Death on Deadline (6 page)

“The fat’s in the fire now,” I said, walking over to Wolfe’s desk and slapping the page down in front of him. “Do you have any idea how many calls we’re going to get tomorrow?” I asked as he looked up peevishly from his book. “We ought to put in some extra lines and hire a battery of operators. Come to think of it, right after breakfast I may go over to Lily Rowan’s and help her mop the kitchen floor. She was toying with firing her maid, and I can’t stand the thought of her facing a task that menial alone.”

“Archie, shut up!” Wolfe barked as he picked up the paper and scanned it.

“Yes, sir.”

“Most of the calls can be disposed of easily, certainly the ones from the media, and they’ll undoubtedly comprise the majority. As to the others, your notebook. Instructions.”

For the next ten minutes, I took down notes on how he wanted the callers handled. After he finished, I yawned, stretched, and announced that I was turning in. “Tomorrow’s going to be a bear, whatever you think. I need every minute of sleep I can get. And what’s really fun about this deal is all the money it’s bringing in for us. Remember what you said in the
Times
—you are by no means a rich man.”

I figured that might at least get a small rise, but he ignored me. He was poring over his prose in the
Times
between sips of beer, and the expression he wore—I call it his smug look—drove me from the room.

And he claims he doesn’t gloat.

I
DID HAVE THE SATISFACTION
, for what it was worth, of being right: all hell did break loose Wednesday morning. I got up an hour earlier than usual and had my standard breakfast while reading the home-delivered edition of the
Times.
I showed Wolfe’s advertisement to Fritz, which probably was a mistake, although he almost surely would have spotted it later in the day anyway.

“What did it cost, Archie?” he asked in a tone that almost quavered. Whenever Wolfe isn’t working, poor Fritz frets that we’re on our way to the poorhouse and that the brownstone will be sold out from under us to pay off the debts. “Relax,” I said as I polished off my breakfast. “It’s only money, and you know how easily he can earn it when he’s in the mood.”

Fritz was muttering to himself in French as I walked down the hall to the office with my third cup of coffee. I checked my wrist; seven-fifty-four, and still no calls. Less than three minutes after I’d settled in at the desk, though, the phone woke up. The early bird was an Associated Press reporter, demanding to know more about what was going on. I explained to her that the advertisement spoke for itself—Nero Wolfe had nothing more to say at present. She was persistent, but I can be pretty damn persistent myself, and I got rid of her in under four minutes.

For the next three hours, that receiver was glued to my left ear. I kept a log of the calls—there were thirty-two in all, most of them predictable: the three wire services, including Reuters, four TV stations, seven radio stations, the
Times, Post, Daily News, Newsday, Village Voice, Washington Post,
Boston
Globe, Time, Newsweek,
and several other assorted publications, including three of MacLaren’s own papers. Crews from two TV stations also arrived at the stoop, sniffing footage of Wolfe in action, but Fritz barred the door, so they had to satisfy themselves with outside shots of the brownstone.

All the media calls basically followed the same pattern. Here’s a representative sample, from memory. I’m picking up the dialogue after I assured the caller that I was authorized to speak for Nero Wolfe, who, I insisted, wasn’t available:

Reporter: What’s Wolfe up to? Does he want to find buyers for the
Gazette,
or does he want to run it himself?

AG: You read the advertisement. It spells out precisely what his motives are.

R: Have any prospective buyers contacted him yet?

AG: How could they? Our line has been tied up with calls from people like you.

R: Has Ian MacLaren phoned?

AG: We’ve only had calls from the media, electronic and print.

R: How much did that ad cost?

AG: No comment.

R: Is there anyone special Wolfe would like to see buy the
Gazette?

AG: No.

R: What’s his beef with MacLaren?

AG: You’re supposed to have read the ad. He doesn’t have an argument with Mr. MacLaren—he doesn’t even know him. Mr. Wolfe simply doesn’t like the kind of papers he publishes.

R: What doesn’t he like about them?

AG: Oh, come on, you’re wasting my time and yours. Mr. Wolfe made it very clear in the
Times.
Go back and read it.

Of course there was some variation in the conversation, but that one, which happened to be with a local TV reporter, was typical. Some people don’t seem to like doing their homework.

