Bloodied Ivy (13 page)

“True. You’ll want to see…”

“Messrs. Schmidt, Greenbaum, and Potter, and the two women, Elena Moreau and Gretchen Frazier,” Wolfe said, turning a hand over.

“When would you want them here?”

“After dinner would be ideal, at nine o’clock. If any are unable to be present, we could see them individually tomorrow, but only in the morning. Mr. Goodwin and I will be leaving before midday. I can afford no more time away from home.”

“And if none want to come?”

“You might suggest that if I leave here without seeing them, my recourse will be to share my suspicions with journalists in New York who
will
be interested in talking to me.”

“You’re asking a lot on short notice,” Cortland protested with a squeak.

“Mr. Cortland, it is a rare occurrence—and a great inconvenience—for me to leave my home for any reason, and when I do, I ask the indulgence of others. After all, I have in effect indulged
you
by coming here. You are welcome to use this telephone to make the requisite calls.” Wolfe was laying it on thick, which didn’t bother me at all. Besides, his little speech had told me when we’d be checking out of Prescott, which was more than I had known before.

“Thank you, but I’ll use the instrument at home,” Cortland said primly. “What should I say?”

Wolfe scowled. “Try the truth. Tell them you think Mr. Markham was murdered and that you have engaged me to ferret out the murderer. Tell them also that I’ve asked to talk to a number of people who knew Mr. Markham. And suggest that anyone who does not come to see me will be suspect. You might choose to add as an incentive that if they do not come to this room, Mr. Goodwin will pay calls on the recalcitrants. One more thing: Say that if transportation is a problem, Mr. Goodwin will drive any one of them to and from here.” I’ve always been impressed at how free Wolfe is with my time and duties.

Cortland still had a troubled look as he drained his drink. “I’m honestly not sure if I can get them—particularly Potter and Schmidt.”

“But you can try,” Wolfe insisted coolly. “Mr. Goodwin and will await your report. One more question, sir: Why did you neglect to mention in your conversations with us that Mr. Markham suffered from dizzy spells?”

The professor wrinkled his brow and shook his head. “What dizzy spells? Hale never had anything like that. The man was a rock.

“Not according to Mrs. Moreau.”

“Mr. Wolfe, I was Hale’s closet friend—his confidant. If he had had attacks of dizziness, I most certainly would have been cognizant of it,” Cortland said in an offended tone. “I don’t know what Elena thinks she’s up to, but this is manifestly nonsense!”

“Very well,” Wolfe said, expressionless. “Mr. Goodwin will see you to the door.”

Cortland’s expression alternated between anger and confusion as he rose to leave. He briefly muttered about Elena’s motives, then switched to grumbling about how difficult he thought his calling assignment was, but he might as well have had a tree as his listener. Wolfe had opened his book, a clear signal the audience was over. I escorted Cortland to the hall, arming him with a pep talk about how much faith both of us had in him. Closing the door, I turned to Wolfe.

“I’ve got to agree with our client,” I said. “I’m not sure he’ll be able to get many of them.”

He looked up peevishly. “The moment has arrived for Mr. Cortland to do a little work. What time is it?”

“Six-ten. Why?”

Wolfe’s frown deepened, but he said nothing, returning to his book. I knew he was hungry and had hoped it was nearer dinnertime. Even though he was in alien territory, miles from the kitchen, larder, and talents of Fritz Brenner, he and his stomach were primed for dinner. For that matter, so was I.

A
S IT TURNED OUT, THE
dinner merited our anticipation. Wolfe pronounced the chicken and dumplings “more than adequate,” and I had to agree, scoring them at least a high B on my own scale, which is saying something, given my years dining on the creations of Fritz Brenner. Wolfe was anchored in his chair for the meal, which got wheeled in on a tablecloth-covered cart at precisely seven o’clock by none other than our mustachioed and minuscule dandy of a waiter, whom I rewarded with a finif, if only to see just how wide that grin could stretch. I pulled one of the straight-backed chairs up to the cart and mainly chewed and listened while Wolfe expounded on why terms of members of the House of Representatives should be extended from two years to four. He was surprisingly amiable, given that I’d uprooted him from home and routine and that he would soon be spending the night in a bed designed for mortals of standard proportions. His mood dived into the basement fast, though, when a call came from Cortland that indicated he would now have to do something to earn his fee.

