Fade to Black (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert Goldsborough

  Foreman crossed one leg over the other and screwed up his face. “Shoot, I’ve never been satisfied with the advertising I’ve gotten. If you want my opinion on this—and I know you didn’t ask for it—I think today’s advertising people are devoid of imagination. Everything’s derivative, derivative, derivative. They’ve gotten so damn cute and clever and precious that they’ve lost sight of the goal—to move the product.” He hit his palm with his fist.

  “Amen to that,” Steve said. His smirk had returned. His father ignored him and went on.

  “I’m a pretty fair-sized account for any agency—not the biggest around by any means, but a healthy piece of change nonetheless. Has this gotten me good advertising, though?”

  “Before the imbroglio over the idea thefts, had you been happy with M/L/R’s work?” Wolfe asked.

  Foreman shrugged. “So-so. One or two spots showed some glimmers of creativity.”

  “What about the Super Bowl commercial?”

  “It was … all right, for an extravaganza. God knows it cost me enough. Not the kind of thing you can do regularly, though. That minute shot a pretty good hunk of our annual advertising budget.”

  “Were you contemplating changing agencies?”

  “I’m always contemplating changing agencies. It’s no secret that I’m known to be a tough client, and that’s fine with me. Clients ought to be tough and demanding—that’s the only way you get good work. Don’t your clients expect a lot out of you? From what I’ve heard about what you charge, they should.”

  “I charge what I’m worth,” Wolfe said.

  “But you haven’t figured out yet what’s going on between those two agencies.” Foreman chuckled and held up a hand. “But then, I can appreciate that you haven’t had much time so far. What’s Mills paying you?”

  “You know better than to expect an answer to that, sir.”

  “Hah—still cagey, eh? The reason I’m asking is that I’ll top him. Hell, in effect I’m going to end up footing your bill anyway. They’ll just find a way to hide it in their billings, anyway. They’re all a bunch of bandits.”

  “You seem to have a low opinion of advertising agencies.”

  Foreman cackled again. “Who better to know than me? I’ve used enough of ’em over the years. Anyway, how about it? I’ll go fifty percent above what Mills is paying you.”

  Wolfe drank beer and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. “Why seek to hire me when I already am engaged in attempting to find out the very thing you wish to learn?”

  “Dad, it’s time for your pills,” Steve said, pointing to his wristwatch.

  “Oh, hell, I guess it is,” Foreman grumbled, pulling a pillbox out of his vest pocket. “Can I trouble you for a glass of water?”

  I did the honors, getting chilled water from the carafe on our serving bar that Fritz refills before guests arrive. I handed the glass to Foreman, who nodded and popped two capsules and a tablet into his mouth.

  “Sorry,” he said to Wolfe, “it’s part of the price of getting old. Anyway, you asked why I should want to hire you; good question. The answer is that I’ve got more at stake in this so-called espionage business than some piddling ad agency. Those guys—and women—are always jumping from shop to shop, merging and folding and starting new agencies every time you turn around. They’re like gypsies. I’m willing to bet that Mills/Lake/Ryman won’t even be in business five years from now. The partners all will have gone someplace else. But with me, Cherr-o-key is it—the company’s my life now. I’m in it for the long haul—as long as I live, anyway. Then it’s up to those two.” He twitched his head in the direction of Arnie and Steve.

  “Nobly expressed,” Wolfe said. “But you’ve done your share of jumping around, too.”

  “True enough. But that was years ago, when I was a young buck. I’ve had Cherr-o-key for more than twenty years now, and it’s been my only enterprise for almost that whole time. You seem to know a lot about me, more than you let on at first,” Foreman said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Well, you probably also know that I’m part Cherokee—a quarter, to be precise, although I feel like it’s more. They’re the greatest of the tribes.”

  “So it has been said,” Wolfe nodded.

