Fade to Black (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Who are the other three seats up front for?” Sara demanded.

  “Oh, come now,” Lake said, tossing his head in her direction and sneering, “you’re a better detective than that, Sara. Those can be for none other than the imperial Foreman and his clown princes. And guess which one gets the cushy red chair?”

  As if on cue, the doorbell rang again, so I popped up and went to the entry hall once more. Fritz had beaten me to it and peered through the one-way glass. “Three of them, Archie,” he said, “one old.”

  “Ah yes, the fabulous Foremen no doubt. I’ll butler them in, you’ve done your share,” I told him, confirming with a look through the glass that a gaggle of billionaires sought entrance. I opened the door and nodded to the patriarch, who was flanked by his scions. If anything, they looked more peevish than any of the others they would soon be joining in the office.

  “I don’t know why in God’s name this couldn’t have waited a day or two.” Acker Foreman shunned my help with an angry wave of the hand and peeled his over coat off, hanging it up himself, just like the common people do.

  “Damn right,” Arnold seconded. “This is asinine. We shouldn’t have to—”

  “Shut up!” his father commanded, moving toward the office.

  “Hold it right there.” I addressed it to both Arnold and Stephen. “We’ve got a little procedure to go through, remember?”

  “It’s okay, Goodwin,” Acker Foreman said, stopping and executing a crisp about-face. “I made sure nobody’s carrying weapons.”

  “Good, now it’s my turn to make sure.” I patted them both down, first Arnie, who swore quietly, then Stephen, who endured the frisk with his mouth shut, his eyes flinty behind his tortoiseshell glasses. Their father eyed the proceedings impatiently but without comment. “Okay, you can go on in with Dad,” I told the brothers.

  “Thanks one hell of a lot, pal,” Arnie said, showing me his teeth. He was determined to have the final word, and I let him, if only for the sake of moving things along. We all then trooped into the office, Acker leading the way. He marched over to Wolfe’s desk and started right in, ignoring everyone else in the room and griping about having to rearrange his precious schedule.

  “I appreciate the inconvenience you have been forced to endure,” Wolfe said dryly. “But remember, when life’s path is steep—”

  “Horace,” Foreman barked, looking pleased with himself.

  “Indeed. From the Odes. The quotation, in full, is, ‘Remember when life’s path is steep to keep your mind even.’ Now please be seated; I prefer talking to people at eye level.” The tycoon grumbled some more, less audibly, but his heart wasn’t in it. He let his derrière settle into the red leather chair while I directed his sons to the yellow ones on their father’s right.

  After the Foreman entourage had settled in, Wolfe introduced them to the others, which forced Acker and his boys, being in the front row, to pivot in their seats. That put them at a disadvantage, which might just have been intended by their host. Predictably, the patriarch bristled at the presence of Cramer and Stebbins. “Why are they here?” he demanded, jabbing a thumb in their direction. “Are you an agent of the police?”

  “I am not,” Wolfe stated firmly. “However, it is possible that some of what transpires here tonight will interest them.”

  “Huh! And what about that one?” Foreman switched to his index finger, firing it at Harlowe Conn, who flinched.

  Wolfe sighed. “Sir, as one who is representing your advertising agency, I ask your forbearance. I have attempted to plan tonight’s agenda with some care, and I vouch not to abuse my role as host by unduly prolonging the proceedings.”

  Foreman continued muttering sotto voce as Wolfe asked if anyone wanted refreshments. He got no takers and nodded, leaning back in his chair. His eyes went from face to face, stopping at each for a moment before moving on. “I salute you all for coming tonight,” he said, allowing himself a sigh. “You are to be congratulated for venturing forth; this is not weather conducive to travel.”

  “You’re damn right it’s not.” It was Acker Foreman again, gripping the arms of the red leather chair as if he were anticipating a crash landing. “And by God, I’ll hold you to your promise that this won’t take long.”

  “Indeed it will not, sir, unless some among you seek to protract the proceedings. My recitation will be straightforward and succinct.”

  “And will this recitation tell us who murdered Andy Swartz?” It was Sara Ryman, head tilted, mouth turned up at one corner, and arms crossed over her chest in a classic doubter’s pose.

