I didn’t bother to follow the homicide team to the office because I knew they would find their usual chairs in the back of the room without an usher. The next ring of the doorbell brought Vinson and Debra Mitchell, who had shared a cab south. Vinson gave a tight smile and a nod, while she whispered to me that “This is a stupid way to do business, you know, wasting a lot of people’s time.”
I replied that I hoped she wouldn’t find the trip a total waste and led them to the office, casting an admiring glance at Debra’s beige outfit, which looked like it cost somewhere in the neighborhood of my weekly salary, if not more. The woman knew how to dress, I gave her that. Vinson, as our client, merited the red leather chair, while I placed Debra three places to his right in the front row. They both looked quizzically at Cramer and Stebbins, who already were seated, but I didn’t offer introductions.
The next arrival was Franklin Ott. The agent looked angry enough actually to throw a punch himself this time. His face was still bandaged. He was followed in quick succession by a pale, somber Patricia Royce, a surly Keith Billings, and an arrogant, offended Wilbur Hobbs.
“I want to make it clear that I am here as a member of the press and not as some suspect in a sordid so-called murder,” Hobbs pronounced as though he were reading from a script. I smiled, nodded, and escorted him to the office, where the critic surveyed the gathering, sniffed in condescension, and settled into the chair I indicated as though he were doing me a favor.
“Where the hell is Wolfe?” Billings demanded.
“He’ll be here shortly,” I told the editor. “Would anyone care for drinks? Help yourselves. We’ve got a wide selection on that table, and if you don’t see what you want, ask for it.”
“This wasn’t billed as a cocktail party, but I have a feeling we’re all going to need a bracer before it’s over,” Ott said, getting up. “I’m going to have a scotch. Can I get something for anyone else?”
There were no takers, only hostile muttering, so I went to the front room, opening the door. “They are all in place,” I told Saul, who was reading an old copy of Smithsonian. He and Clarice rose, she reluctantly, and we proceeded down the hall to the office, where I seated her next to Vinson. Her entrance brought looks of puzzlement from around the room.
Saul took a chair in the back row next to Stebbins while I went around Wolfe’s desk and pressed his beer buzzer. It rings in the kitchen, where he was waiting with Fritz until all were in place.
A half-minute later he appeared at the door, looked at each of his guests in turn, and walked in, skirting the desk and settling into his chair. “Good evening,” he rumbled. “Thank you for adjusting your schedules. Your time here—”
“We don’t need some meandering preamble,” Billings snarled. “You asked us to come here, and we’re here. Get on with it.”
“Sir, I never meander,” Wolfe replied coldly. “And I do not indulge in the careless or unnecessary use of verbiage. As I started to say, your time here will be brief — assuming I am allowed to proceed without incessant and needless interruptions. First, I realize that many of you do not know the identity of others in the room, a condition I will rectify.”
Even though the door to the hall was now closed, I could detect the faint ring of the doorbell, although none of the others in the room appeared to notice. That would be Wilma Race, whom Fritz was instructed to admit to the house. Wolfe continued: “The gentleman in the red chair is Horace Vinson, editor-in-chief of Monarch Press, the publisher of the late Charles Childress’s books. He has hired me to identify Mr. Childress’s murderer, which I am prepared to do. On his right, and likely a stranger to you all, is Clarice Wingfield, a cousin of Mr. Childress. On her right, Franklin Ott, a literary agent who formerly represented Mr. Childress, and next to him, Debra Mitchell, who had been engaged to Mr. Childress.”
“I was still engaged to him when he was — when he died,” the television executive protested.
“I did not mean to suggest otherwise,” Wolfe said evenly. “In the second row, behind Mr. Vinson, is Keith Billings, an editor, formerly with Monarch Press and now employed by Westman & Lane. On his right is Patricia Royce, a novelist and friend of Mr. Childress’s. And next to her is Wilbur Hobbs, a book reviewer for the Gazette.”
“Who are they?” Ott stabbed a thumb toward Cramer and Stebbins.
Wolfe glared at him. “I was getting to that, sir. The gentleman in the brown suit is Inspector Cramer, head of Homicide for the New York City Police Department. Next to him is his associate, Sergeant Stebbins.”
“And just what might they be doing here?” Wilbur Hobbs demanded shrilly. “I was not informed this was to be a police investigation.”
“As indeed it is not,” Wolfe replied, ringing for beer. “They are here at my invitation, and they remain at my sufferance. They may be of use before we adjourn, however.”
“Meaning?” Patricia Royce asked tightly. It was the first word she had spoken since she had entered the brownstone.
“Meaning that as I said a moment ago, I intend to name Mr. Childress’s murderer.”
“Well, do so, man!” Billings barked. “Or are you being paid by the hour?”
“Dammit, you’re making a mistake to slow him down,” Cramer put in gruffly. “I’ve been to these sessions before, and he does them his way. He’s as stubborn as a Missouri mule.”
“As a police officer of high rank, I should think you would want to know immediately what’s going on,” Hobbs interjected loudly.
“If I can spend a few minutes here, so can you,” Cramer shot back, the color rising in his cheeks.
“Thank you,” Wolfe replied dryly, pouring beer from one of the bottles Fritz had brought in silently. “Mr. Vinson approached me shortly after Mr. Childress’s death. He requested that I conduct an investigation. He was not satisfied with the verdict of suicide, and soon I concurred.
“It quickly became apparent that, metaphorically, there was a missing chapter in the story of Mr. Childress’s life and death. To begin with, a number of people harbored varying degrees of animus toward the dead man. To my knowledge, they all are in this room.”
Patricia Royce shuddered.
“Those who harbor what you term as animus don’t necessarily go around shooting people,” Franklin Ott snapped.
Wolfe dismissed the comment with a sniff. “Early in my investigation, an acquaintance of Mr. Goodwin’s suggested, perhaps in jest, that all of you here, excepting Mr. Vinson, had conspired to dispatch Mr. Childress. I briefly—”
“That is... outrageous!” Clarice Wingfield huffed, leaning forward and clenching both fists. Her eyes blazed. The woman clearly possessed her late cousin’s temper.
“Capricious, perhaps, but not outrageous, Miss Wingfield. I confess to you all that I briefly considered the possibility of a conspiracy before I discarded it. I then turned to the motives each of you, individually, possessed for wishing Charles Childress dead.”
“What motives?” Patricia Royce snapped. She seemed to have regained control of herself.
Wolfe drank beer and set down his glass. “Madam, I am aware of three people in this room who have been accused of murdering Mr. Childress. And two of the accusers are present.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Wolfe flipped a hand. “I mention that only to underscore that there are many conceivable motives for murder.”
“And what was my motive?” Patricia persisted.