Death on Deadline (23 page)

I showed Dean to the chair in the second row nearest me and gestured Bishop to the one at the other end of the row. Bishop nodded to the various Haverhills, who all nodded back, but Dean pulled his usual slouching act, arms folded. “Where’s Wolfe?” he wheezed. “And who’s that waiting for?” He gestured toward the empty chair.

I started to reply, when the bell squawked again. Until I heard it, I honestly wasn’t sure we were going to see MacLaren. I went to the door, greeting him with a thin smile that nicely mirrored his own. “I don’t plan to stay long,” he announced, pushing in past me and yanking off his Burberry, which he threw carelessly onto one of the pegs.

When we entered the office, the hubbub began, and nobody paid any attention to me when I walked behind Wolfe’s desk and reached under the drawer to push the buzzer. “What’s
he
doing here?” Dean demanded shrilly, then had to stop to catch his breath. “Nobody said anything about him. I don’t want to be in the same room with that—”

“Elliot,” Bishop said, “take it easy.” The man’s little mustache kept quivering, but at Bishop’s urging, he settled back.

“I’ve heard about these performances,” David piped up. He’d already helped himself to a drink. “I understand they’re entertaining, but let me tell you, I’m in no mood to be entertained.”

“Nor am I in the mood to entertain,” Wolfe said as he stood in the doorway. He walked in, edged along the wall because of all the chairs, and seated himself. “I’m having beer—would anyone like refreshments?” He gestured toward the cart.

“I prefer to remain sober,” MacLaren said with a glacial smile, and there were nods and murmurs of agreement. David frowned silently into his bourbon. This group was not about to become chums. “No?” Wolfe asked. “Very well. Archie, have you made introductions?”

“Not of our client,” I said.

He placed his palms flat on the desk.

“The woman on my right in the front row is Audrey MacLaren,” he said, his eyes moving from face to face. “She is my client.”

“And for those of you who haven’t figured it out, my former wife,” MacLaren said defiantly, turning in his chair to face the others. “She’s trying to set me up for—”

“Enough!” Wolfe crackled, as Audrey bristled and prepared to attack. “Sir, if everyone is allowed to blurt as they please, this may take all night. I don’t think any of you want that.” He then proceeded to name each of the others to our client as MacLaren muttered. If looks could kill, we’d be sitting in a roomful of corpses.

“Just a minute,” Scott said as he finished. “I’d like to know why these two are here.” He stabbed a finger at Cramer and Stebbins. “I recognize one as the policeman who came to see us after Harriet died.” New York’s Finest looked at him without affection. If I were Scott Haverhill, I would make myself a mental note never to double-park in this borough.

“Come now, Scott,” Bishop said. “Do you really wonder why they’re here? Isn’t it obvious? Our host is planning to unveil a murderer tonight.”

“If I may interject,” Wolfe said, “Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins of Homicide are here at my request. I would only echo Mr. Bishop’s words—the reason for their presence should be evident.” Fritz came in with beer and Wolfe paused to pour, tucking the first bottle cap in his drawer. “I appreciate—”

“You like to use the word ‘flummery,’” Cramer cut in, and everyone turned to stare at him. “Well, there’d better not be any flummery here tonight. If this thing backfires, it’s going to be plenty embarrassing for you—I’ll personally see to that.” He waggled his ringer warningly at Wolfe.

“Put your finger away, Mr. Cramer. I have no intent of flummoxing you or anybody else. You will find the proceedings straightforward and easy to follow. Now, to continue, I appreciate that you all have pressing schedules, and I’m grateful that you took the time to be here,” he said as his eyes traveled over the faces in front of him.

“Well, we’re not grateful for the invitation,” Scott snapped, and, encouraged, some of the others joined in. We’d have a full-scale riot on our hands in no time. I sat back to enjoy it, keeping my eyes on all of them, but paying particular attention to our client.

“That’s understandable. Nonetheless, you all came, and I vow not to prolong the evening unnecessarily, although one among you may not wish for a swift denouement.”

“So you’re back to thinking it’s a murder.” Dean’s eyes bulged above the little mustache.

“I never stopped calling it a murder,” Wolfe replied blandly. “All of you know I have contended from the start that Harriet Haverhill did not die by her own hand. I found no adherents to my position, with the possible exception of Mr. Goodwin, and you may wish to discount his vote, as he is in my employ.” I made a face at him, but his eyes stayed on our guests.

