Fade to Black (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Fritz, what does the word ‘Cherr-o-key’ mean to you?” I asked after pouring myself a second cup of coffee.

  “Very sad, Archie, very sad,” he answered, pressing his lips together. “Indians—they call them Native Americans now, of course. They had to leave their homes and go many miles west, driven by evil men. It was called the ‘Trail of Tears.’”

  “You always amaze me. How did you know that?”

  He shrugged, turning back to the griddle, where my next cake was cooking. “I read,” he said in an apologetic tone.

  “You sure do,” I told him. Fritz lives in the basement of the brownstone, in a cozy two-room apartment he’s made into a home over the years, and it’s filled with books and magazines.

  “You ever heard the word ‘Cherr-o-key’ on television?” I persisted.

  “I watch the TV very little, Archie,” he said, laying another steaming wheatcake on my plate. “Mostly the news at eleven.”

  “What about the commercials?”

  “Ah, but I never hear them—I can shut the noise off. The button, you know?” He held up a hand and cocked his thumb.

  “Right. Remote control. The viewer’s best friend, the advertiser’s worst enemy.” Fritz looked at me without reaction. It was hard to fault his taste.

  After finishing breakfast, I carried a cup of coffee to my desk in the office and began entering orchid germination records into the personal computer. Theodore Horstmann, who has been employed in the brownstone even longer than I have, oversees those ten thousand plants up on the roof that Wolfe calls his “concubines.” Normally Theodore takes Sundays off, but this week he made an exception because he’d been sick for several days. And on each day that he works, he unfailingly logs germination information in precise handwriting on three-by-five cards, leaving them on my desk on the way out the door in the evening. I think he takes perverse pleasure in dropping work on me, which is fair, I suppose; I don’t like him much, either.

  After I finished entering the orchid data, I did the letters Wolfe had dictated Saturday, again using the computer, I printed them out and put them on his blotter. Next, I turned to the phone to call Lon Cohen of the New York Gazette. For those of you who are new to these narratives, Lon has no title I’m aware of at the largest evening newspaper in the United States, but he has more power than most editors on any paper, and he occupies an office two doors from the publisher on the twentieth floor. For years, Wolfe and I have traded information with Lon, which has resulted in scoops for the Gazette and money in the checking account for us. Also, he’s one hell of a poker player, and I should know: He’s been helping to lighten my wallet for years at our Thursday night games in Saul Panzer’s apartment. And even Saul, the best player I’ve ever seen, gets burned with some frequency by Lon—take last week, when Saul held three jacks but folded on the biggest pot of the night because he was positive Lon had a flush. We’ll never know for sure, but whatever ESP I possess tells me that Lon Cohen was not holding five spades.

  Anyway, Lon, who comes to dinner at the brownstone periodically, is both friend and business associate, a balancing act that has been maintained over the years—not without occasional strain. This might be one of those occasions, I mused, as I finished punching out his number. On the second ring, I got the usual harried “Gazette—Cohen.”

  “Goodwin,” I shot back.

  “What do you want?”

  “Can’t a fellow make a social call once in a while?” I answered, trying to sound hurt.

  “Sure, but you’re not the social call type,” Lon retorted.

  “Well … I do have one small question.”

  “Of course you do. Well, out with it, then. We’ve got deadlines here, y’know.”

  “So I’ve heard. What do you know about the advertising agency Mills/Lake/Ryman?”

  “Not a lot. It’s a small shop, fairly new, but they’ve got a good creative reputation, according to our ad columnist. He thinks they’re comers. I suppose you know they did that splashy parachute number for the cherry drink on the Super Bowl yesterday.”

  “Yeah. Heard any dirt on the partners or anybody else in the agency?”

  “Nope, nothing. What gives—Wolfe thinking of starting to advertise his services on TV?”

  “That’ll be the day,” I laughed. “No, although it might help us get some business. Will you check with your ad guy to see if there’s ever been anything amiss about the agency?”

