deep pockets.
So why was Lon getting an invite? I figured it must have something to do with MacLaren, since Wolfe wanted to look at some of the bozo’s newspapers. But I was damned if I was going to ask him. Besides, he was now hiding behind a book, The Good War by Studs Terkel, so I swung back to my typewriter and the letter to the Illinois orchid grower.
After finishing it, I dialed Lon’s number. “Feeling any better this morning?” I asked when he answered.
“So-so. I’m just trying to get through one day at a time,” he replied. His voice lacked his usual joie de vivre.
“Glad you’re so peppy. Anyway, I have two items of business. First, Mr. Wolfe wants to know if you can make it for dinner tonight—or if not, tomorrow.”
“Best offer I’ve had in weeks,” Lon said, perking up. “Tonight would be fine. What’s the occasion?”
“Beats me. But don’t look cross-eyed at a gift horse. Before I ask you the second question, I have to confess that I told the man who signs my paychecks about a certain Scottish party and his interest in the Gazette. I felt he could be trusted.” I watched Wolfe for a reaction. There was no movement from behind the book.
“No big thing,” Lon said sourly. “The whole town will know all about this soon enough. The other question?”
“Can you give me a list of newspapers MacLaren owns—both U.S. and foreign? Mr. Wolfe wishes to peruse a few.”
“I’ll be damned,” Lon clucked. “I don’t know why he’d waste his time, but that’s his problem—or maybe it’s yours. Anyway, sure, I can name a bunch of the rags for you. Just make sure he takes something for his digestion first.”
Lon ticked off the titles of papers in England, Scotland, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand, plus one each in Detroit, Denver, and L.A. I thanked him and said we looked forward to seeing him.
“Okay, I’ve got the list of MacLaren’s papers,” I said to the cover of the book that was between me and Wolfe. “I’m off on a safarI to hunt them down. Lon says you should be prepared for a grim experience. Are you up to it?”
I got no answer, nor did I expect one, so I went to the kitchen, where Fritz was preparing salmon mousse and a mushroom-and-celery omelet for lunch. I told him I’d be back in plenty of time to eat, then walked east to Seventh Avenue in the late-morning sunshine and headed north to Forty-second Street just east of Times Square, where the newsstand is. They had copies of two of MacLaren’s American dailies, the Los Angeles Globe-American and the Detroit Star, and they also carried his London Herald and Toronto Banner. The guy behind the counter said he could special-order the others, but I figured what I had would give Wolfe all he could stomach.
Except for Toronto, they were tabloids, and their front pages made the Daily News and even the Post look tame. I won’t bore you with details, but here are a few samples: The headline on the L.A. paper, which swallowed most of the front sheet, was “KILLER RAPIST SPOTTED IN LONG BEACH, COPS SAY.” The only other thing on the page was a diagonal red stripe in the upper-right-hand corner with the words “WINNING SWEEPSTAKES NUMBERS—P.5!” The Detroit front page screeched in two-inch capitals: “DO SOVIETS PLAN SECRET AFGHAN NUKE ATTACK?” and under the headline was a photograph of an incredibly buxom blonde in a sweater with a caption revealing that she had courageously run out on the field during a game at Tiger Stadium to kiss the first baseman. And the headline on the London paper, which blanketed page one, read “LET’S TOSS MAGGIE OUT, 10 LABOR MP’S SHOUT!”
It was a little before one when I got home. Wolfe was still parked at his desk, with the book in front of his face. He probably hadn’t moved since I’d left, except to ring for beer.
“Home is the hunter,” I announced, dropping five pounds of newsprint on his blotter in a stack, with Detroit on top, figuring the over-endowed blonde would be a nice way to introduce him to MacLaren-style journalism.
He set his book down and glowered at the papers without touching them. “After lunch,” he said, and I had to agree. Anyone with a proper appreciation for food knows enough to avoid unpleasantness just before a meal.
Three
There is a rule in the brownstone that business is not to be discussed during