  “Your agency—and by extension, you—did not hire me to denominate a murderer,” Wolfe said evenly. “You sought to learn the identity of the individual, or individuals, who were responsible for supplying a competitive agency—Colmar and Conn—with information about advertising that you were in the process of creating for the beverage called Cherr-o-key. I am attempting to discharge that assignment, although I concede that you may not find my conclusion altogether satisfactory.”

  “Of course they won’t find it satisfactory,” Harlowe Conn said, gloating, “because there was no leak.”

  “I did not say that, nor did I intend to suggest it, sir,” Wolfe replied coldly. “What I mean is, I can only offer conjecture—albeit well reasoned, as to what transpired.”

  “Hold it right there,” Cramer growled. “You mean you got us over here in an ice storm just so we could listen to some of your ivory tower theorizing? And that you haven’t got a damned thing to say about Swartz’s murder?”

  “Inspector, no one compelled you and Sergeant Stebbins to join this gathering. When I called you with the invitation, I made no promises regarding a revelation, although I thought you might find the evening instructive. But you are of course free to leave at any time; I would not want you to think you are squandering the money of the taxpayers of the City of New York by being here.”

  “We’ll stay,” Cramer muttered.

  “As you wish,” Wolfe said, pouring beer and contemplating the foam while it dissipated. “Now, I propose to reconstruct what I consider a highly probable series of events. I—”

  “Highly probable, you say?” Boyd Lake asked, leaning forward with his palms on his knees and looking disgusted. “Mr. Cramer is right—this really is ethereal, isn’t it?”

  “Mr. Lake, one of my dictionary’s definitions of ethereal is ‘characterized by extreme delicacy,’” Wolfe responded. “After I finish, you may wish to cavil about my conclusions. But until then, I beg your indulgence.”

  “You’ve got it,” Lake said, his expression brightening. “I was privileged to have a superb education in England, but despite that, you won’t catch me trying to spar with you over the language.”

  Wolfe dipped his chin in Lake’s direction and made a chapel with his fingers. “Thank you; that is comforting to know. Now to contradict Mr. Conn’s last statement, there was indeed a leaking to Colmar and Conn of information about Mills/Lake/Ryman’s in-progress creative work for Cherr-o-key. Of this I have no doubt whatever.

  “It is clear that Mr. Swartz was the initial recipient of this information, and he put it to almost immediate use in the creation of advertising for AmeriCherry—specifically television commercials and a contest which had as its theme endangered species of wildlife. Whether others in the agency—including Mr. Conn—knew that Mr. Swartz was creating advertising based on his knowledge of a competitor’s planned campaigns is problematic. It would seem, however, that Mr. Swartz, presumably a loyal employee—and unquestionably an ambitious one—might have told one or more of his superiors of his good fortune in coming into the possession of valuable intelligence.”

  “You told me when I went to your office that you didn’t know anything about what the other agency was working on,” Cramer said sharply to Conn. “You sticking with that, or do you want to reconsider?”

  Wolfe eyed Cramer and then Conn, but he made no complaint about the interruption. Conn turned in his chair an
d looked back at the inspector. “I wasn’t under the impression that this was to be an inquisition,” he said, clearing his throat.

  Cramer shrugged. “It’s not. This is Wolfe’s show, but if I find out you lied to us in a murder investi—”

  “All right!” Conn said, pulling out a handkerchief and swabbing his patrician forehead. “All right.” He took a deep, asthmatic breath and looked around the room as if he were trying to find a friendly face. “I was going to tell you the next time we talked; I assumed I would see you again,” he told Cramer plaintively. “I certainly wouldn’t have chosen a gathering like this.”

  Cramer was impassive, a pose he has found effective in the past. My eyes moved to Sara Ryman, who seemed to be taking pleasure in watching Conn’s facade crumbling, and I decided at that moment that she was not the kind of woman I wanted to know any better. By now, all eyes were on the war hero turned advertising executive, who didn’t look overly heroic.

