself is holding a press conference at three o’clock to announce a big new multiuse development along the East River. Stores, offices, apartments, restaurants, in a six-building complex, with one tower to be fifty-five stories. His latest hyperbolic press release calls it the ‘most-extensive project to be undertaken in Manhattan since the construction of Rockefeller Center.’”

  “I feel I should genuflect, even though I’m not a churchgoer with any regularity. Do I need press credentials to attend this gathering?”

  “Yes, but that has been taken care of. You will be present, representing the Gazette, along with our real-estate guy, Chuck Miller.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “Don’t worry. Chuck knows what you look like. Your picture’s been in the Gazette enough times.”

  “I knew that fame would eventually pay off in some small way. Tell me where to be.” Lon spelled out the details, and I filled Wolfe in. He nodded and went back to reading his book. If he was pleased, he managed to hide it well.

  At ten minutes to three, I stood along the East River with several dozen other shivering people who were braving the gusty winds off the water. Chuck Miller did recognize me and gave me a plastic pin-on card that identified me as A. GOODWIN, NEW YORK GAZETTE. “Just put this on your coat, Archie, although it’s not really necessary,” Miller said. “If Andrews had his way, the whole town would turn out to hear his priceless orations, whether or not they’re from the press. Like a politician, he has never met a crowd he didn’t like.”

  “An oversize ego?”

  “Large economy size is more like it. Speak of the devil, here the great man comes.”

  Kerwin Andrews stepped out of a limo and waved to the gathering. He was clad in a black overcoat and sported a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. I recognized him from newspaper photographs, much as Chuck Miller had recognized me in the same way. So we both were celebrities of a sort, but separated by a net worth of a few million dollars.

  “Thank you all for coming here on this grand occasion,” Andrews boomed in a voice that could easily be heard on the Long Island City side of the river, although no one over on that bank seemed to be listening. “As a third-generation New Yorker, I am proud of my great city and my heritage, and I am also proud to be introducing this enterprise, which I honestly believe will transform this underdeveloped area. The plans have been drawn up, and they will be on display later in the boathouse over there”—he gestured to a squat building behind him—“but before we look at those plans, I want you all to remember that the spot where we are all now standing will one day be the cornerstone of what will become known as … Andrews Point!”

  A few of Andrews’s underlings, at least I assumed that’s what they were, began clapping vigorously. Soon, others in the assemblage followed suit, with the possible exception of some members of the press, who rarely clapped for anyone or anything. I joined these journalists in withholding judgment.

  Andrews droned on for several more minutes about his love of New York, told a lame joke or two to show that he was just one of the common people, and then waved us toward the boathouse where he promised we would learn more about Andrews Point. Like lemmings, we followed him, happy to be out of the weather.

  Inside the low-ceilinged, oak-beamed building, we were greeted by waiters serving drinks and a table in the center of the room with a model of Andrews’s project. I politely turned down a drink and headed for the model, which displayed a series of interconnected buildings along the river in miniature, finely detailed and with tiny people positioned on a promenade along the river. An idyllic setting.

  “Damned impressive, isn’t it?” came a smooth voice from over my shoulder. It was the developer himself. “I don’t believe I know you,” Kerwin Andrews said, grinning and holding out a hand, which I shook. “You are”—he peered at my name tag—“Mr. Goodwin of the Gazette. Glad that you are here today. You must work with Mr. Miller.”

  “Actually, I work with Nero Wolfe. You may have heard of him.”

  Never have I seen an expression change so quickly. One moment, Andrews wore a triumphant look, the next, an unsure and puzzled one.

  “I don’t believe I understand,” he said, lowering his voice as his eyes moved around the room to see if anyone was within earshot.

  “So you have heard of Nero Wolfe?”

  He nodded, still clearly off balance. “What, if anything, does this have to do with me?”

  “Mr. Wolfe is investigating the death of Cameron Clay, and he would like very much to talk to you.”

  “Now, you listen to me,” Andrews said in what I would describe as a loud whisper, “I don’t know what your game is, Mr. Goodwin, but I am not going to play it. I could have you thrown out of here.”

  “You could,” I agreed, “but that would hardly be wise. This is a triumphant moment for you. You’ve got the press, TV, cameras, and radio gathered, even our deputy mayor over there with a glass of champagne in his hand, if I am not mistaken. The last thing you need now is a distraction.

  “You should be mixing with all of these people, working the room, and I’ll stay in the background until things begin to break up. Then we will talk.”

