Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,40

in with seven more messages, and I started on the callbacks, which took me almost an hour. They were all singing the same song, of course: Why did Wolfe contend she was murdered? And they all came away empty-handed, which made them crabby. In fact, a couple were downright rude, particularly a TV reporter, known for his charm and Grecian profile, who, when he found he wasn’t getting anywhere with his questions, demanded to know in an enraged shout if this was a slimy publicity stunt on Wolfe’s part to generate more business. “Hasn’t the fat guy got any shame at all?” were his last words before I slammed down the receiver. Another TV newshound, a woman, announced that she and a crew were coming over immediately to interview Wolfe, and she didn’t seem to hear me when I said he wouldn’t see them. When she and two guys with their gear actually did show up an hour later, they exercised their thumbs on our bell for ten minutes and finally gave up, settling for some exterior footage of the seven steps that probably would be featured on the eleven-o’clock news.

By the time I’d returned the last call, which was to a paper in New Jersey, I was tired—make that very tired— of the members of the press, and I made a mental note to tell Lon that reporters ought to be forced to take lessons in civility.

At ten-forty, Wolfe came down from his room carrying the Times Magazine and the “Week in Review” section, both of which he always read in his office before doing the magazine’s crossword puzzle. He sat, rang for beer, and started in on the “Week in Review.” After five minutes, I swiveled and faced him. “Do you want a fill-in on the morning’s calls, or are you totally satisfied that I took care of everything in my usual superb fashion?”

Wolfe sighed and set the paper down. “I suppose I’m going to hear a report whether I care to or not. Very well, get on with it.”

I gave him a quick rundown on most of the conversations, but I switched to verbatim when I got to the really obnoxious ones, mainly to enjoy the expressions on his face. He scowled, frowned, and made some acid observations about the state of journalism in America, particularly the TV brand. He was in the middle of a diatribe about photogenic morons when the phone rang.

“Here comes another one,” I groaned. “You can listen in and get a firsthand earful.” Wolfe grimaced but picked up his receiver.

“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“Yes, Mr. Goodwin, my name is Audrey MacLaren. May I speak to Mr. Wolfe, please?” The voice was smooth, cultured, and British.

I looked at Wolfe and he shook his head but stayed on the line. “I’m sorry, he’s occupied right now. I’m his confidential assistant, however; can I help you?”

“Well . . . yes, if you would relay a message to him. You may recognize my name—I’m the former wife of Ian MacLaren, and I just read the story in today’s Gazette about his investigation. He’s right, Harriet Haverhill was murdered. I know who did it, and I would like to hire him to prove it.”

Wolfe’s eyebrows went up, and mine probably did too. I looked at him for instructions and got an almost imperceptible nod. “I will certainly pass your message along,” I said. “Assuming Mr. Wolfe finds it of interest, when would you be available to come and see him? Are you in New York?”

“Yes, I live here now—Connecticut, that is. And I could come at any time that is convenient for Mr. Wolfe.”

“What about tomorrow, say at”—I paused and Wolfe held up three fingers—”say at three o’clock?”

“That would be fine,” she said, and I gave her our address and took her phone number.

Wolfe and I cradled our receivers together. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said. “What do you make of that?”

He was frowning. “We need to know more about this woman—before tomorrow.”

“Saul?”

“Yes, get him. See if he can come today.”

As I said at the beginning of this narrative, Saul Panzer is a free-lance operative, the best in the business. What I didn’t mention is that for Wolfe he’d drop anything else he had going. Despite that high regard, however, he might not be able to help us on such short notice, given the demand for his services.

But we were in luck. Saul answered on the second ring, and when I told him Wolfe wanted to