There were other, more interesting calls. One came from Lon Cohen. “Archie, what in God’s name is Wolfe up to? Why didn’t you let me know about this? Why—”

“Whoa, whoa, one question at a time. As to what my boss is up to, your guess is as good as mine, but it looks to me like he’s trying to prevent something you don’t want to see, namely Ian MacLaren gobbling up your newspaper. As to why I didn’t let you know about it, I have orders, and I’d better follow them if I want to keep getting paychecks. You know how that is.”

Lon calmed down when I promised to keep him posted as much as possible, given my instructions from Wolfe. But he got nothing more for the
Gazette
story on the Wolfe advertisement than anyone else. Orders.

The other intriguing calls, all of which came after the initial flood from the press, included one from Harriet Haverhill’s office, requesting that Wolfe come to see her, and one from a man named Carlton with a British accent worthy
of Masterpiece Theatre;
in a chilly voice he announced he was calling for Ian MacLaren, who also desired an audience. I told them both we would be back to them later in the day. As to prospective buyers, the list was short: the publisher of a chain of small upstate papers and a guy who said he owned a wholesale hardware business in New Jersey but had always wanted to be a newspaper owner. I told them both they would be hearing from us, but neglected to say when.

The morning was so hectic that I was caught by surprise when I heard the elevator coming down from the plant rooms. Wolfe walked into the office with a raceme of
Odontoglossum pulchellum,
which he put in the vase on his desk before easing into his chair. “Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?”

“My sleep ended so long ago I can’t remember it. The last three hours have been a circus. While you’ve been eating in your room and playing with your posies, Fritz and I have held off the Fourth Estate. It was even worse than I expected.”

Wolfe didn’t answer, giving all his attention to his morning mail, most of which was wastebasket fodder. “Okay, ignore me if you want to,” I snapped. “But just so you know, since eight o’clock there have been more than thirty calls, plus TV crews battering away at the door yelling for an interview with you. By the way, the last call that came was from
Sixty Minutes.
They want to do a segment on the great Wolfe. I said we’d think it over. Let’s face it, you’re hot. I mean really
hot.
A media darling. The next thing will be the ultimate—a cover story in
People.
”

Wolfe shuddered. “Confound it, report.”

“Here’s the rundown,” I said, listing the calls and my responses to them.

His eyes stayed closed until I finished. “We’ll see Mrs. Haverhill first, preferably this afternoon,” he said, frowning. “Then Mr. MacLaren, assuming he’s in New York. Ask if he can come tonight; if not, tomorrow.”

“You were right that they’d both call—you said so last night. What made you so sure?”

Wolfe turned a hand over. “How could they not? Regardless of whether Mrs. Haverhill wants to see the
Gazette
sold, she has no choice but to talk to me. As chief executive officer of the company, she would be remiss if she didn’t find out what I’m up to. As for Mr. MacLaren, I’ve gotten in his way, and he is not the type who takes interference of any kind lightly. He is obliged to meet me, size me up, and determine how to try to deal with me. He thrives on challenges, and I have provided one. You should have no trouble getting either of them to come here.”

For a while, I was close to proving Wolfe wrong on that last statement. I returned the call to Harriet Haverhill’s office, and the same woman who had called me before—presumably Mrs. Haverhill’s personal secretary—didn’t like it when I told her that Wolfe never leaves home on business. “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Haverhill has an extremely busy afternoon, and she really can’t spare the time away from the building.”

“I’m sorry too,” I said. “Mrs. Haverhill requested this meeting, and if she wants to see Mr. Wolfe, it will have to be on his turf. Otherwise, no meeting. Mr. Wolfe is free from two-thirty to four.”

The secretary put me on hold. “All right,” she said frigidly when she came back on. “Mrs. Haverhill says she can come at three o’clock. Please confirm the address.”

She had lost face, something executive secretaries dread, and she was trying to regain some of her honor with the address ploy. I repeated it to her politely and thanked her very much, but she didn’t thaw.

Getting MacLaren to show was no trouble at all. A bored female at his New York number put me through to the same brisk British voice I’d talked to earlier. Mr. Carlton said Mr. MacLaren would be pleased to visit us that evening. I hung up and turned to Wolfe, who was behind his book. “Okay, we’ve got Haverhill at three, MacLaren for nine. That’s two out of two. I assume now that you want me to call
Sixty Minutes
back and set up a time for their film crew to come.”