  That did the trick. Andrews turned away from me as if we had been having a friendly conversation and strode toward a gaggle of invitees who were admiring the model of his ambitious new project. He began shaking hands and describing the advantages of what he referred to as this “self-contained city within a city, in which one can live, work, shop, exercise, eat, and drink without ever having to step outside to brave the kind of weather we are having right here today.”

  The party went on for more than an hour, climaxing when Andrews took a portable microphone and further extolled the benefits of his “nirvana on the river” as flashbulbs popped and TV cameras recorded the moment.

  “To make way for all of this, won’t many people and businesses be uprooted?” a reporter from the Daily News posed.

  “I am glad you asked that,” Andrews said, his smile showing off a set of pearly whites that may have been manufactured. “Our team has done extensive studies showing that a minimum of people and enterprises will be displaced. As most of you know, the immediate area here has been in decline
for years,” he said with a sweep of the hand.

  “No one now resides in the three square blocks around us, except, of course, vagrants who panhandle, accosting what few passersby there are on these almost deserted streets. The former tenements and shops are boarded up, and the city inspectors have found many of them to be rat-infested.”

  That brought a smattering of applause, followed by bland questions from a few individuals who seemed suspiciously like plants. Andrews fielded these softballs with an ease that suggested he was expecting each of them. The guy was glib, I’ll give him that, oily but glib.

  As the party began breaking up and the TV crews packed their gear, Andrews increasingly looked in my direction and finally walked over to me, making sure we were well out of earshot.

  “All right, Mr. Goodwin, you had better tell me what this is all about and tell me fast,” he said, gritting those too-perfect teeth of his.

  “As I told you, Mr. Wolfe is investigating the death of Cameron Clay. Although the police have said it appears to be a suicide, there is reason to believe Mr. Clay may have been murdered.”

  “And as I asked you earlier, what does this have to do with me?”

  “In the days before he died, Clay began receiving telephone calls that contained death threats. He identified five people who might be behind those threats. You were one of them.”

  “Outrageous!” Andrews stormed, trying without success to keep his voice down.

  “Mr. Wolfe has been hired to determine whether there is reason to believe Cameron Clay was murdered. He already has talked to the other four persons the columnist had suspected of making those calls, and now he would like to see you.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned if I am going to humor him,” Andrews said, although his act of bravado had begun to waver.

  “Suit yourself, Mr. Andrews, although when Mr. Wolfe is quoted in the press, as is almost certain to occur, he will, in all probability, mention your refusal to sit down with him.”

  “I don’t for a single minute believe that your Nero Wolfe is going to say one damned word to the press about me,” Andrews snapped. “I know he does not covet the attention of the newspapers, but rather avoids the spotlight.”

  “Are you willing to take the gamble that Mr. Wolfe won’t on this occasion talk to the newspapers? He can be unpredictable.”

  “I had absolutely nothing to do with Clay’s death, nothing. Period. End of discussion.”

  “Then you also have nothing to fear from a conversation with Nero Wolfe. Mr. Andrews, this is hardly the time for you to receive bad publicity, whether or not it is merited,” I said. “You stand on the threshold of an epic project, one which promises to remake a section of Manhattan desperately in need of revitalization, as you so eloquently described to us just minutes ago in this very room. Will you jeopardize that opportunity by refusing to see my boss?”

  “This amounts to outright blackmail,” he fumed.

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Who are those other four people that you say he has talked to?”

  “Uh-uh, Mr. Andrews. That is confidential, just as your visit with him will be. Or don’t you care whether people know about it?”

  “Dammit, when does he want to see me?”

  “Tonight, at his office.”

  “Tonight! What if I happen to have other plans?”

  “I would strongly advise you to alter them.”

  Andrews’s self-confidence—some might term it arrogance—had deserted him, which was not a pretty sight. “All right,” he said, exhaling, “give me the time and place.”

  Chapter 24

  When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six, I was able to tell him Kerwin Andrews would be paying a visit to us three hours later. “And he was not in the least happy about it,” I said.

  “How did you threaten him?” Wolfe asked as he rang for beer.

  “I suggested that, because he is about to undertake a colossal real estate development, the last thing he needs at this time is bad publicity. I also hinted that you might go to the press and mention his refusal to talk to you, but he didn’t buy that.”

  He frowned. “I do not condone your methods, and you got something of a comeuppance.”

