bedroom of what had been Harriet Haverhill’s sanctuary.
“I’ve got one more favor to ask,” I told Lon after he’d locked the double doors and we were heading down the hall to his office.
“Only one?”
“For now, anyway. I’d like to talk to Bishop.”
“He’s been swamped all morning. Police, interviews with reporters from TV and the other papers, and God knows how many meetings.”
“Try.”
Lon heaved a sigh. “This time, Archie, you’re going to end up owing me. Today is worth at least two more of Fritz’s meals.”
“We’re booked through June, but I’ll pencil you in for a Wednesday in mid-July, and another in August.”
Back in his office, Lon phoned Bishop. “You’re lucky,” he said, hanging up. “He’s just finishing a meeting with some of the editors. Let’s go in.”
We went one door farther down the hall, and it swung open as a half-dozen shirtsleeved men and two women with sober expressions trooped out, most of them nodding to Lon. Then Elliot Dean popped out of the next office, spotted me and tried to shrivel me with his beady little eyes. When that failed, he stalked past. We walked in to find Carlton Bishop, publisher of the Gazette, himself in shirtsleeves, standing behind his own billiard-table-size desk, hands jammed into his pants pockets. There were sweat stains under his arms. I’d met him once several years before, and he hadn’t changed all that much, except his white hair was a little thinner and he understandably looked haggard.
“Carl, you remember Archie Goodwin,” Lon said.
Bishop nodded grimly. “What brings you by?” he asked in the gravelly voice I recalled from our other meeting. “Don’t tell me some paper has hired you to cover this?”
“No,” I said. “I work for Nero Wolfe, as you know. He believes Mrs. Haverhill was murdered.”
“Wha-a-a-t?” Bishop mouthed the word, although almost no sound came out. He dropped heavily into his chair and stared out the window while Lon and I also took seats.
“Carl, I’ve already told him this is crazy,” Lon said.
Bishop swung around in his chair, letting me know his patience was running thin. “Goodwin, first of all, the police seem convinced she killed herself, and so am I. Second, I know your boss has no use for MacLaren—I read his letter in the Times and I agree with almost everything in that letter. But to accuse the man of murder—”
“Mr. Wolfe hasn’t fingered anybody specific yet.”
“Who’s his client?”
“He hasn’t got one, at least as far as I know.”
“You mean he’s trying to drum one up?”
“I haven’t said that,” I answered. “All I know is that Nero Wolfe is positive this was a murder.”
“Well, what the hell do you want from me?”
“I was coming to that. Mr. Wolfe would like to talk to you in his office. And also, individually, to David Haverhill, Donna Palmer, and Scott Haverhill.”
“Oh, he would, would he? How does he think he’s going to get us to his office?”
“Mrs. Haverhill didn’t mind coming there,” I said quietly. “Earlier this week.”
Bishop kneaded the arms of his chair. He looked like hell. “I know,” he whispered. “She told me.”
“I’ll ask you the same question I asked Lon,” I said, pressing my advantage. “Has Nero Wolfe ever gulled you?”
Bishop shook his head.
So far, so good. I pushed on. “He’s been a good friend to the Gazette, and he still is. To use a favorite phrase of Lon’s, this time I’m calling in our markers. Will you come—and get the others to come?”
Bishop ran a hand through his white hair and surrendered. “Yeah, I can go and see Wolfe—why not? I can’t guarantee the others, but I’ll talk to them. I’ll let you know, probably through Lon.”
“Fair enough,” I said, rising to go. “He’d like to see you all before the weekend’s over.” I thought about shaking hands, but figured Bishop wasn’t in much of a mood to be friendly with anyone. I didn’t blame
“I’ve got one more favor to ask,” I told Lon after he’d locked the double doors and we were heading down the hall to his office.
“Only one?”
“For now, anyway. I’d like to talk to Bishop.”
“He’s been swamped all morning. Police, interviews with reporters from TV and the other papers, and God knows how many meetings.”
“Try.”
Lon heaved a sigh. “This time, Archie, you’re going to end up owing me. Today is worth at least two more of Fritz’s meals.”
“We’re booked through June, but I’ll pencil you in for a Wednesday in mid-July, and another in August.”
Back in his office, Lon phoned Bishop. “You’re lucky,” he said, hanging up. “He’s just finishing a meeting with some of the editors. Let’s go in.”
We went one door farther down the hall, and it swung open as a half-dozen shirtsleeved men and two women with sober expressions trooped out, most of them nodding to Lon. Then Elliot Dean popped out of the next office, spotted me and tried to shrivel me with his beady little eyes. When that failed, he stalked past. We walked in to find Carlton Bishop, publisher of the Gazette, himself in shirtsleeves, standing behind his own billiard-table-size desk, hands jammed into his pants pockets. There were sweat stains under his arms. I’d met him once several years before, and he hadn’t changed all that much, except his white hair was a little thinner and he understandably looked haggard.
“Carl, you remember Archie Goodwin,” Lon said.
Bishop nodded grimly. “What brings you by?” he asked in the gravelly voice I recalled from our other meeting. “Don’t tell me some paper has hired you to cover this?”
“No,” I said. “I work for Nero Wolfe, as you know. He believes Mrs. Haverhill was murdered.”
“Wha-a-a-t?” Bishop mouthed the word, although almost no sound came out. He dropped heavily into his chair and stared out the window while Lon and I also took seats.
“Carl, I’ve already told him this is crazy,” Lon said.
Bishop swung around in his chair, letting me know his patience was running thin. “Goodwin, first of all, the police seem convinced she killed herself, and so am I. Second, I know your boss has no use for MacLaren—I read his letter in the Times and I agree with almost everything in that letter. But to accuse the man of murder—”
“Mr. Wolfe hasn’t fingered anybody specific yet.”
“Who’s his client?”
“He hasn’t got one, at least as far as I know.”
“You mean he’s trying to drum one up?”
“I haven’t said that,” I answered. “All I know is that Nero Wolfe is positive this was a murder.”
“Well, what the hell do you want from me?”
“I was coming to that. Mr. Wolfe would like to talk to you in his office. And also, individually, to David Haverhill, Donna Palmer, and Scott Haverhill.”
“Oh, he would, would he? How does he think he’s going to get us to his office?”
“Mrs. Haverhill didn’t mind coming there,” I said quietly. “Earlier this week.”
Bishop kneaded the arms of his chair. He looked like hell. “I know,” he whispered. “She told me.”
“I’ll ask you the same question I asked Lon,” I said, pressing my advantage. “Has Nero Wolfe ever gulled you?”
Bishop shook his head.
So far, so good. I pushed on. “He’s been a good friend to the Gazette, and he still is. To use a favorite phrase of Lon’s, this time I’m calling in our markers. Will you come—and get the others to come?”
Bishop ran a hand through his white hair and surrendered. “Yeah, I can go and see Wolfe—why not? I can’t guarantee the others, but I’ll talk to them. I’ll let you know, probably through Lon.”
“Fair enough,” I said, rising to go. “He’d like to see you all before the weekend’s over.” I thought about shaking hands, but figured Bishop wasn’t in much of a mood to be friendly with anyone. I didn’t blame
Similar Books
