Fade to Black (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “I appreciate your parroting Mills’s half of that little chat,” I said. “Sorry to have interrupted your breakfast, but I needed—still do—instructions.”

  That drew a look that told me that Wolfe indeed wanted to finish his breakfast—alone. But he knew he had to get rid of me first. “Archie, kindly respond to those other callers. I assume Mr. Cohen was among them?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “Call him first, and be generous with him regarding specifics—within reason, of course. The others can be dealt with in a more perfunctory manner.”

  “Precisely what I had planned to do,” I said, bowing and backing out the door, closing it after me.

  When I settled in back at my desk in the office, I tapped out Lon’s number. He answered halfway through the first ring.

  “Goodwin, reporting as requested, your eminence.”

  “Archie, for God’s sake, what’s going on with this Swartz thing? I mean, you call me two days ago asking advertising questions, and then some young advertising whiz gets offed in his Village digs. And damned if we don’t learn from the police report that you’re the one who finds the body, while in the company of a young woman. And then we hear, never mind how, that you and Wolfe are involved in trying to prove this guy Swartz’s agency is stealing ideas from another Madison Avenue bunch—your clients, no less, the very folks you questioned me about.”

  “Amazingly small world, isn’t it? By the way, they’re not on Madison Avenue—our clients, that is. Never have been. Let’s get our facts straight, soldier.”

  “All right, dammit, I’m speaking figuratively, and you know it. Stop evading the issue. Now what’s the story?”

  I gave Lon the story, at least a fair chunk of it, including a description of Swartz’s living room when we found him. Lon, first and foremost a thorough reporter, regardless of his position at the Gazette, continued peppering me with questions. I answered several of them, ducked a few, and finally called a cease-fire. “Enough—you’ve got all I can give you, which is more than anybody else is going to receive from this precinct—and that includes Lopossa at the Times.”

  “Why should anybody else get anything?” he barked. “After all I’ve done for you through the years.”

  “We’ve done a thing or two for you along the way, too, as in a scrapbook full of scoops. And after all, it’s simply smart business for us to stay on good terms with all our friends in the Fourth Estate.”

  “You and Wolfe are publicity hounds,” he muttered, hanging up. I know Lon well enough to realize he was almost half-kidding. I then called the other papers and TV stations, giving them brief recitations of last night’s events. They all wanted more, particularly the very persistent woman from the Daily News. And one station said they were sending a camera crew right over, but I told them the door would be barred to them, and that we had a Doberman we can’t afford to adequately feed. One of Wolfe’s many rules is that no TV camera crew is ever to be admitted to the brownstone, that dictum dating from when a local station referred to him as “an eccentric and obese recluse,” although in truth, Wolfe’s abhorrence of television news coverage predated that event by many years.

  It took me more than an hour to return the calls and deal with three new ones, two from radio stations and the other from a suburban paper over in Jersey. I finally finished, stretched, and went to the kitchen for a coffee refill, asking Fritz to answer the telephone and take messages until further notice. I was talked out and tired of answering questions, many of them stupid. I carried the coffee back to my desk, riffled through the mail, none of which was interesting, and stacked it on Wolfe’s desk blotter.

  Next, I started tackling a major housecleaning of our files. I had tried to persuade Wolfe to switch to a computerized filing system, showing him how much space we could save by using disks, but he wasn’t having any; for him, correspondence will always mean paper, nothing else. However, I did get him to agree to get rid of letters more than ten years old, the bulk of them correspondence with orchid growers around the country and the world. I had manila folders spread out all over my desktop when I heard the whirr of the elevator and checked my watch. Sure enough, it had somehow gotten to be eleven o’clock, and his largeness was descending from his morning orchid therapy.

  Because we already had conversed, Wolfe dispensed with his usual inquiry as to how I’d slept, and, after placing a raceme of Laetia Milleri in his desk vase, began attacking the mail. He’d been at it all of two minutes when the front doorbell rang.