“Why was I convinced Mrs. Haverhill was not a suicide?” he asked, turning a palm over. “As I told some of you earlier, including Inspector Cramer, my conviction was based on one conversation I had with her in this room a little more than a week ago. But that meeting, and the impression it left, were enough to convince me that this woman would not under any circumstances destroy herself. And I maintained this even when I learned a fact which I am not free to divulge, but which might well be seen as sufficient motivation for self-destruction.” He shot a look at Cramer, who scowled back at him.

“My dilemma was that no one had sufficient motive to kill her.” Again his eyes traveled over the faces, stopping at each one. There was some satisfactory fidgeting when he did so.

“Mr. MacLaren, to all appearances, getting Mrs. Haverhill out of the way would do you no good. You either had the shares necessary for control of the
Gazette
or you didn’t. Her death could have no effect on those shares, and her own substantial holding was already committed to a trust, as everyone knew.

“Mr. Haverhill,” he said, turning to David, “you were determined to sell your shares to Mr. MacLaren for a tidy sum, and your stepmother had no legal means of preventing this foolish action. The same held true for your cousin.” He gestured toward Scott. “As for your sister, she too had made the decision to sell to Mr. MacLaren. And your wife,” he said, turning toward Carolyn, “may have wielded considerable influence on the paper through you, but could hardly be seen to gain from the death of its chairman. That brings us to Messrs. Bishop and Dean; they were outspoken in their loyalty to Mrs. Haverhill and her causes. One would be hard put to suspect either of them.

“Manifestly,” he continued, “it would seem that no one stood to profit in any way from the death of Harriet Haverhill. It would appear that she had lost her valiant battle to retain control of the
Gazette.
Therefore, why would anyone want to murder her?”

“You’re making your own case for her suicide,” Cramer growled.

“So it would appear,” Wolfe admitted. “But I refused to accept the apparent. The key had to lie in the mathematics of the situation.”

“What the hell do mathematics have to do with all of this?” David looked like he was going to have a stroke. He splashed liquor on his tie, and Carolyn’s smile faded.

“I’ll get to that, sir, if you’ll allow me. The mathematics are those involving the percentages of
Gazette
stock owned by each of the shareholders. I confess the answer should have been immediately obvious, given the signs. You have my
mea culpa.

“But to move on: the shares owned by Arlen Publishing and the Demarest family were committed to Mr. MacLaren. Does anyone challenge that?” He raised his brows and looked around. MacLaren, I blush to disclose, simpered triumphantly. Dean looked like he was about to spit fire.

“No? Then we may assume that these holdings, slightly more than twelve percent of the total shares, settle on the MacLaren side of the ledger. Are we agreed in adding to that figure the blocks held by David Haverhill and Donna Palmer?” Again he surveyed the audience.

“What’s the purpose of this exercise?” David whined, fidgeting. “Everything you’ve said so far is obvious.”

“Please indulge me, and the purpose will reveal itself,” Wolfe replied. “Do you all concur that David’s and Donna’s shares may be added to the MacLaren total?” More stirring and muttering, but no opposition.

“Done,” he said. “Thus, Mr. MacLaren could count on forty-seven-and-a-fraction percent of the
Gazette
stock.”

“Wait—what about Scott’s holdings?” Carolyn leaned forward and stroked her neck as she asked the question.

“What indeed about his holdings?” Wolfe asked, turning to Scott. “Perhaps he would like to respond.”

All eyes shifted toward Scott, who sat up straight in his chair, shot his cuffs, and flushed slightly.

“Come, come, Mr. Haverhill,” Wolfe snapped. “Tell them what you told me in the office on Sunday.”

Scott looked at the floor and then at his hands, which were gripping each other in his lap. “I—when I saw Harriet Friday, she … she offered me the job as publisher.”

He muttered it, but everybody could hear, and then they all tried to get their oar in. Elliot Dean’s high-pitched whinny rose above the din. “Hah, so that’s why you asked me whether Harriet would offer him the job,” he carped shrilly at Wolfe. “I’ll say the same thing I did then—garbage! She’d never have made
him
publisher.”

That started the hullabaloo all over again, and Wolfe closed his eyes patiently until it died down. “If you’re through, we’ll go on. Mr. Haverhill, do you care to elaborate?”

