“So is Wolfe. I’m worried that after today’s session with her, he may suffer a complete relapse and withdraw to his plant rooms and his food and his books and his beer forever, poor chap.”
“Nonsense. Megan isn’t worth the grief, although the way you’ve just painted the situation, it doesn’t sound like grief—it sounds exactly like the way your boss lives now.”
“Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a bit. Now for a question: Is your sister—make that half-sister—capable of murder? And if the answer is yes, would she let her own son take the fall for it?”
“That’s really two questions, but you know that I’m a good sport. Answer to the first part—yes, assuredly. I think Megan would kill if, one, it suited her purposes and, two, if she thought she could get away with it. As to the second part—that’s a lot tougher. She and Michael haven’t gotten along, to say the least. I told you that there is some uncertainty as to his father’s identity. Several years ago, during either his freshman or sophomore year in college, Michael found out—I’ve never known how—that there was a question about his parentage.
“The upshot is that rather than being mad at the man purported to be his father, a guy—I met him once and was unimpressed—who now lives in Europe, he took it out on Megan, suggesting in somewhat graphic terms that she was, shall we say, a woman of less-than-exemplary morals. His conservative nature—and God, is he conservative, especially for someone his age—drove him to outrage over what his mother had done. They were very close before that, but they haven’t been since, although they do maintain a civility toward each other. Anyway, despite the rancor, I’d have to say that I don’t believe Megan would let him take the fall, to use your term.”
“So you’re giving her a pass?” I asked as we each started in on our roast leg of lamb.
“You asked me a question, Escamillo—make that two questions—and I tried to answer them honestly, based on my knowledge of my half-sister’s behavior and temperament. If that’s giving her a pass, then I’m guilty as charged, your honor.”
“Time off for good behavior, case closed,” I said between bites. “What about Doyle James? How do you rate him as a suspect? Based on your knowledge of his behavior and temperament, of course?”
“Archie, I’m sorry, but I have just as hard a time there. Like with Megan, I can see Doyle killing Linville, given the circumstances—in fact, it’s a lot easier to picture him doing it than Megan. But where it falls apart for me again is that I can’t conceive of him standing by and watching Michael go to prison, or whatever, for what he did.”
“Even though he, Doyle, might not be Michael’s father?”
“I don’t think that matters—not to Doyle. I know he’s had a pretty wild life, a lot of women, some hard drinking, some heavy spending. But almost all of that came after he and Megan got divorced, and he’s essentially a very decent, honorable man. Rough around the edges, yes, and impulsive, but good-hearted and honest. If that’s my heart talking rather than my head, dammit, so be it.”
“I don’t know him like you do—in fact I hadn’t seen him for years until last week, and then again today. But I’d have to agree that he comes across as a stand-up kind of guy. And he knows how to zing Megan, which has to count for something somewhere.”
“I sense my sister hasn’t captivated you.”
“Bingo. Speaking of your sister, whom we apparently can’t avoid, what’s your analysis of her well-tailored friend Pamsett, beyond what you told me the other day?”
“What you’re really asking me is: Could Edward have done Linville in? I’d have to plead ignorance on that one. As I told you, I really don’t know Edward very well, but I have a hard time picturing him picking up a tire iron in some dark, greasy garage. He’d get his hands dirty, to say nothing of the possibility of soiling his four-hundred-dollar sport coat.”
“He does seem pretty far removed from grease and violence,” I admitted.
“And besides,” Lily said, “what would his motive be?”
“He doesn’t seem the type, but might he have been playing hero for Megan by avenging her for what was done to her daughter?”
“How could he play hero if she didn’t know about it? I mean, killers don’t usually go around bragging, even to their lady-friends. And even in the unlikely event that (a) Edward Pamsett did kill Linville, and (b) Megan knew about it, she would hardly sacrifice her son to protect Pamsett. That much I can say for my sister.”