  “Okay, but it’s unlikely. Archie, is there something I should know?”

  “No, and there probably won’t be. Just doing some checking.”

  “Well, keep your old pal posted.”

  “I will. So long, old pal,” I said, hanging up just as I heard the whine of the elevator: His eminence was descending from his sojourn with the aforesaid orchids.

  “Good morning, Archie. Did you sleep well?” Wolfe detoured around his desk and eased into the only chair expressly constructed to bear the burden of his seventh of a ton.

  I said I had indeed slept well, briefly mentioned Lily’s party, then asked, as I had Fritz, what ‘Cherr-o-key’ meant to him.

  My answer was a glower. “What is behind this?” he grunted. “You never pose queries capriciously.”

  I grinned. “Maybe it was capricious, maybe not. You can find out by answering it—if you can.”

  Wolfe considered me without enthusiasm. “The Cherokees are a tribe of North American aboriginals, or, to use the contemporary term, Native Americans. Arguably the most progressive and well-organized tribe in what is now the United States, they centered in the southern Appalachians, principally North Carolina. But with the coming of Europeans, many were forcibly uprooted and driven west, to the Oklahoma Indian Territory. That barbaric thousand-mile march became known as the ‘Trail of Tears.’”

  “That’s just about what Fritz said when I asked him the same question.”

  “And why not? Fritz is no lackwit. The Cherokees’ history is generally known.”

  “Not to me, but never mind. Speaking of Cherokees, I was reviewing our finances just before you came down.”

  “That’s a non sequitur.”

  “If you say so. But then, I’ve always been one to change horses in midsentence.”

  Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “There are alternatives, of course,” he said with a sigh. “I could ignore you, you would continue prattling, and the atmosphere here would become strained. Or I could humor you by inquiring as to where you are attempting to shepherd the conversation. The risk in choosing the latter approach is that I might not relish the direction.”

  “That’s a problem, all right,” I conceded. “Let’s assume, though, that despite the peril associated with the latter course, you decide to take it. That course itself has two options: One, that I discuss our finances first; the other, that I talk about what’s really on my mind.”

  “I’ll risk the latter,” Wolfe said dryly, ringing for beer.

  “Okay. Cherr-o-key is a soft drink, cherry flavored, or so I’ve been told—I’ve never had one.” Wolfe made a face that registered his opinion of such a beverage. Undaunted, I went on to describe Lily’s Super Bowl party and the Cherr-o-key commercial, and then related my conversations with Mills, including his appeal.

  Wolfe snorted. “Unthinkable.”

  “Unthinkable that one advertising agency would steal the ideas of another?”

  Wolfe poured beer into a tall glass from one of two bottles Fritz had brought in, then scowled as he watched the foam settle. “No, unthinkable that you would bring forth such a preposterous proposal.”

  “A lot of our jobs have begun with even more preposterous proposals.”

  “Pah.”

  “Pah yourself. All right, then, if that’s going to be your attitude, here’s something to munch on between grunts,” I said, getting up and taking the two strides necessary to reach his desk. I dropped a single sheet of paper on his blotter and returned to my swivel chair. He picked the sheet up and read, his face expressionles
s.

  “What you are reading is the story of three months of inactivity,” I told him. “Our checking account balance is the lowest it’s been in eight years. I know—I went back through the records this morning. Oh, and I also know, so don’t bother to bring it up, that you’ve got some dandy investments that pay healthy dividends regularly. But even those—and I’ll concede they are nice—aren’t enough to keep you living in the manner to which you’ve grown accustomed. For instance, there’s that damn bill for—”

  “Archie!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You once said you despised industrial espionage cases. Clearly, that is what this appears to be, if one chooses to term advertising an industry.”

  “You’re such a stickler for accuracy that I’m surprised at that statement. I never said I despised industrial espionage cases en toto—it was specifically the so-called business with that electronics outfit up in Westchester, the one with the goofy owner who thought the Commies were out to get him so he built fortifications all around—”

  “I remember all too well!” Wolfe rumbled. “I also recall that you whined incessantly about having to deal with the man.”

