“The police have the rest of Mr. Milner’s story,” Wolfe said, looking at Cramer. “He discovered the body and, realizing he’d be the prime suspect, fled in alarm, leaving the apartment as he found it — except for his fingerprints — and leaving the front door open. His running away was a bonus for the real murderer, who probably thought Milner would call the police when he found the body. That he didn’t made things look even worse for him than they would have.
“In any case, Mr. Milner’s presence in the apartment had been definitely established. And the murderer further knew that because of the nature of Hubbard’s absence from the lobby, he, Hubbard, would never volunteer that he had been gone for a few minutes. Hubbard could be expected to state — as he did — that he was on duty all evening and that Milner was the only person who had asked to see Stevens.”
“Fascinating but farfetched,” Cramer said. “For one thing, who’s the hooker? And what does Hubbard say about all this?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Wolfe said, touching the buzzer under his desk. Everyone turned to the door, which in a few seconds was opened by Saul Panzer. Saul stepped aside and ushered an ashen-faced Tom Hubbard into the office.
“Mr. Hubbard,” Wolfe said, “we haven’t been introduced. My name is Nero Wolfe, and I think you’ve met Inspector Cramer.” Before either Cramer or Hubbard could speak, Fred Durkin squeezed into the already crowded room with Mindy Ross in tow.
“Everyone is here now,” Wolfe said. “Inspector, this is the young woman I was telling you about earlier. Miss Ross, do you recognize this man?” Wolfe nodded toward Hubbard.
“Yeah, that’s him,” she muttered sullenly, “the one I was telling you about.”
“What did you tell me about him? Please repeat it.”
“He’s the one who... the car. Do I have to—”
“This is perverse!” Hirsch shouted. “Must we sit through this? What’s it proving?”
“Shut up!” Cramer bellowed. “Let her go on.”
“Miss Ross, how did you happen to approach this particular man?” Wolfe asked.
“I got money to go there and talk to him and, you know, take him to a car.”
“Is the person who gave you that money in this room?”
“Yeah, him.” She pointed at Charles Meyerhoff.
“I’m not going to stay here and take this!” Meyerhoff barked, standing up, but Purley Stebbins laid a beefy hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.
“This is a disgrace,” Meyerhoff yelled, “being accused by a whore! I didn’t kill Milan Stevens, and I’m not saying any more.”
“Technically, that’s true,” Wolfe conceded, draining his glass and dabbing his lips with a handkerchief.
“What’re you saying?” Cramer put in. “You heard the girl.”
Wolfe held up a hand. “As I stated earlier, the truth was crying out to me, but I ignored it. First, the same phrase was used by two people at different times. ‘It was just a thing of convenience,’ they each said. Strange that both would use precisely the same words, unless of course they had rehearsed what they would say, anticipating questions. And why would there be questions, other than in an investigation?
“But as I said, I refused to read the sign. Then, through the efforts of an associate in Europe, I learned that Mr. Stevens some fifteen years ago had fired a young man from the Munich orchestra when he was its conductor, and a few days later the musician drove his car off a cliff, killing himself.
“The dead man’s name was Willy Wald, and I ignored yet another sign until Mr. Goodwin by chance used the word ‘translate’ in conversation, waking me from my slumber. My German-English dictionary translates ‘wald’ to ‘woodland’ or ‘forest.’ Mr. Wald was the younger brother of Lucinda Forrester-Moore. Correct, madam?”
Lucinda had a trace of a smile on her face as she looked levelly at Wolfe. “I’d always wanted to meet you,” she said in a low voice. “I’d heard so much about you.”
“Just so. Yesterday afternoon, through friends in the press, I found that you are a German native, having immigrated to the United States in nineteen sixty-four, the year after your brother’s death. You moved to New York, and a few years later married Mr. Moore, taking his name, but also maintaining an English approximation of your own surname.”
“It now appears that was a mistake,” she said, still smiling.
“Perhaps,” Wolfe replied with a shrug, “although my ego wants to believe that I eventually would have found the answer on the duplicated phrase alone. By the way, I congratulate you on losing almost all traces of accent in thirteen years.”
“Thank you,” she said, dipping her head slightly.
“Also, your asking Mr. Goodwin back a second time was a tactical error,” Wolfe said. “You overplayed your hand. It seemed obvious from his report of that meeting that you were trying to muddy the waters by focusing suspicion on Mr. Hirsch, and to a lesser degree Mr. Sommers — perhaps as a contingency in the event that Mr. Milner found a way to prove his innocence.” Wolfe turned to Meyerhoff. “However, sir, you may be interested to know that she did not attempt to throw any suspicion upon you, despite an opening Mr. Goodwin gave her to do so.
“When I confronted Mr. Hirsch with the charge that he had made implied verbal death threats to Milan Stevens, his reaction was such that I all but eliminated him from consideration. Patently, talking in that manner was not his style.”
Wolfe turned to Cramer, who had moved behind Lucinda, while Purley Stebbins remained at Meyerhoffs right shoulder. “I said that I was convinced Stevens’s murder was the result of a deep-seated and intense hatred. And such hatred could indeed have been sparked by the death of a loved one — in this case, a brother.
“Lucinda Forrester left Europe shortly after her brother’s death, bitter and resentful toward Milan Stevens but probably resigned to never having the opportunity for revenge. Imagine how she must have felt, years later, when she learned he was moving to the very city in which she lived. Coincidentally, she as a recent widow had been spending time with another member of the Symphony, Mr. Meyerhoff. However, she shifted her attentions to Mr. Stevens soon after his arrival here. Even then, she probably had begun to lay plans for his murder, although I doubt if she shared those plans with Mr. Meyerhoff at that time, and Mr. Stevens, who likely had never met the sister of Willy Wald in the Munich years, was totally unsuspecting. As for Mr. Meyerhoff, he grew increasingly unhappy over Milan Stevens’s dictatorial ways, which steadily increased his power within the orchestra — at Meyerhoffs expense. Further, the managing director had grown deeply attached to Mrs. Forrester-Moore.
“This combination of emotions on the part of Meyerhoff was perfect for her purposes. She had for months, no doubt, been contemplating a way to avenge her brother’s death, which she had always felt was directly attributable to Stevens. When the maestro and Milner had their public confrontation and word of it got back to her — possibly from Stevens himself — she had an unexpected opportunity. But as plans took form in her mind, she realized the need for an accomplice, and she approached Meyerhoff. You’ll have to ask him whether he initially resisted, but in any event she was able to enlist him and they set to work.
“The notes to Stevens at home were her first step because, as I said earlier, even murder was not sufficient satisfaction for her; she wanted his suffering to be psychological as well. It turned out to be a pivotal decision, because the notes were what in effect brought Mr. Goodwin and me into the case — a case that at the time was not yet a capital one.