“Point taken. While we’re on the subject, how would you describe Megan’s relationship with Pamsett?”
Lily took a sip of Zinfandel and dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Good question. It’s possible that passion exists there that I’m not picking up on, but I really doubt it, knowing her and observing him. I think it’s a case of each of them having someone to go to society functions with. They both eat up that type of thing—benefits, black-tie stuff, you know.”
“Sure. Just the kinds of things you’re always trying to get me to.”
“Right, and Megan has a damn sight more success with Edward than I have with you.”
“What do you mean? Just last month we went to that costume nonsense at the Churchill.”
“Right. And remember how you whined about it?”
“That’s just because I didn’t like the idea of dressing as Henry the Eighth. Anyway, you think Megan and Pamsett are platonic pals who mainly provide each other with half of a couple so that dinner parties they go to come out with even numbers?”
“Seems reasonable. Plus the fact that they genuinely get along. Edward is laid-back and easygoing, as you probably could tell, being, by your own admission, a shrewd judge of character. He’s one of those rare people who can put up with Megan and her irascibility, and do so cheerfully. Also, he’s a decent-looking escort, what with that wavy salt-and-pepper Hollywood hair and all. Kind of a cross between Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. and Ronald Colman, and every bit as debonair as both of them.”
“I wish somebody would describe me that way sometime.”
“Oh, stop with that. I’ve already told you that you’ve got savoir vivre. Isn’t that enough to salve your insecurities?”
“I’ll try to let it comfort me,” I sniffed. “Megan told Wolfe that on the night Linville was killed, she spent a couple of hours at Pamsett’s place, just talking.”
“Actually, I don’t doubt that,” Lily said. “She’s told me a couple of times that one of the things she likes most about Edward is that he’s a wonderful listener. She was probably over there talking the poor sap’s leg off.”
“That gives her an alibi at least for the earlier portion of the evening.”
“Which, from the tone of your voice, doesn’t exactly please you.”
“Oh, maybe so, but the time after midnight is still at least partly unaccounted for. Let me pose an academic question: If—and I’m only saying if—Megan wasn’t at Pamsett’s abode at all on Wednesday night, would he lie for her and say that she was?”
Lily looked down at her nearly clean plate and wrinkled the loveliest forehead on the eastern seaboard. She thought for several heartbeats before looking up. “Interesting academic question. You like to express opinions in odds,” she said, “so I’ll speak your language. I’d say it’s two-to-one that, yes, he’d lie for her if she asked him to. But if I may be allowed to anticipate your next question, I’d also give you five-to-two that she didn’t ask him to tell a story for her because she was at his place when she says she was.”
“You’re quite an anticipator,” I told her. “Or is there such a word?”
“Probably, but on that, I’ll yield to your boss—words are his department. Now I’ll anticipate your next move: Be it tonight or tomorrow, you are going to pay a visit to Mr. Pamsett.”
“I’ve become totally transparent!” I said. “The woman can read my mind.”
“It took you long enough to figure that out. Why do you think I’m always one step ahead of you—except of course when I don’t want to be?”
My answer was a wink and a smile. I returned the smile and we ordered dessert.
TWENTY
IT WAS ALMOST ELEVEN WHEN I climbed out of a cab in front of the brownstone. I rang the bell, knowing the bolt would be on at that hour, and within seconds Fritz pulled open the door. “Archie, there is a man waiting for you in the front room,” he said in a whisper as I entered the hall. “He has been in there for more than two hours. He wanted to see Mr. Wolfe, but he was up in the plant rooms when the gentleman came and he didn’t want to be disturbed. When I told Mr. Wolfe his name, he told me to let him in and have him wait for you.”
“Why don’t you tell me his name?” I asked impatiently. “And stop whispering; you know as well as I do that the front-room door is soundproofed.”
