Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,32

all, the police seem convinced she killed herself, and so am I. Second, I know your boss has no use for MacLaren—I read his letter in the Times and I agree with almost everything in that letter. But to accuse the man of murder—”

“Mr. Wolfe hasn’t fingered anybody specific yet.”

“Who’s his client?”

“He hasn’t got one, at least as far as I know.”

“You mean he’s trying to drum one up?”

“I haven’t said that,” I answered. “All I know is that Nero Wolfe is positive this was a murder.”

“Well, what the hell do you want from me?”

“I was coming to that. Mr. Wolfe would like to talk to you in his office. And also, individually, to David Haverhill, Donna Palmer, and Scott Haverhill.”

“Oh, he would, would he? How does he think he’s going to get us to his office?”

“Mrs. Haverhill didn’t mind coming there,” I said quietly. “Earlier this week.”

Bishop kneaded the arms of his chair. He looked like hell. “I know,” he whispered. “She told me.”

“I’ll ask you the same question I asked Lon,” I said, pressing my advantage. “Has Nero Wolfe ever gulled you?”

Bishop shook his head.

So far, so good. I pushed on. “He’s been a good friend to the Gazette, and he still is. To use a favorite phrase of Lon’s, this time I’m calling in our markers. Will you come—and get the others to come?”

Bishop ran a hand through his white hair and surrendered. “Yeah, I can go and see Wolfe—why not? I can’t guarantee the others, but I’ll talk to them. I’ll let you know, probably through Lon.”

“Fair enough,” I said, rising to go. “He’d like to see you all before the weekend’s over.” I thought about shaking hands, but figured Bishop wasn’t in much of a mood to be friendly with anyone. I didn’t blame him.

Ten

It was just after two when I got back to the brownstone, which meant Wolfe was still in the dining room attacking his lunch. I went straight to the kitchen, where Fritz warmed the plate of sweetbreads he had set aside for me. I knew he was dying to ask how my mission went, but he didn’t, and I wasn’t about to volunteer anything. I needed some quiet time to chew on the events of the last few hours before I got debriefed by Wolfe.

I polished off the sweetbreads and chased them with a generous wedge of peach pie and a glass of milk. When I finished, Fritz handed me a stack of phone messages. One was from yet another would-be purchaser of the Gazette; the other four were reporters, all of whom probably wanted Wolfe’s comments on Harriet Haverhill’s death and whether it was somehow connected with his letter in the Times.

I took the messages and a cup of coffee to the office, where Wolfe was already planted in his favorite chair with a fresh book, Joseph Conrad, a Chronicle, by Zdzislaw Najder, and two fresh bottles of beer. At my desk, I drank coffee and contemplated the mirror on the wall. After several minutes, Wolfe set his book down and broke the silence. “Well?” he demanded sourly.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I said innocently. “I never know when you’re in the middle of a particularly riveting passage, and I realize how irritating it can be when someone starts talking just at the time—”

“Stop blathering! Report.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, turning toward him. First came a thorough description of the death scene, and I didn’t leave anything out. He leaned back with his eyes closed, and if he was listening as carefully as I thought, he got a complete picture of the big office, from the color and thickness of the carpet to the size of the desk and the way Harriet Haverhill—according to Lon—was slumped over the desk when they found her. It took me about fifteen minutes, and after I finished, he remained motionless, his eyes still closed.

“I also saw Bishop, if you’re interested,” I said. He opened his eyes to slits and nodded.

“First off, you should know that they’ll all be trooping over to see you—Bishop and the three heirs. I haven’t worked out specific times yet, but I was able to do it without resorting to that silly suggestion of yours about another ad in the Times” That didn’t get a rise, so I went ahead with a verbatim report on the short conversation with Bishop, which was easy. After I finished, he heaved himself upright and tried to pour beer from an empty bottle.

“Bah. You