Like fans at a tennis match, everyone turned toward Arnold Foreman, who retorted with, “What in God’s name is that supposed to mean?”
“Sir,” Wolfe addressed him, “you had an adversarial relationship with the Mills/Lake/Ryman agency almost from the beginning of its association with Cherr-o-key. Your hostility, particularly toward Mr. Lake, increased steadily, and on at least three occasions, acrimonious words were exchanged. Twice, you angrily stormed out of meetings. Does anyone here dispute that?” This time, no one piped up, although Acker Foreman looked as if he wanted to.
“Very well,” Wolfe continued, keeping his eyes fastened on Arnold. “Although your father had expressed growing dissatisfaction with the agency—which was hardly out of character for him—your vitriol was of such intensity that you chose to accelerate the process. What better way to discredit M/L/R than to have its ideas stolen by the agency representing your principal competitor?”
“Dad, we don’t have to sit here and listen to this madman,” Arnold barked, standing up and starting toward the door.
“Sit down!” Acker crackled. “He may well be a madman—or at least a mountebank—but I want to hear him out. Go on, Wolfe, and it better be good, because the ice you’re skating on could be melting.”
“I have skated on thinner stuff, and likely will again,” Wolfe said as a red-eared Arnold Foreman slunk back into his chair, glancing furtively at his father. “It is clear to me that your son sought out Mr. Swartz, knowing that he was a key figure in Colmar and Conn’s creative work for AmeriCherry. He probably told Mr. Swartz that he was an employee of M/L/R, and he likely demanded payment for divulging information, as Inspector Cramer suggested earlier. Such a stratagem would have seemed natural to Mr. Swartz and helped to allay any suspicion he might have as to his source’s motivation.”
“Goddammit, I’m leaving,” Arnold said, but this time it was Purley Stebbins, not his father’s sharp words, that stopped him. Purley, hands on hips, blocked the route to the hall, gesturing Arnold back to the chair. Wolfe used the interruption to pour the rest of the beer from the second bottle on his blotter. He drained half the glass and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief.
“Mr. Swartz undoubtedly was impressed by the degree of detail he received about the advertising campaigns Cherr-o-key was planning. As I suggested earlier, he probably was curious about his informant’s identity, but not so curious that he would jeopardize what he saw as an already tenuous relationship. Above all, he dearly coveted the information this individual was offering, and if part of the price was the source’s anonymity, so be it.”
“And where does the Gazette photo come in?” Cramer demanded.
“I’m getting to that. Mr. Swartz received intelligence from his still-anonymous informant and used it to quickly develop the two campaigns that both beat his competitor into the media and humiliated its agency. He was praised and well compensated by his delighted employer,” Wolfe said, glancing at Conn, who quickly looked down. “But when he saw the photograph of Arnold Foreman in the newspaper, he realized that there was the potential for even greater financial gain.”
“Blackmail,” Cramer said.
“Yes. Mr. Swartz reckoned that the son was operating without his father’s blessing, and he also correctly surmised that as tough a client and a competitor as Acker Foreman is reputed to be, he detests treasonous behavior, regardless of its perpetrator or its target. He then confronted Arnold, threatening to expose him unless payment was made.” Wolfe paused to drink more beer.
“This is total crap!” Arnold shouted. “Dad, if you don’t sue this con artist, I will. I’m—”
“Continue,” Acker Foreman said icily, his eyes fastened on Wolfe.
“Thank you. Arnold at first agreed to pay, but then, for whatever reasons, he demurred. Mr. Swartz repeated his threat of exposure, although instead of going to the senior Foreman, he telephoned someone he knew at Mills/Lake/Ryman: Miss Burkett.”
“Why me?” Annie asked.
“One can only speculate,” Wolfe said. “Perhaps he had stirrings of conscience, but it is far more likely that he planned to use you as leverage to pry money out of Arnold Foreman.”
“How do you mean?” Her face reflected her puzzlement.
“Mr. Swartz telephoned you on Monday, asking you to meet him the next night and saying he wanted to talk about ‘the cherry drink business,’ correct?”
