Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,35

. . .” He spread his hands, palms up.

“Nonsense,” Wolfe snapped. “Under no circumstances would this woman have destroyed herself.”

“Listen to the expert,” Cramer said, his face turning red. “You talked to her for how long—twenty minutes? A half-hour? And now you claim to know just how she’d react in the worst crisis of her life. I never thought you’d stoop to this to get a case,” he snarled, getting to his feet, throwing the chewed-over cigar at the wastebasket, and missing by a foot. “A woman is dead, tragically, and you want to twist this to your own advantage. Well, just remember you can only operate if you have a license.”

He turned on his heel, and I got up to follow him, but he stomped out the front door and down the steps before I got to the hall. All I saw from the one-way panel was his broad behind as he climbed into the unmarked black sedan waiting at the curb.

“He seemed a touch angry,” I said when I was back in the office.

Wolfe looked up from his book. “With reason. He now sees a murder case looming, one he wishes would go away. But it won’t, and neither will we.”

Eleven

At six o’clock I was in the office looking over the Saturday Gazettes coverage of Harriet Haverhill. They gave it their banner headline, along with a two-column picture of her, a portrait by that famous Canadian photographer that probably had been taken at least five years ago. The article was a straight reporting job and referred to her death as “an apparent suicide.” No mention was made of Ian MacLaren or his visit to the Gazette Building. As I read the story a second time, I wondered how they’d play Lon’s piece about Wolfe in the Sunday editions.

The elevator rumbled and the doorbell rang at the same moment. I went to the hall, saw through the glass that it was the publisher himself, and let him in, hanging his trench coat on a hook and directing him to the office, where Wolfe had just gotten seated.

“Good evening,” Bishop said. “I wish we were meeting under more cheerful circumstances.” He apparently knew about Wolfe’s handshake phobia and went directly to the red leather chair.

“Sir,” Wolfe responded, dipping his head a gracious eighth of an inch. “Would you like a drink? I’m having beer.”

“Scotch, thanks, with a splash of water,” he replied, unbuttoning the coat of his gray suit. He still looked like he’d had a sleepless night. I went to the serving cart in the corner and mixed a Scotch for him and another for me, while Fritz came in with Wolfe’s standard order.

“As you know,” Wolfe said, pouring beer and watching the foam settle, “Mrs. Haverhill visited here three days ago.”

Bishop nodded. “Yes, she told me about it. Your letter in the Times was quite a surprise to her. Let me ask you,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, “why is it you’re so sure Harriet was murdered?”

“You knew the woman well, sir, I met her but once. Are you convinced she took her own life?”

Bishop studied the glass in his right hand, then looked up, meeting Wolfe’s steady gaze. “I’m just now, a day later, getting used to the fact that she’s gone. We’ve worked together for more than twenty years. Yes, I believe she did kill herself. I know she didn’t seem a candidate for that kind of ending, but this MacLaren business had really been eating her up. It had depressed her terribly. Far more than she let on.” He shook his head and took another swallow of Scotch, bigger than the last. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and jammed it into his mouth, but noticing Wolfe’s grimace, he didn’t light up.

“How do you feel about the possibility of Mr. MacLaren running the Gazette?” Wolfe asked.

“Ruining the Gazette would be more like it, and it’s the worst thing that could happen. I’ve known for weeks that it’s a strong possibility, but I’m still not prepared to accept it—any more than Harriet was.”

“I gather you would not have sold your shares to him?”

“You gather right, although I’m just small potatoes. I don’t think he gives a damn about my holding. Same with Elliot Dean’s,” he said, chewing on his pipe. Shades of Cramer. “Elliot has an even smaller piece of the company than I do—together we’ve got a little more than seven percent.”

“Still, a tidy amount,” Wolfe nodded. “Is Mr. Dean as