Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,26
chin. “Together, the MacLaren Organization papers sell more than seven million copies a day. There’s not another newspaper group in the world that can claim a circulation total even close to that, and many of them have far more papers than we do. I know what the public wants, and our circulation proves it.”
“What it proves is that the public, or at least part of it, likes pictures of nubile women in states of undress and page-three stories about the peccadilloes of movie and television performers,” Wolfe remarked dryly.
MacLaren ignored the comments and charged on. “As for your statement in the Times about our not winning Pulitzers, you should be aware that those things are handed out to the same papers every year. It doesn’t matter what their entries are.”
“Could it be that those papers consistently do the best work?” Wolfe queried softly.
“Ah,” MacLaren sighed, doing another arc-sweep with his hand. “The fact is, I’m not part of the old-boy network of editors and publishers who give these awards to each other. We haven’t won any Pulitzers because of that and for an even more basic reason: we never send any entries in. I have no respect whatever for these prizes, and I’ve said so publicly often enough.”
Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. MacLaren, you don’t yet have control of the Gazette or you wouldn’t be here. I doubt that you’re even close to acquiring the paper.”
MacLaren did some squinting of his own, then broke into another grin. “You don’t know that, you can’t. You’re fishing. It’s a ploy, a very transparent one at that, to get me to tell you exacdy how many shares are committed to me. No doubt she put you up to it.”
“She?”
“Really, Wolfe. Ingenuousness doesn’t become you. I know that Harriet Haverhill was here earlier today, never mind how. I’m damned if I’m going to become naked before mine enemies.”
“Henry the Eighth,” Wolfe said.
“You’re up on your Shakespeare,” MacLaren said approvingly. “End of Act Three. Poor stupid Cardinal Wolsey to his servant Cromwell. I’m not about to make Wolsey’s mistake. I bid you good night, sir,” he said as he got up to go. “And I do wish you’d reconsider being our columnist. It would be a brilliant coup—for both of us.” Wolfe looked grumpily at MacLaren but said nothing as we walked out of the office. I followed him to the hall and held the door as he strode out and down the steps to the Lincoln, where George presumably was still licking his wounds.
“The legend grows,” I said when I returned to the office. “First, Sixty Minutes calls, and now a nationally syndicated newspaper column. All you need is a guest spot with Johnny Carson, and there’ll be no other mountains to climb. Move over, Iacocca.”
“Do something about your face!” he snarled. “You look like an alley brawler.”
I’d forgotten my cheek, and I turned to go upstairs to clean it up.
“Archie!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You fought outside earlier.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“I guess I was just a little quicker,” I said, trying to sound modest but not too modest. “It comes from eating right, sleeping well, and thinking pure thoughts.”
He tried to scowl, but gave himself away when the folds in his cheeks deepened. I thought he was going to say “satisfactory,” but he checked himself and reached for his book.
“Good night,” I said, and went upstairs. When I saw myself in the mirror, I realized I was no bargain to look at. I cleaned the cut, slapped a bandage on it, and fell into bed. I don’t remember hitting the pillow.
Eight
For the next two days, I was jumpy, although weeks later, when I told Wolfe about my uneasiness, he shrugged. “It’s only in retrospect that you think you sensed tragedy,” he said. “You are much too impulsive and spontaneous to possess anything that could be termed prescience. Intuition is the partner of introspection, and you certainly are not blessed with the latter.”
I considered arguing with him, but I would then and there have had to look up a couple of the words he used, which would have shot my timing, so I let it drop.
Whether he believes it or not, I did have bad vibes all of Thursday and Friday. I couldn’t blame it on anything going on in the brownstone. The operation was normal, unless you count the pitcher of orange juice that slipped out of Fritz’s hand and smashed on the kitchen floor. With Wolfe, it was the usual routine—baby-sitting the orchids, reading, and beer, sandwiched around his