The Last Coincidence (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 4)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Did Michael James ever tell you why he wanted to kill Linville?” Wolfe asked.

  “Nope,” Cramer said, folding his arms. “Some notion of protecting his sister’s honor and reputation, I guess. Every time we asked him about it, he clammed up. Wouldn’t discuss Noreen at all.”

  “Have you found the weapon?”

  “Not yet. Mike says he ran out of the garage and can’t remember what he did with the iron. Apparently he wasn’t seen—there’s nobody on duty that time of night, and permit parkers, which is all they allow, have to open the auto door with a key.”

  “And you believe that story?”

  Cramer made a production of shrugging. “Why the hell not? The kid was in a panic after hammering Linville. He probably tossed the iron into a Dumpster or a garbage can. We’ll be lucky to ever find it. No doubt it’s on a trash barge by now, headed out to sea or wherever they let the things go these days.”

  “The news reports on Mr. Linville’s death suggested that he was killed with a heavy instrument, likely a tire iron that was missing from a collection of tools on the floor near the front doors of the garage,” Wolfe remarked.

  “What of it?” Cramer snapped.

  “Only that Mr. James had sufficient information and details to construct a plausible tale.”

  “Just a minute, dammit!” Cramer was up out of his chair and leaning on Wolfe’s desk with both hands. “You already know that I’d like nothing more than to see the kid be innocent, but there’s just too much going against him. We got the right guy.”

  Wolfe and Cramer locked glares, and then the inspector took a step back from the desk. “What the hell, it’s in the D.A.’s hands now anyway,” he said, doing a crisp about-face and heading for the hall. Replaying a scene we’ve both been part of dozens of times, I followed about three paces behind and watched as he went out, slamming the front door behind him.

  “He took the cigar with him,” I said in wonderment when I was back in the office. “Maybe he finally got tired of missing the wastebasket.”

  “Mr. Cramer is deeply troubled,” Wolfe ventured, ringing for beer.

  “Uh-huh. He didn’t sound very convincing in saying they had got the right guy. Also, he didn’t even bother telling you to butt out this time.”

  “Miss Rowan will be here at three? And Mr. James at nine?”

  “Lily’s a for-sure. Right now, James is a maybe, although his sister thinks she can get him to come. He’ll be here if I have to drag him by the heels.”

  “And you have a funeral to attend,” Wolfe responded, unimpressed by my chest-thumping.

  “I was just leaving, sahib.”

  TWELVE

  “THE FUNERAL WILL, OF COURSE, be a travesty,” Wolfe observed dryly as I was halfway out the office door. “But you know as well as I do that these barbaric ceremonies serve as magnets for all sorts—including murderers.”

  “Yes sir. You may even be able to catch portions of the travesty right here in the office,” I told him, nodding toward the television set. His answer was a scowl.

  The service was in one of the big Protestant churches on Fifth Avenue. The day was pleasant, and I had almost an hour so I walked, spotting the travesty from two blocks away. Police barricades were up, limiting traffic to just two lanes, to allow for the funeral procession and the TV stations’ mobile units, of which I counted four. Knots of people, many of them shoppers, had begun to form behind ropes on the sidewalk in front of the church, gawking at the celebrities.

  Uniformed police manned the ropes, but they did not stop those wanting to enter. I went up the steps, took a leaflet from a somber-looking man with a small, droopy flower in his lapel, and slid into a rear pew on the right side of the old church. I was fifteen minutes early, but already the sanctuary was about three-quarters full, and it could probably hold at least six hundred.

  I made a pretense of studying the leaflet, which turned out to be a program for the service, but my eyes moved over the crowd. I spotted the Gazette man right away, Clint Thomas, the paper’s best feature writer. I also thought I recognized a woman from the Times, but wasn’t sure. As for the TV people, they weren’t allowed inside—or at least their cameras and lights and sound gear weren’t, although several of the video reporters themselves, reduced to using writing implements, undoubtedly were seated.

