Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,77

“It was an accident!” he screamed. “It went off while we were . . . She was dying anyway . . .”

His words degenerated to sobs as Purley Stebbins moved over next to him, easing Bishop aside. “You have the right to remain silent,” Purley began, and Wolfe waited until he had finished his litany. Dean seemed to be in shock, but then, so did everybody else, including Cramer.

“My God,” he said hoarsely, “what made him do it?”

Wolfe shrugged. “Why do people ever trespass? Money? Jealousy? Revenge? Passion? In this case, I can only surmise. But from the start, I centered my attention primarily on Mr. Dean and Mr. Bishop. My suspicions of these two were heightened when I learned that Scott Haverhill’s shares were likely slipping from Mr. MacLaren’s grasp.

“I must be totally candid, however,” he continued, turning both palms up. “Scott Haverhill also remained on my list of contenders, and I did not absolutely eliminate him until Mr. Panzer reported his conversation with Miss Barwell.

“As I said earlier, I should have fixed on Mr. Dean long ago. As you all know, he and Harriet Haverhill visited here last week. Several hours later, Mr. MacLaren came to see me, and during our discussion, he mentioned that he was aware Mrs. Haverhill had preceded him. I wondered at the time how he knew, but dismissed the question from my mind, assuming he had people watching this house.

“Then on Monday, his former wife came here in an attempt to enlist my services. The next day, Mr. Dean was a visitor, albeit a reluctant one. At the end of our meeting, I said that we had a client, although I gave no name. He appeared to show little if any interest in my revelation, which was in itself suspicious. Later on Tuesday, Mr. MacLaren called, demanding an appointment. He said he was angered that his former wife had hired me. When I asked what made him think this was the case, he claimed he had been called by a television reporter who had this house under surveillance, and that this reporter had seen her entering and leaving.

“On the surface, a feasible explanation,” Wolfe said. “Audrey MacLaren’s face might be well enough known that she’d be recognized by a journalist. But there’s a rub: the same individual who telephoned Mr. MacLaren would also have called me asking why Mrs. MacLaren had been here—even television journalists are known to practice some semblance of thoroughness. No such call came, however, and no reporter ever called Audrey MacLaren for a comment, either.

“Clearly the ‘reporter’ was Elliot Dean, who wasted no time in informing Mr. MacLaren that I had a client.” Wolfe turned to MacLaren, who was slouching with his hands jammed into his pants pockets. “It didn’t take you long to guess who that client might be, particularly given your acrimonious relationship with your former wife. You called her, confronting her with your supposition, and you hit a bull’s-eye. She admitted our contract, and then you called me in a state of agitation.”

MacLaren tried to say something, but Wolfe cut him off, shifting his attention to Cramer. “Why were MacLaren and Dean in league? Mr. MacLaren would stop at almost nothing to get the Gazette and establish a New York beachhead. Some time ago he realized he couldn’t to a moral certainty count on Scott Haverhill’s stock. He correctly sensed the man’s indecision. Without Scott, the MacLaren holdings would fall below forty-eight percent. He desperately needed insurance, and who could provide it? Either Mr. Bishop, with five percent of the shares, or Mr. Dean, with three percent, would serve to catapult him back into a majority position.

“In seeking an ally, he may have tried Mr. Bishop first—you’ll have to ask both of them that. In any event, he found sufficient weakness of character, and perhaps need of money, in Mr. Dean. I think you’ll find that sometime in the last several weeks, Mr. MacLaren secretly co-opted him with the promise of a substantial monetary reward if he would commit his shares and also become a quisling by reporting on Mrs. Haverhill’s activities. The latter part of their compact is why he was so eager to accompany her to this office.”

Dean responded with a groan, holding his head in his hands. “She . . . always took me for granted,” he choked. “Never admitted . . . she needed me.” His voice degenerated into sniffles.

“You miserable little bastard,” David croaked, springing up and making a move toward