Scott looked down, shifted again, and looked up defiantly. “I knew none of them would believe me. But she did offer me the job, and when we talked, she took some notes, several sheets of them. I told you that when I was here before.”

“Why didn’t
we
know about this?” Cramer was on his feet.

“Because you didn’t ask me,” Scott said weakly, turning in his chair. “You wanted to know if I was going to sell my shares to MacLaren, and I told you I wasn’t sure, which was true. I hadn’t definitely said yes. I told Harriet I wanted to think about her offer, although I’m virtually positive I would have accepted. I was
about
to accept.”

“You were never offered the job!” Elliot Dean roared. “Was he, Carl?”

“I have no knowledge of it,” Bishop responded, shaking his head vigorously. “And I’d think I would, considering that I currently hold the position.”

“But, Mr. Bishop,” Wolfe said, “wasn’t it true that you were contemplating retirement?”

Bishop leveled his dark eyes at Wolfe’s big face. “I was—I am. I told Harriet several times that I wanted to step down, but she never discussed a specific replacement with me.”

“And it wouldn’t have been
him,
” Dean said, jerking a thumb at Scott. “Where’s his proof that she wanted him to have the job? Where are her notes? This is all garbage!”

“They don’t appear to exist,” Wolfe said. “None were found on her desk, in any of the drawers, or anywhere in her office or the adjoining bedroom. Unless the police found them before Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Cohen made their search.” He looked at Cramer and Stebbins.

“Nope, nothing,” Cramer said. “Although my men only looked on and inside her desk, and they were only looking for a suicide note. I want to know where all this is getting us.”

Wolfe opened his center drawer and pulled out a single sheet of white bond that I had given him. “Before I read this, does everyone know who Ann Barwell is?”

“Of course,” Bishop rasped impatiently. “She was Harriet’s executive secretary. Had been for years.”

“Yesterday, an operative in my employ named Saul Panzer visited Miss Barwell in South Carolina, where she has been staying. This is a transcript of a portion of their conversation:

“Panzer: Did Mrs. Haverhill give you any notes or instructions concerning Scott Haverhill on Friday?

“Barwell: No, but she did mention him to me.

“Panzer: In what context?

“Barwell: She said to remind her Monday to ask about a memo she wanted sent to stockholders, and later, to department heads.

“Panzer: Did she say what the memo was about?

“Barwell: Yes, she told me it was about naming Mr. Haverhill publisher.

“Panzer: Which Mr. Haverhill?

“Barwell: Why, Mr. Scott Haverhill.”

Wolfe set the paper down and surveyed his audience triumphantly. Again the din started. They were all talking, with “I don’t believe it!” and “Impossible!” mixed in as they tried to outshout one another.

“Quiet!” Wolfe spat. It wasn’t a bellow, but close, and it did the trick. “Does anyone seriously doubt this woman’s word? I understand she had been in Mrs. Haverhill’s employ for approximately twenty years.”

Nobody said anything, although Scott was wearing what I’d define as a smirk. It was hard to believe Harriet would have turned her paper over to him.

“Wait a minute,” Cramer objected. “If that’s true, it would have given Harriet Haverhill, let’s see … more than fifty-two percent.”

“Yes,” Wolfe agreed, “a controlling interest.”

MacLaren looked ill.

“But the suicide …” It was Donna, and if she’d been in a comic strip, she would have had a question mark above her head.

Wolfe inhaled several cubic feet of air and let them out slowly. “Again, Mrs. Palmer, there
was
no suicide. Quite the opposite. Mrs. Haverhill was herself bent on ending the life of someone else.” That raised the noise level again, but Wolfe silenced it by bringing his palm down hard enough to rattle the Laeliacattleya in the vase on the desk top.

“The bullet that ended her life”—he paused for effect—“was intended for her killer.”

Donna cut in again. “You mean Harriet was going to … ?” Her mouth started to form a word, but nothing came out.

“She was,” Wolfe stated. “You might find that difficult to believe, and it might well have been, under normal circumstances. I am constrained from divulging specifics,” he said, looking levelly at Cramer, “but she knew her own death was imminent. What punishment could the law mete out to her that would override the sentence under which she already lived? And by taking this action, she would rid the world of what she considered an unspeakable vermin.”

“I assume we’re going to get some kind of explanation of all this gibberish,” David said. His hands were shaking. His wife started fussing over him again.