Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,7
To Ian MacLaren.”
Wolfe looked up and raised his eyebrows. Now he was interested. “I’ve seen no report of this in the Gazette or anywhere else.”
“I said the same thing when Lon told me about it last night. He says negotiations have been kept hush-hush by both sides.”
Wolfe scowled. “I sympathize with Mr. Cohen. Without doubt, he would find it difficult, probably intolerable, to work for a newspaper owned by that miscreant.”
“That’s about what he said last night. I told him I couldn’t believe he’d walk away after all these years, but he seems pretty well resolved to do just that.”
“Archie, what do you know about Ian MacLaren?”
Wolfe’s expression surprised me. It’s the one he usually puts on when he’s about to take a case—call it a pout of resignation, accompanied by a sigh that would register on the Richter Scale. But of course we didn’t have a case, let alone a client.
“Not a lot,” I answered. “He’s Scotch. Has newspapers in a bunch of cities around the world. London’s one, although don’t ask me where else. And I think maybe he’s in two or three U.S. towns, too. Lon calls him a sleazy scandalmonger.”
“He puts it well,” Wolfe said, ringing for beer. “Mr. MacLaren is an opportunist who indulges in sensationalist and irresponsible journalism and runs his papers solely for profit.”
Wolfe paused as Fritz Brenner, whom you’ll hear more about later, walked in carrying a tray with two chilled bottles of beer and a glass. This occurrence, which takes place up to six times a day, is as much a part of Wolfe’s routine as the plant room visits. After Fritz left, Wolfe opened one beer, poured, and flipped the bottle cap into his center desk drawer. About once a week he takes them out and counts them to see if he’s gone over his limit, although I’ve never figured out what that limit is.
“Ever seen any of McLaren’s papers?” I asked.
“No, I only know him by reputation and by what I have read,” Wolfe said, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief. “But the point you’re trying to make is well taken. Is there a place nearby that sells out-of-town and foreign papers?”
“Just a few blocks from here,” I said. It still amazes me, even after all the years of living under the same roof with him, that someone whose head is crammed with so much knowledge of history, philosophy, anthropology, food, orchids, and most of the other subjects in the Encyclopedia Britannica, can be so ignorant about the city he lives in. But then, Nero Wolfe hates to leave the brownstone as much as he detests deviating from his daily schedule. For him, getting into a car, even with me at the wheel, is an act of downright recklessness. And when on rare occasions he is forced to venture forth into deepest Manhattan or beyond, he balances his fundament on the edge of the back seat of the Heron sedan he owns and grips the strap as if it were a parachute.
This is not to suggest that he was planning to go out now. No, I was to be the intrepid adventurer. “Find out from Mr. Cohen the names of newspapers owned by Ian MacLaren,” he said as he finished the first bottle of beer and stared pensively at doomed number two. “I would like to see as many as are available.”
“Quite a change of pace in your reading habits,” I said.
Wolfe grunted. “Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised, although I doubt it. Also, when you talk to Mr. Cohen, invite him to join us for dinner tonight. If the notice is too short, perhaps he can come tomorrow. Or early next week.”
When Wolfe invites Lon Cohen to dinner, it’s usually because he wants information. Lon knows this, of course, but doesn’t mind because through the years he’s gotten as good from us as he’s given in the form of scoops involving Wolfe’s cases. Also, Lon fully appreciates Fritz Brenner’s genius as a chef, not to mention the Remisier brandy that gets hauled out whenever he sits at our table.
But why Wolfe wanted to see him puzzled me. This time we weren’t working on anything big, unless you count the business with Gershmann—not his real name—a wholesale diamond merchant who had an exceedingly sticky-fingered employee. But Wolfe, with some not-so-incidental help from Saul and me, had already pieced that one together and had delegated me to meet with Gershmann the next day to tell him who on his payroll had