Lucinda Forrester-Moore isn’t listed in the Manhattan telephone directory, but Lily has some sort of guide to the city’s elite, and when I called her, she looked up the address, which turned out to be a building about two blocks up Park from her own place. That was too long a walk on too cold a day, so I took a cab. The driver pulled up in front of one of those tall white modern buildings that have so many setbacks they look like squared-off wedding cakes, a style which if nothing else provides terraces for a lot of the upper-altitude apartments. A doorman who still had his uniform from Napoleon’s army sniffed as I passed him, and I found myself in a circular lobby that was all floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There was an alcove at the far side of the circle where a hallman in a pretty snappy uniform of his own sat behind a desk. He looked up as I approached, but didn’t open his mouth.
“I’d like to see Mrs. Forrester-Moore,” I said. “My name is Archie Goodwin.” I gave him my top-of-the-line calling card, a glossy egg-shell-white job with my name engraved in the center and the words “Office of Nero Wolfe” in the lower right-hand corner. “Is she expecting you?” he asked in a bored tone that he probably practiced evenings at home.
“No, but I think she’ll want to see me. When you call upstairs, make sure you mention that I’m from Nero Wolfe’s office,” I said, trying to sound bored myself.
He turned to his white telephone and punched out a number. He kept his voice so low I couldn’t hear him from three feet away, and after a few seconds he hung up and turned back to me.
“She’ll see you,” he said, wearing the disappointment all over his face. “Sixteenth floor.” He pointed to the elevators in a hallway off the circle. A young kid in a not-so-fancy uniform ran me up to sixteen in silence, and as the doors opened, he pointed to the left. “That’s the door you go to,” he said. “Only apartment on the floor.”
When I pressed the buzzer, I didn’t hear anything ring, but after a few seconds the door swung open to reveal a mousy little woman in a black-and-white uniform with a starched cap. “Mr. Goodwin?” she asked. When I nodded she slid to one side in a classic maid’s motion so I could pass. I was in an entrance hall the size of a small church, with a chandelier that looked as if it could light Madison Square Garden. “Please wait in here,” the maid said, leading me to a sitting room with a white rug, white walls, and white furniture. “Mrs. Forrester-Moore asked me to tell you she’ll join you shortly.”
“Shortly” turned out to be twenty-four minutes by the digital watch Lily had given me for my birthday. I was on the second cigarette when she walked in and held out a manicured hand. “Mr. Goodwin. This is a nice surprise,” she said. “I hope you’ll pardon the wait; I was napping when you rang and...” She smiled and gestured at her clothes and her hair. Even at fifty-plus, Lucinda Forrester-Moore was easy to look at. She was wearing a floor-length yellow-and-orange flowered number with ruffles on the cuffs and collar, and her dusty-blond hair looked like the handiwork of a gilt-edged Fifth Avenue salon.
“Please sit down,” she said with a slight trace of some kind of accent. This was my week for foreign women. “Can I get you a drink?” she asked as she sat in a chair across the coffee table from mine.
I said no and began to state my business, when she interrupted. “I’ve heard and read about you before, of course, but haven’t we met somewhere? I should remember, but I can’t.”
“You’ve got a good memory at that,” I said with a grin. “It was several years ago, possibly at Rustermans; I was with Lily Rowan.”
“Of course — Lily, now I recall it. A delightful girl. I haven’t run into her for a long time. Do you still see her?”
I said I did, and that she had sent her best. All the while, I was getting a very thorough once-over.
“Mr. Goodwin, I love your suit — is it a Ralph Lauren?”
“It’s a Bloomingdale’s markdown,” I said, “but thanks anyway. Now, Mrs. Forrester-Moore, the reason I’m here—”
“That’s such a clumsy name to say, isn’t it?” she asked, flashing her pearly whites. “I wish you’d just call me Lucinda, everybody does. I was married once, but I held onto my maiden name, Forrester, too. Perhaps that was silly, but I wanted to keep part of my old self. And I’m sure I know why you’re here. It’s about Milan.” Her expression became instantly sober. “I read that your Nero Wolfe is interested in the case, although I can’t imagine why. Don’t they think they’ve caught the murderer?”
“Mr. Wolfe isn’t so sure, and because he’s a genius, I take his word for things and try to humor him.”
“I’d love to meet the man sometime,” she said, tucking her feet under her. “But how can I be of help to you now?”
“Well, Mrs. Forrester — Lucinda — you and Mr. Stevens had been together a lot in the last few months, and I thought perhaps you might have some insight as to who might have wanted him dead.”
“The police stopped by and asked me the same thing,” she said, shrugging and rolling her round blue eyes. “I’ll tell you what I told them: If Milan had enemies, I wasn’t conscious of it. Mr. Goodwin, he was a very private person, especially about his work. He rarely talked about the orchestra when we were together, and I never brought up the subject. I think one of the reasons he enjoyed being with me was that he could escape from that part of his life completely.” She accented the last word.
“I can appreciate that,” I said, “but maybe without realizing it at the time, you heard a remark from Mr. Stevens or overheard something said to him that might be significant. Surely he didn’t keep everything to himself.”
“Oh, no, occasionally he’d bring up the Symphony, but not often at all.” She did the eye-roll again. “The only time I can remember his making a negative comment was about Mr. Remmers.”
“Jason Remmers?”
“Yes, although it was just a passing remark, something about how he felt Jason was losing confidence in him. But Milan didn’t seem too concerned at the time. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it to you, it was so insignificant.”
“How long ago was that?”
Another shrug. “Oh, maybe two or three months. Really, it was just an aside, nothing important. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Did he ever talk about anyone else in the Symphony? Mr. Meyerhoff, perhaps. Or Gerald Milner, or—”
“No, Archie — may I call you Archie? I hate formality. No, honestly, it wasn’t like him to speak about the job. He spent so much time on the orchestra as it was that he didn’t like to think about it after hours.” She shifted in her chair and adjusted her hem to give me a glimpse of a sandaled ankle and a trim calf. “I want as badly as you to see the murderer punished, probably worse. But why doesn’t Mr. Wolfe think Gerald Milner did it?”
“Beats me. As I said before, he’s a genius, and he doesn’t usually share his thought processes with me. I assume you were aware that Gerald Milner and Maria Radovich were serious about each other?”
“Yes, I knew that,” she said, looking down and smoothing her gown over her lap. “I had only met him once, in the lounge at Symphony Hall, I think it was. Now that you mention it, Milan did bring up his name once or twice, and it was obvious that he wasn’t overly fond of him. He seemed like a nice young man, though, and I was shocked about... what has happened.”
“Can you remember specifically what Stevens said about him?”
“Oh, it was something like ‘I don’t know how Maria could be interested in him.’ Like the Remmers thing, it was just a passing comment, he didn’t go on about it. When I said I thought he was nice, Milan changed the subject.”