  “Well, I am sure sorry to hear that you feel that way, but you have tasked me with delivering five people to you for questioning. This I have done, assuming Kerwin Andrews shows up here tonight, and I have twenty dollars that says he will be ringing our doorbell at nine. It is true that I have employed a variety of means to get these various individuals to the brownstone, some of the means not to your liking, but I have broken no laws, nor have I endangered the private investigator’s license issued to me by the sovereign State of New York.”

  Wolfe glowered at me. “Are you quite through?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Tasked is not a verb in this house,” he said.

  “It is when I am talking,” I shot back. Wolfe was fuming, but I knew him well enough to realize he was not in a position to complain too much. He knew exactly what he was getting lo those many years ago when he hired me to be a burr under his saddle and to use whatever means—within reason, of course—to fulfill his wishes when we were on a case.

  Wolfe was still a little hot under the collar during dinner, but that didn’t stop him from expounding on the reasons why the Union general George Meade was smarter than Confederate general Robert E. Lee at the Battle of Gettysburg during the Civil War. As was often the case during these mealtime talks, it was a one-sided affair, with him talking and me nodding and chewing. At least it kept us from each other’s throat.

  When we went back in the office with coffee, the minutes seemed to crawl, and I felt a sense of relief when the front bell sounded promptly at nine. I opened the door to a somber Kerwin Andrews, who glowered at me and stepped in without uttering a word. After I hung up his coat and hat, I led him to the office, also without a word on my part.

  “You are Nero Wolfe,” he announced to my boss as I directed him to the red leather chair.

  “I am, sir. Will you have something to drink?”

  “You’re damn right I will. I’ve been strong-armed into coming here tonight, and the least you can do is make it less painful.”

  “Indeed? Did Mr. Goodwin exert physical force upon you?”

  “Of course not, you know what I mean. I’ll have scotch and soda.”

  “You also know why I want to speak to you,” Wolfe said as I mixed Andrews’s drink on the bar cart.

  “According to Goodwin here, you seem to think that swine Cameron Clay was murdered.”

  “If that is what he told you, I regret to say he misspoke,” Wolfe said. “I have been hired to find out whether Mr. Clay was killed.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “That information is not germane to our discussion.”

  “So you say,” Andrews replied, taking a sip of his drink. “My understanding from everything I have read and heard is that the New York City Police feel Clay did away with himself.”

  “Yes, that is clearly their position.”

  “So what makes you think otherwise?”

  “In the last weeks of his life, Mr. Clay said he received numerous threatening telephone calls.”

  “I find that hardly surprising, given the way he alienated people in print over the years.”

  “It is true that he made many enemies, you among them,” Wolfe said.

  “I don’t deny it for a minute.”

  “I would hardly expect you to. You brought suits against Mr. Clay on two occasions.”

  “Yeah, and as I am sure you know, I was the loser both times. That damn newspaper’s lawyers were a vicious bunch. They dug up all sorts of things that had nothing to do with the suits. Those guys must have majored in character assassination back in law school.”

  “I am n
ot about to defend the legal profession,” Wolfe said. “I will leave that to others. It is my understanding that you lavished favors on elected officials in two states, officials who later were forced out of their positions at least in part because of these favors.”

  “The gifts I gave were well within legal bounds, and I can prove it,” Andrews said, coming forward in his chair and poking holes in the air with his index finger. “I was sorry that the election boards in those two states chose to punish these men. They were overly influenced by Clay’s spiteful columns.”

  “Perhaps. I believe at one point you said that Mr. Clay was the ‘single worst thing wrong with American journalism today.’ Am I accurately quoting you?”

  “Sounds like what I said, and I’m not about to retract it.”

  “Did you ever make threats toward Mr. Clay?”

  “Well, I brought those suits against him. But the only times I laid eyes on him were in the courtrooms.”

  “That was not my question,” Wolfe said.

  “You mean, did I ever threaten him on the telephone or by mail or telegraph or any other means? The answer is no, and what good would it have done? He apparently decided early on that he did not like me, and nothing I could do would have ever changed that.”

  “Part of his criticism of you focused on structural problems in buildings you had developed, is that not so?”

  Andrews looked down and said nothing for several seconds. When he looked up and faced Wolfe, he shook his head. “I don’t know why I should bother explaining this to you, because you obviously are prejudiced against me, as Clay was. But I can only say in my defense that I was lied to on several occasions by contractors who assured me both by their word and by their signed and notarized contracts that they had followed the building and zoning regulations of their respective communities to the letter. The worst violation involved that shopping center in New Jersey, which I assume you are aware of.”