Bloodied Ivy (3 page)

“What about relatives?”

“He had one brother, who has been deceased for years. His only living relative is a niece, unmarried, in California. He left her about fifty thousand dollars, plus his house. I’ve been trying to get her to venture here to go through Hale’s effects—we can’t begin to contemplate selling the place until it is cleaned out, which will be an extensive chore. Hale lived there for more than thirty years.”

“Has the niece said anything about when she might come east?”

“I’ve talked to her on the phone several times, and she keeps procrastinating,” Cortland whined. “When I spoke to her last week, she promised that she’d arrive here before Thanksgiving. We’ll see.”

“Okay, you mentioned jealousy earlier. Who envied Markham?”

He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “Oh, any number of people. For one, Keith Potter.” He eyed me as if expecting a reaction.

“Well, of course,” I said. “Why didn’t I think of him myself? Okay—I give up. Who’s Keith Potter?”

Cortland looked at me as if I’d just jumped out of a spaceship nude. “Keith Potter is none other than the beloved president of Prescott.” He touched his forehead with a flourish that was probably supposed to be a dazzling gesture of sarcasm.

“Why was Potter jealous of Markham?”

I got another one of those long-suffering-teacher-working-with-a-dense-student looks. “Partly because Hale was better known than Potter. In fact, Hale was arguably the most celebrated person in the university’s history. And we’ve had
three
Nobel Prize laureates through the years.”

I nodded to show I was impressed. “So the president of the school resented its superstar teacher. Is that so unusual? I don’t know much about the academic world, but one place or another I’ve gathered the impression that most colleges have a teacher or two who are often better known than the people who run the place.”

“Unusual? I suppose not. But Potter—excuse me, Doctor Potter—is an empire builder. His not-so-secret goal is to sanctify his name by increasing the endowment to Prescott, thereby allowing him to erect more new buildings on the campus. The edifice complex, you know?” Cortland chuckled, crossed his arms over his stomach, and simpered.

“I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but that’s not so unusual either, is it? Or such a bad thing for the university?”

“Maybe not,” Cortland conceded, twitching. “If it’s accompanied by a genuine respect for scholarship and research, uh, things that all schools aspiring to greatness should stress. But Potter desires, in effect, to upraise a monument to himself. That goal easily eclipses any desire on his part to improve the facilities purely for academic reasons.”

I was itching to ask if the ends didn’t justify the means, but Wolfe would be coming down from the plant rooms soon, so I pushed on. “How did Potter’s obsession with buildings affect his relationship with Markham?”

Cortland sniffed. “Ah, yes, I was about to get to that, wasn’t I? Potter had fastened on to Leander Bach and was working to get a bequest out of him—a considerable one. I assume you know who Bach is?” I could tell by his tone that I’d shaken his faith in my grasp of current events.

“The eccentric multimillionaire?”

“That’s one way of describing the man. I prefer to think of him as left-leaning to the point of irrationality. And that was the rub: The talk all over campus was that Bach wouldn’t give a cent of his millions to the school as long as Hale was on the faculty. He had the gall to call Hale a Neanderthal.”

I stifled a smile, then shot a glance at my watch. “Mr. Wolfe will be down soon,” I said. “And I—”

“Yes, I’ve been monitoring the time, as well,” Cortland cut in. “And we’ve still got six minutes. Mr. Goodwin, as you can appreciate, my stipend as a university professor hardly qualifies me as a plutocrat. However, I’ve had the good fortune to inherit a substantial amount from my family. Because of that, I can comfortably afford Mr. Wolfe’s fees, which I’m well aware are thought by some to border on extortionate. And I can assure you that this check,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his crazy-quilt sportcoat, “has the pecuniary resources to back it. If you have any question about my financial condition, feel free to call Cyrus Griffin, president of the First Citizens Bank of Prescott. I’ll supply you with the number.”

“Not necessary,” I said, holding up a hand and studying the check, drawn on Mr. Griffin’s bank and made out to Nero Wolfe in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars.

“That’s just a good-faith retainer,” Cortland said. “To show Mr. Wolfe—and you—that I’m earnest. I will be happy to match that amount on the completion of Mr. Wolfe’s investigation, regardless of its eventuation.”

