Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,24

more calls trickled in, two from reporters with suburban newspaper chains, one from a Connecticut daily, and a fourth from a television evangelist down in Delaware who announced in rolling syllables that he felt he was “being called to own a newspaper.” I handled the three reporters using the basic formula I’d worked up over the past few hours and assured the reverend that he’d be hearing from us, and to be patient.

“God works in many ways,” I told him.

“Amen, brother,” was his answer.

Someday I’ll learn.

When Wolfe came down from the orchids at six, I filled him in on the calls, leaving the preacher till last so I could enjoy his expression. And he didn’t let me down, breaking into one of his better scowls, accompanied by a low growl. He hates evangelists.

“What’s the program for tonight with MacLaren?” I asked.

Another scowl. “Archie, patience has never been one of your virtues,” he said, picking up his book and ringing for beer. “The program, as you refer to it, will be dictated in large measure by Mr. MacLaren’s demeanor, and by his reactions to my first few questions.” Getting the hint that the discussion was over, I ambled into the kitchen to see if I could give Fritz a hand with dinner. All I got for my effort, though, was a bunch of questions as to whether we had a new case. I ducked them, and also Fritz’s query about how much the page in the Times had cost. I was afraid that if I gave him the figure, he’d pass out on the spot, which might delay dinner.

Over lamb kidneys with green pepper and dumplings, Wolfe held forth on corporate social responsibilities in a capitalist society, and I have to admit that my contributions to the discussion were slim to none. Maybe I’d been around Fritz too much, because, despite my faith in Wolfe, I found myself starting to worry about why we were spending all this time on a non-case.

Back in the office with coffee, Wolfe retreated behind The Good War, leaving me to watch the clock and wonder whether the Scotsman was really going to show up.

At five minutes after nine, the doorbell rang. I went to the hall, and through the one-way glass I saw MacLaren on the stoop—I recognized him from his photographs—along with a guy about a head taller who looked like he’d have no problem qualifying for the Jets’ defensive line. The latter was wearing a raincoat and a scowl.

I walked back to the office doorway. “They’re coming in pairs today,” I said to Wolfe. “MacLaren’s here, and he’s got a hulk with him. Undoubtedly a bodyguard. Instructions?”

“I’m only interested in seeing Mr. MacLaren,” he answered, never taking his eyes off the book.

“As you wish, sir,” I said, in what I thought was a pretty good imitation of Sir John Gielgud. I opened the door with the chain lock on. “Yes?” I inquired mildly, through the crack.

“I’m Ian MacLaren; I’m here to see Nero Wolfe.” His voice had a healthy dose of Scottish burr and he spoke with an economy of language I found ominously nasty.

“We’re expecting you. Who’s your friend?”

“George? He goes everywhere with me.”

“Not in this house, he doesn’t. Have him wait in the car,” I said, pointing through the crack in the door at the second stretch Lincoln that had graced our curb that day. I swung the door open for MacLaren, but blocked the hulk. Okay, so opening the door was a mistake, but I really felt George would head for the limo.

Instead, he grabbed my shoulder with a beefy hand and started to bull his way in. I blocked him again, and he clipped my cheek with a right hand that knocked me back against the doorjamb. Like a lot of big guys, though, he thought one punch would be enough, and he let down his guard. Bracing my right foot, I caught him with a left to the stomach that staggered him. I didn’t give him time to recover and laid a right to the same spot, which was flabbier than I would have thought from eyeballing him. The second one buckled his knees and the third, another left, doubled him over. Both hands went to his stomach and he let out a soft little sigh.

“Stop that!” MacLaren snapped, shooting his cuffs. “George, wait in the car,” he said disgustedly. “Come to the door if I’m not out in an hour.”

George managed a groan and stumbled down the