“Yes,” Annie replied, nodding and kneading her hands.
“After he talked to you, he very likely reached Arnold Foreman and told him of your appointment. His intent was to force the payment of what Mr. Goodwin refers to as ‘hush money.’”
“But why did Andy have to call me at all? Couldn’t he have just said we were going to meet?”
Wolfe leaned back and sighed. “That would have been unduly risky for him. What if Mr. Foreman had telephoned you to check on the story?”
“I never even saw the man before tonight,” Annie argued, looking at Arnold, who was slouched in his chair, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Why would he call me? And if he had, I certainly wouldn’t have told him who I was meeting.”
“Mr. Swartz couldn’t take that chance,” Wolfe said patiently. “This way, he was covered in the event of the admittedly unlikely occurrence of a call from Arnold Foreman; and if Mr. Foreman had knuckled under on Tuesday and coughed up the money, Andrew Swartz simply would have telephoned you and cancelled your meeting, probably saying something to the effect that his earlier call had been a false alarm.”
“So what happened next?” Mills asked Wolfe.
“Arnold Foreman went to the Swartz apartment sometime late Tuesday afternoon, presumably to discuss the threat to expose him. It is possible that during the ensuing conversation, he even agreed to pay something to Mr. Swartz. All of you know the rest: Later that evening, Mr. Goodwin and Miss Burkett went to the apartment and found Mr. Swartz’s body.”
“You’re leaving something out of your little story,” Cramer said. “How did Swartz get dead?”
“That was not part of my assignment,” Wolfe said, turning a palm over. “As I said at the beginning, I was hired only to discover how Mills/Lake/Ryman’s advertising ideas were finding their way to Colmar and Conn.” He looked at Harlow Conn as if inviting contradiction, but the Gray Eagle studied his polished shoe tips again and kept his mouth shut.
“Mr. Wolfe,” Acker Foreman said between clenched teeth, “you also told us when we sat down that what you were offering us was conjecture. If that is the case, how much, if any, of what you have said tonight can you prove?”
“None of it,” Wolfe answered lightly.
“That being the case, sir, I see no further need for us to impose upon your hospitality. Good evening.” The tycoon gestured to his sons, who got to their feet an instant after he did and trailed him out of the office and into the hall.
Wolfe turned to me and dipped his chin, his cryptic way of indicating that I should follow them and handle the farewell honors. I did, catching the trio as they were thrusting arms into overcoats in the front hall. Playing my part, I opened the front door. Acker Foreman, looking as if he couldn’t leave the brownstone fast enough, gave me a nod on the way out, while Arnold just sneered again and Steve, bringing up the rear, muttered, “Thank you, Mr. Spade.” I shut the door harder than I had to, narrowly missing his trailing leg, and watched through the panel as they plodded down the steps and disappeared into the soft lighting and plush upholstery of their elongated limo.
I got back to the office just in time to hear the New York Police Department reaming Wolfe out, which always is worth the price of admission. “ … and you really don’t have a goddamn speck of proof, do you?” Cramer was saying as he stood in front of Wolfe’s desk, hands on hips.
“No, I thought I made that manifestly clear at the beginning of the evening,” Wolfe responded, oblivious to the looks directed to him by five members of New York’s advertising community. “But I have surely pointed the way for
you.”
“Pointed the way my Aunt Sophie,” Cramer barked. “Hell, I could’ve spent the evening back in the office doing something constructive, like reading three-page memos from the commissioner about how the department needs to work on its public image. Let’s get out of here,” he said over his shoulder to Stebbins, whose face never registered any emotion beyond boredom.
Harlowe Conn used the occasion to get up, too, mumbling something like thanks to Wolfe and heading out without a look at any of the M/L/R crew. Once again, I played doorman, following them down the hall, giving out with a parting pleasantry that was met by glares and silence, and making sure they got safely out onto the stoop. Cramer and Stebbins, who ignored Conn, had a car waiting, albeit a few doors down the street and roughly half the length of the Foreman carriage. As for Conn, he headed east, presumably to flag a taxi on Eighth Avenue.