I got exactly what I expected: silence.

W
OLFE AND I WERE IN
the office after lunch, a lobster salad with avocado followed by blueberry pie. At two minutes past three, the doorbell rang. I went to the front hall and peered through the one-way glass panel in the door, then returned to the office.

“She’s brought company,” I told Wolfe. “A white-haired guy with a cute little mustache. Should I bring them both in?”

He closed his book slowly, marking the place with a thin strip of gold that had been given to him years ago by a pleased client. “Very well,” he said, scowling. He’s rarely happy when women are in the house, and now he was getting an uninvited second guest as well.

I opened the door. “Hello, I’m Archie Goodwin,” I said to the woman.

“I’m Harriet Haverhill,” she answered, offering a hand, which I took. “This is Elliot Dean, my attorney and friend.”

I sized her up first, as they crossed the sill. Harriet Beaufort Haverhill was a well-preserved seventy-plus, slender, about five-five, with neatly coiffed white hair, light blue eyes, and a nicely arranged face that was almost wrinkle-free. She wore a gray tailored suit that probably set her back at least half a grand, along with a white blouse and a string of pearls that cost at least twice what the suit did.

Dean, who was in the neighborhood of seventy himself, was maybe three inches taller, had his own head of white hair, and a little white mustache about the size of a kiddie toothbrush. He also had one of those pinched “I’d-rather-be-almost-anywhere-else” expressions, the kind that made you wish he was. He wore a double-breasted blue pinstripe that probably also had a price tag in the half-grand range and his alma mater’s tie. Yale, of course. I offered a hand and he took it without enthusiasm.

As we walked into the office, I made the introductions while ushering Mrs. Haverhill to the red leather chair, while Dean steered himself to one of the yellow ones. She seemed to know instinctively that Wolfe wasn’t a hand-shaker, so no offer was made. He did, however, stand, which was something of a tribute, although she probably didn’t realize it. He also never rises for anyone, particularly a woman.

“Mr. Wolfe,” she began in a clear, pleasant tone that had a slight Southern flavor, “thank you for seeing us. Elliot—Mr. Dean—asked to come, and I agreed, as long as he understands this is a confidential conversation.”

Dean leaned forward in his chair, looking pained. “Harriet,” he said, wheezing, “I want to remind you that I advised against this, and I—”

“Elliot, please.” Harriet Haverhill’s voice was quiet, but it crackled. Dean clammed up, but frowned at the hunk of carved ebony on Wolfe’s desk which a man named Mortimer had used as a murder weapon.

“Mr. Wolfe,” she continued with a slight smile, “there are several things I’d like to say before we get to why I’m here. First, and I should have written you about this years ago, I appreciate the consideration you always have shown the
Gazette.
Mr. Cohen and Mr. Bishop have often told me how you have given us exclusive stories. You’ve been a good friend to the paper.”

“Madam,” Wolfe said, adjusting his bulk, “we’ve gotten as good as we’ve given. Mr. Cohen has been of immeasurable help to us as well. On balance, I like to think the accounts are square.”

Harriet Haverhill nodded. “Nevertheless, your friendship is appreciated. And that includes the nice things you said about us in the
Times
advertisement.”

“I say what I mean,” Wolfe replied. “You don’t need me to point out the
Gazette’s
strong points.”

“It’s still nice to hear,” she said. This was quickly turning into a mutual-admiration society, and I began worrying about Wolfe. I get concerned on those rare occasions when he goes mellow in the presence of a woman.

“You know,” Harriet went on, “when Wilkins died, there were people all over the company waiting for me to fall on my face—
hoping
I would fall on my face. I’ll admit I was terrified for the first few months, but I was also determined that the
Gazette
stay in the family and continue to be the kind of paper my husband had wanted it to be.”

“Did the others wish to take it in different directions?”

“Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that I was the paper’s only salvation,” she replied. “Lord, that sounded pretty pompous, didn’t it? And I suppose what I’m going to say next will sound slightly paranoid. But the fact is that I’ve always been resented by the other members of the family. I married Wilkins less than a year after his first wife died, and both of his children, David and Donna—they were in their teens at the time—made no attempt to hide their feelings. They treated me like an outsider.”