  “Want to make bets on who that is?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “There can be no wager, as we would choose the same individual,” he replied peevishly.

  “Assuming it’s who we think it is, should I let him in?”

  Wolfe dipped his head a fraction of an inch, his version of a nod, and turned back to the mail. I went to the front hall and peered through the one-way panel in the door, confirming what we both already knew.

  “Inspector, how nice to see you,” I said with what I felt was convincing heartiness as I swung the door open. “Been on vacation?”

  “Ice fishing, Upstate,” growled L. T. Cramer, head of Homicide for the New York Police Department, as he stormed into the hall. “Wolfe down from the plant rooms?”

  I said yes, but he was already barreling toward the office at full speed, which is impressive for a man his size. By the time I reached the office door, Cramer was thudding into the red leather chair. Wolfe considered him without enthusiasm.

  “Four lousy days I’m away from the job,” Cramer rasped, jabbing an unlit cigar in Wolfe’s direction, “and what happens? A well-known young adman gets himself killed at home in the Village—just the kind of story the press goes nuts over—and who finds the body but your jack-of-all-troubles here.” He flipped a scowl my way and turned back to Wolfe as if daring contradiction.

  “I too was surprised,” Wolfe said mildly. “Will you have something to drink?”

  “I didn’t come to socialize!” Cramer bellowed, leaning forward in the chair and jabbing with the cigar some more. “I want to know precisely why Goodwin was in Swartz’s apartment in the first place, never mind for the moment that he picked the lock.”

  Wolfe raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Goodwin left me with the distinct impression that he was most candid with your associate last night. Archie?”

  “I gave Phelps the whole thing,” I told Cramer. “By the way, he’s a little smoother than Rowcliff, but not much.”

  Cramer used a word that indicated he wasn’t impressed with Phelps, either. “Okay, I know you told him all about you and Wolfe having that Mills agency as a client, along with the reason they hired you—big deal. Hell, you weren’t doing us any favors. You’d already heard the Burkett woman telling Purley the same thing when the three of you were sitting in the squad car. We can thank her for your so-called candor.”

  “That’s taking a pretty cynical attitude,” I said.

  “And speaking of Annie Burkett,” Cramer snapped, ignoring my remark, “how well do you know her?”

  “I just met her yesterday, like I told Phelps.”

  “How much do you know about her?”

  “Other than the few observations that I formed during the short time we were together, only what the partners at M/L/R said about her—which is basically that she’s one hell of an art director. Sara Ryman is particularly high on her.”

  “Uh-huh. What about her social life?” Cramer asked.

  “Believe it or not, I can’t help you there—maybe that shows that I’m slipping.”

  “Maybe. Any idea how well she knew Swartz?”

  “That much I do know—at least from her lips. I asked her about him yesterday morning, right after we met in the agency’s offices, and she told me about his call to her. She said a friend of hers had gone out with him, which is how they met.”

  “But the two of them never went out together?”

  “So she said.”

  Cramer chewed o
n his cigar, his eyes moving from me to Wolfe and back again. “You say you may be slipping, but I don’t believe it, not when it comes to reading women. Do you believe her?”

  I shrugged. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. At this point, I’d have to say yes. She a suspect?”

  “At this point, why not?”

  “No reason, other than what’s the motive? Any chance this was a gay murder?” I asked.

  “Everything’s possible, of course,” Cramer grumbled, “but I’d give long odds on that. We’ve talked to a couple of Swartz’s drinking buddies—two guys who live in the neighborhood—and they tell us he was quite the ladies’ man. His address book seems to bear that out, too. There were a dozen women’s names in it—including Miss Burkett’s, by the way. But then, maybe you already know that.”

  “If you’re not-so-subtly suggesting that I peeked into his little black book, try again.”

  “Then maybe you are slipping. Whose idea was it to go to Swartz’s apartment when he didn’t show up in the bar—yours or Miss Burkett’s?”

  “Mine. She wasn’t overly enthusiastic about it.”

