Fade to Black (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Well,” Lake said with a slight smile as the screen went dark and the lights came back up. “What do you think?”

  “Interesting. It’s … ”

  “It’s dated and trite, that’s what it is. Go ahead and say so!” Sara Ryman, blessedly interrupting me, stood in the doorway wearing a blue blazer and a sour smile. “And that’s why the people at Graffiti’s don’t like it. Sorry, Mr. Detective Man, but Boyd’s been grabbing everybody who wanders into the building and making them see that piece of work in an absurd attempt to justify it. Pretty soon he’ll be making the delivery boys from Guido’s Pizza down the street sit there and watch it.”

  “I don’t recall inviting you to this meeting,” Lake said coldly to his partner.

  “And I didn’t see any DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the door, Boyd,” she retorted with mock sweetness. “As a matter of fact, I was looking for you, to find out where the dog-food storyboards are.”

  “Berg has ’em in his office and you know it,” Lake growled, following it with something about rudeness. He got up, stalking out past his antagonist. “Sorry you had to be exposed to that bilge,” she said as I rose. “Poor Boyd, he’s resorted to polling the man-in-the-street now.”

  “For the record, this man-in-the-street rather liked it,” I lied. “Catchy tune and all, you know? I trust you’ll be around later.”

  She looked at me and shook her head. “I’m always around, even for people who have no taste.”

  I gave her my own mock-sweet smile and followed Lake to his office. He was back in his chair by the time I got there, slouching and sulking. “That woman can be a twenty-four-carat bitch. I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

  I smiled. “Everybody’s apologizing to me today, and it’s not necessary. I’ve been around conflict before. When I came in originally, I promised to take just a few minutes, and I will. First, can you account for your time between four and six Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Are you serious?” He cupped his face in his hands and leaned forward, letting his elbows support him on the desktop. I assured him that I was serious.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, the police asked essentially the same question—and not so politely, I might add. But then, I’m not their client.” I couldn’t tell from his voice whether he was offended or just puzzled.

  “As I told Mr. Mills, I’m simply being thorough—and among other things, M/L/R is paying for thoroughness.”

  “Of course, of course, I quite agree. I was at home ill on Tuesday—a cold that had been coming on. I finally surrendered to it. And that’s all I really needed to do; one day at home, in bed and all, and I came back here rejuvenated.”

  “You live alone?”

  “Alas, yes,” Lake said, turning his palms up. “I’ve tried marriage, and to a very fine woman, at that. She lives in Scotland now, Edinburgh, and is wedded to a better man this time, I must concede. In fact, our breakup was what caused me to leave England. Too many memories and all that, you know. What you are asking, of course, is whether anyone can vouch for my whereabouts on Tuesday. I stayed in all morning, babying myself. By afternoon, I felt markedly better and went out for a stroll—around four-thirty, actually; the doorman saw me go. I stopped by a local grocery to get some things, and then I walked for a bit. The fresh air seemed to help.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “I’d estimate a little more than an hour.”

  “Where do you live?”

  Lake gave me a strained smile and passed a hand absently over his beard. “In Greenwich Village, just off West Fourth. And yes, Mr. Goodwin, I’ve read the papers, so I realize that is very close to where Andrew Swartz dwelt. Does that make me a suspect in your eyes?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said, smiling back. “I gather you didn’t know him?”

  “Correct.”

  “I thought perhaps Harlowe Conn might have introduced the two of you when you were at Colmar and Conn a year and a half back looking for work.”

  That shot hit home. Lake drew in air, exhaling noisily, and did some more beard-stroking. “I see,” he said, getting up and walking to the door, which he eased shut. “In the U.K., when two parties meet under circumstances that both agree to be confidential, they invariably honor that confidentiality. I have been here long enough to realize such is not the case in this country, yet I continue to forget that. I assume Conn divulged the contents of our discussion.”

  “He gave me what he claimed were direct quotes of yours.”

  “About my partners?”

  I nodded, and he did some more deep-breathing. “Have you told anyone?” he asked at last.

  “Not other than Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Are you—or he—going to? Tell anyone, I mean.”

  “I can’t speak for him, but I don’t plan to broadcast the fact, unless it becomes pertinent to our investigation.”

  Lake slouched again and crossed his arms over his chest. “You talk as though I am a suspect.”

  “That wasn’t intended. But I do confess to being interested in what was said in your meeting with Conn.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve already found that out.”

  “I’d be interested in hearing your version,” I parried.

  He did the deep breathing number again, presumably collecting his thoughts. “All right. Considerably more than a year ago, I went to see Conn, to sound him out about what might be available at C and C.”

  “Were you dissatisfied here?”

  “Not overly. But there were—and are—times when I feel limited by the size of our shop, personally frustrated. I know Rod loves running something small and cozy and collegial, but dammit, I sometimes miss a big operation, like the one I worked for in London before I came across. That feeling ebbs and flows in me.”

  “Is it ebbing or flowing right now?”