I bolted the door for the second time in three minutes and went back to the office, where it was Mills’s turn to sound off to Wolfe.
“I don’t really see that you’ve definitively identified the leak,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “I admit that your line of reasoning concerning young Foreman makes a certain amount of sense, but how do we”—he casually extended one arm, palm up, in the general direction of his partners, apparently including Annie as well—“know you’ve got the right guy? I mean, he just walked out of here, as free as the right to vote, and the police didn’t lift a pinkie to stop him. Hell, we all heard what the inspector said to you.”
Wolfe favored each of the partners in turn with a scowl, then let his gaze rest on Mills. “You do not of course know, at least to a moral certainty, if I have got the right man. Let us assume, however, that no further thefts of your creativity occur. How long will it take for you to be satisfied that my explanation is correct?”
Mills looked at Lake and Sara, both of whom shrugged. “I honestly don’t know if Mr. Wolfe has it right or not,” Lake mused, stroking his beard, “but I have to concede that the solution he put forth sounds plausible to me.”
“Of course it does, Boyd,” Sara purred, “especially given your feelings about Arnold the Unsteady.”
“Oh, come off it, Sara,” Lake snapped. “You know damn well that—”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Rod Mills interjected sharply. “A legitimate question has been posed, and it deserves a thoughtful, measured answer. Mr. Wolfe, speaking for the agency, I am not yet prepared to pay the remainder of our fee. When you took the case, you said the fee wasn’t negotiable, and I accepted your terms—I still do. However, I am not convinced that Arnold Foreman is the mole, as much as I detest the weasel. But, if you are correct and that Swartz fellow was the contact, then the espionage has ended. Assuming the old man still keeps us as a client, and also assuming no other ideas are pilfered in, say, the next ninety days, the balance of the fee is yours.”
“Sir, our agreement contained no codicil about Mr. Foreman continuing to patronize your agency,” Wolfe retorted, waggling a finger. “However, I recognize that what I have said tonight does not in and of itself constitute total satisfaction for you and your partners. I bow to your wishes, with two exceptions: that the rest of the monies be payable to me in sixty days rather than ninety; and that any decision Acker Foreman makes regarding an agency have no bearing on the remittance of my fee.”
Mills and Wolfe locked stares for several seconds before the adman blinked. “All right,” he sighed, “assuming Sara and Boyd have no objections, sixty days it is—whether we keep Cherr-o-key or not.” The partners indicated their agreement with shrugs and nods, and they all stood up, along with Annie Burkett, who looked as if she could use a minimum of fifteen hours sleep. For that matter, none of the others were the picture of vitality, either. But then, they all had reason to be dragging.
TWENTY
AS IT TURNED OUT, WOLFE didn’t have to wait sixty days to get the balance of his fee—or even a week, for that matter. On Wednesday at eleven-twenty in the morning, less than thirty-six hours after the gathering in the brownstone, the doorbell rang. Fritz was out getting provisions, so I got up from my desk, where I had been trying to find an error in our checking account balance, and went to the front hall, took a peek through the one-way panel, and then returned to the office.
“Guess who?” I said to Wolfe, who looked up from his crossword puzzle peevishly as the bell sounded again.
“I’m not in the mood for guessing games, but if I were, my answer would be Inspector Cramer,” he responded sourly.
“Bingo. I assume I let him in?”
Getting no response, which I took to be a yes, I marched back down the hall and pulled open the door, expecting a surly remark. Wrong. “Good morning, Archie,” Cramer said as he stepped in out of the flurries. I start worrying when he uses my Christian name, because it indicates either that he wants a favor or that something good has happened from his point of view, which frequently means something bad has happened from ours.
“Is Wolfe at his desk?” he asked as he pulled off his overcoat. Another bad sign—he normally barrels past me without asking. I answered in the affirmative and followed him to the office, where he as usual parked his broad beam in the red leather chair, causing the cushion to sigh.
Wolfe set his puzzle down, breathed deeply, and looked at Cramer quizzically, saying nothing.
“I’ve got some news about the Swartz case,” the inspector said evenly, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket.
