“Just lucky, I guess,” I remarked.
“Listen,” Cramer roared, jabbing a thick index finger in Wolfe’s direction, “with what’s happened, we can make things hot for Goodwin, as in blast-furnace hot. You’re so goddamn smug, both of you — well, let’s see who ends up laughing.” He flung what was left of the cigar at the wastebasket, missing as usual. I used to think his aim was lousy, but in the last few years I think I’ve finally figured it out: He’s always so mad and so frustrated after a visit to the brownstone that cigar-littering is his endearing way of getting some revenge.
By the time I got to my feet, Cramer, who moves remarkably well for a big man, already was in the hall. I was a full three paces behind him when he pulled open the front door, turning to me with a final salvo.
“One way or another, Goodwin, there’s a good chance you could find yourself getting bloodied on this one — and Wolfe too. And if that should happen, by God, I can’t say it will bother me one bit.” Before I could reach the door, Cramer had slammed it behind him so hard that the small picture of the windmill next to the coatrack rattled and slipped to a cockeyed angle. I straightened it and went back to the office. “The man seemed a touch out of sorts,” I said to Wolfe.
“Archie, you enjoy quoting odds,” he said quietly as he reached for his book. “This time, however, I cast myself in the role of bookmaker. I shall give fifteen-to-one that we have not heard the last of this affair.”
“Funny, that’s essentially what Cramer communicated as he left, although in somewhat less genteel terms,” I replied. “Anyway, it’s no bet. Right now, I wouldn’t take twenty-five-to-one, and you know how much I enjoy betting on long shots.”
Six
It didn’t take even twenty-four hours to prove Wolfe a good oddsmaker, but then, I’m getting ahead of myself. I knew the afternoon edition of the Gazette would play Linville’s murder big, and Lon didn’t disappoint me. The banner was WEALTHY HEIR SLAIN, accompanied by a news story that jumped to page two, a head-and-shoulders photo of a grinning Linville in black tie, a picture of the murder scene, i.e., the concrete floor of an Upper East Side garage, and both a related story and a lead editorial on how neither poor nor rich are safe in an age of mindless violence. Friday morning’s Times, which I read as I ate breakfast, was more subdued, but it also gave the killing plenty of play, beginning with a front-page story under a two-column headline and Linville’s picture — almost identical to the one the Gazette used.
Back to Wolfe’s oddsmaking. On Friday morning at a little past nine, having digested both breakfast and Times, I was in the office fiddling with the orchid-germination records on the PC when I got a call from one very upset Lily Rowan.
“Archie, the police are holding Noreen’s brother, and Megan’s ranting, and—”
“Slow down, you’re already five laps ahead of me. Now tell me exactly what — wait a second, maybe it would make more sense if I came over. How does that sound?”
Lily, catching her breath, allowed as to how that seemed like a good idea, which is why I was in her apartment less than fifteen minutes later and one New York cabbie had a fifty-percent tip. I was parked on a sofa in the living room when she came in, looking a lot less composed than usual.
“Okay,” I said before she could begin, “take it from the top, and go slowly, for my benefit. First, I gather the cops have your nephew — Michael, isn’t that his name?”
She nodded, sucking in her cheeks. “I got a call from Megan right before I talked to you. If you thought I was a little unhinged when I phoned you, you should have heard her; she was just this side of hysterical. It took me several minutes to get things straight, but it seems it’s all out in the open now that Sparky Linville had attacked Noreen. Apparently Megan wormed it out of her shortly after she got home from that European trip. Anyway, what I was able to learn is that—”
Lily stopped because the phone on the end table next to her was squawking. “It’s Megan again,” she said, cupping the receiver. “I think I’d better go over there. Would you be willing to come along?”
I nodded.
“Megan, Archie is with me. I’d like to bring him... Yes, I know... but first off, he’s the most discreet person I know, and second, he’s used to dealing with the police. He... no, of course he’s not going to run to the newspapers or TV.” She looked at me and rolled her beautiful eyes. “Yes... uh-huh... yes, Megan. Yes. All right. We’ll get there as fast as we can.”
“So,” she said, cradling the receiver with a soft sigh, “my dear half-sister is still just this side of hysteria, but at least she has the good sense to want me there to provide something resembling stability. Aided by your soothing presence, of course.”
“It was apparent she was ecstatic with that idea.”
“Oh, stop being so sensitive. She’ll learn soon enough that to know you is to love you. And besides, at this point, she’d agree to anything.”
“Thanks for that ringing endorsement,” I said with what I hoped was a sardonic grin as we headed for the door and a taxi.
I had never been in the James apartment, which Lily had once described to me as “Art Deco run rampant.” And as partial as I am to Deco, I was unprepared for what greeted me as we got off the elevator on the sixth floor of an ordinary brick building in the East Eighties. The oval-shaped foyer had walls of vertically fluted black marble with a white Roman-style settee, two chrome-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and six silver sunburst light sconces, not to mention the indirect lighting tucked into the ceiling moldings.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, pal,” Lily put in. “And remember, her Xanadu taketh the whole floor, as in eleven rooms.” Just then the door, done in the same silver pattern as the light fixtures, swung open, revealing a small olive-skinned, black-haired woman in a maid’s get-up. “Hello, Carmella,” Lily said with a smile.
Carmella smiled back, dipped ever so slightly in what looked suspiciously like a curtsy, and ushered us into an entrance hall that would have worked just fine as the lobby of one of the smaller Rockefeller Center buildings. We passed through that into a drawing room that looked as if it were the set for the Thin Man movies, except that in Myrna Loy’s place was Megan James, standing grimly behind a peach-colored tuxedo-style sofa that could have seated the entire Mets’ pitching staff. And instead of William Powell, over at the small bar in the corner was a guy in a dandy brown three-piece suit with chiseled features and graying hair who looked like he belonged in the House of Lords — or at the very least in a magazine ad for premium whiskey.
“Hello, Megan. I think you remember Archie Goodwin,” Lily said as we went in.
“I do,” her semi-sister answered coolly, stepping around the sofa but not offering a hand. She was wearing a dark blue belted dress that whispered its elegance. “I suppose I should thank you for coming along. This is my friend Edward Pamsett. Edward, I think you’ve met Lily before. And this is Mr. Goodwin.”
“Miss Rowan, nice to see you again. And Mr. Goodwin,” Pamsett said, smiling, bowing slightly, and holding out a paw, which each of us shook. He had a firm grip to go with his good manners, which was a point in his favor.
Megan looked like I remembered her: thin all around — body, arms, face. Actually, she might have been attractive if she ever loosened up, but everything about her was tight and taut — the dark hair skinned back to a bun, the tight lips, the look of disapproval that had permanently taken residence on a face otherwise nicely arranged. She offhandedly gestured us to sit, and within seconds Carmella had reappeared with coffee on a silver tray, which both Lily and I accepted.