  “Anyway, this you probably don’t know—almost nobody does, and I want to keep it that way: I give thirty percent of the company’s profits to various Cherokee groups—both in North Carolina and Oklahoma. Not all of them were forced out of Carolina in the ‘Trail of Tears.’”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Glad to hear it. You mentioned the word ‘obsession’ earlier. Well, I do have an obsession, and it’s to see that the Cherokees keep on getting the kind of financial help we’re giving them now. For that to happen, we’ve got to keep moving one hell of a lot of Cherr-o-key. As far as I’m concerned, every bottle or can of AmeriCherry sold means one less for us. Anything that hurts the brand hurts the tribe, and this damn business with the advertising, to say nothing of the stinking publicity, has the potential to hurt the brand—a lot. All that’s a long-winded way of saying I’ve got more at stake here than M/L/R does, whatever they tell you. So that’s why I want to hire you. Plus the fact that you’re damn good, and you’ve got a reputation for keeping your mouth shut. I know—I’ve checked you out.”

  “The vote of confidence is reassuring,” Wolfe said, pouring beer. “However, I have a covenant with Mr. Mills and his organization, and I intend to honor it.”

  “All right, dammit, I can’t argue against that kind of loyalty without being a hypocrite. I hope you find the bastard who’s doing this. One thing is sure—and I’ve already told Mills this—when I learn who it is, the agency’s going to have one hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

  “I repeat an earlier question: Are you convinced the culprit is an agency employee?”

  “And I repeat my answer: Who else would it be?”

  Wolfe rubbed the side of his nose with a finger and pondered the far wall. “When the agency presents new advertising ideas to you, who is in attendance from Cherr-o-key?”

  “Me, of course—I’m always there,” Foreman said with a touch of belligerence. “And usually both Stephen and Arnold here. Arnold functions as our advertising director.”

  “Who decides to accept, or reject, the advertising from the agency?”

  Foreman smiled. “I could give you all sorts of bull-feathers about it being a joint decision, made after a lot of discussion. But that’s not how it works, right boys?”

  Arnie laughed, but there was no happiness in the sound. “Dad decides, plain and simple,” he said. Steve merely nodded.

  “But neither one of you is shy about saying what you think of the work,” Foreman put in.

  “Damn right,” Arnie said. “Steve’s favorite comment is ‘Dreck!’”

  “And your favorite comment is an obscenity!” Steve laughed, pointing at his brother. They were a charming couple.

  Wolfe made a face. “So you three are the only ones to whom the agency presents the proposed advertising?”

  “That’s it,” Foreman said, slapping his palms on his legs. “So you see, the leak has to be at that agency. And I hope to heaven you find it fast—for Mills’s sake as well as Cherr-o-key’s. Because I’m this close to sacking them.” He held his thumb and his index finger an inch apart and jabbed them for emphasis, then stood abruptly. “Well, I’m sorry we can’t do business,” he said lightly. “The loss is yours.”

  “That well may be,” Wolfe murmured, returning to his book as I ushered Foreman and his sons down the hall. “What about my gun?” Arnie said as we reached the front door and they put their coats on.

  “Easy, I’ve got it right here,” I told him, drawing it from my pocket and removing the magazine.

  “Hey, I want the bullets, too,” he said.

  “You’ll get them. Put the gun in your holster first.” He did, reluctantly, and I handed him the ammunition, which he snatched without thanks and jammed into an ov
ercoat pocket. “I hope he’s got a license for that artillery,” I said to his father. “Otherwise, some time he might find himself in what our esteemed leader in Washington has on occasion referred to as ‘deep do-do.’”

  Foreman the elder harrumphed and mumbled something to the effect that he appreciated our hospitality, and the three went out into the gray twilight, where a burgundy-colored limousine idled at the curb.

  “You’re a tricky one, you are,” I said to Wolfe when I got back to the office. “You let me read you that stuff about Foreman that I got from Lon when you already knew a bushel more about him. Where’d you get the goodies about the trucking company and the airline?”

  He set down his book and gave me his Grade-A smug look. “An article in the Times Sunday Magazine two years ago last fall, probably in late November.”

  Okay, so he was showing off, but even after being around him all this time, I was impressed. “That’s pretty good,” I told him. “I suppose you can recall what the layout looked like, too.”

