“Funny you should mention that. As a matter of fact, one of our guys found something interesting at the bottom of a stack of papers in one of his desk drawers: photocopies of those six poison-pen notes that were sent to Bay.”
Wolfe raised his eyebrows. “Your reaction?”
Cramer ran a hand through his hair. “Could be Meade was trying to get his boss to opt for early retirement so he could take over the operation.”
“Indeed, sir. Do you really believe he was the author of those notes?”
“Look, we found out from others at the church — and I assume Goodwin did, too — that Meade was one poisonous customer, and damned ambitious. But if you’re trying to tie the notes to the murder, forget it. You had other questions?”
“Have you spoken to Mr. Meade’s widow?”
“Rowcliff talked to her at home — a house on the island about a mile from the church. She’s with a brokerage firm on Wall Street, has a big job there. Anyway, Rowcliff said she’s a pretty strong cookie, that she was standing up well. She told him she couldn’t understand why anybody would want to kill her husband — which is what they all say, of course. But he didn’t get much more out of her, although he wasn’t trying all that hard, given that Durkin was already in the slammer. Apparently Meade enjoyed his work, so his wife said, and he put in awfully long hours. But what’s the big deal with that? So do I. Look where I am at nine-thirty on a weeknight.”
“When you could be at home watching police adventures on your television screen,” Wolfe murmured. Humankind never ceases to astonish him.
Cramer glowered at his mangled cigar as if he’d never seen it before. “Yeah, right. I assume you’re going to stick with this business. I’ve been around you long enough to realize that there’s no way on God’s earth I can pry you off something you’ve glommed onto. By the way, who’s paying you?”
“No one,” Wolfe replied.
“Incredible. That’s one for Ripley. Well, if you come across any information that I’d be interested in — and I’m just saying if, I’m not expecting anything — I want to know about it.”
“That is a fair request, sir.”
“I thought so too. What’s your third question?”
“Have you conducted tests to confirm that a gunshot could not be heard from outside Mr. Meade’s office with the door closed?”
“We have. That place really is a fortress. One of my men fired blanks from a thirty-eight in that office, and the guy out in the hall said he heard something that could have been a book — a small book — falling on a carpet, that’s all. We also had people in the offices on either side of Meade’s, and they didn’t hear anything — not a peep. Before I go, you’d better damn well hear this, both of you,” Cramer said, getting up and standing at Wolfe’s desk. “Because Durkin is cooked, really cooked.”
“You know very well that I prefer conversing with those who are at eye level,” Wolfe growled.
“I’ll keep standing, thanks,” Cramer growled back. “The exercise is good for your neck. Anyway, here’s two things maybe you don’t know: First, the department up in Albany that licenses you guys got a letter about ten days ago from one Royal Meade of Richmond County — that’s Staten Island, in case you were home sick the day they covered that in geography class. The letter, with a carbon copy to Durkin, said that he, Durkin, was unfit to hold a private investigator’s license in the state of New York and went on to detail some of his tactics at the Silver Spire — including his bullying two women to let him see personnel records of various employees. As it turned out, they both refused to show him the records and told Meade about it.
“At the state’s request, I sent a man to the church to check on Durkin’s activities, and another woman on the staff, a part-time secretary, told my man she overheard Durkin saying ‘I’m going to kill that bastard’ after he and Meade had had a noisy argument in the hallway outside Meade’s office.”
Wolfe raised his shoulders and let them drop. “Angry braggadocio on Fred’s part,” he remarked.
“Yeah, well, how do you think it’ll play in court when that nice little woman — she’s about four-eleven and in her sixties — quotes Durkin?”
“Is that all?” Wolfe demanded.
“Isn’t it enough, for God’s sake?” Cramer roared, pounding a fist on Wolfe’s desktop. “Durkin’s a hothead, a damn loose cannon, but he’s fired once too often. I’ll see myself out,” he spat, turning on his heel. “I remember the way.”
I followed him down the hall and bolted the door behind him. “That wasn’t very cheerful news,” I told Wolfe when I got back to the office. “It must have upset Cramer, too, though. First, he didn’t fling his mutilated stogie at the wastebasket — he had the decency to take it with him. Second, he didn’t say boo to me on the way out, not a word, and he always throws at least one parting zinger my way.”
“Among the things upon which we agree, Archie, is that Inspector Cramer is essentially an honorable man. His methods and mental processes often fall short of adequacy, although the same cannot be said of his conscientiousness. He is understandably troubled, because despite his gainsaying it, and despite this latest damning report, he is as convinced as we are that Fred is innocent. However, being a pragmatist as well, the inspector realizes that to pursue his investigation further is to in effect suggest that one church stalwart has murdered another — hardly a prudent move for a high-ranking public servant. He would be pilloried by his superiors, not to mention the treatment he would receive at the hands of some of the less responsible segments of the media.” Wolfe sighed. “It falls to us alone to extricate Fred from this morass, which appears to be deepening.”
“Okay, let’s start extricating,” I said. “What do we do next?”
Wolfe rang for more beer, then readjusted his bulk. “Visit Mrs. Meade tomorrow. Call upon your interrogatory skills to discover whatever you can about her late husband’s attitudes toward his job and his coworkers. Also, return to the church and seek permission from Mr. Bay to conduct a search of Mr. Meade’s office. If he balks at the request, call me.”
“What am I looking for?”
He pursed his lips. “What indeed. Undoubtedly, members of the church staff — including his murderer — already have gone through Mr. Meade’s papers, so whatever clues existed may have been obliterated. However, it is possible that some crumbs were overlooked by the broom. Use your intelligence, guided by experience.”
I grinned. “Where have I heard that line before?”
“Wise counsel bears repetition,” he said airily. “Give particular attention to Mr. Meade’s Bibles. Surely there are several on his shelves. Sift through them for notations, underlinings, dog-eared pages.”
“So you think he wrote those notes threatening Bay, huh?”
“I did not say that,” Wolfe replied. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Attend the service at Mr. Bay’s church on Sunday.”
“Any particular reason? I can watch it on television. So, for that matter, can you.”
Wolfe made a face. “I would like to receive the benefit of your observations and reactions,” he said, drinking beer and retreating behind his book. I thought of a great comeback, but I sat on it. After all, I had gotten what I wanted — marching orders. There was nothing to be gained by alienating the field marshal.
Thirteen
When he gives orders, Wolfe rarely concerns himself with how they get carried out. He figures that’s part of what he pays me for. So the next morning after breakfast I was in the office punching a telephone number I know by heart.