“Enough!” Wolfe growled, holding up a palm and making a face. “You’ve made your point. What of Mr. Halliburton?”
“I don’t have any higher opinion of him now than when I had the pleasure of meeting him in front of Morgana’s. If he was less rude this time, it was mainly because we were one-on-one and he was scared stiff I’d pop him, which I admit was damned tempting. He’s a little snake, and I get the impression that he hung around with Linville not so much out of friendship as because Linville had nice cars and good-looking women and spent money like water on himself and his friends.”
“Would he have done his friend in?”
“Halliburton? I don’t think so. He’s not only a snake, he’s a coward to boot.”
“But your impression is that he was fond of Miss James?”
I nodded. “Very fond. And I guess the few times they met he must have cleaned up his act, because she seemed to think he was more or less bearable. But I don’t see him conking anybody, let alone a friend, with a chunk of iron.”
“The tire iron,” Wolfe said. “You saw it?”
“In the presence of Purley Stebbins himself, no less. It is, well … a tire iron. Complete with what appears to be dried blood.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Interesting you should ask. I posed that question to Stebbins and the guy who keeps watch over murder weapons and such, and they weren’t in the mood to tell me.”
Wolfe pressed his lips together once or twice. “Get Inspector Cramer,” he said curtly.
I dialed and Stebbins answered on the second ring. When I told him Wolfe wanted to talk to his boss, he balked. “Look, he called Mr. Wolfe earlier today,” I told him. “This is on the same matter.” That drew some muffled grumbling at the other end, which sounded promising. I nodded to Wolfe to pick up.
“Yeah?” Cramer was his usual suave self.
“Inspector, as you know, Mr. Goodwin a short time ago viewed the tire iron that may have been used to kill Mr. Linville. He asked if fingerprints had been found on it and received no answer.”
Cramer swore and covered his mouthpiece, but not well enough to drown out the chewing-out he gave Purley. The gist was “I told you to cooperate with Goodwin,” although he used a number of additional adjectives that I have elected to omit from this narrative. “There were no prints found on the iron,” Cramer said between deep breaths after he had finished his harangue. “Looks like the thing was wiped clean.”
“What about the discoloration Mr. Goodwin observed?”
After a pause, Cramer responded. “Blood, Type O, same as Linville’s. But, hell, damn near half the population is Type O.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wolfe told him. “I have a favor to request.”
“Another one?” Cramer snapped.
“Yes. Has the weapon’s discovery been made known to the press yet?”
“No. The damn thing only turned up this morning. The D.A.’s office doesn’t even know about it yet. Why?”
“I would like to ask that, at least for twenty-four hours, news of the weapon be withheld, even from the district attorney’s office.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Because such action, or more correctly lack of action, may well be helpful in determining the identity of Mr. Linville’s murderer,” Wolfe said evenly.
“Balls!” Cramer roared. The only other sound that came through the wires for a quarter of a minute was his heavy breathing. “I’ll think about it,” he finally said, slamming his phone down. At that moment the doorbell rang, and I got up, beating Fritz to the hall. I took one peek through the one-way panel and did a quick about-face back to the office.
“We’ve got some interesting visitors on the stoop,” I said to Wolfe, who had just returned to his book. “Megan and Doyle James, by name. Instructions?”
EIGHTEEN
WOLFE TREATED ME TO ONE of his high-grade scowls, the kind he reserves for occasions that upset his schedule. The scowl deepened as the doorbell chimed a second time. “All right,” he grumped. “Show them in.”
“This is a surprise.” I smiled at the former husband and wife as I swung open the front door. “To what do we owe the honor?”
I got no smiles in return. “We’re here to see Wolfe,” said Megan, who was wearing a gray rough-silk number and an overdose of Opium. She looked grim as she stepped in ahead of Doyle, who had a pretty somber expression himself. “We know he almost never goes out, so don’t try to tell us he’s not here,” she went on.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied lightly, still smiling as we moved along the hall toward the office. Wolfe glanced up from his book as we entered, and I made the introductions.