  Lake gave me a crooked smile. “Not much of either, actually. I’m in a passively contented state right now, which you might choose to interpret as a euphemism for lazy.”

  “I’m in that state quite a lot myself,” I said. “Now—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I should tell you I’ve always regretted that I went to see Conn. I honestly don’t think I could stand to work for the man, even indirectly.”

  “Because he wouldn’t hire you?”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “In essence.”

  “Well, it’s true; he didn’t offer me a position. I wanted a bigger job and more responsibility—and more money—than he was willing to give me.”

  “Did you and Conn ever talk again?”

  “No, that was it. And as I said, I am more or less happy that things worked out as they did.”

  “Do you know anyone else at Colmar and Conn?”

  “Not a soul. Oh, I’ve met two or three of their people at ad club meetings and such, but only to say hello and to exchange brief pleasantries.”

  “Mr. Lake, how would you describe your attitude toward your partners?”

  “To use your own terminology, is that question really pertinent to the investigation?” Lake asked, arching his eyebrows and lacing his hands behind his head.

  “Not necessarily, but I find that provocative questions sometimes take the discussion in interesting directions.”

  “Well, you’ve already stated that Mr. Conn quoted me on the subject.”

  “Again, though, I would like to hear your version.”

  “It’s somewhat complex,” Lake replied, pulling his tie knot farther down from his neck and passing a hand inside his collar. “As best I can recall, I told Conn that Rod was somewhat difficult to work with, although I may have used stronger terms. And I also said that Sara and I didn’t get along terribly well, in part because I’m British and she doesn’t seem to like Britishers—maybe because of her Irish origins.”

  He looked at me as if expecting a reaction. “Go on,” I said.

  “All right. Anyway, as I said, that conversation with Conn was well
over a year ago, and I told him what I felt at the time. I must say that since then, however, our overall relations here have improved.”

  “For what reasons?”

  “Oh, it’s really been a combination of circumstances. For one, until this dust-up over the theft of ideas, things had been running very smoothly around here—some new accounts, good relationships with our clients. At the time I talked to Harlowe Conn, we were having problems with several of the accounts, and Rod was very testy because of it—and very hard to get along with. Since then, he’s become a lot more mellow, which has made things better here for everyone. Of course, that was before this latest business, both with Cherr-o-key and Graffiti’s; at the moment, nobody here is what you’d term mellow.

  “As for Sara and me, we will never be the best of friends. We are both impatient and quick-tempered, and we’re both also perfectionists. But we have gradually come to an accommodation, that little contretemps of a few minutes ago notwithstanding. I guess you could say we’ve generally become more tolerant of each other’s foibles. For instance, I’ve learned to at least tolerate her caustic humor, and she seems to have accepted the fact that I will always have a British accent and British values and attitudes, some of which she doesn’t embrace.”

  “But you still think she’s a twenty-four-carat bitch?”

  The skin above Lake’s beard reddened. “I … I can’t honestly say that I will ever really like Sara. And sometimes … yes—she is a bitch. But a talented one.”

  “Do Mills and Sara Ryman get along well?”

  Lake nodded slowly. “In the main, yes. I’ve almost never seen a strong disagreement between them.”

  “So how would you best describe the current relationships among the three of you?”

  Lake pressed a palm on his blotter. “Well … they’re probably about as good as one could expect, given the pressures and tensions of our business and the various quirks in our personalities. Now, as I think you are aware, I have a meeting,” he said, standing abruptly.

  “One last thing. If I may be so presumptuous as to make a suggestion, I’d go to the police and let them know about your meeting with Conn.”

  “Why? It’s not germane to what’s transpired.”

  “There’s a chance they will find out from other sources, and if that happens, they’ll wonder why you didn’t say something.”

  “Who’ll tell them—you?”

  “This is silly,” I shot back. “Of course I won’t tell them. But Conn might, for instance.”

  Lake flushed again, as well he should have, for thinking I make it a practice of running to the cops with things a client tells me. “All right, of course you’ve got a point. I’m sorry I said that. Your counsel is very sensible and wise. Chalk my reaction up to tension and nerves.”

  “Consider it so chalked,” I said, thanking him for his time and taking a left turn down the hall to Sara Ryman’s office, where I had spent a few minutes forty-eight hours earlier. She was on the phone and looked up when I appeared in the doorway, nodding grimly and gesturing me to a chair. She muttered something into the mouthpiece about having to run to a conference and hung up.

  “Will this take long?” she asked sharply.

  I smiled. “As I’ve already said once today, your firm is paying for, among other services, thoroughness. And I’m being thorough.”

  “Are you indeed? Mr. Goodwin, this firm is paying you and Nero Wolfe for one thing and one thing only.” Sara Ryman squared the padded shoulders of her blue blazer and drummed well-tended nails on her desktop. “That is results. And I gather your presence here today suggests that you have none as yet.”

  “I assume that’s a rhetorical question, and the answer is, we are devoting every bit of our energy to the problem.”

