Death on Deadline (8 page)

“You’ve been most candid,” Wolfe began, taking a deep breath. “I’ll return that candor, although as you’ll see, it isn’t a sacrifice; I have little to lay before you. Mr. Goodwin spent much of the morning answering the telephone. We’ve had many inquiries from newspaper and television reporters, but only two calls from potential purchasers, if indeed they can be so termed. Neither of them is a likely candidate.

“It is possible, however, that more calls have come in the last hour,” he continued. “Both instruments in this room are turned off so we wouldn’t be interrupted, and Mr. Brenner will have fielded any messages. Archie, call Fritz.”

I switched on the phone, buzzed the kitchen, and got a quick fill-in. “Three,” I said, looking first at Wolfe and then at Harriet. “All from the media.”

“I have another engagement,” Wolfe said, glancing at the wall clock, which read three minutes to four. “Mr. Goodwin will keep you abreast of any major developments.” He hefted his bulk upright and dipped his chin a full half-inch. For him, that’s a flourish.

In one of those fluid motions I would have expected from a woman forty years younger, Harriet Haverhill rose, and Elliot Dean scrambled to his feet, clearing his throat and tugging on his school tie. “Thank you very much for your time,” she said to Wolfe. “I would appreciate knowing what Mr. MacLaren has to say tonight.”

“It’s very possible he will tell you himself when you meet with him on Friday,” Wolfe said, dipping his chin a second time. Score another point for etiquette. Sometimes I wish I had a video camera, to record such momentous occasions. As I ushered our guests to the hall, Wolfe boarded the elevator to the plant rooms.

Harriet gave me a smile that rated close to ten on the sincerity scale, and I got a whiff of a nice scent, although I couldn’t name it. Dean harrumphed all the way down the stairs. He was still in a snit as they climbed into the dark blue Lincoln limo at the curb. I waved from the stoop as it pulled away, but I can’t report whether they returned it because the windows were tinted. I’ll just assume they did.

I
WENT BACK TO THE
empty office and dropped into my desk chair. What are we doing? I asked out loud. There’s no case, and the bank balance is down over thirty big ones because of that silly ad. The owner of the
Gazette
comes to see us, and she doesn’t seem to know what the hell is going on with her own crazy family. Wolfe talks to her for an hour and comes away with nothing, zero. But then, what was he after in the first place? Okay, so he’s a genius and I usually can’t keep up with him. This time, though, there seemed to be nothing to keep up with. I decided he was showboating, but then I vetoed that because I couldn’t see where it was getting him.

I finally concluded that all those years up in the subtropical plant rooms, four hours a day, six days a week, had baked his brain. Having established that, I turned to the germination records Theodore had left for me and began entering them on file cards, vowing to nag Wolfe again for a personal computer so we could cut down on all the paperwork orchid growing entails. During the next hour, four more calls trickled in, two from reporters with suburban newspaper chains, one from a Connecticut daily, and a fourth from a television evangelist down in Delaware who announced in rolling syllables that he felt he was “being called to own a newspaper.” I handled the three reporters using the basic formula I’d worked up over the past few hours and assured the reverend that he’d be hearing from us, and to be patient.

“God works in many ways,” I told him.

“Amen, brother,” was his answer.

Someday I’ll learn.

When Wolfe came down from the orchids at six, I filled him in on the calls, leaving the preacher till last so I could enjoy his expression. And he didn’t let me down, breaking into one of his better scowls, accompanied by a low growl. He hates evangelists.

“What’s the program for tonight with MacLaren?” I asked.

Another scowl. “Archie, patience has never been one of your virtues,” he said, picking up his book and ringing for beer. “The program, as you refer to it, will be dictated in large measure by Mr. MacLaren’s demeanor, and by his reactions to my first few questions.” Getting the hint that the discussion was over, I ambled into the kitchen to see if I could give Fritz a hand with dinner. All I got for my effort, though, was a bunch of questions as to whether we had a new case. I ducked them, and also Fritz’s query about how much the page in the
Times
had cost. I was afraid that if I gave him the figure, he’d pass out on the spot, which might delay dinner.

Over lamb kidneys with green pepper and dumplings, Wolfe held forth on corporate social responsibilities in a capitalist society, and I have to admit that my contributions to the discussion were slim to none. Maybe I’d been around Fritz too much, because, despite my faith in Wolfe, I found myself starting to worry about why we were spending all this time on a non-case.

