Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,39

empty, which was fine with me. That meant he had gone to the dining room, and I headed in the same direction. For more than an hour, my stomach had been primed for Fritz’s pork tenderloin, and I wanted to keep it happy.

Twelve

With the exception of my out-of-town sojourns with Lily Rowan, I religiously read two newspapers, the Times and the Gazette, all the way through every day, and I also usually skim the Daily News and the Post. Maybe it’s because I’ve been around Wolfe for so long, but I’ve always preferred getting my news from papers rather than television. It’s a little like favoring meat and potatoes over crepes.

If anything, my newspaper reading increases when we’re on a case, and I guess Harriet Haverhill’s death qualified, despite the lack of a fee or a client. That’s why I was up earlier than usual Sunday, and that’s also why I grabbed the Gazette first instead of the Times, my usual starter.

The story was on page three, along with the up-to-date photo of Wolfe that I’d given Lon a few months back. The headline read “NERO WOLFE CALLS HAVERHILL DEATH MURDER,” and it spread over four columns. I won’t bore you with the whole shebang, but in essence it said that “the famous private detective” was convinced that what the police termed a suicide was really homicide. Lon had neatly worked in most of Wolfe’s comments from their telephone conversation and also quoted Inspector Cramer, who insisted the police had no reason whatever to suspect foul play. He covered himself, though, by adding that “We, of course, will fully investigate any developments, however unlikely, that might arise.” Ungrammatical, but he made his point.

David Haverhill also was quoted, saying that the grieving family, while it appreciated Wolfe’s interest, felt that his stepmother’s death was indeed a suicide and hoped that the unhappy event wouldn’t be turned into a circus.

I read this while sitting at my usual spot in the kitchen with breakfast and coffee. Fritz, who’d been bustling around getting a tray ready to take up to Wolfe, waited until I finished and then cut in. “Archie, they’re calling again.” He was miserable. “Before you came down, there were three—the Times, the News, one from television—all wanting to talk to him about that article in the Gazette. Also, a Mr. Bishop called to say that someone named Carolyn would be joining the others here this afternoon. The messages are on your desk.”

I thanked him and tried to take the worried look off his face by saying that all this publicity was good for business in the long run, but Fritz saw right through me. He knew damn well we didn’t have a client—it said so right there in the Gazette—and as long as that was the situation, he would go right on moping.

Moping or not, I let him keep fielding calls from the kitchen and said I’d return them later, then took both papers to the office, where I finished reading them at my desk. The piece about Wolfe was only one element in the extensive coverage the Gazette gave Harriet Haverhill. There was also an editorial praising her leadership, a long biographical article with a lot of pictures, and a piece describing the funeral service that would be held Tuesday at Riverside Church.

The Times ran a long article about her on their obituary page, plus an editorial, even more glowing than the Gazette’s, in which they called her a “worthy, honest, honorable competitor who did far more than her share to raise the standards of journalism, both in New York City and across the nation.”

After I finished, I dialed Wolfe’s bedroom. “I assume you’ve read the papers,” I said.

“Yes,” he grumped.

“Cheer up. That’s the best picture of you they’ve ever run. What does it take to satisfy you?”

“The coverage was adequate. What do you want?”

“First, Carolyn will be coming with the others today.

Second, the phones are ringing again—from the Times and a bunch of others. Fritz is taking them in the kitchen. Anything special you want me to say?”

“Just reiterate my conviction that this is a murder. If they want specifics, as they surely will, you must say that I have none. As to any other questions they may ask, I trust that your combination of experience, intelligence, and ingenuity will suffice.” He hung up before I could react to that last bit, which I think was supposed to be a compliment, but with Wolfe, you’re never completely sure.

Fritz came