“Indeed?”
“Yeah, indeed. You had it nailed. This morning, around eight-fifteen, who marches into headquarters but Acker Foreman himself, with son Arnold in tow, and Arnold doesn’t look so hot, more than a little bit peaked to say the least. No lawyer, just the two of ’em—damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Anyway, the old man says Arnold has come to make a statement about how he hit Swartz over the head with that piece of marble. And by God, he does, lays the whole thing out. I think he’s more frightened of his father than of the prospect of being a guest of the state for the rest of his days. It was pretty much like you said the other night: Arnold hated the people at the agency, particularly the Englishman, and he found out that Swartz was one of the key people working on the rival cherry drink’s advertising.
“He got hold of Swartz, told him he held some sort of minor administrative slot at Mills/Lake/Ryman, that he was grossly underpaid by the agency, and that for a price he would spill advance information about Cherr-o-key advertising. Swartz, who apparently didn’t know anybody at M/L/R other than Miss Burkett and of course Miss Ryman, was suspicious at first. He asked his name, but Arnold refused with good reason to give out any moniker—hell, Swartz could have called the agency and checked it then. So to show good faith, Arnold told him in detail about an upcoming Cherr-o-key TV commercial and, sure enough, a few weeks later, the commercial ran.” Cramer paused to chew on his cigar.
“Swartz was still leery, but the chance to score points with his bosses apparently won out over any suspicion in his mind, even though the sellout price was absurdly low—just a thousand each of the two times. Anyway, Swartz and Arnold dealt mostly by phone—with the anonymous Arnold always doing the calling, of course. But they did have two face-to-face encounters before the big blowup.”
“When the money changed hands,” Wolfe said.
“Right, old bills in a plain envelope and all that. And then, as you correctly pegged it, Swartz spotted Arnold’s mug in the paper and saw an opportunity to make some really big money via the blackmail route.”
“How big?” I asked.
Cramer turned to me. “Arnold says two hundred g’s.”
I whistled. “Swartz was a hungry rascal, wasn’t he?”
“Yep, and as we all know, that appetite ended up costing him. After he saw the picture he called Arnold at the company office. He couldn’t get through, but he left his name, which of course scared the bejesus out of Arnold. The rest pretty much tells itself—or I should say Wolfe told it the other night.
“Fearing the worst, Arnold called Swartz back and got the bad news. Frightened, he agreed to a meeting—it was in a coffee shop on Third Avenue—and that’s when he learned what it would cost to keep Swartz quiet. Arnold agreed and said he needed a little time to get the dough together, but later he phoned Swartz and reneged, claiming two hundred big ones was too much, that he couldn’t get the money without his father knowing about it. Swartz countered by saying he knew Annie Burkett at Mills/Lake/Ryman, and that he was going to call her immediately to set up a meeting to tell her the whole story. He was bluffing, of course, but he followed through on the call in case Arnold tried to check with her. He could always cancel their meeting if Arnold knuckled under, which of course he was counting on. In fact, I doubt if he planned to say anything to Miss Burkett as long as there was even the smallest chance to bleed Arnold.”
I grinned. “Like you said before, Mr. Wolfe had it nailed.”
“Uh-huh,” Cramer nodded. “I’m not denying that. By now Arnold was more scared than ever, and he told Swartz he’d find a way to come up with the money. In his statement to us, he said he went to Swartz’s apartment by prearrangement at five-thirty Tuesday to try to negotiate a payment plan, but Swartz insisted on getting the whole two hundred at once. They argued, and Arnold says Swartz threatened to go right to his old man to get payment. At that point, he says he panicked, and when Swartz turned his back, he picked up that award statue and hit him with it two or three times.”
“Have the newspapers and the other media been informed of this yet?” Wolfe asked, pouring beer.
“No. God, he just got done making his statement a few minutes ago,” Cramer said. “In fact, I should be back at headquarters, not here. And I suppose the minute I walk out that door, you’ll be on the horn to Cohen. That gives the Gazette a nice head start, but I can’t help that now, can I?”
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