Back in the office with coffee, Wolfe retreated behind
The Good War,
leaving me to watch the clock and wonder whether the Scotsman was really going to show up.

At five minutes after nine, the doorbell rang. I went to the hall, and through the one-way glass I saw MacLaren on the stoop—I recognized him from his photographs—along with a guy about a head taller who looked like he’d have no problem qualifying for the Jets’ defensive line. The latter was wearing a raincoat and a scowl.

I walked back to the office doorway. “They’re coming in pairs today,” I said to Wolfe. “MacLaren’s here, and he’s got a hulk with him. Undoubtedly a bodyguard. Instructions?”

“I’m only interested in seeing Mr. MacLaren,” he answered, never taking his eyes off the book.

“As you wish, sir,” I said, in what I thought was a pretty good imitation of Sir John Gielgud. I opened the door with the chain lock on. “Yes?” I inquired mildly, through the crack.

“I’m Ian MacLaren; I’m here to see Nero Wolfe.” His voice had a healthy dose of Scottish burr and he spoke with an economy of language I found ominously nasty.

“We’re expecting you. Who’s your friend?”

“George? He goes everywhere with me.”

“Not in this house, he doesn’t. Have him wait in the car,” I said, pointing through the crack in the door at the second stretch Lincoln that had graced our curb that day. I swung the door open for MacLaren, but blocked the hulk. Okay, so opening the door was a mistake, but I really felt George would head for the limo.

Instead, he grabbed my shoulder with a beefy hand and started to bull his way in. I blocked him again, and he clipped my cheek with a right hand that knocked me back against the doorjamb. Like a lot of big guys, though, he thought one punch would be enough, and he let down his guard. Bracing my right foot, I caught him with a left to the stomach that staggered him. I didn’t give him time to recover and laid a right to the same spot, which was flabbier than I would have thought from eyeballing him. The second one buckled his knees and the third, another left, doubled him over. Both hands went to his stomach and he let out a soft little sigh.

“Stop that!” MacLaren snapped, shooting his cuffs. “George, wait in the car,” he said disgustedly. “Come to the door if I’m not out in an hour.”

George managed a groan and stumbled down the stairs as we went in. I think I damaged his ego. “Was that necessary?” MacLaren demanded as I closed the front door behind us.

“I don’t like anyone thinking I’m a pushover just because I happen to be six inches shorter than they are,” I shot back. “Tell George he needs to work on blocking lefts.”

We stopped in the doorway to the office. I performed the social niceties. “Ian MacLaren, this is Nero Wolfe.” Wolfe looked up, but at me, not our visitor.

“What happened to you?” he snapped.

I realized then that George’s punch had scored some points. My hand went to my left cheek and I winced from the tenderness, coming away with blood on my fingers. “Mr. MacLaren’s … uh … driver and I had a debate on the stoop as to who would be sitting in on this conversation. I outtalked him.”

Wolfe snorted as MacLaren eased into the red leather chair. “I assume Mr. MacLaren’s driver remained outside.”

“In the car,” I said, dabbing my cheek with a handkerchief.

Wolfe turned his attention to our visitor while I settled in at my desk. The press baron, whom I had in left profile, seemed to be all angles—long straight nose, pointed chin, deeply lined cheeks, a flat head covered with well-groomed dark hair flecked with white. Somehow the pieces fit together pretty well, though; I was forced to admit he wasn’t at all bad-looking, hardly an ogre. And his gray suit, while maybe not as expensive as Dean’s, was a nice fit. He studied Wolfe with a democratic smile as he crossed his legs.

“Is
he
going to stay?” he asked, motioning to me.

“Mr. Goodwin is always present at discussions in this room,” Wolfe said. “Anything you have to say to me you can say to him. If you have something too confidential for his ears, I cannot be bothered with it.”

MacLaren’s dark eyes swept the room. “Is it bugged?” he asked quietly.

“No, sir,” Wolfe replied. “You have my word of honor on that. We do not have tape recorders in this house, although Mr. Goodwin takes notes in shorthand. And if you were to insist that he not do so, it wouldn’t matter; he can reconstruct verbatim conversations several hours in length.” MacLaren shot a piercing glance at me and then concentrated on Wolfe.

