Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,31

the shot?”

“Apparently not, although that’s no surprise, considering how thick the walls are—and the fact that it happened after working hours.”

“I thought a newspaper never closed.”

“It doesn’t, Archie—the newsroom, that is. But all, the advertising, circulation, and executive offices on the upper floors are usually empty by six or so. Those of us who are still around at that hour normally head downstairs where the action is.”

“Who found Mrs. Haverhill? And when?”

“A guard on his rounds noticed the door to her office ajar at seven-forty and stuck his head in to see if everything was all right. The medical examiner estimated she’d been dead at least one hour.”

“The Times story said there was no suicide note. Is that true, or did somebody cover it up?”

“I was one of the first ones here after she was found, and there wasn’t any note then. The only others ahead of me were the guard who found her, his supervising captain, and Carl.”

“So even though it was long past six, you and Bishop were still both on the executive floor, and not in the newsroom?”

Lon shot a hard glance at me. “Be careful, Archie; you’re beginning to sound like Cramer. The reason we were both still in our offices was that we were waiting— that is, Carl was—for a call from Harriet, to find out how the meeting with MacLaren had gone. Satisfied?”

“Hey, don’t get testy. I’m just trying to find out what happened. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that there wasn’t a note?”

Lon shrugged. “Not really; lots of people end it without an explanation. What does strike me as strange is why she did it. I always figured she’d fight MacLaren to the finish.” He stared at her desk.

“But you’re convinced it’s suicide?”

Another shrug. “My guess is that after all the meetings yesterday, she must have realized MacLaren had enough commitments from the other family members to control the paper. She’d have lost everything she’d worked years to build. Must have been more than she could handle.”

“Doesn’t that seem out of character?”

“Archie, who’s to say what’s out of character when a personal crisis comes up?”

I could have posed a dozen more questions, but I figured that was Wolfe’s province. I did, however, ask Lon to describe the position of the body when they found it, and then I spent a few more minutes looking around and poking my head into the powder room and bedroom of what had been Harriet Haverhill’s sanctuary.

“I’ve got one more favor to ask,” I told Lon after he’d locked the double doors and we were heading down the hall to his office.

“Only one?”

“For now, anyway. I’d like to talk to Bishop.”

“He’s been swamped all morning. Police, interviews with reporters from TV and the other papers, and God knows how many meetings.”

“Try.”

Lon heaved a sigh. “This time, Archie, you’re going to end up owing me. Today is worth at least two more of Fritz’s meals.”

“We’re booked through June, but I’ll pencil you in for a Wednesday in mid-July, and another in August.”

Back in his office, Lon phoned Bishop. “You’re lucky,” he said, hanging up. “He’s just finishing a meeting with some of the editors. Let’s go in.”

We went one door farther down the hall, and it swung open as a half-dozen shirt-sleeved men and two women with sober expressions trooped out, most of them nodding to Lon. Then Elliot Dean popped out of the next office, spotted me and tried to shrivel me with his beady little eyes. When that failed, he stalked past. We walked in to find Carlton Bishop, publisher of the Gazette, himself in shirtsleeves, standing behind his own billiard-table-size desk, hands jammed into his pants pockets. There were sweat stains under his arms. I’d met him once several years before, and he hadn’t changed all that much, except his white hair was a little thinner and he understandably looked haggard.

“Carl, you remember Archie Goodwin,” Lon said.

Bishop nodded grimly. “What brings you by?” he asked in the gravelly voice I recalled from our other meeting. “Don’t tell me some paper has hired you to cover this?”

“No,” I said. “I work for Nero Wolfe, as you know. He believes Mrs. Haverhill was murdered.”

“Wha-a-a-t?” Bishop mouthed the word, although almost no sound came out. He dropped heavily into his chair and stared out the window while Lon and I also took seats.

“Carl, I’ve already told him this is crazy,” Lon said.

Bishop swung around in his chair, letting me know his patience was running thin. “Goodwin, first of