The Last Coincidence (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 4)
Page 4
Wolfe raised his shoulders and let them drop. “How you respond is your business.”
“Why is it that whenever there’s a big case in this town, particularly one that generates publicity, you two are somehow hip-deep in it?” Cramer rasped, pushing himself to his feet.
“Just lucky, I guess,” I remarked.
“Listen,” Cramer roared, jabbing a thick index finger in Wolfe’s direction, “with what’s happened, we can make things hot for Goodwin, as in blast-furnace hot. You’re so goddamn smug, both of you—well, let’s see who ends up laughing.” He flung what was left of the cigar at the wastebasket, missing as usual. I used to think his aim was lousy, but in the last few years I think I’ve finally figured it out: He’s always so mad and so frustrated after a visit to the brownstone that cigar-littering is his endearing way of getting some revenge.
By the time I got to my feet, Cramer, who moves remarkably well for a big man, already was in the hall. I was a full three paces behind him when he pulled open the front door, turning to me with a final salvo.
“One way or another, Goodwin, there’s a good chance you could find yourself getting bloodied on this one—and Wolfe too. And if that should happen, by God, I can’t say it will bother me one bit.” Before I could reach the door, Cramer had slammed it behind him so hard that the small picture of the windmill next to the coatrack rattled and slipped to a cockeyed angle. I straightened it and went back to the office. “The man seemed a touch out of sorts,” I said to Wolfe.
“Archie, you enjoy quoting odds,” he said quietly as he reached for his book. “This time, however, I cast myself in the role of bookmaker. I shall give fifteen-to-one that we have not heard the last of this affair.”
“Funny, that’s essentially what Cramer communicated as he left, although in somewhat less genteel terms,” I replied. “Anyway, it’s no bet. Right now, I wouldn’t take twenty-five-to-one, and you know how much I enjoy betting on long shots.”
SIX
IT DIDN’T TAKE EVEN TWENTY-FOUR hours to prove Wolfe a good oddsmaker, but then, I’m getting ahead of myself. I knew the afternoon edition of the Gazette would play Linville’s murder big, and Lon didn’t disappoint me. The banner was WEALTHY HEIR SLAIN, accompanied by a news story that jumped to page two, a head-and-shoulders photo of a grinning Linville in black tie, a picture of the murder scene, i.e., the concrete floor of an Upper East Side garage, and both a related story and a lead editorial on how neither poor nor rich are safe in an age of mindless violence. Friday morning’s Times, which I read as I ate breakfast, was more subdued, but it also gave the killing plenty of play, beginning with a front-page story under a two-column headline and Linville’s picture—almost identical to the one the Gazette used.
Back to Wolfe’s oddsmaking. On Friday morning at a little past nine, having digested both breakfast and Times, I was in the office fiddling with the orchid-germination records on the PC when I got a call from one very upset Lily Rowan.
“Archie, the police are holding Noreen’s brother, and Megan’s ranting, and—”
“Slow down, you’re already five laps ahead of me. Now tell me exactly what—wait a second, maybe it would make more sense if I came over. How does that sound?”
Lily, catching her breath, allowed as to how that seemed like a good idea, which is why I was in her apartment less than fifteen minutes later and one New York cabbie had a fifty-percent tip. I was parked on a sofa in the living room when she came in, looking a lot less composed than usual.
“Okay,” I said before she could begin, “take it from the top, and go slowly, for my benefit. First, I gather the cops have your nephew—Michael, isn’t that his name?”
She nodded, sucking in her cheeks. “I got a call from Megan right before I talked to you. If you thought I was a little unhinged when I phoned you, you should have heard her; she was just this side of hysterical. It took me several minutes to get things straight, but it seems it’s all out in the open now that Sparky Linville had attacked Noreen. Apparently Megan wormed it out of her shortly after she got home from that European trip. Anyway, what I was able to learn is that—”
Lily stopped because the phone on the end table next to her was squawking. “It’s Megan again,” she said, cupping the receiver. “I think I’d better go over there. Would you be willing to come along?”