I tapped the check with a finger. Our bank balance could use this kind of nourishment—we hadn’t pulled in a big fee in almost three months, and I was beginning to worry, even if the big panjandrum wasn’t. But then, he almost never deigned to look at the checkbook. Such concerns were beneath him. Even if Wolfe refused to take Cortland on as a client, though, it would be instructive to see his reaction to somebody else who tosses around four-syllable, ten-dollar words like he does.

Maybe I could talk somebody into making a syndicated TV show out of their conversations and call it “The Battle of the Dictionary Dinosaurs.” All right, so I was getting carried away, but what the hell, it
would
be fun to see these guys go at it. Besides, I’d pay admission to watch Wolfe’s reaction to Cortland’s mid-sentence ramblings.

“Okay, I’ll hang onto this for now,” I said to the little professor. “It may help me get Mr. Wolfe to see you, but I can’t guarantee anything. I’ll have to ask you to wait in the front room while we talk. If things go badly—and I always refuse to predict how he’ll react—you may not get to see him, at least not today. But I’ll try.”

“I’m more than willing to remain here and plead my case with him directly.” Cortland squared his narrow shoulders.

“Trust me. This is the best way to handle the situation. Now let’s get you settled.” I opened the soundproofed door and escorted the professor into the front room, then went down the hall to the kitchen to let Fritz know we had a guest so that he would monitor the situation. It simply wouldn’t do to have people wandering through the brownstone.

That done, I returned to the office, where I just had time to get settled at my desk when the rumble of the elevator told me Wolfe was on his way down from the roof.

W
HEN WOLFE WALKED INTO THE
office, I was at my desk entering orchid germination records in the personal computer he had finally agreed to buy after getting tired of my badgering. He detoured around the end of his desk, slipped a raceme of yellow
oncidium barbatum
into the vase on his blotter, and carefully settled his seventh of a ton into the reinforced chair that had been custom made for him years ago.

“Good morning, Archie. Did you sleep well?” It was his standard eleven o’clock question.

“No complaints. Fritz tells me it rained buckets last night, but I’ll have to take his word. As the night watchman said when they woke him after the bank had been robbed, ‘I didn’t hear a thing.’”

Wolfe huffed his opinion of my humor and rang for beer. “Before you get too deeply immersed in whatever your day’s activities will be,” I said, swiveling in his direction, “I’d like to discuss Hale Markham.” He sent a glower past the
oncidium barbatum
in my direction but said nothing.

“You know, the brilliant champion of the far right who tumbled down that ravine last—”

“Archie,” he said, mouthing the word as if it were a communicable disease, “I can conceive of no reason why Hale Markham should be the subject of a discussion in this room.”

“Well, try this on and see how it fits: The man was murdered.”

His eyes bore in on me, unblinking. “Is this flummery?”

I tried to look hurt. “Am I the flummoxing type? No, sir, I have it on good authority—well,
reasonably
good authority—that the professor may have been helped to the bottom of that ravine.”

Wolfe scowled. He was waiting for two things: beer, to be delivered by Fritz Brenner, and an explanation, to be delivered by me. He got the beer first—two chilled bottles and a glass on a tray. Fritz set them on the desk in front of Wolfe as usual, then did a snappy about-face and marched out. Wolfe took the opener from his center desk drawer, popped the cap on one bottle, and poured, watching the foam settle.

“On whose authority?” he demanded, returning his attention to me.

“There’s a man sitting in the front room who says he was a colleague of Markham’s at Prescott. Name: Walter Cortland. Occupation: political science professor. He came to see me this morning and gave me this.” I got up and set the check in front of him.

Wolfe fingered it, drained half the glass, and resumed his scowl. “All right, report,” he grumbled.

When Wolfe tells me to report, he almost always means verbatim, which isn’t hard for me. As Cortland had mentioned when he was buttering me up, I’ve been known to repeat hours-long conversations to Wolfe without missing a comma. And I don’t even own a tape recorder.

This one was a snap, of course, and after I finished, Wolfe leaned back. “It’s hardly necessary to mention that the man in the front room is your problem,” he said offhandedly. “You undertook to invite him here without consulting me. Further, nothing in your conversation with him in any way buttresses his claim that Mr. Markham was helped to his death.”

