“Yes, I think so. You’d want to see them here, of course. They might not like it, particularly Charlie Meyerhoff, but they’ll come, either together or separately, as you wish. If you let me know when you want them...”
“Mr. Goodwin will call you with a precise time,” Wolfe said. “And we’ll want to see them all at once. The other question, sir: Where were you on Wednesday night between seven-thirty and eight-thirty?”
Remmers flashed that grin again. It was easy to see him in the role of fund-raiser. “I knew that was coming. Nineteen nights out of twenty, I’d have a drum-tight alibi — a dinner, a reception, the opera, maybe the Symphony itself. But I had an upset stomach Wednesday, so I begged off a dinner invitation at the home of some friends, and my wife went alone. I spent the early part of the evening reading, and about a quarter to eight, I went out for a walk — I needed the fresh air to help settle me. I walked around a few blocks in our neighborhood — we live on Beekman Place — and I was back home by nine or so. Unfortunate timing, isn’t it?”
“Did you see anyone?” Wolfe asked.
“Just the doorman in our building, and I suppose the hallman, too. The doorman and I chatted briefly both when I left and came back. Otherwise, I saw at least a dozen people walking their dogs, but nobody I knew.”
“Very well,” Wolfe said, looking at the wall clock again. “I know your schedule is a busy one, and I appreciate your taking the time to come here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wolfe,” Remmers said, rising. He started to reach out a hand, then remembered where he was and dipped his head. I followed him out to the front hall and helped him on with the cashmere, then watched him bound down the steps to a parked limousine that looked to be twice the length of the car that had waited for Cramer earlier.
When I got back to the office, Fritz was on his way out, having just deposited a glass and two bottles of beer in front of Wolfe. “Hah!” I said. “You didn’t want him to see you drinking the family brew, did you? Afraid he’d think you were buttering him up?”
“Nonsense,” Wolfe shot back as he poured beer and watched the foam settle. “It merely would have distracted from our conversation. Mr. Remmers undoubtedly would have felt some comment was necessary, which in turn would have elicited a response from me, and so on. I did not invite him here to indulge in small talk.”
“You didn’t invite him at all, he invited himself,” I retorted, but his face was already hidden by an open book, which always happens when I get in the last word.
13
I’m sure Fritz’s poached salmon with mousseline d’homard was superb, but for the third straight day I was eating without tasting. I envy Wolfe’s facility for totally shutting out business whenever he crosses the sill into the dining room; that afternoon he put away three big helpings of the salmon, all the while holding forth on how future historians might view the presidency of one Richard M. Nixon. I threw in a few comments here and there, but on balance I was hardly a good conversational partner. As strong as my own feelings are about the man from San Clemente, I couldn’t get my mind off Maria Radovich and Jason Remmers and Gerald Milner, the last of whom was at that very moment sitting in the South Room eating the same food we were.
It seemed as if lunch lasted six hours, but finally we were back in the office with coffee, which meant business was fair game again. “Look,” I said, swiveling in my chair to face Wolfe, “how long are we going to keep our houseguest? I can’t see that he’s doing us any good here.”
Wolfe sipped his coffee and set the cup down deliberately. “I agree that the time has come to turn Mr. Milner loose. My principal reason for housing him was to give Mr. Cohen and his newspaper an advantage over their competition on the story. They now have that advantage, so he should be told that he is free to go.”
What Wolfe was actually saying was that I should suggest to Milner that he pack. Heaven forbid that Wolfe himself have to tell a guest to leave. I was about to make a remark when the doorbell rang.
“Probably Cramer,” I said, “back again to try talking us off the case. Are you available?”
He grunted. “Yes, I’ll see him.”
But it wasn’t the inspector’s mug I saw when I looked through the one-way panel. I wouldn’t have wanted to try guessing her age, although her well-coiffed white hair told me she’d already been around awhile when I first saw the light of day back in Ohio. Her skin looked as good as a teenager’s, though, and if pressed for a single adjective, I would have called her elegant. She was wearing a black coat with a white fur collar that had to have set her back a few bills. Whoever she was, I concluded she was no immediate threat, so I slid off the chain lock.
“Yes?” I said, swinging open the door.
“I would like to see Mr. Wolfe,” she said. “I realize I don’t have an appointment, but I know he is at home most of the time.” Her voice seemed tinged with French, although as Wolfe has pointed out a number of times, I’m out of my league when it comes to languages and accents.
“I don’t know if he can be disturbed right now,” I said, stepping back and letting her in so I could close the door against the November gusts. “I’ll ask, though. Who should I say is calling?”
“My name is Alexandra Adjari,” she said.
It registered, of course, and I turned toward the open door to the office. When I got there, Wolfe was on his feet, looking past me into the hall with an expression I’d never seen him wear. I was trying to read it when she eased past me. “Hello, Nero, it’s been a long time,” she said, holding out a gloved hand.
“Alexandra,” he answered, shaking hands across the desk. “I recognized your voice instantly.”
“Even though you hadn’t heard it in heaven knows how many years?” she said with a laugh. A nice laugh. “I don’t believe you, Nero, but thank you for saying it. You’re looking well.”
Wolfe gestured at himself. “As you can see, I’ve added layers through the years — insulation against life’s myriad assaults.” He turned toward me. “This is Mr. Goodwin.”
She took my hand with a firm grasp and smiled. “I assumed so when I saw him at the door. I’ve read a good deal about both of you through the years. I see the New York Times frequently.”
Wolfe dipped his head a full inch, which is for him a sweeping bow. “Please,” he said, indicating the red leather chair. I took her coat and hung it up, and when I got back, he was asking if she’d eaten.
“Yes, thank you, I had lunch on the plane coming over. I’ve only just been in New York an hour or so. I started making arrangements to come as soon as I heard about Milos. As you can imagine, it’s big news in London, too.”
Wolfe nodded, and at his suggestion, Alexandra agreed to have coffee. After Fritz had served her and she’d taken a first sip, he readjusted himself and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. “You’ve come for the memorial services?”
“Partly,” she said, “but also to be with Maria Radovich. I’m very fond of her, and I thought she might need some comforting, having no relatives other than Milos. I tried to call her after I checked in at the Churchill, but there was no answer at their apartment.”
“Mr. Goodwin knows her whereabouts,” Wolfe said, “and can tell you how to reach her. I can assure you she’s in the care of friendly and sympathetic persons. As far as memorial arrangements, details are not yet firm.”
Alexandra waved her hand. “That’s not my main concern,” she said. “Let the dead bury their dead. I know that must sound callous, considering that I was married to the man for seventeen years, but as I think you know, it was a marriage in name only after the first three years or so. We were separated the rest of the time, and we were divorced...” — she paused to think — “... more years ago than I care to remember. I don’t think I’ve even seen Milos more than four or five times in all the years since then. I can still remember what you told me after I decided to marry him — can you?”