  “Andy came to me one afternoon late last summer, or maybe it was fall by then,” Conn said in a low, husky voice as he looked at the floor. “He was very excited, and he said he knew what Cherr-o-key’s next TV campaign was going to be.”

  “Goddammit!” Acker Foreman shouted. “You miserable, lousy—”

  “Enough,” Wolfe said, his voice cleanly severing the old tycoon’s sentence. “You will have ample opportunity to express yourself before we adjourn.” He then nodded to Conn.

  “I asked Andy where he got his information,” the adman continued slowly, still looking at the floor, or maybe at the toes of his highly polished black wing tips. “He said he couldn’t tell me, except that it was a ‘mole.’ He used the term several times.”

  “I’m not really surprised at what I’m hearing,” Foreman spat, jabbing a finger this time at Rod Mills. “How many times did I tell you that your agency is a kindergarten? You’ve got slipshod procedures, careless, cavalier employees. A bunch of undisciplined, unprofessional kids without any real loyalties and without any sense of order—or honor, for that matter. Well, dammit, one of ’em obviously decided to sell us down the river to those buttoned-up corporate bastards at AmeriCherry.”

  “Just a minute. There is no evidence that anybody from M/L/R did this,” Mills shot back.

  “Mr. Conn has the floor,” Wolfe said. “We owe him the courtesy of hearing him out.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” Conn said ruefully, messing up his milk-white hair by running a hand through it. “Well, as I was saying, Andy wouldn’t tell me who gave him the information about the new ‘Cherr-o-key crowd’ campaign, although he insisted the source was dependable. And I had to agree—hell, he told me all sorts of specifics about the campaign.”

  “And Mr. Swartz suggested that you develop something similar—and before Cherr-o-key’s commercials were put on the air?” Wolfe asked.

  Conn straightened up and squared his shoulders, trying to regain some dignity. “In effect … although I was right with him on that.”

  “I’ll just bet you were,” Sara Ryman said darkly.

  “Did your client know about the information you had received?” Wolfe asked Conn.

  “Not precisely. I told him we wanted to rush this commercial into production because we had an inkling about the kind of campaign being worked up for Cherr-o-key.”

  Lake exploded. “Some inkling! And they say political campaigns provide the biggest opportunity for dirty tricks.”

  Wolfe looked at the Englishman without enthusiasm and filled his pilsener glass from the second bottle of Remmers on his desk. “Was anyone else in your employ aware that Mr. Swartz was a conduit?” he asked Conn.

  “Not that I know of,” he said, coloring. “The two of us … didn’t exactly broadcast the fact around the office.”

  “Hardly surprising. Very well, if I may continue from the point at which we digressed: As I had suggested, Mr. Swartz was indeed the recipient of specifics concerning Cherr-o-key advertising.”

  “Believe it or not, we’re keeping up with you,” Arnold Foreman said with a sneer.

  “It is heartening to know that I merit your attention,” Wolfe replied. “Is there anything else you wish to expostulate on before I continue?” That got the desired result, which is to say Arnold sank back into his chair, pouting, and shut his yap.

  “Very well. While it was easy to determine Mr. Swartz’s role, it became considerably more difficult to identify his informant. After all, many people, employees of Mills/Lake/Ryman as well as outside contractors, were privy to specifics of the commercial—and later, of the sweepstakes. Is that not correct, Mr. Mills?”

  “It is,” he said listlessly.

  “However, timing is the linchpin here.”

  “Meaning?” Sara Ryman asked, pointing her chin at Wolfe.

  “Meaning that events rarely occur by accident,” he said. “When Mr. Goodwin visited Mr. Conn at his office earlier this week, he learned, among other things, that Andrew Swartz was driven by limitless ambition, with concomitant avarice.”

  “Hardly a surprise, and hardly a sin, particularly in our business,” she retorted. “How does timing figure into this?”

  “Bear with me, Miss Ryman. Until very recently, Mr. Swartz did not know the identity of his informant. He—”

  “How could he help but know it?” Cramer argued, leaning forward and gnawing on an unlit cigar. “You mean their communication all was done by phone? Or maybe by fax or letter?”