  As the organ began playing, I could feel eyes boring in on me from the left and, sure enough, on the far side of the big room, there was Sergeant Purley Stebbins, standing against a wall and frowning in my direction. I smiled and nodded, getting a deeper frown in reply. I silently mouthed the words “Lighten up, Purley,” to which he turned away and continued surveying the assemblage.

  I followed suit. It was a well-dressed crowd, as you would expect. Mostly middle-aged, many of them friends and business associates of the parents, although there was a scattering of young men and women of Sparky Linville’s generation. At twelve-twenty-five the family filed into the first pew from a door up front, where the closed casket was. I recognized Linville’s mother and father from the newspapers and television. There was a lot more family, too, enough to fill several pews. A group of eight young men, the pallbearers, marched in from the other side at the front. Halliburton’s white hair made him stand out despite his size.

  The crimson-robed, curly-headed minister, who seemed surprisingly young, opened with a prayer promptly at ten, and then we rose for a hymn. After that, the minister sermonized, struggling to explain how such an inexplicable event as murder can occur in God’s world. There was another hymn, another prayer, and then the pallbearers wheeled the casket down the center aisle and hefted it out the door.

  The scene in front of the church was American journalism at its worst. The TV Minicams crowded in so close to the hearse that the pallbearers had to muscle them aside just to roll the casket in. Print reporters shouted to Linville’s parents as they moved toward a limousine, trying to get comments, but the uniformed police made like the Giants’ offensive line, and in one instance a reporter shoved back, only to get a whack with a nightstick that sent him staggering and muttering about police brutality.

  It took fifteen minutes to get all the VIP guests loaded into the dozen or so black limos that were lined up behind the hearse. As I stood on the church steps surveying the debacle, I spied none other than Edward Pamsett. Clad in a light blue blazer, he was standing toward the rear of the crowd down on the sidewalk, eyes fixed on the hearse. I wondered if he had been inside.

  As the entourage, led by siren-wailing police cars and six motorcycle escorts, pulled away from the curb, I took another look at Pamsett, who apparently hadn’t seen me, and I slipped away in the opposite direction. I turned into a side street to where a yellow cab bearing a familiar number and with a familiar face behind the wheel idled in a no-parking zone, its OFF-DUTY sign lit.

  “Right where you’re supposed to be,” I said, sliding into the back seat.

  “You’re surprised?” asked Herb Aronson, the most dependable taxi driver in the five boroughs. “This is where you said to be, and when you said to be here. Question: In twenty years, have I ever failed you? Answer: No. Next stop, Long Island, right?”

  “Right,” I said, and settled back as we headed for the cemetery.

  THE MEDIA CIRCUS AT THE cemetery out on the island was a little more subdued than the midtown chapter. There were as many TV mobile units and reporters as before, but they were quieter, maybe because of the natural setting. I had Herb drop me about a hundred yards down the road from the burial site, which was covered by a green canopy. We’d made good time; the procession of limos and other cars—and a few cabs—was still pulling up. I donned my sunglasses and positioned myself inconspicuously, or so I hoped, at the edge of the standees who were gathering.

  Again I searched for familiar mugs. Purley was here too, of course, but he didn’t even bother to acknowledge me this time. As the graveside service began, I blinked. There, toward the back of the standees on the opposite side of the grave
, Edward Pamsett had materialized, and was watching the proceedings intently; he must have had a speedy hack driver of his own. Once again I felt sure he hadn’t seen me. And I wasn’t about to give him another opportunity. Satisfied that there were no others there of interest, I eased away from the gravesite and the mournful droning of the minister and went back to where Herb was parked, reading the Daily Racing Form.

  “Back to the land of the living?” he asked, and I nodded grimly. I’d had my quota of cemetery visits for the year.

  THIRTEEN

  AFTER HERB DROPPED ME AT the brownstone and drove away forty-five dollars healthier, I briefed Wolfe on the funeral, then set about tackling the rest of his instructions from the night before, which were that I pay visits to Noreen’s roommate, Polly Mars; her sometime boyfriend, Douglas Rojek; and Todd Halliburton, the stubby garbage-mouth I had the misfortune to have met on the last night of Sparky Linville’s life.