  “Of course. Archie, as I’ve told you before, what I read, I remember,” he said, picking up his book again. He’s impressive, but he’s also insufferable.

  TWELVE

  THE BALANCE OF WEDNESDAY IS barely worth mentioning, other than to note that Wolfe decided to take a break from his strenuous labors. After the departure of the Foreman Three, he (a) ignored or deflected my attempts to talk about the case, (b) made his usual two-hour afternoon visit to the orchids, (c) burrowed into his book before dinner, and (d) plunged right back into the book when we were back in the office with coffee.

  Finally, just before I left for a postprandial bridge game at Lily’s apartment, he gave in to what he calls my “badgering” and allowed as to how it would be a good idea if I paid a visit to Harlowe Conn, the “Gray Eagle” up on Madison Avenue. Which is why, at ten o’clock Thursday morning, I went to a nondescript modern building on Madison in the Forties and was in the chrome-and-salmon reception area of the executive suite at Colmar & Conn, an advertising agency which, I learned from the elevator starter, occupies a full eight floors and part of a ninth.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the tight-lipped receptionist with half-glasses had told me primly, not sounding the least bit sorry, “but Mr. Conn sees no one without an appointment.”

  “I understand,” I told her, smiling like an encyclopedia salesman, “but he might like to know I’m here.” I handed her my eggshell-colored calling card, the one that in addition to my name has “Office of Nero Wolfe” engraved in the lower left-hand corner. She considered it, sniffed, and said, “I’ll see that Mr. Conn gets this.”

  “Fine. I’ll wait.”

  “I don’t know that Mr. Conn is even in at the moment.” Her tone would have frozen halibut.

  “I’d appreciate it if you could find out,” I replied, still using the encyclopedia salesman’s smile. Realizing she was stuck with me, Tight Lips left her desk and bustled through a door to some inner sanctum, returning less than a half-minute later.

  “I gave it to his secretary,” she said, obviously offended that I had forced her to leave her post unguarded.

  I sat for five minutes flipping through a glossy, oversized brochure titled “The Many Worlds of Colmar & Conn,” which was filled with color photos of magazine and TV advertising for their clients, most of whom seemed to be Fortune 500 companies. I was admiring pictures of a commercial for a sports car that was shot in the Swiss Alps when a tall, slender blonde of indeterminate age wearing a tailored beige suit emerged through the inner sanctum doorway.

  She walked up to me, smiling. “Mr. Goodwin? I’m Adrian, Mr. Conn’s secretary. He can see you now; I’ll show you the way.”

  I said thank you and followed her, winking at Tight Lips, who frowned and quickly looked away, busying herself with the Times crossword puzzle. “Mr. Conn wasn’t expecting you, so he had to juggle a couple of meetings, which is why you were kept waiting,” Adrian said, still smiling. “He’s sorry for the delay.”

  “It’s I who should apologize, for coming unannounced,” I said, neglecting to add that I purposely had not phoned for an appointment. I like to keep the element of surprise in my arsenal.

  Conn’s office alone was worth the trip from Thirty-fifth Street. It occupied a corner, of course, with three windows on each outer wall, and unlike Rod Mills’s lair it was big enough to hold at least eight billiard tables. In fact, Conn’s mahogany desk, placed diagonally in the outer corner, was every bit as big as the pool table in Saul Panzer’s apartment. And Conn himself had all the appearance of someone who belonged behind a desk that size.

  As I entered, he stood and circled the paper-free desk, hand extended. “Ah, the famous Archie Goodwin, associate of the famous Nero Wolfe. I’m Harlow Conn,” he said, flashing a practiced grin. He was six-three, and although his double-breasted blue suit surely was custom-made to show him in the best light, he nonetheless looked as if he worked out every day. His sculpted hair was as white as fine bond paper, contrasting nicely with a tan that I later found out came from God’s own sunlamp, Caribbean variety.

  “Quite a layout,” I told him, admiring a paneled wall of pictures that included shots of him with two Presidents, both Republican, a Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and three of the best-known pro golfers.