Fritz colored, as he does when I chide him about anything. “He is Edward Pamsett. Very much the gentleman, very nicely dressed. I have looked in on him many times, to see if he would like to keep on waiting, and he always says yes. He is reading magazines in there. He doesn’t even want coffee or anything else to drink. I have made the offer three times.”
“Where’s Mr. Wolfe?”
“Up in his bedroom. He was in the office reading until about ten minutes ago. I told him when he went upstairs that Mr. Pamsett was still here, and he told me to allow him to remain for thirty more minutes, and then, if you hadn’t returned, to request that he leave.”
“All right. I’ll see him now. Thanks.” Fritz nodded and went off to the kitchen, where I knew he would remain as long as we had a visitor in the house. He hates the idea that a guest might request food and not be able to get it, or worse yet, might have to rely on me to rustle something up. Fritz does not place great faith in my culinary abilities.
“Good evening,” I said, opening the door to the front room.
“Oh … yes … Mr. Goodwin,” Edward Pamsett said, dropping the magazines and springing to his feet. “Do you remember me? We met at Megan James’s last week.”
“Of course I do, Mr. Pamsett,” I said, admiring his summer-weight double-breasted blue blazer with color-coordinated silk challis tie and dark blue handkerchief cascading out of his breast pocket. “I understand you’ve been waiting for some time.”
“I … yes, yes. I apologize for not calling for an appointment. I should have, of course, but … well, although you may not believe this, sometimes I’m rather impulsive.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Why don’t we go into the office to talk?” I opened the connecting door, steering him through and over to the red leather chair. “Now, what brings you here on a Sunday night?” I asked brightly, sliding into my desk chair and pivoting to face him.
“I had come to talk to Mr. Wolfe—or you, of course—I understand you report everything to him more or less verbatim?”
“Not more or less.”
“Uh … yes, verbatim. Anyway, Megan called me today—about … last Wednesday night.” Pamsett fiddled with the dimpled knot of his tie and glanced around the office, expecting me to respond. Not wanting to be predictable, I remained silent, watching him fidget.
“Anyway,” he said, making a production out of clearing his throat, “she told me that she and Doyle had been here earlier today and that she mentioned her visit to see me Wednesday night.”
“Correct.”
“Yes, well, the reason I’m here, basically, is to corroborate that she was with me from … as nearly as I can recall, a little after ten until about right around midnight. You understand, those are approximate times, but I think they’re pretty close. When she left, I went down with her to the lobby of my building to make sure she was safely in a taxi.” He smiled self-effacingly and turned his palms up, as if indicating there was nothing more to be said on the matter.
“Mr. Pamsett, one thing puzzles me: You could have told me this over the phone in seconds; why come all the way across town and wait for—what?—two hours without an appointment or any guarantee that Mr. Wolfe or I would even be here?”
I got another one of Pamsett’s humble smiles and more of the palms-up business. “That’s an appropriate question, Mr. Goodwin. I can only say in my defense that I invariably prefer face-to-face contact to the telephone. But there’s more to it than that.”
“I felt sure that there was,” I told him.
“Yes, well, Megan was unsettled by today’s meeting with Mr. Wolfe, to say the least. I think she felt her call on me on Wednesday night needed, as I said before, some sort of corroboration. From my perspective, the situation was important enough to warrant this visit.”
“Did Mrs. James ask you to come here?”
“Actually, no,” Pamsett said. This time the smile was sheepish. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her about this visit. She might view it as meddling, although it surely isn’t meant as such.”
“All right, you’ve made the visit, and your corroboration is duly noted. Is there anything else?”
“Well … I guess not. I thought perhaps you would have some questions.”
“Questions? Let me see … All right, one thing you might be able to clarify: Did Mrs. James call you before she came to see you Wednesday night?”
Pamsett leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, looking up and making a production out of recollecting. “I … Yes, yes, she did,” he said slowly. “Megan called me earlier in the evening and asked if she could come by.”
“Is that a common occurrence?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is Mrs. James’s calling you to ask if she can stop by a common occurrence?”
