W: How many musicians does the orchestra have?
M: It varies depending on the particular piece being played, but for a big symphonic number, there are over a hundred onstage, I think.
W: Do they always occupy the same seats?
M: Basically, except for some shuffling around when special instruments are used.
W: Such as?
M: Oh, guitar, glockenspiel, celesta, things like that. And on another page:
W: Are there women in the orchestra?
M: Oh, yes.
W: How many: Ten? Fifty?
M: I don’t know — maybe about fifteen.
W: Has your uncle ever had a particular interest in any one of them?
M: (blushing) No, never. That would be grossly unprofessional, and Uncle Milos is very strict about things like that. He keeps his private life totally separate from his work.
W: How does he feel about liaisons between orchestra members?
M: (blushing again) I really don’t know. It’s never come up that I’m aware of.
And further on in my notes:
W: Do you know many members of the orchestra well?
M: (pausing) Just a few. I’ve met some at parties, receptions, things like that.
W: As a group, do you like musicians?
M: I... well, it’s like anything else; it depends on the individual, some are nice people, some... aren’t so nice.
W: Do you have an active dislike for anyone in the orchestra?
M: No, I really couldn’t say that. No.
W: (leaning forward slightly) What about a particular fondness?
M: (slight pause) I’m pretty busy with my dancing and don’t really spend much time around the orchestra or Symphony Hall. When we’re not at home, Uncle Milos and I move in separate circles.
And so it went. In all, Wolfe kept at it for almost an hour, and each time he asked her about specific relationships, she tightened up. I could tell when he began to lose interest. The questions got sillier, including one about what kind of clothes women orchestra members wear. About the time I was totally exasperated with him, Wolfe shifted in his chair and said, “Miss Radovich, I have another engagement; Mr. Goodwin knows how to reach you, I believe?”
Maria looked puzzled, nodded, then got up and thanked both of us. Wolfe remained seated as I followed her to the front hall, helped her on with her coat, and assured her I would call her no later than tomorrow.
“But I don’t understand; is Mr. Wolfe going to help or not?” she asked.
“I’ve known him for years, but I don’t understand him either, Miss Radovich. It’s hell living in the same house with someone who thinks he’s an eccentric genius. All I can promise is that I’ll call by tomorrow with some kind of news.” I opened the door for her and watched her walk down our front steps for the second time that day. When I got back to the office, Wolfe was scowling.
“She’s withholding something, of course,” he said.
I nodded. “She was too slow in answering a few times.”
“She’s trying to protect someone,” he said. “Someone she thinks might have written those notes. But she doesn’t want to believe it.”
“No argument here,” I said.
“Your impression?” Wolfe asked. Over the years, he has convinced himself that I’m an expert on women, and I’ve tried my best to maintain the image. “Seems responsible and levelheaded, despite the nervousness,” I said. “And certainly attractive. She probably has a man. I thought you would get into that a little more with her, but maybe you’ve lost your touch. Could be she’s having an affair with someone in the orchestra, which raises all sorts of interesting possibilities.”
Wolfe winced. “Talk to her. Take her dancing. Find out whom she’s shielding.” Having shown he was still capable of giving a direct order, he lifted his bulk out of the chair and headed for the elevator and his afternoon appointment with the orchids.
4
The three of us sat in the office with coffee and brandy, Wolfe and I at our desks and Lon in the red leather chair. Fritz had made good on his promise of a meal to remember: the beef tournedos had never been so good, and the blueberry tart got passed around the table twice. Dinner conversation had ranged from the role of the Palestinians in the Middle East to the future of American cities and the effectiveness of wage-price controls.
Lon passed a hand over his dark slicked-back hair and smiled. “As usual, I’ve had a splendid evening here, and if anything, the brandy has improved since the last time I had the honor of sampling it. But I know you well enough to realize this isn’t strictly social. And tonight, I’m even more curious than in the past, because of your recent... inactivity.”
“Mr. Cohen, we’ve been able to help each other on numerous occasions,” Wolfe said between sips of coffee. “I’ll repeat a question I’ve asked before: On balance, are we substantially even?”
Lon threw up a hand and laughed. “No complaints. None. As I’ve said in the past, I’m running ahead on the deal. If I’ve got an answer that can help in any way, it’s yours.”
Wolfe nodded. “For reasons I can’t divulge now — and which indeed I may never be able to reveal — I need information on the operations and personnel of the New York Symphony Orchestra. Based on my experience with the scope of your knowledge on a variety of subjects, I’m confident you can supply this information.”
Lon grinned and took another sip of Remisier. He was being flattered, none too subtly, by the best, and fattest, detective in New York and probably the world, and he didn’t mind it a bit.
“I didn’t realize you had an interest in orchestral music,” he said, scratching his chin. “Well, I guess I know a fair amount about what goes on over at Symphony Hall. And if I don’t, we’ve got a music critic with more pipelines than OPEC. Shoot.”
Wolfe rang for beer and readjusted himself. “From what little I’ve learned about the orchestra, it appears that some tensions exist among its principals, both the performers and the management. Do you know this to be the case?”
“That’s a delicate way of putting it,” Lon said. “The truth is that the Symphony’s been a jungle for several years. There was a string of weak music directors, none of them able to control the orchestra. Then they brought this guy Stevens over from England a couple years ago, and he has a reputation as one tough cookie. But if anything, the situation seems to have gotten worse.”
“Is all the bickering a manifestation of artistic temperaments?” Wolfe asked. He had never thought much of highbrow music or the people who made it.
“That’s part of it of course,” Lon said. “But there’s a lot more. For one thing, Charlie Meyerhoff, the managing director, has always resented Jason Remmers — feels he’s a dilettante with no real knowledge of music who has his position simply because of wealth and social power.”
“Mr. Remmers is the Symphony’s board chairman, I believe?”
“Right, he’s from the old beer family — that beer,” Lon said, pointing to the bottles on Wolfe’s desk. “Only he’s never been much interested in the beer business, which disappointed his father. Henry Remmers must be close to eighty now, and still has active control of the firm. But Jason, who’s about fifty, married society, and his wife has always been big for the arts. She’s been in her glory the last few years. Actually, Jason’s done a pretty fair job as chairman. It’s a nonpaying post, and a big part of the role is fund-raising. He’s an outgoing guy, damn popular around town, and he seems to know how to coax money out of the mattresses, because the orchestra’s deficit has been cut way down.”
“And he is also responsible for Mr. Stevens’s move from London?” Wolfe asked.