I listened on the bedroom extension while the professor reported to Wolfe that, much to his astonishment, he had connected with all five subjects, and that three of them—Schmidt, Greenbaum, and Elena Moreau—had agreed to see Wolfe that night at nine. Potter and Gretchen Frazier claimed previous engagements, although the president, after much grumbling, said he would come at nine-thirty the next morning, while Gretchen was set for eleven.

“I should tell you that they weren’t exactly elated, though.” Cortland sounded none too pleased himself. “Particularly Schmidt and Greenbaum. The only way I sold Orville was to tell him that Ted and Elena already had agreed to see you. And then there was Potter: He took umbrage at first and voiced the opinion that the entire notion of murder was ridiculous. When I informed him several of the faculty had already agreed to come to your room, he retreated and said he would talk to you in his office tomorrow. My response was that you were not prepared to leave the Inn under any circumstances, and he snorted and said okay, he’d humor you. I think his primary concern is about bad publicity for the school.”

“Undoubtedly. How did the women react?”

“Elena didn’t seem terribly surprised for some reason. At least she didn’t fight the idea, although she complained that she was in the middle of grading papers. As far as the Frazier girl, she sounded shocked—and a little frightened, too, I’d have to say.”

“Very well,” Wolfe said. “You probably will hear from Mr. Goodwin sometime tomorrow.”

“You don’t want me to be there when you talk to the others?”

“Not necessary,” Wolfe said curtly, which caused a relieved sigh on the other end.

“You have to admit he did pretty well,” I said as I walked back to where Wolfe was polishing off the last of the strawberries Romanoff. “Adequate” was all I got out of him, though, before he told me to call for more beer and other liquid reinforcements for our next guests. I ordered four bottles of Remmers this time, plus a bottle each of bourbon and gin and a good white wine, plus a variety of mixes, just to be on the safe side. If the faculty wanted anything more exotic, they’d have to find it elsewhere.

Our beaming waiter, smelling still another tip, wheeled in a cart loaded with bottles, ice, and glasses at eight-forty-three, giving me time to set up a makeshift bar on the buffet in one corner of the room. Wolfe had returned to his book after pouring one of the two bottles of beer I had set on the end table next to him. I moved the sofa and one upholstered chair into position facing him—he doesn’t like to crane his neck—and positioned a chair for myself off to the left where I could keep an eye on all their faces.

When a knock came at nine-oh-six, I opened the door a crack on three less-than-happy faces. “Come in, please,” I said, trying to make it sound hospitable.

“Mr. Goodwin, isn’t it? Or should I say
Goodman
?” The smile on Schmidt’s round face didn’t match his testy tone. The lanky Greenbaum stuck out a long jaw and brushed by me, while Elena Moreau, looking every bit as chic as she had the day before, fixed me with narrowed eyes. She gave herself away, though, when the right corner of her mouth turned up, and I responded with a wink as she moved into the room.

“Well, we’re here, but I’m damned if I know why we should be,” Schmidt declared to Wolfe as if he were beginning to lecture a hall full of freshman. “If what Walter told us on the phone is true—”

“Mr. Schmidt, if you please,” Wolfe interrupted, getting as comfortable as his chair allowed, “hear me out and perhaps in our discussions the truth will present itself. Mrs. Moreau. Mr. Greenbaum.” He dipped his head a fraction of an inch to each of them. “Please be seated. I prefer to have others at eye level. Mr. Goodwin will be happy to serve refreshments. As you can see, I’m having beer.”

“We know him as Arnold Goodman,” Greenbaum brayed, easing into a spot on the sofa next to Elena, while Schmidt dropped into the armchair. “And nothing for me—I don’t intend to stay long. I don’t think any of us do.” Schmidt, who had obviously nominated himself as spokesman for the trio, wasn’t about to get upstaged and turned to Greenbaum, who immediately shut up.

“Mr. Wolfe,” Schmidt said, planting his elbows on the chair arms, “we came tonight because a colleague asked us to. We met down in the lobby and decided we would hear you out, despite your high-handed tactic of summoning us as if we were supplicants being called before a feudal lord. I will have bourbon on the rocks. Elena?”

“White wine, please,” she said, glancing my way with the beginnings of a real smile.

“Better than a feudal lord likely would have offered supplicants,” Wolfe observed as I set the drinks on end tables next to Schmidt and Elena. Greenbaum folded his arms over his chest and stuck out that chin again. It was a tempting target.