“Mr. Wolfe,” Megan said before I had a chance to even seat them, “we’re here to talk to you about your so-called investigation. We—”
“Madam, if you please,” Wolfe said, “I prefer that those with whom I converse be at eye level. And since I have no intention of rising, it is in your best interests to be seated.” That took some of her momentum away, which was of course the intent, and I gestured her to one of the yellow chairs while Doyle staked out the red-leather place of honor.
“Now, you wish to discuss what you choose to term my ‘so-called investigation’?” Wolfe asked blandly.
“Yes, we do. We—Doyle and I—want to know precisely what’s going on, and why we haven’t heard anything from you.” Each word was loaded. “I think we are owed an explanation.”
“Indeed?” Wolfe’s face registered the kind of surprise that sometimes makes me believe Hollywood lost a great talent. “I’m not aware of any debt to you on my part. You are not clients of mine.”
“Our daughter is!” Megan hissed, and Doyle nodded slowly, leaning forward.
“And she is an adult,” Wolfe said. “My compact is with her and her alone, and, lacking her express approval, I will discuss my progress with no one else.”
“Well, have you been keeping her posted on that so-called progress?” Doyle squared his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest. “Isn’t that part of your compact?”
“Sir, I am not aware that your daughter is unhappy with my performance. If she is, she has not chosen to inform me of this dissatisfaction. However, your arrival, while unexpected, is not ill-timed. Had you not come here, you would each have been paid a visit by Mr. Goodwin.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Doyle asked.
“Before we go on, will either of you have something to drink? My preference is for beer.”
“Why not? I’ll have a beer too,” Doyle said, drawing a sharp look from his ex-wife. Wolfe reached under his desk and hit the buzzer, signaling Fritz as to how many beers he should bring in.
“Mr. Wolfe, we didn’t come here to drink—or at least I didn’t—we came for answers.” Megan was hot. She also was craving a cigarette, but I could tell from watching her that she’d searched the office for an ashtray. There weren’t any. “It’s hardly necessary to remind you that our son’s life is at stake.”
“You are correct, madam—a reminder is superfluous. Now, let us get to specifics: Can you account for your time on the night of the twenty-sixth, last Wednesday?”
I enjoyed watching her trying to control her facial spasms. “What kind of a question is that?” she shrieked. “Are you going to try earning one of your preposterous fees by manufacturing suspects willy-nilly?”
Wolfe considered her dubiously. “Does the question pose a problem for you?”
“No, it does not,” she said, spacing her words again. “I happened to be at home all evening. I was still unpacking from the trip to Europe.”
“Were others there as well?”
“Michael stopped over for a few minutes just after dinner, to see how Noreen was. And you know, of course, that Noreen was—and is—staying with me. I wouldn’t have her anywhere else after what I found out the night before.” She glared at Doyle, as if accusing him of not keeping proper watch over their offspring during her extended sojourn i
n Europe.
“And you both were home all evening?” Wolfe asked.
“I was, although Noreen went out for a walk later—sometime near ten, I think. I tried to discourage her, given all that had happened, but she said she needed to get some air and do some thinking.”
“So when she was gone, you were home alone?”
“That is correct,” Megan said.
“Does your building have a doorman?”
“Of course.”
“Then he will confirm that you did not go out?”
She sent Wolfe a look that would have wilted a cactus. “I don’t see that my comings and goings are any concern whatever of yours.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” Wolfe said, pouring beer from one of the frosty bottles Fritz noiselessly brought in, two of which went to Wolfe, with the third placed on the small table next to Doyle James, along with a chilled pilsner glass. “You express concern that I am not adequately representing your daughter’s interests in a matter that we concur is of overriding importance to your son. Yet you bridle at my questions when I attempt to delve into this imbroglio.”