“All right,” he said. “That ad you bought in today’s
Times
—I could sue you.”

“That would be futile. There’s not an actionable word in the text, and you know it.”

“I’m not so sure.” MacLaren’s smile was disarming. “Anyway, that’s not why I’ve come. I demand to know what you’re up to.”

“I should be asking that question,” Wolfe purred.

“I think it’s pretty obvious. You read the papers and watch TV. And you talked about it in your ad. I want the New York
Gazette.
No secret there.”

“How close are you to getting it?”

“I’m not prepared to discuss that right now.” MacLaren grinned coolly at Wolfe. “The record shows that I usually get what I want, though. Don’t bet against me.”

“Indeed I won’t,” Wolfe said. “Assuming your success—which I’m not yet prepared to do—how do you plan to change the paper?”

“I don’t have to answer that, but I will; the
Gazette
will remain the same as it is now.”

“Flummery!” Wolfe spat.

I expected a violent reaction from MacLaren, but got another smile instead. “Actually, I can see one change,” he said, massaging his chin. “It just occurred to me. How would you like to be a
Gazette
columnist—three times a week?”

“More flummery,” Wolfe grunted.

“Not at all,” MacLaren said. “You could write on anything you felt like. You’d be syndicated nationally, of course. And here in New York, we’d promote you like crazy,” he went on, sweeping his arm in an arc. “TV commercials, radio spots, billboards saying ‘Nero Wolfe—only in the
Gazette!’
Millions would read you daily. And—”

“Enough!” Wolfe showed him a palm. “You wouldn’t want me on your payroll for long, sir. My first column would be devoted to castigating you and the caliber of your newspapers.”

“So much the better!” MacLaren countered heartily. This was beginning to get interesting. “Great publicity for me. For you. For the
Gazette.
Name your salary.”

Wolfe sat rigid in his chair. “Sir, enough of this bavardage. We’re wasting each other’s time.”

“Why don’t you like my papers?” MacLaren demanded, leaning forward in the chair with his hands on the arms.

“Come now, sir. You know the answer. They’re execrable examples of journalism.”

“Readers in eight countries don’t agree,” MacLaren said, still smiling but sticking out his long chin. “Together, the MacLaren Organisation papers sell more than seven million copies a day. There’s not another newspaper group in the world that can claim a circulation total even close to that, and many of them have far more papers than we do. I know what the public wants, and our circulation proves it.”

“What it proves is that the public, or at least part of it, likes pictures of nubile women in states of undress and page-three stories about the peccadilloes of movie and television performers,” Wolfe remarked dryly.

MacLaren ignored the comments and charged on. “As for your statement in the
Times
about our not winning Pulitzers, you should be aware that those things are handed out to the same papers every year. It doesn’t matter what their entries are.”

“Could it be that those papers consistently do the best work?” Wolfe queried softly.

“Ah,” MacLaren sighed, doing another arc-sweep with his hand. “The fact is, I’m not part of the old-boy network of editors and publishers who give these awards to each other. We haven’t won any Pulitzers because of that and for an even more basic reason: we never send any entries in. I have no respect whatever for these prizes, and I’ve said so publicly often enough.”

Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. MacLaren, you don’t yet have control of the
Gazette
or you wouldn’t be here. I doubt that you’re even close to acquiring the paper.”

MacLaren did some squinting of his own, then broke into another grin. “You don’t know that, you can’t. You’re fishing. It’s a ploy, a very transparent one at that, to get me to tell you exactly how many shares are committed to me. No doubt she put you up to it.”

“She?”

“Really, Wolfe. Ingenuousness doesn’t become you. I know that Harriet Haverhill was here earlier today, never mind how. I’m damned if I’m going to become naked before mine enemies.”

“Henry the Eighth,” Wolfe said.

“You’re up on your Shakespeare,” MacLaren said approvingly. “End of Act Three. Poor stupid Cardinal Wolsey to his servant Cromwell. I’m not about to make Wolsey’s mistake. I bid you good night, sir,” he said as he got up to go. “And I do wish you’d reconsider being our columnist. It would be a brilliant coup—for both of us.” Wolfe looked grumpily at MacLaren but said nothing as we walked out of the office. I followed him to the hall and held the door as he strode out and down the steps to the Lincoln, where George presumably was still licking his wounds.