Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,34
again tomorrow after they see the Gazette. And I’ll have to field every damn one of them.”
“That’s only fitting,” Wolfe said, one corner of his mouth turning up slightly, “since you devised the fiendishly clever stratagem of playing on the Gazette’s debt to us. With that debt now more than paid, they feel comfortable in extracting favors.”
I opened my mouth to really flatten him, but before I could get it out, the doorbell rang. I went to the hall, and flicking aside the curtain, saw the thick figure of
Inspector Cramer, who looked as if he was ready to eat a bear.
“Come in,” I said heartily, swinging the door open. “It’s nice to see you again.” Of course, he steamed by me like I was invisible and made straight for Wolfe’s office, where he homed in on the leather chair, slammed his size twelves on the floor and stuck his chin out. Before he could start in, Wolfe asked if he’d join him in a beer.
“You’re darned right I will. Now, what’s this crap about murder? Can’t anyone die in the five boroughs without you trying to butt in and promote a goddamned case out of it?”
“I do not” have a client,” Wolfe replied coldly.
“Balls!” Cramer roared, jamming an unlit cigar into his mouth. I’ve never seen him fire one up.
“Whether or not I am being paid should be immaterial to you. Rather, you should want to know why I think Harriet Haverhill was murdered.”
“Okay,” Cramer shot back, “let’s say I’m curious. Oh, thanks, Fritz,” he said as a cold bottle of beer and a glass were set on the small table on his right.
“You may be aware that I placed an advertisement in the Times earlier this week,” Wolfe said, shifting his bulk.
“Yeah, I saw it. I should’ve known that was the start of trouble.”
Wolfe ignored the comment. “As a result of that open letter, Harriet Haverhill came to see me on Wednesday, along with her lawyer, Mr. Dean. Our talk centered on the Gazette, specifically on the other shareholders and whether they would be disposed to sell out to Ian MacLaren.”
“And?” Cramer said, gulping down half a glass of beer.
“And she seemed to feel there was a strong likelihood that her late husband’s children and his nephew might indeed sell their shares.”
“There’s your reason for suicide,” Cramer said triumphantly, waving the stogie. “She was going to lose her paper.”
“No, sir, I don’t believe it. I saw enough of the woman to know she was not suicidal. She was too self-possessed and had too much pride and character to succumb to that ultimate admission of failure.”
“So now we’re playing the amateur psychiatrist,” Cramer snorted. “Well, let me just fill you in on what the facts show: First, Harriet Haverhill was found dead in her office with her own pistol in her hand. Second, cause of death, a bullet to the brain, from that same gun. It had been the only shot fired. Third, her fingerprints were the only ones on the weapon. Fourth, the lady had had a very rough day. We talked to both of her stepchildren, and they told my men that they’d informed her of their intention to sell out to the MacLaren Organization. The nephew—what’s his name, Scott?— was apparently waffling, but he too was leaning toward grabbing the money and running. We also interviewed MacLaren, who told us his meeting with Mrs. Haverhill late yesterday afternoon was hardly cordial. He told her that he had commitments for a majority of the Gazette stock and even offered to buy hers. She apparently threw him out of her office on his ear at that point.”
“What time was that?”
“He says a few minutes after six. They had started talking at five-thirty.”
“Who saw Mrs. Haverhill after MacLaren left her?”
Cramer leaned forward in his chair. “Nobody, but what does that prove? Her secretary, who has a small office next door to Mrs. Haverhill’s suite, went home at five-thirty, just after she ushered MacLaren in. She always leaves at that time.”
“Does it strike you as strange that Mrs. Haverhill left neither a letter nor some kind of message?”
Cramer worked the stogie around in his mouth. “It’s a common misconception that everybody who kills himself scribbles a farewell note. In this city last year, probably half the suicides didn’t see fit to explain why they did it. My guess is she was so depressed after MacLaren left, that she acted on impulse—reached into her desk drawer where she kept the pistol and