Death on Deadline (3 page)

Because Nero Wolfe’s brownstone on West Thirty-fifth over near the Hudson is more or less on the way home for Lon, we usually share a taxi after poker. “Not your night,” I told him, after we’d flagged a taxi on Lexington. “Seemed like you were a million miles away.”

“Oh, hell,” Lon said, leaning back against the seat and rubbing his palms over his eyes. “I’ve had a lot on my mind the last few days. I guess it shows.”

“Care to talk about it?”

Lon sighed and passed a hand over his dark, slicked-back hair. “Archie, things are up for grabs at the
Gazette.
Nothing has gotten out about this yet, so what I’m telling you is confidential.” He lowered his voice to almost a whisper, even though a plastic panel separated us from the cabbie. “It looks like Ian MacLaren may get control of the paper.”

“The Scotsman?”

“The same, damn his sleazy, scandal-mongering hide.”

“But how? I thought the
Gazette
was family-owned.”

“It is, basically. Various Haverhills control most of the stock. But the way this bastard from Edinburgh is throwing dollars around, some of them are getting ready to take the money and run. The weasel’s always wanted a New York paper, and now he’s just about got himself one.”

“How can he be so close to a deal without any publicity? There hasn’t been a thing in the papers or on TV, unless I missed it.”

Lon was so upset he ignored a very flashy hooker who yelled to us when we stopped for a light on Fifth. “Everybody on both sides seems to be keeping quiet, really quiet. And that even includes the ones who don’t want to sell. MacLaren apparently does most of his wheeling and dealing long-distance, from London or Scotland or Canada or wherever he happens to be at the time. I don’t think he’s even set foot in the
Gazette
building yet. But the day he comes in as owner is the day I walk out, Archie. For good.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. That paper’s your whole life.”

“Nothing’s ever your whole life, Archie,” he said, leaning forward as the cab pulled up in front of the brownstone. “If I was lucky to end up in heaven and MacLaren bought it, I’d request an immediate transfer downstairs. If he gets hold of the
Gazette,
it won’t be the same place it is now, nowhere near. And it sure won’t be a place where I’d want to work. I almost feel like I’m done there already, and so do some others who know what’s going on. What the hell, my profit-sharing and pension will take care of my wife and me just fine for the rest of our lives.”

Since I couldn’t come up with anything intelligent to say to that, I just left it at good night, handed Lon my share of the meter, and climbed out. As the cab pulled away, I saw him leaning back again, eyes closed and hands laced behind his head.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, I WAS
at my desk in the office typing a letter from Wolfe to a Phalaenopsis grower in Illinois when he came down from the plant rooms at eleven. “Good morning, Archie,” he said, going around behind his desk and lowering himself into the only chair in New York constructed to properly support his seventh of a ton. “How did the poker game go last night?” It was his standard Friday-morning question.

“Not bad,” I said, swiveling to face him. “I came out a few bills on the sunny side. It was a grim night for Lon, though. He’s really knocked out by what’s going on at the
Gazette.
”

“Oh?” Wolfe said, without looking up as he riffled through the mail, which as usual I had stacked neatly on his blotter.

“Yeah. Seems the paper is about to be sold. To Ian MacLaren.”

Wolfe looked up and raised his eyebrows. Now he was interested. “I’ve seen no report of this in the
Gazette
or anywhere else.”

“I said the same thing when Lon told me about it last night. He says negotiations have been kept hush-hush by both sides.”

Wolfe scowled. “I sympathize with Mr. Cohen. Without doubt, he would find it difficult, probably intolerable, to work for a newspaper owned by that miscreant.”

“That’s about what he said last night. I told him I couldn’t believe he’d walk away after all these years, but he seems pretty well resolved to do just that.”

“Archie, what do you know about Ian MacLaren?”

Wolfe’s expression surprised me. It’s the one he usually puts on when he’s about to take a case—call it a pout of resignation, accompanied by a sigh that would register on the Richter Scale. But of course we didn’t have a case, let alone a client.

“Not a lot,” I answered. “He’s Scotch. Has newspapers in a bunch of cities around the world. London’s one, although don’t ask me where else. And I think maybe he’s in two or three U.S. towns, too. Lon calls him a sleazy scandalmonger.”

“He puts it well,” Wolfe said, ringing for beer. “Mr. MacLaren is an opportunist who indulges in sensationalist and irresponsible journalism and runs his papers solely for profit.”

