Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,62

“All right,” he snapped even before his fanny hit the cushion of the red leather chair, “what’s all this crap about Audrey hiring you to investigate Harriet Haverhill’s death?”

Wolfe looked up from his book, blinked, then closed it deliberately, studying the binding. “May I offer you a drink, sir? I’m going to have beer.”

“No, you may not.” He lovingly dipped each word in acid before releasing it. “I didn’t come here to socialize, as I’m sure you’re aware. I came to find out why the bloody hell my former wife is doing business with you, although I already know the answer.”

“Go on,” Wolfe said, holding his gaze on the furious Scotsman.

“She’s hired you—don’t try to deny it. I confronted her today, and she admitted she’s been here.”

“Then perhaps she told you of the substance of our conversation.”

“No, I couldn’t get that out of her, but I didn’t have to. It’s obvious. She loathes me, has since our divorce— and before. There’s only one interest she could possibly have in the Haverhill death: she wants it to look like I killed the woman. She’s hired you to hang this thing on me somehow, to contrive to make it look like a murder. You don’t like me to begin with, and you already think it’s a murder, so the two of you make perfect bed partners in this vile thing. She’s going to turn you loose on me. By heaven—”

“Come now, Mr. MacLaren.” Wolfe raised a palm, leaning back in his reinforced chair. “Surely you can’t believe such twaddle. One of the stipulations I invariably make to clients is that no constraints of any kind be placed upon me. I start without preconceptions, at least as much as is humanly possible, and will under no circumstances agree to produce a culprit to order. If you doubt me, I invite you to speak with Inspector Cramer of Homicide or Mr. Cohen of the Gazette. I suggest them not as references—my work speaks for itself—but rather as cynical and impartial observers.”

“Hah! So you admit Audrey is your client?”

“I admit nothing. An admission is not called for here, nor is it needed. When I do have a client, however, I consider my relations with that individual to .be confidential and, to a large degree, privileged. Now, let me ask you a question, sir: you claim your former wife was on these premises; on what do you base that claim?”

“What do you mean? She admitted it.”

Wolfe drank beer and wiped his lips with his handkerchief. “Let me rephrase the question: What made you first think she was here?”

MacLaren’s face broke into a grim smile. “As I told you the first time we met, I have my sources—I wouldn’t have gotten where I am today without them. I won’t be so mysterious now, though. The media are very interested in you. They’re apparently staked out nearby, or at least one is. I got a call from a reporter who saw Audrey arrive and leave.”

“And the same individual presumably has now seen you,” Wolfe said. “I’m curious, sir, as to whether you have your own representative watching this house.”

“I do not,” MacLaren answered sharply. “You flatter yourself.”

“But you’re interested enough in my activities to pay this visit. To say nothing of editorials in your newspapers.”

“Oh, you saw that, did you? Good. I thought our writer did an excellent job,” he smirked. “Between that and the fact that your place is being watched, now you’ll know what it feels like to be under the microscope. I’ve had to live with that damned spotlight for years—let’s see how you like it.”

Wolfe considered him without enthusiasm. “An intriguing statement, particularly given its source. I would have thought you of all people, a self-styled pillar of the Fourth Estate, could hardly resent persistent journalists. Especially since papers under your governance have raised this persistence to new levels. Your reporters, sir, think nothing of using lies and deceit to gain entry into the sanctuaries of the suffering, to invade the privacy of anyone deemed newsworthy, from the parents of a kidnapped child to the widow of a murdered neighborhood grocer. All in the name of ‘enterprise reporting’ and 120-point headlines. That ‘damned spotlight,’ as you call it, gets turned on indiscriminately, without regard for the feelings of those it illumines.”

“A pretty little speech, Mr. Wolfe,” MacLaren retorted, still looking smug. “You sound like one of those Fascists who would like nothing better than to impose curbs on the media—small and seemingly innocuous restrictions