“I appreciate the time you have taken, and I promise not to prolong the evening unnecessarily,” Wolfe said without a trace of sarcasm. “As Mr. Cortland told each of you on the telephone, Mr. Goodwin and I are here to determine whether your former colleague, Hale Markham, fell to his death accidentally or was pushed.”

“Or killed himself?” Elena Moreau queried, raising her beautifully shaped eyebrows. “As ludicrous as it sounds, that possibility has been suggested.” That zinger was meant for me.

“A possibility as well,” Wolfe conceded.

“I say nonsense—to
both
murder and suicide!” Schmidt barked, slapping a palm on his knee. “Nobody had any reason to kill Hale, and he was far too enamored of himself to commit suicide.”

“Really, Orville, aren’t we getting a bit nasty?” Elena said, turning toward him with anger in her voice and in her large, dark eyes.

“Well, it’s true, Elena. I know you were friends—good friends—and I respect that, whatever I may have thought of Hale’s personality. But even you would have to agree that the man had an ego the size of the Himalayas.”

She continued glaring at him and he finally looked away, his chubby cheeks an even rosier shade than usual. “Mr. Wolfe,” she said, “I’d be interested—I think we all would—in hearing precisely why you believe Hale was murdered.”

“I haven’t said I believe he was murdered, madam. I said I am here to determine
whether
he was.”

“Hah! It sounds to me like you’re fishing for business,” Greenbaum snapped, aiming his chin at Wolfe again.

“I assure you, sir, that I do not have to fish for business, as you put it. The fish come to me—they always have. Am I correct in stating that none of you thinks there is the slightest possibility Mr. Markham’s death was not accidental?” He fixed his eyes on each of the three in turn, ending with Elena.

They all nodded and murmured yesses. “Mrs. Moreau,” Wolfe said, keeping his attention on her, “did you not tell Mr. Goodwin that Hale Markham had suffered fainting spells in recent months?”

“What kind of nonsense is that?” It was Schmidt, his litmus-paper face reddening again. “Whatever else Hale may have been, he sure as hell wasn’t feeble or faintish.”

“If you please, sir.” Wolfe dismissed him with a glance and turned back to Elena.

“It—the fainting, that is—happened twice when he was with me, once walking across campus, the other time outside a restaurant.”

“You are suggesting Mr. Markham had a fainting spell as he walked near the edge of the Gash?” Wolfe asked.

“Not necessarily—you brought the subject up. But it’s certainly a possible explanation.”

“Was Mr. Markham without enemies?”

Elena shrugged. “I suppose we all have enemies, if you want to call them that. Especially someone as strong-minded and outspoken as Hale. But there’s a world of difference between an enemy and a murderer.”

“Granted. Who would you identify as his enemies?”

Elena took a deep breath and then a sip of her wine, obviously buying time. “Well—”

“See here!” Schmidt jerked in his chair. “We’re not going to sit still for this high-handed inquisition. We—”

“Sir, Mrs. Moreau is speaking,” Wolfe shot back. “If she does not choose to reply, she is perfectly capable of conveying that information. Madam?”

“All right,” she said, sitting up straight on the sofa and uncrossing her legs, “I’ll tell you who
Hale
saw as his enemies.” She took another deep breath to collect herself.

“You’ve heard of Leander Bach, of course. He and Hale loathed each other—I guess that’s pretty much public knowledge.”

“And the reason for their mutual animus?”

“Political philosophy, basically. Bach doesn’t have a degree, but he did go to school for a year way back when—and at Prescott, of all places. He has said publicly that he still feels a loyalty to the university, and in the last few months, there had been a lot of talk about the likelihood of his giving money—a pile of money—to Prescott. When that talk began, Hale made some caustic remarks in one of his classes about Bach’s left-wing leanings and his well-publicized visits to the Soviet Union. Somebody from the campus paper was in the class, and the paper sent a reporter to see Hale, who repeated it all and more in an interview that they printed on page one with a big headline. Hale really blasted Bach—called him a ‘mushy-headed neo-Marxist’ and said the university could do very nicely without his money. You can imagine the flak that caused.”

“How did Mr. Bach react?”

“Violently. Needless to say, the campus paper smelled a wonderful brawl and went to him for reaction. Bach claimed that as long as Hale was on the Prescott faculty, he’d find more deserving places to give his money. He called Hale a Neanderthal, among other things.”