“No, they didn’t quote you, and apparently they couldn’t get to the niece, either. We think that cretin Rowcliff fed them the stuff about Wolfe, and also said you were there when the body was discovered. Give me something, for God’s sake. We need a strong lead for our street edition, and besides, my image is hurting with the man who signs my paychecks.”
“What does the News say about a suspect?” I asked.
“They’re questioning a guy,” Lon answered. “Named Milner. A violinist with the Symphony. The hallman says he was the last visitor Stevens had before his body was found.”
“Look, I probably can’t give you much more than Rowcliff shoveled to the News,” I said. “You can print the fact that Maria Radovich is our client and that we’re investigating the case. And if you like, I can give you a pretty good description of the apartment and the way it looked when I first saw Stevens lying there. Other than that, there’s not much we can say without an okay from our client. Speaking of which, I’ve got to call her.”
“You probably won’t get through,” Lon said. “One of our guys has been trying to reach her for the last hour, and the line’s busy. Phone’s likely off the hook.”
Lon took down my description of the apartment, and a few other tidbits I felt I could safely toss in, and I promised him I wouldn’t return any other calls from the media for at least an hour.
Lon was right about Maria. I called several times, and the line was always busy. I also kept my word and didn’t talk to reporters who phoned during the next hour. Fritz answered on the kitchen extension and gave them all the same message: I was out, and so was Wolfe. When I finally did get around to calling people back, nobody got more than bare bones from me.
After the flurry of calls both in and out, I had some time to open the mail and work briefly on the germination records, although Fritz ran in every five minutes to pump me about the case or ask if I thought Wolfe was getting enough to eat.
The phone hadn’t rung for a while, and I’d just gotten another busy signal from Maria’s number when I heard the hum of the elevator. At eleven sharp, Wolfe came in with Ondontoglossums for the vase, but because we’d talked earlier, he didn’t bother to ask how I’d slept, which was fine with me — I was still irked about his boredom act upstairs.
After he got settled in his chair and rang for beer, I swiveled to face him. “The late edition of the Daily News has the murder; Rowcliff talked to them, Lon says, and we’re both mentioned. I gave Lon a little color, but just sneezed at the other papers and the television stations. And I’ve been trying to call Maria for the last hour, but the line’s busy.”
Fritz came in with two bottles of beer and a glass on a tray. As he set it down in front of Wolfe, the doorbell rang.
It was eleven-oh-six — I made a point of checking my watch, for the record. Wolfe and I looked at each other, and I went to the door, but I knew before I got there who’d be on the other side of the one-way glass. Still, it was comforting when I actually saw the florid, angry face of one Inspector Lionel T. Cramer of Homicide South.
“Come in, Inspector,” I said, grinning. “Believe it or not, we were talking about you just this morning, trying to recall when you visited us last. Mr. Wolfe and I have both felt terribly neglected...”
I stopped because he ignored me, bolting through to the office with his coat still on. He headed straight for the red leather chair and sat, pulling out a cigar and jamming it unlit into his mouth.
“So help me God, I never thought I’d be in this room again,” he snarled at Wolfe. “I honestly thought I’d seen the last of you and this place.”
“It has been a long time,” Wolfe said. “I seem to recall that on your last visit, you complimented me on what a good working room this is, and you also gave the globe a spin. Will you join me for a beer?”
“No, goddammit, I won’t,” Cramer said, glancing at the big Gouchard globe in the corner. He looked about the same as the last time I’d seen him a couple of years before, his hair just as gray and rumpled and maybe with another inch added to an already thick midsection. But he still moved fast for a big man and his eyes hadn’t lost any of their sharpness. Despite all their battles through the years, he and Wolfe held a grudging respect for each other.
“Mr. Cramer represents the best of the law officer,” Wolfe once told me in a rare burst of praise. “It’s true that he’s impulsive and has a quick temper, but beyond that — and more important — he’s honest to a fault, brave, dedicated, and fiercely proud of the New York Police Department. He hates malingerers and incompetents within its ranks and lives with the constant fear that he may someday be responsible for the conviction of an innocent person.” Enough of praise. Right now, Cramer was exhibiting the temper segment of his personality.
“You know why I’ve come,” he snarled at Wolfe, chewing on his stogie. “I should have known better than to believe that you and Goodwin had really hung it up. It’s been too peaceful the last year or two, and now we’ve got one of the biggest murders in this town’s history, and I’m back here again.
“I really thought the Cather thing finished you,” Cramer went on, leaning forward in his chair. “I never asked you how it felt to have a killer working for—”
“Mr. Cramer!” Wolfe spat the words out and brought the palm of his hand down hard on the desk, causing both Cramer and me to jump. “Have I ever taken you to task for the malfeasants who have been employed by the police — some of them in Homicide? Did I ask you how it felt when one of your own lieutenants murdered his wife and children and then shot himself to death? Archie” — he turned to me — “how many operatives have we employed through the years?”
“Four or five, on any regular basis, and another fifteen or twenty on occasions, I suppose. I could look it up.”
Wolfe shook his head. “These men, with the single exception of Mr. Cather, consistently conducted themselves with an admirable degree of honor, dignity, and courage, and one was himself killed while in my employ,” Wolfe said. He was referring to Johnny Keems, who was run down by a car on a case years ago. “Am I now to be held accountable for the actions of one among all those I have paid through the years? Really, Mr. Cramer.” Wolfe was laying it on thick.
“Okay, don’t get so testy,” Cramer said, his face beet red. “That’s ancient history anyway. What I’m really here about — and you know it — is the Milan Stevens murder.”
“We were expecting you,” Wolfe said. “And you have our attention.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad of that,” Cramer said. “You know that I could lift your licenses again for the withholding of evidence from the police. I’ve come for those notes. If you’d turned them over to us right away instead of playing cute, Stevens would still be alive.”
“Come now, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said, turning a palm over. “Let us assume for a moment that we had given you those notes after Miss Radovich had left them with me. Can you honestly say they would have caused you to begin a full-scale search for a potential murderer? Or, as I suspect is more likely, would you have dismissed them as the work of a crackpot? And even if you had undertaken a hunt, where would it have ended?”
“At the same place we are now,” said Cramer. “With Gerald Milner in custody.”
“Indeed?” said Wolfe, raising his eyebrows. “Has Mr. Milner been charged with murder?”
“You know damn well he has,” Cramer said, almost shouting. “We picked him up early this morning.”