“Absolutely. As I said, Stevens has a reputation for being tough, a real hard-nose. The Symphony had suffered from a lack of leadership and discipline, or so our music critic felt compelled to write every other Sunday.”
“But Mr. Stevens hasn’t been the answer?” Wolfe asked.
“Not really,” Lon said, pausing for another sip of brandy. “I don’t follow the Symphony like I do the Knicks, but I know there’s been plenty of offstage backbiting. Both Meyerhoff and David Hirsch, the associate conductor, have been plenty open about their feelings concerning Stevens. They apparently feel — again, this is our music critic talking — that his Prussian approach hasn’t worked. Oh, the orchestra has more discipline now, but at the expense of spirit. They’re all so damned terrified of Stevens, or so the story goes, that the quality of the playing has fallen off. Now, I’ll concede that Meyerhoff and Hirsch both have a hatchet they want to hone: Meyerhoff resents Remmers, and so probably would have criticized anyone he picked. And Hirsch wanted the job himself, from what I’ve heard, but doesn’t have the ability to handle it.”
“Is this manner of tension and infighting usual in an orchestra?” Wolfe asked as I refilled Lon’s snifter and my own.
“I suppose so, to a degree,” Lon answered. “Hirsch didn’t get along with the last music director either, and what little I know about Meyerhoff tells me he’s not exactly Mr. Sunshine. That artistic temperament you mention is justification for all kinds of behavior in the theater and music world. But the fact remains that Stevens, whatever his musical abilities, has not pulled the orchestra together the way Remmers hoped he would.”
Wolfe made a face, probably envisioning wild-eyed musicians swearing at one another and throwing tantrums. He continued questioning Lon, asking about the personnel and mechanics and operation of the Symphony. Lon will always say he doesn’t know much about a given subject, but invariably he turns out to be a two-legged encyclopedia on any topic you throw out. The Lon Cohen I know best seems most at home holding a pair and betting the pot, and his knowledge of the orchestra surprised even me. I could see that Wolfe was careful not to appear overly interested in Stevens, but he kept circling back to him.
Finally, at a quarter to one, Lon stretched his arms and allowed as how he had to be bright-eyed for an early-morning meeting with the publisher. “I’d kill to know what you’re up to,” he said, grinning at Wolfe, “but I know you aren’t going to open up, so I’ll just hope for the first call if something breaks. And if nothing does, I’ve still had the kind of evening that makes me forget we’re in the midst of one of the most violent cities in the world.” Lon lifted his empty glass to Wolfe and rose.
“Mr. Cohen, I appreciate your patience, and I thank you for dining with us,” Wolfe said. “One more favor, if you wilclass="underline" Can Mr. Goodwin get access to your back files on the orchestra?”
“Consider it done,” Lon said. “Archie, call before you come, and I’ll clear it with our morgue.” I went with Lon to the door, saw him out, and bolted it for the night, returning to the office, where Wolfe was reclining in his chair, eyes closed and fingers interlaced over his stomach.
“Okay,” I said, returning to my desk, “I retract several recent comments; you really do still know how to work. But where are we? What have we got? All we really know is—”
“Archie!” It was well short of a bellow, but it stopped me. “Your notebook. Instructions.”
5
Because I function best on at least eight hours’ sleep, it was nine-thirty when I rolled out and showered, and almost ten by the time I got to the kitchen. Fritz had my copy of the Times propped up on the rack at the small table where I eat, and a steaming pot of coffee was ready, along with wheatcakes and bacon. I nodded to him and attacked the paper, but I could feel his eyes as I read and sipped the coffee. I finally looked up.
“Archie, how was last night?” he asked, kneading his hands. “Was the food all right? Did everything go well?”
“The tournedos were out of this world, your best work. Mr. Cohen praised them at least three times. He said it was the finest meal he’d had in years.”
“Archie...” Fritz’s dark eyes implored. “You know what I am asking you. Is he working again?”
I started in on the wheatcakes before answering. “It’s possible. Even probable. I have some instructions, but I’ll never be able to concentrate on them unless I can eat in peace.” Fritz reddened and quickly turned away to begin working on lunch.
In fact, I did have instructions, but they were slender. Wolfe had said last night he would take the case, but only with the proviso (his word) that Maria Radovich deliver her uncle to the house for a conversation. At that point, I had accused him of trying to dodge work by setting up an impossible requirement, but he insisted that he had to see the potential victim. “Only Mr. Stevens is likely to give us an accurate accounting of who his enemies might be, at least those within the orchestra,” Wolfe had said. “It is almost surely a nest of eccentrics, and no one knows them better than he. That his niece can’t — or won’t — be of much help has become obvious.” I was also to go through the Gazette files on Stevens and his previous orchestral jobs and find any other information the clips might contain.
It was ten-thirty when I went to the office, opened the morning mail, and tried to call Maria with the mixed news that Wolfe would take the case — if she could deliver Uncle Milos to West Thirty-fifth Street. No answer. She was probably at a dance rehearsal, and Stevens was in his office at Symphony Hall, I supposed. I then called Lon and had better luck. He was through with his meeting and said to come on over.
“I’m still sated from last night,” Lon said when I got to his office on the twentieth floor. “Please send my regards again to Fritz. Now for business: our librarian knows you’re coming down to go through some clips. You can’t take anything out of the morgue — house rules. But there’s a photocopying machine right there. And, Archie, if something big is about to happen at the Symphony, don’t forget your friends.”
Ten minutes later, I was set up in the corner of a high-ceilinged dingy room with a stack of envelopes labeled “NY Symphony,” one fat envelope per year, plus another, thinner envelope that read: “Stevens, Milan, NY Symph. Conduc, 1975-date.”
There wasn’t much in the clips that we hadn’t already learned from Maria or Lon, but I was interested in the biography of Stevens that ran just after his appointment. It called him a “Yugoslav by birth” and gave his original name. It was mostly basic materiaclass="underline" marriage and divorce, previous positions, awards, and a brief mention that his niece would be living with him in New York. The few direct quotes were general ones where he said things like “The New York Symphony is one of the world’s great orchestras” and “I’m overwhelmed by the appointment.” I made a photocopy of the biography, along with one of a particularly negative concert review the Gazette critic had done last year calling Stevens “unimaginative in his selections of music, uninspired in his leadership, and unimpressive at the podium.”
Wolfe was at his desk reading and drinking beer when I walked in at five minutes to one. “There’s not a lot to report,” I said, replying to his questioning glance. “I’ve been to the Gazette and have some clips on Stevens.” I laid them on his blotter. “Nothing exciting, except that their biography includes his given name, which must have eluded at least a few of their nine hundred thousand readers.”
Wolfe wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of a scowl. He spread the photocopies on his desk and began reading. After two minutes, he looked up. “Has he agreed to come?”