“Well, what about it, Megan?” Doyle James said, turning toward his ex-spouse. “Let’s not pussyfoot around, for God’s sake. If you went out, you’d better tell him about it, because it’s going to come out sooner or later.”
“Oh, go to hell, Doyle. When I need your counsel, I’ll ask for it, but don’t hold your breath. I never got any advice from you that was worth following in the years we were together.” Megan turned back to Wolfe. “All right, dammit, I did go out, soon after Noreen did. I felt boxed in by the place, big as it is. I went to see a friend.”
“Pamsett, of course,” Doyle said, chuckling.
“Pamsett, of course,” Megan mimicked him. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly where I was: at Edward Pamsett’s apartment on Park in the Eighties. I needed somebody to talk to. He’s an old friend—you’ve met him, Mr. Goodwin.”
I nodded to show I was paying attention.
“How long were you there?” Wolfe asked.
“God, I don’t know. I guess I went out around ten or so; as I said, it was after Noreen had left on her walk. It must have been … oh, twelve-thirty or thereabouts when I got back home. I remember seeing that Noreen’s door was closed, so I knew she was back.”
“Although you didn’t see her?”
“No—but when she’s staying with me, she always leaves the bedroom door open if she’s going out.”
“You took cabs to and from Mr. Pamsett’s residence?”
“Yes, but I can’t supply you with the drivers’ names or numbers. Sorry,” Megan said snidely.
Wolfe ignored the barb and turned toward Doyle. “Mr. James, can you account for your time Wednesday night?”
“I can tell you where I was,” he said blandly, allowing himself a grin.
“Please do.”
“I’ve got two places, a town house over in Jersey, near Princeton, and an apartment in Manhattan, because I enjoy coming into town.”
“I’ll just bet you do,” Megan said archly. “Next I suppose you’re going to tell us it’s because of the great theater here.”
Doyle gave her one of those smiles that isn’t a smile and took a healthy swig of beer, from the bottle. “I apologize for my ex-wife’s interruption,” he said to Wolfe. “Anyway, I come into New York once or twice a week—and, yeah, sometimes it’s to go to the theater. In fact, last Wednesday night I was here for just that reason—to see a show. Unfortunately, the lady I was going to take became ill at the last minute and I ended up giving the tickets away.”
“So now we know what you didn’t do that night,” Wolfe remarked. He’s a genius at deduction.
“Right. I ended up going out to dinner—alone—at a favorite spot of mine, a little French place on East Fifty-third. The maître d’ can vouch for me—I’m sure he’s still got his reservation list from that night, and I’ll be happy to give you his name.”
“When did you leave the restaurant?”
“As we’ve been talking, I’ve been trying to estimate the time. I’d say around ten,” Doyle said. “It was a nice night, so I walked across town to my place, which is over near the UN Building. I probably got there around, oh, ten-thirty, ten-forty, something like that. I know it was before eleven, because I caught the eleven-o’clock news on TV.”
“Can anyone vouch for the time of your arrival at home?”
“I really doubt it,” Doyle said. “My building has a doorman, but he doesn’t keep track of comings and goings. His nose is usually buried in some book.”
“We came here to get answers, and all we’ve been doing is giving them, which I find to be both insulting and degrading,” Megan pronounced nasally. “Now, tell us what’s going on. We’ve got a right to know.”
Wolfe considered her and frowned. “Madam, we have already been over this ground, and to retrace our steps would be fruitless. Good afternoon.” He got to his feet, walked around the desk, and marched into the hall, turning toward the kitchen.
“The arrogance!” Megan said, turning in her chair to watch his departure. “The man doesn’t have a shred of common courtesy.”
“I don’t seem to recall your making an appointment to see Mr. Wolfe,” I said. “What would Miss Manners have said about people who drop in unannounced?”