I nodded.
“Megan, Archie is with me. I’d like to bring him … Yes, I know … but first off, he’s the most discreet person I know, and second, he’s used to dealing with the police. He … no, of course he’s not going to run to the newspapers or TV.” She looked at me and rolled her beautiful eyes. “Yes … uh-huh … yes, Megan. Yes. All right. We’ll get there as fast as we can.”
“So,” she said, cradling the receiver with a soft sigh, “my dear half-sister is still just this side of hysteria, but at least she has the good sense to want me there to provide something resembling stability. Aided by your soothing presence, of course.”
“It was apparent she was ecstatic with that idea.”
“Oh, stop being so sensitive. She’ll learn soon enough that to know you is to love you. And besides, at this point, she’d agree to anything.”
“Thanks for that ringing endorsement,” I said with what I hoped was a sardonic grin as we headed for the door and a taxi.
I had never been in the James apartment, which Lily had once described to me as “Art Deco run rampant.” And as partial as I am to Deco, I was unprepared for what greeted me as we got off the elevator on the sixth floor of an ordinary brick building in the East Eighties. The oval-shaped foyer had walls of vertically fluted black marble with a white Roman-style settee, two chrome-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and six silver sunburst light sconces, not to mention the indirect lighting tucked into the ceiling moldings.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, pal,” Lily put in. “And remember, her Xanadu taketh the whole floor, as in eleven rooms.” Just then the door, done in the same silver pattern as the light fixtures, swung open, revealing a small olive-skinned, black-haired woman in a maid’s get-up. “Hello, Carmella,” Lily said with a smile.
Carmella smiled back, dipped ever so slightly in what looked suspiciously like a curtsy, and ushered us into an entrance hall that would have worked just fine as the lobby of one of the smaller Rockefeller Center buildings. We passed through that into a drawing room that looked as if it were the set for the Thin Man movies, except that in Myrna Loy’s place was Megan James, standing grimly behind a peach-colored tuxedo-style sofa that could have seated the entire Mets’ pitching staff. And instead of William Powell, over at the small bar in the corner was a guy in a dandy brown three-piece suit with chiseled features and graying hair who looked like he belonged in the House of Lords—or at the very least in a magazine ad for premium whiskey.
“Hello, Megan. I think you remember Archie Goodwin,” Lily said as we went in.
“I do,” her semi-sister answered coolly, stepping around the sofa but not offering a hand. She was wearing a dark blue belted dress that whispered its elegance. “I suppose I should thank you for coming along. This is my friend Edward Pamsett. Edward, I think you’ve met Lily before. And this is Mr. Goodwin.”
“Miss Rowan, nice to see you again. And Mr. Goodwin,” Pamsett said, smiling, bowing slightly, and holding out a paw, which each of us shook. He had a firm grip to go with his good manners, which was a point in his favor.
Megan looked like I remembered her: thin all around—body, arms, face. Actually, she might have been attractive if she ever loosened up, but everything about her was tight and taut—the dark hair skinned back to a bun, the tight lips, the look of disapproval that had permanently taken residence on a face otherwise nicely arranged. She offhandedly gestured us to sit, and within seconds Carmella had reappeared with coffee on a silver tray, which both Lily and I accepted.
“Please, bring us up-to-date,” Lily said to Megan, who was still standing.
“Where do I start?” she intoned, fumb
ling for a cigarette, which Pamsett lit smoothly. “You know part of it, of course, from my call. When I got back from Antibes, the kids and Edward had a little welcome-back surprise party for me here, and I immediately knew by the way she looked that something was wrong with Noreen. Lord above, I hardly had to be a genius to see that. She … Mr. Goodwin, I know how good a friend of Lily’s you are, and I’m sure she’s told you at least something of what this is all about. I ask you—I beg you—to respect our privacy in this matter. As you can appreciate, this is sensitive, and very, very painful, to our whole family.”
“Begging isn’t necessary,” I told her, struggling to keep the irritation out of my voice. “As I think Lily said to you on the phone, I am the essence of discretion.”