  I called Noreen at her mother’s place again, informing her I wanted to see her roommate, and she said I could usually find Polly in their apartment during the day on weekends unless she went home to see her family in Bronxville. On weekdays, I was told the best time to find her in was around six at night. “That’s usually when she gets done with whatever modeling job she has and before she goes out for the evening—and Polly goes out a lot,” Noreen said. She didn’t sound very excited about my wanting to see Rojek, but she gave me his phone number and address over in Brooklyn. And she couldn’t feed me any more about Halliburton than she did before, having met him only twice. She repeated that he lived down in the Village and worked for one of the big insurance companies, or so she thought.

  I checked the Manhattan directory and found a Halliburton, T.C., on King Street in the Village, then leaned back and contemplated my course of action, glancing occasionally at Wolfe, who remained motionless and noiseless behind his book. I decided after due reflection that I would call on each of the three at home rather than phoning first, opting for the element of surprise—if indeed there was anything to surprise them with. But because it now was almost two-forty-five, there wasn’t time to do much of anything other than sneak out to the kitchen for a quick snack before Lily’s arrival at three. I might be able to see one of them, no more, in the late afternoon, leaving two of the visits for Sunday.

  So much for the Mets and Cardinals. I had originally asked Saul to go with me, but now I called and inquired as to whether he could use both tickets. He said his friend, the same one who helped pick me clean at the poker table the night before, had decided to stay in town an extra day, so this all worked out very well—for everybody but yours truly. Saul offered to reimburse me, but I told him to consider this as one warm, gregarious New Yorker’s gift to an out-of-town visitor. Saul made a choking sound and said he’d be by later to collect the tickets.

  Because Wolfe hadn’t expressed any preference as to whom I should see first, I decided I would favor Miss Mars with my presence at the earliest opportunity, probably later in the afternoon. I didn’t bother sharing my plan with him, however, knowing that he didn’t care what order I saw them in.

  I’m not sure why Wolfe wanted to see Lily, other than because she is one of the few women he feels comfortable with. This may have something to do with her interest in his orchids, which she has asked to see at least a couple of dozen times through the years, and to my knowledge, she has yet to get a turndown.

  Anyway, Wolfe’s conversation with Lily did little other than reinforce what he already had learned from Noreen and from what I had reported to him: namely, that both Noreen and Michael James were upstanding, moral, clean-cut, and essentially decent young specimens, although Michael was prone both to stuffiness and to bursts of temper; and that Sparky Linville was crude, boorish, and generally disagreeable.

  Wolfe managed to stretch the conversation for an hour, and I knew why: He fully expected Lily to ask to visit the orchids, which she hadn’t seen for a while, and she didn’t disappoint him. So when he left the office at four to go to the plant rooms, he wasn’t alone.

  “You two kids have a great time with the posies,” I told Wolfe and Lily as the elevator door started to close. I got a glower from him and a wink from her, then went to the kitchen to inform Fritz that I likely would be gone until dinnertime.

  The Noreen James–Polly Mars apartment in the West Eighties was in a four-story building that had known better times. My watch told me it was four-thirty-three when I got out of a cab, walked up the stone steps into the small vestibule, and rang the bell next to the nameplate that said MARS–JAMES 3-W. I waited fifteen seconds, cursed in a whisper, and rang again. This time I was rewarded with a static-riddled “Yes?”

  “Archie Goodwin—I’m a friend of your roommate, Noreen,” I said, leaning close to the speaker and talking both slowly and loudly. A lady passing by on the sidewalk with a white poodle stopped and stared at me.

  “I don’t know you,” came the crisp response, to which I suggested she call Noreen at her mother’s apartment, hoping I was understood through the archaic intercom.