Wolfe paused as Fritz Brenner, whom you’ll hear more about later, walked in carrying a tray with two chilled bottles of beer and a glass. This occurrence, which takes place up to six times a day, is as much a part of Wolfe’s routine as the plant room visits. After Fritz left, Wolfe opened one beer, poured, and flipped the bottle cap into his center desk drawer. About once a week he takes them out and counts them to see if he’s gone over his limit, although I’ve never figured out what that limit is.

“Ever seen any of MacLaren’s papers?” I asked.

“No, I only know him by reputation and by what I have read,” Wolfe said, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief. “But the point you’re trying to make is well taken. Is there a place nearby that sells out-of-town and foreign papers?”

“Just a few blocks from here,” I said. It still amazes me, even after all the years of living under the same roof with him, that someone whose head is crammed with so much knowledge of history, philosophy, anthropology, food, orchids, and most of the other subjects in the
Encyclopedia Britannica,
can be so ignorant about the city he lives in. But then, Nero Wolfe hates to leave the brownstone as much as he detests deviating from his daily schedule. For him, getting into a car, even with me at the wheel, is an act of downright recklessness. And when on rare occasions he is forced to venture forth into deepest Manhattan or beyond, he balances his fundament on the edge of the back seat of the Heron sedan he owns and grips the strap as if it were a parachute.

This is not to suggest that he was planning to go out now. No, I was to be the intrepid adventurer. “Find out from Mr. Cohen the names of newspapers owned by Ian MacLaren,” he said as he finished the first bottle of beer and stared pensively at doomed number two. “I would like to see as many as are available.”

“Quite a change of pace in your reading habits,” I said.

Wolfe grunted. “Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised, although I doubt it. Also, when you talk to Mr. Cohen, invite him to join us for dinner tonight. If the notice is too short, perhaps he can come tomorrow. Or early next week.”

When Wolfe invites Lon Cohen to dinner, it’s usually because he wants information. Lon knows this, of course, but doesn’t mind because through the years he’s gotten as good from us as he’s given in the form of scoops involving Wolfe’s cases. Also, Lon fully appreciates Fritz Brenner’s genius as a chef, not to mention the Remisier brandy that gets hauled out whenever he sits at our table.

But why Wolfe wanted to see him puzzled me. This time we weren’t working on anything big, unless you count the business with Gershmann—not his real name—a wholesale diamond merchant who had an exceedingly sticky-fingered employee. But Wolfe, with some not-so-incidental help from Saul and me, had already pieced that one together and had delegated me to meet with Gershmann the next day to tell him who on his payroll had 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 overendowed 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.

T
HERE IS A RULE IN
the brownstone that business is not to be discussed during meals. I was interested that day, as we consumed the salmon mousse and then the omelet, as to whether Wolfe would consider Ian MacLaren some form of business or simply a topic of curiosity. Twice I brought up his name, and each time I got the answer clearly—MacLaren fell into the business category; Wolfe refused to talk about him, preferring instead to hold forth on contemporary architecture, in particular the trend away from the “less-is-more” school, in favor of more ornamentation on buildings. He clearly favored the latter.

After we made the omelet disappear and went to the office for coffee, Wolfe started in on the stack on his blotter. I watched his face as he paged each of the four; it was a series of grimaces, pursed lips, slight shakes of the head, and in one case, an outright shudder. “More wretched than I had imagined,” he pronounced, ringing for beer. When Fritz came in with the tray, Wolfe thrust the papers at him. “Take these and destroy them immediately,” he barked.

“I wish you wouldn’t hold things in,” I said. “Say what you feel.”

“Pfui. I assume you looked at them?”

“Yeah, I skimmed a couple as I walked back from the newsstand. Pretty grim.”

“‘Grim’ hardly covers it. They are abysmal caricatures of journalism. The depth of news coverage is farcical, the editorials simplistic and Neanderthal, the graphics grotesque.” He thumped the blotter with his finger, an unusual show of energy.

“At a quick glance, I thought the L.A. paper’s sports section was pretty good,” I ventured. “Lots of statistics.”

“Fodder for the gamblers, no doubt,” Wolfe grumbled.

“It’s so cheerful here that I’d like nothing more than to while away the afternoon talking about Ian MacLaren’s contributions to the Fourth Estate, but as you may recall, I have a three-thirty appointment with our client the diamond merchant. That should result in a fat check, made out to you, so it would be nice if I showed up on time.”

“I have noted your unswerving devotion to duty,” Wolfe said, “and I hope you will manage to be home on time for Mr. Cohen’s arrival.” I had an answer ready, but before I could unload it, he was back behind his book.