Megan took a couple of jerky drags on her cigarette and ground it out in a square black onyx ashtray that probably weighed as much as a bowling ball. “Yes, of course,” she said without conviction. “Anyway, when I took her aside, Noreen came apart and told me about that … Linville situation. Needless to say, it made her very upset—probably with me as much as anything else. It was then that I found out she’d already talked to you about it,” she said to Lily. “I’m glad you were here to comfort her, but the whole thing made—makes—me feel pretty damn useless.” She didn’t bother to hide the bitterness.
“But you were overseas,” Lily put in. “She wouldn’t have wanted to ruin your trip.”
“Oh, I suppose that’s true, but I just wish she’d …” Megan’s voice trailed off and she jiggled her shoulders, as if to underscore her helplessness.
“And to think it happened to Noreen,” Pamsett put in. “There’s not a nicer, finer young woman around.”
“Don’t be so naive, Edward,” Megan snapped. “Noreen’s just as bad as the rest of them. Sometimes I think three-quarters of the young women today are just dressing and acting like they’re asking for—”
“Megan!” It was Lily, with sparks in her eyes.
“Well, it’s true,” Megan persisted. “I know that—”
It was time to redirect the conversation. “When did Noreen’s brother learn about the attack?” I interrupted.
Megan, who’d just ground out a half-smoked cigarette, pulled out another one and this time lit it herself, waving away the attentive Pamsett and his gold-plated Dunhill. “The same time I did—at the party. Up until then, she had—or so I am led to believe—kept the awful thing to herself, except of course for Lily.” Her tone made it clear that she was hardly delighted with the tight relationship between aunt and niece. “And now, for God’s sake, Michael’s being interrogated by the police and Doyle is supposedly down there trying to find out what’s going on. This is a nightmare!”
Here I find the need to do some translating for the distressed Megan. The Doyle she refers to is her former husband and the father of her two children. I had met Doyle James twice, the last time close to ten years back. He and Megan got divorced aeons ago, and although I hardly know either of them, it’s easy to see why their paths diverged. Doyle is free-wheeling and gregarious and unpretentious, and she is buttoned up and social-climbing. He comes from Jersey City and is what you’d have to call a self-made man; he started with a small dry cleaner somewhere over in Jersey that grew through the years—and through his efforts—into a chain that’s spread all over the northern half of the state and has, or so Lily tells me, made him easily a millionaire. From here on in, I’ll let Doyle speak for himself, which he is about to do.
Megan finally sat, to the relief of the rest of us, and no sooner had she sunk into the sofa than the door chimes sounded, rocketing her back to her feet. “That must be Doyle at last,” she blurted, starting for the foyer, but Carmella was already on the case, and within seconds Doyle James stood in the doorway to the drawing room, surveying the tableau. When I saw him, I remembered what had made an impression on me years before: He is one of those people whose presence seems to pull the attention of everyone in a room.
In his case, it’s partly scale. Doyle James is one economy-size specimen—six-four, and probably around two-thirty. But his size is only one factor, the other—and more important—being what Wolfe calls aplomb, a word that he has used, albeit grudgingly, to describe me. James had a half-smile on his square, red-cheeked face, which was framed by a thick but well-tended acre of hair that had turned almost completely white since I had last seen him.
“Megan,” he said without enthusiasm, acknowledging his ex-spouse with a nod. “And Lily. Lovely Lily.” He moved across the room in three long, smooth strides, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her the kind of hug that made me glad they were related, if only by a canceled marriage. “Hello, Pamsett,” he added lightly, almost as an afterthought. “And … it’s Archie Goodwin, right? Don’t believe we’ve met since we sat in the same box with these sisters at a game at Shea nine years ago.”
“You’ve got a good memory,” I responded, accepting his handshake. “Against the Phillies. We beat them, extra innings.”
“Your own memory’s not so bad either,” he answered, taking a cup of coffee from Carmella and nodding a thank-you in her direction. “Youngblood hit the homer that won it.”