  “Sounds like standard answer l-A from the first chapter of the detective’s handbook. Okay, let’s get on with it: What can I possibly tell you at this point that will be of any help?”

  “For starters, do you and Mr. Lake often go at each other like alley brawlers, or was what I saw an aberration?”

  Now it was Sara’s turn to blush. “That was unfortunate. It’s just that the Graffiti’s spot isn’t very good. The client doesn’t like it, I don’t like it, Rod doesn’t like it. But dammit, Boyd sticks with the work he oversaw and persists in trying to sell the damn thing. You’re about the eighth person he’s hauled into the conference room for an opinion.”

  “Are the two of you often at loggerheads?”

  “Often enough. Call it clashing personalities. Also … ”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, this is probably not important, but did you know that Boyd wasn’t in the office at all on Tuesday?”

  “I was aware of it. Why?”

  “He said he had a cold. Mr. Goodwin, did you see any evidence that he had a cold when we all came to Nero Wolfe’s office Monday?”

  I shrugged. “No, I—”

  “And did you see any evidence of a cold today?” She sent a knowing smile in my direction.

  “No, but lots of people catch cold fast and get over it fast.”

  “I thought private eyes cut from the Maltese Falcon mold were supposed to be both observant and cynical,” she countered. “Are you sure you passed the detectives’ exam?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “That’s your story. Now is there anything else you wanted to discuss? It seems to me all we’ve been doing is wasting time—mine and yours.”

  “I certainly hadn’t meant to do that,” I said earnestly. “But there is one more thing: Exactly how long had you been seeing Swartz?”

  The pause gave her away. To give her credit, however, she recovered nicely. “What in the hell are you talking about?” she asked stiffly.

  “I think you know, or are we going to have to dance around for a while first?”

  She looked at me, eyes unblinking, for several seconds. No sound came as her glossed lips formed words, but I caught the brief message: “You bastard.”

  FIFTEEN

  AFTER SARA RYMAN’S INCISIVE COMMENTARY on my parentage, she shot me a glare that ranked right up there with some of Wolfe’s. “Do you peek through keyholes, too, Mr. Goodwin?”

  “When is the last time you made the acquaintance of a keyhole you could look through?” I retorted with a grin. “Let’s talk about you and Andrew Swartz.”

  She bit her lower lip and let her gaze wander around the room. She clearly didn’t want to look at me. “I figured this would come out eventually,” she finally whispered, still not locking eyes with me. “There’s not really a lot to tell, so I don’t know why I just didn’t bring it up earlier myself.”

  “That would have been wise,” I agreed.

  “We met by accident, really,” she said, in a voice now slightly louder than a whisper. “It was about eight months ago, at a screening of award-winning TV commercials, and we each had been involved in creating one of the winners. We were sitting side by side in the auditorium, and we just started talking. The result was that we went out for drinks after work a few days later.” She took a deep breath and idly fingered one of the blue dangle earrings that matched her blazer’s color.

  “The attraction was strong—at least it was for me, and I had thought for him, too. Anyway, we agreed from the beginning that because of our jobs, it would be best if we kept quiet about the … friendship. But apparently I was the only one who honored that part of the deal.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” I told her. “As far as I know, Swartz never told anyone your name, and apparently it wasn’t even in his address book. He did mention to a friend that he was seeing a woman involved in advertising, and you could say I made a lucky guess.”

  “I doubt if luck is much of a factor in anything you do,” she said with what I immodestly detected as a touch of admiration, albeit grudging. “But I’m glad to hear you say that. Andy and I saw each other regularly—several times a week—for about four months. We went to places where other people in our business
weren’t likely to be. Although one time, a secretary from here was in the same restaurant in Chinatown where we were. I don’t think she saw us, though—the place was big and crowded—and even if she had, she wouldn’t have known who Andy was. And then one day, it ended.”

  “How?”

  “How? Don’t be naive, Mr. Goodwin. He dumped me, that’s how. Plain and simple, no violins, no Rachmaninoff rhapsody. We were walking in the Village at night and he just said, out of the blue, ‘I don’t think this is going anywhere.’ I really humiliated myself then; I told him I thought it was going somewhere. But as you can guess, I was wasting my energy. It turns out, I discovered later, that Andy had quite a history of this kind of thing. Meet ’em, have some fun, then drop ’em.”

  “While you were seeing each other, did he ever pump you about your work here?”

  “No, he did not!” she shot back, angrily accenting each word by thumping a small fist on the desktop. “Don’t you think I would have told him where to go if I thought for an instant he was drawn to me because of that? Never, not once, did we talk shop. You can believe that or not, as you choose.”

  “I choose to believe it, but if I were you, I’d let the police know what you’ve told me.”

  “And if I don’t, I suppose you will?”

  That made it two shots from partners within ten minutes, plus one slur on my origins, and I didn’t like it. “Look, Ms. Ryman, I just gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now that doesn’t necessarily call for reciprocation, but a little trust coming from your direction wouldn’t hurt. I seem to recall that M/L/R came to us—not the other way around.”