  “No, sir, I don’t mean that, nor did I suggest it. They likely had a number of face-to-face meetings, but the informant insisted—with good reason, of course—on remaining anonymous. And because Mr. Swartz was ecstatic about receiving what obviously was accurate information, he chose not to insist on learning the name of his Quisling.”

  “Are you trying to make us play guessing games?” Boyd Lake grumbled, combing his beard with stubby fingers.

  “I am not,” Wolfe sniffed, affronted at the suggestion. “I do, however, endeavor to paint as complete a picture as possible of the stage as the curtain rises.”

  “Save us your metaphors, please, and get on with it,” Sara Ryman sighed, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes.

  Wolfe glared at M/L/R’s female partner and drew in air. “If I may continue from the point at which a series of interruptions began, Mr. Swartz did not know who his informant was until recently, and he learned that individual’s identity only because of a chance occurrence, something he did not initiate and had no way of anticipating.”

  “Boy, you sure love to build suspense, don’t you?” It was Stephen, the left side of his face twitching.

  “Mr. Swartz apparently knew no one at Mills/Lake/Ryman other than Miss Burkett,” Wolfe went on as though he hadn’t heard a thing. I smiled to myself, realizing Wolfe—that big old softy—was actually protecting Sara Ryman’s privacy.

  “When he was approached by his informant, probably several months ago, that person may well have represented himself or herself as an employee of the agency, which would explain the possession of such detailed information about Cherr-o-key advertising,” Wolfe said. “Was Mr. Swartz suspicious as to the accuracy of the intelligence he was receiving? And was he curious as to why it was being offered to him? The answer to both questions probably is yes, but we will never know. Very likely, however, his eagerness to score a coup with his superiors at Colmar and Conn overrode any wariness or skepticism he possessed.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cramer piped up. “There’s a lot of junior agency people who don’t make all that much dough. Who’s to say one of them from M/L/R didn’t decide to peddle information? If that was the case, Swartz wouldn’t have been even in the least suspicious. You know damn well that greed and larceny come as naturally as breathing.”

  “I agree, and I weighed that possibility,” Wolfe conceded, “but I have a different explanation to offer. Consider, if you will, that because of his penchant for privacy, Mr. Foreman has a face that is not widely recognizable, and further—”

&
nbsp; “What are you driving at?” Acker Foreman said, coughing and leaning forward, sliding his hands back on the chair arms as if getting ready to push to his feet.

  “A moment, sir,” Wolfe said sharply, holding up a palm. “On the Wednesday before last, six days before Mr. Swartz was killed, the Gazette published a photograph of you. Mr. Swartz undoubtedly saw that picture.”

  “Oh, come off it!” Stephen Foreman erupted, throwing his arms wide and almost hitting both his brother and Harlowe Conn in the process. His face was twitching again. “You’re not going to get anyone to believe that my father, one of the most successful, most honest men in America, would ever … Why, we can sue you for everything you’ve got. We … you … ” He sputtered some more, mostly incoherent syllables, at Wolfe, who was unimpressed with the histrionics.

  “Am I hearing right?” Boyd Lake said, cupping an ear for effect. “Are you telling us that Acker Foreman leaked the stuff himself? And also killed Swartz?”

  NINETEEN

  WOLFE LEANED BACK, LOOKING FROM face to face as if waiting for reactions. The first one came from Foreman himself, who started talking just as Cramer was about to. “This is balderdash, and given your reputation for smarts, you know it, Wolfe,” the tycoon roared. “Stephen said something about bringing suit, and although you damn well know how I feel about publicity, you have slandered me in front of a roomful of people.”

  “You have been accused of nothing, sir,” Wolfe answered calmly, adjusting his bulk. “I merely made three statements: One, that you are not widely recognizable; two, that your likeness appeared in a newspaper photograph six days before Mr. Swartz’s death; and three, that Mr. Swartz almost surely saw that photograph.”

  “That’s getting pretty damn close to an accusation,” Foreman retorted.

  “Such was not intended,” Wolfe said. “I apologize for any misunderstanding. What I had begun to state before you interrupted me earlier was that you have a face that is not widely recognizable, and further, the same is true of your son, Arnold, who also was in that newspaper photograph.”