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Death On Deadline
A Nero Wolfe Mystery
By Robert Goldsborough OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1987 Robert Goldsborough
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-6605-2
CHAPTER 1
I've done my share of grousing over the years about Nero Wolfe's obsession with routine: his insistence on lunch promptly at one-fifteen and dinner at seven-fifteen, not to mention the sacred hours of nine to eleven in the mornings and four to six in the afternoons in the plant rooms up on the roof playing with his orchids. Almost nothing will get him to vary that schedule, although one day a few years back, when I was needling him about it, he put down his book, glowered at me, and sucked in a bushel of air, letting it out slowly.
"All right, Archie," he said. "Today is Thursday; I will show my flexibility by forgoing my appointment in the plant rooms if in turn you will call Saul and inform him you are unable to play poker tonight."
He had me, of course, and I backed off. For more years than I'm going to admit to here, I have played in a poker game every Thursday night at Saul Panzer's apartment on East Thirty-eighth near Lexington with Saul, Lon Cohen, Fred Durkin, and one or two others—the cast varies. I think I've missed once in the last five years, and that was because of a virus that knocked me so low that Lily Rowan, so she said later, was going to send over a priest to administer last rites.
Saul Panzer, in case you're new to these precincts, is a free-lance operative Wolfe uses frequently, but just saying that doesn't do him justice. Saul isn't much to look at, what with the stooped shoulders and the permanently wrinkled suits and the usually unshaven face that's about two-thirds nose. But don't be fooled by that or by his size, which makes him look like an aging and only slightly overweight jockey. When you buy Saul Panzer's time—and he doesn't come cheap—you're buying the best eyes and legs in Manhattan and probably in the country. He could tail a cheetah from the Battery to the Bronx during the evening rush hour without losing sight of it, or he could worm his way into the vault at that bank down in Atlanta and get back out again with the secret formula for Coca-Cola. And I mean the old—make that classic—formula.
You're probably wondering why I'm going on about Saul and his Thursday-night poker game. I could say it's because this is one of the best parts of my week, which is true, although the real reason is that this story had its beginnings there. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It was a Thursday in early May, one of New York's first bona fide spring days. Five of us sat around the big table in Saul's dining room. On my left was Lon Cohen, who has an office next door to the publisher of the Gazette and doesn't have a title I'm aware of, but who knows more about what makes New York tick than the city council and the police department combined. Next to him was Fred Durkin, thick and balding and a little slow, but A-one when it comes to toughness and loyalty, another free-lance operative Wolfe has used regularly through the years. On Fred's left was Saul, and between Saul and me was Bill Gore, yet another free-lance we use on occasions.
The game had been going for about an hour and a half. As usual, Saul had the biggest stack of chips, and I was up a little, with Fred and Bill more or less even. Lon, consistently the best player after Saul, hadn't won a hand, and it was easy to see why. He'd folded at least three times with what I'm sure were the winning cards, and once he stayed in the game with a pair of jacks against Fred's obvious straight. He was off his game and playing badly, and when we cashed in a little after midnight he was the only loser. "Tough night, Lon," Fred said as he slipped his profits into his wallet and left humming. For him, it was probably the first winning night in months.
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.
CHAPTER 2
The 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.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Death On Deadline by Robert Goldsborough. Copyright © 1987 Robert Goldsborough. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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