  “I didn’t whine,” I said with a sniff. “I merely was voicing my disapproval of our client’s personality, mentality, morality, and lifestyle. You weren’t exactly fond of him, either, as I recall. But you did like the color of his lettuce.”

  Wolfe scowled and began looking through the letters I’d typed. He started to sign the first one when I cut in.

  “It won’t work.”

  Wolfe set his fountain pen down deliberately and glowered at me, inhaled a cubic foot of the mixture we refer to as oxygen, and let it out slowly. “Twaddle.”

  “You think that by brushing me off, you can make this potential client—and me—go away.”

  “I can see Mr. Mills at three o’clock today,” Wolfe said. “But—and mark me on this—I reserve the right to decline his appeal summarily, without supplying any reason whatever.”

  “What else is new?” I responded. “I’ll call Mills.”

  Wolfe ignored me, of course, turning back to the letters. I had taken Round One on points, but I was damned if I was going to chortle, certainly not out loud. I pulled out Mills’s business card and phoned the ad agency. After identifying myself, I was immediately put through to Mills.

  “Goodwin! God, I was just getting ready to call you. Did you talk to Wolfe?”

  “I did. Be here at three, and be prompt.” I gave him the address.

  “Then he’ll take the case?”

  “I didn’t say that. But he will talk to you, which is a beginning. By the way, that was a nice write-up you folks got in this morning’s Times.”

  “Yeah, it was okay, especially after what’s been going on. One more thing … ” Mills paused, as if choosing his words. “I wonder if Wolfe would mind if my partners came too. Boyd and Sara are, well, interested just as much as I am, you know.”

  “Hold on.” I cupped the speaker and swiveled to Wolfe. “Mills wants to include his partners in our palaver. There are two—a man and a woman.”

  He growled low in his throat which undoubtedly reflected his opinion of having members of the opposite sex in the office, then nodded grimly.

  “Okay, bring ’em along,” I said to Mills, “but only if they promise to wipe their shoes on our welcome mat.” My anemic attempt at humor was rewarded with an anemic chuckle from Mills, who promised to be on time.

  I hung up and turned back to Wolfe. “For the record, the partners’ names are Boyd Lake and Sara Ryman. Would you like further information on either of them before they partake of your munificent hospitality?”

  He set down his current book, The Last Lion by William Manchester, and picked up one of the pieces of correspondence I had left for him. “Archie, you will have to retype this letter to the gentleman in Wisconsin. You misspelled Paphiopedilum twice.”

  “Sorry, but I guess my mind must have been on other things—like the bank balance.”

  I got no reply, but then, I didn’t expect one.

  THREE

  DURING LUNCH, WHICH WAS FRITZ’S matchless bay scallops meunière with rice and creamed spinach, followed by crème caramel, Wolfe discoursed on how the various Western European countries’ cultural differences and chauvinistic vanities would prevent there ever being a truly united Europe—in 1992 or ever. While he talked, I nodded, chewed, and swallowed.

  When we were back in the office with coffee, I tried to shift the conversation to our soon-to-arrive guests, but Wolfe wasn’t having any of that. “Archie, you pressured me to see Mr. Mills, and I agreed, albeit reluctantly. However, until he and his entourage arrive, I shall continue reading. I assume the orchid germination records have been updated.”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” I snapped. I got no reaction, so I made a production out of tidying up my desk, using my long-handled brush to sweep the blotter and then using the electric pencil sharpener to put new points on a half-dozen yellow number twos.

  “Must you continue with that infernal bobbery?” Wolfe said, setting his book down and ringing for beer.

  “Just getting prepared,” I said with a shrug and what Lily refers to as my choirboy smile, although I never was a choirboy. “The quality of my note-taking is directly proportional to the keenness of my pencil points.” That was worth a huff from Wolfe. I started to huff back, but the ringing of the phone interrupted me. It was Lon, calling to say his advertising writer had no negative information of any kind about M/L/R. “He says they’re a serious, hardworking bunch with a fine future,” Lon said. “We should all get such good reviews.” I thanked him and sat in silence staring at the cover of Wolfe’s book until two-fifty-nine, when the front doorbell rang. I went to the hall and peered through the one-way glass in the door.