“I’m certainly glad you remember each other,” Megan sniffed. “Doyle, what did you find out? What in the hell is happening down there?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t get to Michael. I tried to make some noise. Got as far as an asinine homicide lieutenant named Rowcliff, who admitted that Michael was in the building. He wouldn’t let me see him, though, but said they’ll probably be through talking to him sometime this morning.”
“For God’s sake, Doyle, it’s not as though he isn’t cooperating. He went down there of his own free will when they asked him to.” Megan shook her head vigorously and turned toward me. “You know about these things. Don’t they have to let a family member or a lawyer be there with him if we request it?”
“How old is your son?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Then as an adult, it’s pretty much up to him. They surely read him the Miranda warning.”
“Which is?” Megan said. She clearly doesn’t watch much television.
“The standard recitation of his rights—that anything he tells them can be used against him. And also that he has the right to a lawyer while he’s being questioned. It’s named for a Supreme Court ruling on a case out West some years back.”
“Wait a minute,” Doyle put in. “That’s right, what’s his name—Rowcliff … he told me Michael had waived having a lawyer present. I was ready to call one I know.”
“But of course you didn’t,” Megan sniffed. “God forbid you might take some kind of action, really do something for a change.”
Doyle started to get up. “Now, just a goddamned minute—”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” I cut in, looking Doyle back into his seat and then turning toward Megan. “How did you find out that Michael was going in for questioning?”
Megan shot an icy look at Lily, probably to underscore her objection to the presence of yours truly. Lily smiled back serenely. “He called me from his apartment this morning—he lives over on the West Side,” Megan said. “He told me a policeman was there and wanted him to go to headquarters for questioning about the Linville death. I asked him if I could do anything—phone a lawyer or whatever—and he said no. He didn’t sound very concerned at all. But now that they’ve got him, I’ll bet those bastards are keeping him from calling anyone!”
“Not likely,” I told her. “This is Inspector Cramer’s case, and I know him pretty well. In fact, he knew your and Lily’s father years ago. He’s hard as nails, and mule-headed as they come, but he’s honest and fair—and smart too, despite what Mr. Wolfe may say about him at times. He’d never jeopardize a case by messing up some procedure involving rights.”
“Then why is it you don’t like the sound of this?” Megan demanded, digging the thin heels of her blue Maud Frizon pumps into the plush carpet as she paced.
“For God’s sake, shut up and let Goodwin say something,” Doyle snarled, hammering on the end table with a meaty fist.
I ignored the crossfire. “Do any of you have any idea how the police connected Michael with Linville’s death? Do they know about the episode between Linville and your daughter?”
“Not that I’m aware,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “But then, I’m not what you’d call a regular fixture around here, you understand.” He shot a glance at Pamsett, who tilted his aristocratic chin in what probably was meant to be indifference. “What about you, Megan?” Doyle rasped.
“I hardly would have told them, now, would I?” she snapped, studying her long crimson nails and an emerald ring the size of Connecticut. “God, it’s bad enough that this many people know about it without bringing more in.”
“With the attention Linville’s murder is getting in the media, and is going to continue getting, chances are the publicity’s just beginning,” I said. “You’d better brace yourselves for more.”
“That’s just great, terrific, a goddamn media circus in the making.” Megan ground her second cigarette into a crystal ashtray. “I suppose—”
“Instead of worrying about publicity, you’d better start worrying about Michael,” Doyle James barked, glaring at her. “And I thought people were supposed to mellow with age. Goodwin, let’s get back to your earlier comment, about not liking the sound of things. Explain, please.”
I took a sip of coffee and was about to start in when the phone rang. Pamsett was closest to it, but Megan darted over and waved him off, seizing the receiver.
“Hello…. Yes, this is she…. Yes…. What? … That’s absurd. I … Yes, that’s right…. No … When can we see him? … Yes … yes.” Megan cradled the receiver, turning toward us, but looking at no one in particular.
“What is it, Megan?” Pamsett asked, leaning toward her with a worried expression marring his patrician features.