I wasn’t about to give up. “Through the years, you’ve complimented me at least twice—make that three times—on my ability to play hunches. Call this a hunch.”

“No, sir, not good enough,” Wolfe sniffed, reaching for his current book,
In Hitler’s Germany
, by Bernt Engelmann.

“Before you get comfortable, I’d like to point out that the bank balance is at its lowest point in the last ten months,” I said, pulling the checkbook from my center desk drawer and shaking it at him. “I know you find it distasteful to worry about such mundane things as money, and I also know how repulsive you find work. But I remind you that you have to continue paying my princely wages, as well as those of Mr. Brenner, whom we agree is the finest chef in both hemispheres, and Theodore Horstmann, whom you claim has no parallel as an orchid tender. On that one, I’ll have to take your word. Then there’s the electricity, telephone, heat, and air-conditioning for this old brownstone, to say nothing of the bills from the butcher, the various other food purveyors, the beer distributor, the—”

“Archie, shut up!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may thank Mr. Cortland for taking the time and trouble to come here. You may also tell him that I have no intention of seeing him.”

Now it was my turn to scowl, and I like to think I learned from a master. “All right, I resign,” I said, in what I hoped was a level tone. “I’m a man of action—remember? At least that’s why you hired me and how you’ve frequently referred to me. Well, the most action I’m getting in this house lately is the exercises I do in my room before breakfast, unless I count watching you drink beer, which I grant is a singular experience. Now, how do you want my resignation? I can type it out, or make a computer printout, or will a handwritten note be sufficient? Normally, I’d give two weeks, but I’ve got some vacation time saved up, and—”

“Archie!” It was almost a bellow.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about going out on my own, and Mr. Cortland has all the makings of a good first client,” I went on, ignoring him. “The publicity will be good for me, seeing as how I’ll just be starting out. By the way, I hope on future cases I can use you as a character reference—I’d really appreciate it. And I’m sure Lon Cohen will see that my work gets good play in the
Gazette
. He owes me a few favors, Lord knows, and I’ll need all the help I can get to establish a name for myself in this rough-and-tumble business. I don’t think you truly realize what a jungle it is out there, all the clawing and scratching…”

As I talked, I saw Wolfe reach under his desk for the buzzer, which was unusual, since he still had one unopened bottle of beer in front of him. Within seconds, Fritz appeared at the door.

“As I’m sure you are aware, there is a gentleman in the front room,” Wolfe said. “His name is Cortland. Ask him to come in.”

T
HE DOOR FROM THE
front room into the office swung open, and Fritz ushered Cortland in. Wolfe glanced briefly at the closed book on his desk, then considered the professor, whom I again seated in the red leather chair.

“Sir,” Wolfe said, dipping his head an eighth of an inch, “have you had anything to drink?”

“No, I—”

“I’m not surprised. Mr. Goodwin sometimes falls short as a host. I apologize for him. What will you have?”

Cortland shifted nervously, looking at me and then back at Wolfe and probably wondering how we coexist under the same roof. I’ve been wondering the same thing myself for years.

“I—what I started to say is that your…Mr. Brenner, isn’t it?…offered me refreshments while I was in the other room, but I, uh, declined. Thank you anyway.” He shifted again, clearing his throat and fiddling with both tie and glasses.

Wolfe observed the vellications with a frown and poured his second beer. “Mr. Goodwin has reported your conversation to me, and I have a number of questions. Before I begin, however, I want to stress that I have not yet accepted this.” He picked up the check and tapped it. “Until I do, and there is no guarantee whatever of that occurrence, you are not a client.”

“I understand,” Cortland said, swallowing and bobbing his head.

“Very well. Am I correct in stating you are morally certain that Hale Markham’s fall into that gorge at Prescott three weeks ago was not accidental?”

“Yes, I am. Furthermore—”

Wolfe held up a palm. “Please, if I may continue. Your turn will come. I know what you told Mr. Goodwin, but I will ask at least one of his questions again: Why do you believe your colleague was murdered?”

Cortland took a deep breath. “Mr. Wolfe, Hale Markham was not the incautious type—in anything he did. And with his hiking and climbing expertise and experience, he certainly would not have slipped into the Gash.”