  I waited two minutes, three, five, and then I heard something that sounded like “Okay” rasp through the speaker, followed by a click that released the door. The walk up two dark, narrow flights that smelled of disinfectant confirmed my initial impression of the building. At 3-W I knocked and identified myself, getting another muffled “Okay” from within. The door opened as far as the chain would allow, and I saw one slice of what looked to be a well-arranged face.

  “You’re Archie Goodwin?” the slice asked. “May I see identification?” I pulled out my laminated private investigator’s license, which has my picture on it, and held it close. “All right, you’re you,” Polly Mars said, swinging the door open and revealing that the whole face was well-arranged indeed. Noreen hadn’t exaggerated her roommate’s beauty. “I’m sorry to have taken so long, but, well, you have to be careful, you know. Also, I just finished washing my hair when you rang,” she said, gesturing toward the white towel coiled atop her head that hid all but a few strands of very blond hair. “Please come in. And sit down.”

  The living room wasn’t overly large, but it was nicely furnished—a pleasant surprise after the front of the building and the hallway. Music—it sounded like something from an opera—was playing softly. I parked on a comfortable-looking beige sofa while Polly Mars, wearing blue jeans, a loose white blouse, and sneakers, sat in a wing chair at my right. “I just phoned Noreen, like you said,” she told me. “She said you wanted to talk about Sparky and everything, and she also said that it was okay to answer whatever you asked. Isn’t it terrible about her brother being arrested and all?” She talked with her long manicured fingers, moving them with each syllable.

  “Yes, it is, Miss Mars. When did you find out about the arrest?”

  More hand fluttering. “Oh, just now, from Noreen. She’s really upset. I suppose it’s been in the papers and all, but I never seem to get around to reading them, although I know I should. She told me you and Nero Wolfe are trying to prove Michael didn’t … do it.”

  “That’s right. First off, I’d like your thoughts on why Michael James would want to kill Mr. Linville.”

  Polly sucked on her lower lip and let her eyes move around the room, as if she were thinking. She had some stagy mannerisms, for sure, but you could probably chalk that up to her modeling. It was easy to imagine her peddling toothpaste on TV. “Well, I … I don’t know.”

  “Remember Noreen’s words—that it is okay to answer any question I ask,” I said with a smile.

  She tucked one leg under her and frowned, as if responding to a cue. “Well, I guess you know that Noreen went out with Sparky, don’t you?” I nodded. “Something went wrong, it was on their second date. She didn’t talk to me about it, but I could tell,” she said.

  “How?”

  “She got really withdrawn, you know? She didn’t talk hardly at all for days. I was visiting my parents that weekend—they live up in Bronxville—and
when I came back here, she was like a different person. Quieter—a lot quieter. And one thing was for sure—she didn’t want to see Sparky anymore.”

  “Did she give you any reason?”

  “No.” She shook her head vigorously, nearly dislodging the towel. “I asked her why she wouldn’t talk to him when he called, and she just said she wasn’t interested anymore. Then I asked her if anything went wrong, and she said no. I really felt guilty that things had gone bad, because she met Sparky through me.”

  “I’d like to hear how that happened.”

  Polly wrinkled her nose and fidgeted some more, then fixed her hazel eyes on me as if to come forth with a revelation. “I don’t know if Noreen told you this, but I had gone out with Sparky a few times myself, and one night when we came back here for a drink after we’d been out, he met Noreen.”

  “Interesting. How well would you say you knew Linville?”

  “Oh, we had a few dates. He was a lot of fun, knew a lot of people.” Her long fingers were flying again as she talked.

  “The newspapers made him sound like he was more than a tad on the wild side.”

  “Well, he loved to drive fast, too fast, I suppose, and he liked to hit all the hot spots, but he was really okay.” She mouthed it without conviction.

  “Back to Noreen. What’s your opinion as to what happened between her and Linville?”

  This time I got both nose-wrinkling and eye-rolling. “I don’t know. Maybe he put some moves on her or something.”

  “Was that typical of him?”

  Polly blushed and this time didn’t bother with the dramatics. “I really wouldn’t know,” she replied stiffly.