  “But once inside, you gave the place a thorough going-over, right?” He doesn’t give up easily.

  “Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe cut in, “we have indulged you generously. Archie has patiently answered your questions, many of which had been put to him by your associate Mr. Phelps.”

  “Look, I’m doing some indulging of my own,” Cramer shot back, the color rising in his face. “I’m willing to look the other way on the breaking-and-entering business, but I’d like a little consideration myself.”

  “And you are getting it,” Wolfe said. “That does not, however, extend to impugning Archie’s veracity.”

  “Well, excuse me!” Cramer huffed, proving once again that he’ll never make it as a stand-in for Steve Martin. “I didn’t realize we’d gotten so thin-skinned these days.”

  “Come now, sir,” Wolfe said, showing admirable restraint. “This outrage does not become you. You cannot deny that we have been cooperative.”

  “Compared to what? I don’t know anything that I didn’t know when I walked in the front door.”

  “That is because of Archie’s candor during his interrogation last night.”

  “Candor, my foot!” Cramer barked, standing up and flinging his cigar at the wastebasket, missing it by a yard. “There’s more here than I’m getting, and we all know it. All right, dammit, I’m leaving, but by God, if either of you step off the path on this one—and for all I know you already have—you’ll find your licenses gone faster than you can say Cuomo.” He did one of his snappier about-faces and left at the same speed he came in, again with me trailing in his wake.

  TEN

  “WELL, THERE’S ONE FOR RIPLEY’S column,” I said when I got back to the office after bolting the door behind Cramer, who had climbed into an unmarked car that was idling at the curb. “He gets the truth, and he doesn’t believe it.”

  Wolfe took a healthy swig of the beer that Fritz had brought in during the Inspector’s tirade. “He’s flailing about, as he so often does, and we are a convenient target of his vituperation.”

  “All of that,” I said, nodding and making a mental note to look up vituperation when Wolfe wasn’t around, although I was pretty sure of its meaning. “What now? Do you want me to call Mills, as you had promised I would?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any instructions as to what I tell him?”

  Wolfe picked up his book and stroked the cover. “You did not talk to all the people you had hoped to when you were there yesterday. Another visit is called for.”

  “Agreed. You want to listen in?”

  Wolfe nodded and after I got the number, he picked up his receiver. I had no trouble getting through to Mills.

  “Goodwin—this place is a madhouse,” he blurted. “We’ve had newspaper reporters and TV crews and police tramping all over the place. Nobody can get a damn thing done. And that’s only the half of—”

  “How’s Annie?” I interrupted.

  “A basket case, of course. I called her at home before I got to work and told her not to come in today, and to take her phone off the hook. Hell, she’s the one most of the press that showed up here wanted to talk to. Although they’re all hot to know more about the cherry drink stuff, too. So are the police; a guy named Phelps has been getting in everybody’s hair all morning. That’s bad enough, but then Foreman called in, and he’s really livid.”

  “About the publicity?”

  “That’s part of it, but he’s also teed off because nobody here bothered to tell him about our hiring Wolfe. He wants to know why he wasn’t brought in on the decision. I took the rap for that with him.”

  “But he’s still angry?”

  “Hah, you’d better believe it. In fact, I was about to call you, to warn you that Foreman’s going to be phoning Wolfe.”

  “We can hardly wait. Say, when I was at the agency yesterday, I wasn’t able to see Lake. I thought I might stop by this afternoon and—”

  “I’d really prefer it if you wait,” Mills said pleadingly. “We’re so up for grabs today that everybody needs a little time to catch their breath. How about tomorrow?” I looked at Wolfe, who nodded, and said tomorrow would be fine, first thing in the morning.

  “So, now what?” I asked Wolfe after hanging up.

  He had just opened his book, and set it down, looking irritated. “It appears that we will be hearing from Mr. Foreman. I suggest that you gather information on the gentleman.” That was Wolfe’s way of getting rid of me, at least until lunch.