  “A necessary evil,” he explained, dismissing his surroundings with a wave of the hand and motioning me to a small conference table with upholstered swivel chairs. “It’s meant to impress clients—and especially potential clients,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle as we got seated. “We like to make ’em think we’re successful. Will you have coffee?”

  I declined politely and started to tell him why I’d come, but he beat me to it. “I’ve read the papers,” he said. The smile disappeared. “I suppose you’re here because of … what happened to Andy?”

  “In a way, but—”

  “Terrible, just terrible.” He shook his head and stared at the inlaid tabletop. “He was like a son to me. Brilliant. And God, what incredible energy and enthusiasm. The police were here, of course, and I told them I could think of no reason anyone would want to kill Andy. It had to be somebody like a junkie breaking in thinking no one was home. God knows, there’s probably enough of ’em roaming around down there in the Village.”

  “There was no indication of forcible entry. And his wallet—and the money in it—wasn’t taken.”

  “That’s right—you were the one who found the—who found him, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. And as you know, the woman who was with me works for Mills/Lake/Ryman.”

  “Umm, I read that.” Conn nodded and fingered a cuff.

  “Mr. Conn, Andrew Swartz worked on the AmeriCherry account, correct?”

  “Yes, and he did one hell of a job for them.” He crossed his arms on the tabletop and set his impressive jaw.

  “And as you also know from the paper, and maybe from the police as well, the people at Mills/Lake/Ryman believe your agency was learning about their work for Cherr-o-key in advance and adapting it for your client.”

  Conn seemed unfazed. “Mr. Goodwin,” he said evenly, “I don’t have to tell you this, but because of your reputation and Nero Wolfe’s, I will. Inspector Cramer of Homicide was here yesterday afternoon to see me. He in essence said what you just did. And I will tell you what I told him, and what I am also telling the media: We have one of the finest creative departments in the history of American advertising, and the day we descend to the level of stealing other people’s work—particularly that of an agency like Mills/Lake/Ryman—is the day I walk out that door and take the elevator to the street, never, ever to return.”

  Conn said that with a straight face, so I kept mine straight, too. “You know that Swartz called that woman he knew at M/L/R and said he had to talk to her about ‘the cherry drink business.’”

  “So she says.”

  “I believe her.”

  Conn smiled indulgently, crossing his arms. “It’s your job t
o believe her. After all, she works for your client. Mr. Goodwin, I now know, because of the, tragedy of Andy’s death and the resulting publicity, that you and Mr. Wolfe were hired to, in effect, find our agency”—he spread his arms and looked at the ceiling—“guilty of idea theft. This is a serious charge to level at an organization whose raison d’être is creativity. And that charge may be actionable.”

  “If your agency did not steal—or at least adapt—ideas that M/L/R was developing, how is it that your advertising in two cases was incredibly similar to what they had been working on?”

  Conn leaned back and fixed his eyes on me, unblinking. “You realize of course that I don’t have to discuss any of this with you?” he said, his tone still nonthreatening.

  “Yes, I realize that. But given Mr. Wolfe’s reputation, which you alluded to a moment ago, it may be to your advantage to cooperate with us.”

  “Is that a threat?” he asked with a smile.

  “No more than your suggestion that our investigation might be actionable.”

  “Touché,” he said, struggling to maintain the smile. “All right, I’ll answer your question, even though I’m under no obligation to do so. First off, who says what we did was ‘incredibly similar’ to stuff M/L/R was working on?”

  “Our client.”

  “Precisely. You’ve only been getting one side of the story.”

  “Which is why I’m here.”

  “Then it’s time you got the other side. M/L/R is frustrated right now. Hell, I would be too, if I were them. AmeriCherry is the category leader in cherry-flavored drinks and has been for as long as I can remember. A couple years back, maybe three, M/L/R got the Cherr-o-key business, and the reason, or so we’ve heard via the grapevine and read in Advertising Age, was they promised Acker Foreman that they could put his brand at the top of the heap. Well, they haven’t; in fact, Cherr-o-key hasn’t gained a single share point against AmeriCherry in the last two years, and Foreman, hardly a patient fellow as I’m sure you know, is probably getting ready to change agencies again.