“No,” he said stiffly, looking as if he was straining to keep a smile on his face.
“What did she say when she called you?”
“Just that she needed to talk. We spend a lot of time talking.”
“About what?”
An elegant shrug. “All manner of things: her children, my children, politics, charitable organizations, the theater—all manner of topics.”
“And what did she want to talk about Wednesday night?”
“Mr. Goodwin, is this confidential?” Pamsett said in a low voice, leaning forward and fixing me with a look that was meant to communicate that we were men of the world discussing elemental problems.
“Not necessarily,” I replied. “I am a private investigator, licensed by the State of New York. If I learn that a crime has been committed, I am by law required to report what I know to the proper authorities. Beyond that, I honor the confidences of clients. As far as nonclients are concerned, however, I operate on a case-by-case basis.”
“Understood,” he said tightly, realizing that his “we’re-both-men-of-the-world” approach wasn’t working on me. “All right. I am going to elect to trust you.”
“That’s your choice, of course.”
“Of course. When Megan came to my apartment Wednesday night, it was to talk about Noreen and … what had happened to her. She was concerned that, and I know this sounds ridiculous, that she might be viewed by Wolfe as a suspect in Linville’s killing.”
“I don’t mean to sound either disrespectful or cynical, Mr. Pamsett, but how did Mrs. James think you could be of help in this area?”
“I think it was mainly that I have a sympathetic ear,” he answered. “She knows that she can talk candidly to me without being judged or criticized.”
“How would you describe your relationship with Mrs. James?”
“How do you mean?” What was left of his smile had evaporated.
“I thought the question was clearly stated. Answer it in whatever way seems natural. If I have a problem with your response, I’ll say so.”
“I find that a somewhat intrusive posture,” Pamsett said, still trying to sound chummy, but with irritation showing around the edges.
“Suit yourself,” I told him, “but remember, you’re the one who urged me to ask you questions, and that was onl
y a few minutes ago. Okay, now I’m asking. You can answer or not, that’s your draw.”
Pamsett crossed one leg over the other and contemplated the back of his hand. “Megan and I have known each other for … six, maybe seven years now. I am a widower, my children grown and gone to live in other parts of the country—and the world. Megan is of course divorced. We spend a good deal of time together. We eat out, go to concerts, shows, various civic and benefit functions. Quite simply, we have a lot in common and enjoy each other’s company. If I may venture a comment—and not a disrespectful one, I assure you—I suspect our relationship, to use your term, is not wholly unlike the one you have with Megan’s very charming and attractive half-sister.”
He had me there. In fact, as he had been describing what the two of them do together, I was struck by the similarity to so many of my activities with Lily. “Point taken,” I said, grinning to show that there were no hard feelings on my part. “Care to speculate on who might have bumped off Linville?”
Pamsett tugged on his ear, then shook his head. “I simply cannot believe it was Michael. The act is totally out of character for him, even given the enormity of the act committed by the Linville boy. But I certainly can think of no one else to nominate. Might I inquire as to what progress you and Mr. Wolfe are making in this direction?”
“Mr. Wolfe pretty much keeps his own counsel in these matters. For all I know, he may already have things figured out, but if that’s the case, he hasn’t chosen to share his thoughts with me.”
Pamsett frowned, running a hand along the wavy gray-white hair on the side of his head. The guy really did look—and act—like something out of an English movie. “Do you have any idea at all when, or if, he is likely to make a determination?”
“Look, I’m sorry to be so vague, but one, you’re not our client, and two, I’m not kidding when I say that Mr. Wolfe is pretty damn tight-lipped regarding his thought processes. I’m not even going to speculate on when he will choose to say something, let alone on what he will have to say.”
“I see. All right, you’ve been most generous with your time, especially at this late hour,” Pamsett said, making a move to get up.
The Last Coincidence (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 4) Page 14