  I pulled down the Who’s Who from the bookshelf and found to my surprise that Acker Foreman had no listing. The guy apparently really was a recluse, as Mills had said. Next I went to the shelf where we keep the most recent month’s copies of the Times and Gazette; Wolfe wasn’t the only one who remembered seeing Foreman’s picture last week in the Gazette. The photo, of Acker and Arnold, was in the first section, and the caption said they were leaving court after testifying in a trademark case that was decided in Cherr-o-key’s favor. There was no accompanying story. I clipped out the photo, put it on Wolfe’s desk blotter, then I turned on my phone and called Lon Cohen for the second time that day.

  “So, you’ve decided to spill the whole thing, eh?” he said when he heard my voice. “Good thinking.”

  “Nothing to spill—at least not yet. And when there is, you’ll get it as usual. I need some information.”

  “Why do I feel I’m being used?”

  “Hell, nobody’s ever gotten the best of you in your life. Now cut out the martyr bit and tell me everything you know about Acker Foreman.”

  “Ah, of course. As in Cherr-o-key, whose agency—your client—has had its commercial ideas pilfered by the guys who do ads for AmeriCherry, one of whom is suddenly very dead.”

  “You’re a quick study—I’ve always said it. Now what about Foreman?”

  “Strange bird,” Lon replied, his tone suddenly businesslike. “At one time, he was pretty flamboyant—he was an inventor, still holds a batch of patents, mainly in plastics if I remember right. He also had something to do with developing the automatic transmission for cars way back when. And he also started an airline, which he sold, making acres of money in the process. His worth is supposed to be in the billions—hell, one of the business magazines ranked him one of the five wealthiest Americans last year, if I remember right. But the last few years, he’s pulled the hermit bit like Howard Hughes and gotten secretive about himself. Hell, he’s hardly ever photographed anymore, and he refuses all requests for interviews. We tried to send a reporter over to his offices on Sixth Avenue to do a profile on him when he turned seventy-five a couple of years ago, and his bodyguards got nasty, which was Foreman’s way of telling us to get lost. He wouldn’t talk to anybody in the media, for that matter. Hasn’t for ages.”

  “Although you had that picture of him and one of his sons in the paper last week?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, but only because they had to show up in court on that case involving their name. It was a stupid suit to begin with—the plaintiff didn’t have a case. That’s why we only gave it a photo. Our reporter tried to talk to Foreman—so did everybody else, for that matter, but he and the son just walked out of court and got into a limo without saying a damn word.”

  “So he lives in New York?”

  “At least occasionally. He’s got an apartment on the East Side—Sutton or Beekman, I forget which. But he spends a lot more of his time at a big estate down south of Washington, and he’s also got a ranch about the size of Delaware out in Oklahoma, which is where he comes from. Apparently he still flies his own jet around.”

  “Family?”

  “About two years ago, he split from wife number three, who’s at least twenty years younger than he is, maybe more. First two marriages also ended in divorce. He’s got a pair of sons from spouse number two—they’re around forty, both divorced themselves, and work for the old man at Cherr-o-key, which is privately owned, as in Acker Foreman has practically all the stock. Word is that the boys aren’t overly cerebral, but that Dad insists on having them around. Among longtime Cherr-o-key employees, they’re something of a not-so-funny joke.”

  “How did Foreman get into the soft drink business in the first place?”

  “Among his other talents, the guy’s quite a chemist, and back in the sixties, or so the Cherr-o-key gospel reads, he developed a ‘new’ formula for a cherry-flavored, noncaffeinated drink. For years it didn’t do very well, but now that the country has tilted away from caffeine, his drink is hot stuff.”

  “You seem to be up on Mr. Foreman.”

  “I should be. At the daily doping session this morning, our advertising columnist talked a lot about him. Because of what’s happened with Cherr-o-key and AmeriCherry, we’re planning a big feature for Sunday on ad agencies swiping ideas from each other.”

  That ought to make Mills’s day. “Anybody at your place talked to Foreman?”