  There were three of them, all right. Mills was in the center, flanked by a frowning, stocky, bearded specimen whose reddish hair—both pate and facial—had a good start on gray, and a slender brunette with a well-arranged face who didn’t look any too cheerful herself. They both appeared to be about Mills’s age, which is to say fortysomething, or maybe late thirtysomething.

  “Right on time,” I said brightly as I pulled the door open, thinking an upbeat approach might lighten up our visitors. It didn’t.

  “Archie Goodwin, this is Sara Ryman and Boyd Lake,” Mills said as I did coat-hanging honors in the front hall.

  I shook hands with Lake, who grunted, and then I turned toward Sara Ryman, who cocked her head. “You’re not as tall as I thought you’d be,” she said coolly and without smiling, smoothing the skirt of her well-tailored dove-colored suit. “Neither are you,” I cracked as we walked down the hall toward the office. “By golly, even in heels, you can’t be a hair over five-six.” Still no smile.

  I made introductions and got the trio seated, Mills in the red leather chair, the others in the yellow ones. Grimly, Mills explained that Boyd Lake was the agency’s executive vice president for creative and Ms. Ryman was the executive vice president for art. After offering drinks—Mills and Lake each took Scotch on the rocks and the lady shook her head—Wolfe considered them without enthusiasm. “Mr. Mills,” he said after a sigh, “Mr. Goodwin has of course given me an outline of your agency’s problem, as it was elucidated to him when you met on Sunday. But I would like greater detail.”

  “Understood.” Mills nodded, looking at his glass and then at his two glum partners. “Any place special you want me to begin?”

  “You stated to Mr. Goodwin that on two occasions, advertising campaigns generated by your organization for a soft drink were stolen and used—”

  “That’s not quite accurate,” Lake cut in, leaning forward. Mills hadn’t mentioned that he was British. His accent was pure Dudley Moore. “Copied, aped, is a truer description.”

  Wolfe’s gaze moved from Mills to Sara and back. “Would you both concur?”

  “No question,” Sara Ryman said sharply. “Somebody a
t Colmar and Conn found out what we were doing and lifted the ideas both times. But they gave them their own slight twists. They weren’t complete steals—but close.”

  “Damned close!” Mills snapped and his partners nodded grimly.

  Wolfe poured beer, watching the foam dissipate. “Describe the commercials,” he said, “both your concepts and those your competitor developed.”

  “Boyd oversees all our creative output,” Mills said. “He can give you the clearest rundown.”

  The Englishman leaned back, his stomach testing the strength of the thread holding his vest buttons. “The first one, that would have been when—in August, Sara?”

  “July,” she corrected curtly.

  “July, right. Yes, it wasn’t long after the Fourth. Anyway, we conceived a new Cherr-o-key campaign built around outdoor participation sports—team sports—played by both men and women. You know, volleyball, softball, touch football, that sort of thing. Our theme was ‘The Cherr-o-key Crowd,’ complete with a soft-rock song we commissioned. We had one of the most popular of the current young singers lined up, too. We got Foreman’s blessing, we started in with the shoots, we—”

  “Foreman?” Wolfe asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, Mr. Wolfe,” Mills put in. “Acker Foreman. He’s the sole owner of Cherr-o-key. It’s a private company, and he’s—”

  “He’s eccentric, as in cantankerous, not to mention obnoxious.” Sara Ryman could sound acid when she wanted to. “He chews up ad agencies and spits them out. Hell, we’re the fourth shop—no, make that the fifth—that he’s had in the last ten years. Foreman’s a goddamn sadist!”

  “Now, now, Sara, you’re talking about our meal-ticket, the man we love,” Lake chided with a tight smile.