“Hah!” Doyle James said, slapping his knee. “You’ve got yourself a point there, Goodwin. I told Megan we probably wouldn’t accomplish a thing by coming here, but she insisted. She thinks she can get anyplace with anybody by bullying them.”
“But you tagged along anyway, I notice,” Megan snapped.
“Hell, if only to save you from yourself, my dear,” he replied with an impish grin. “Somebody has to tell you when it’s time to go. And it’s time. Say good night, Gracie.”
Megan James was so livid she was speechless, which was a relief. They both got up, and I rose with them, following them out. Not a word was spoken as we walked down the hall, but after I swung the door open and Megan stalked out, Doyle gave me a wink.
It was nice to see he was in such apparently good spirits, because he’d need them. If those two were planning to share a taxi, even for a few blocks, he would need all the humor he could generate to keep from getting roasted by his former mate. Something about his good spirits was troubling, though. After all, wasn’t this a man whose daughter had been attacked and his son arrested for murder? Was I off base, or shouldn’t he be angrier than he appeared to be? I resolved to think about that.
NINETEEN
AFTER BOLTING THE DOOR BEHIND the battling Jameses, I went to the kitchen, where I found Wolfe and Fritz staring glumly into a pot on the counter.
“Don’t tell me it’s another one of your arguments over what should go into the perfect New Orleans bouillabaisse,” I said in mock disgust. “The Israelis and the Arabs will be going to block parties together before the two of you agree on this one. Making any progress?”
That got no reaction whatever. Wolfe muttered to Fritz and Fritz muttered back. And more things, I didn’t pay attention to what they were, got tossed into the bouillabaisse, but neither of them acknowledged my presence. I was feeling neglected.
“Will you be needing my services any more today?” I finally asked Wolfe.
He looked up as if I had shrieked during a séance. “I will not,” he said absently, turning his attention back to the pot.
“Okay, good luck with your soup,” I said, walking out and feeling two glares aimed at my back. The remark was directed to both of them, and to be honest, it was made with malice aforethought. Referring to bouillabaisse as soup is like calling someone’s Lhasa apso a pooch.
I went to my desk in the office and dialed Lily’s number, getting her after two rings. “My day so far has been fraught with difficulties,” I told her, “but suddenly there appears to be a break in the storm, if you’ll allow a literary allusion, and I thought perhaps we might take this opportunity to dine
together and share our dreams and aspirations.”
“Ever the sweet-talker,” she said. “And although I could take umbrage at being asked so late, I will overlook that egregious breach of etiquette and accept, conditionally, of course.”
“Egregious, eh? You’re getting to sound more like Wolfe all the time. Okay, state the condition.”
“That we dine at Rusterman’s, of course. I’m saving La Ronde for my birthday.”
“Sold. I’ll be by to get you in a taxi, honey—in twenty minutes.”
“For a second there, I thought you were onto a really catchy lyric,” she said. “But somehow, the ‘in-twenty-minutes’ part needs work.”
“If you like it, I’ll tinker with it,” I replied. “Better not be late.”
“I think you’re onto something, fella,” she said, hanging up.
A half-hour later, Lily and I were in our favorite corner booth in the small upstairs room at Rusterman’s, courtesy of Franz, the current owner.
“Well, Escamillo,” she said after we’d ordered a drink and I’d given her a quick summary of the visit to the brownstone by Megan and Doyle, “now how do you like dealing with various members of my family?”
“Mixed, if I have to reduce it to a single word.”
“Care to get more specific, or has Nero Wolfe sworn you to secrecy?”
I lifted one eyebrow, grinning. “With you, I’m always happy to get specific. I’ll blab all you want, but there’s a price.”
“Naturally there is—and knowing you, it’s answers to some questions.”
“M’God, you are perceptive,” I replied, proceeding to tell her, in varying degrees of detail, what had transpired over the last couple of days.
“Interesting,” she said as we attacked our salads. “Sounds like our Megan is running true to form.”
The Last Coincidence (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 4) Page 13