Bloodied Ivy (16 page)

“With your help?” Potter said sharply.

Wolfe shrugged again, saying nothing. Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty. I thought Potter was going to skedaddle, but when he got halfway out of the chair, he sank back again, looking suddenly very tired.

“All right,” he sighed. “I’m going to take a chance and trust you. What relatively little I know about your reputation is positive.” His tone became very earnest; it was a nice performance. “Mr. Wolfe, the fact is that Leander has now committed to give the university a sum, a magnificent one, I’m proud to say. But please, I beg you to keep this confidential. You saw what happened the last time this kind of news slipped out.”

“And he made this commitment after Mr. Markham’s death?”

“Yes.”

“So Mr. Markham could truly be said to have stood in the way of this gift?”

This time it was Potter’s turn to shrug. “I’d prefer not to think of it in those terms.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Markham, particularly recently?”

“So this
is
an inquisition. All right, I’ll tell you; I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me. I found Hale Markham to be highhanded, arrogant, intransigent, and intolerant of the views of others to the point of obnoxiousness. And frankly, I don’t think he made the good of the school primary. He was interested first, last, and always in what benefited Hale Markham and Hale Markham alone. Am I glad he’s dead? No—of course not; he was a superb teacher and a scholar of the first order. Am I happy we’re getting that contribution from Leander Bach? You’re damn right I am, very happy. If that seems contradictory, so be it…” Potter leaned forward and screwed up his well-tended face, as if trying to recall something. “You know, there was something that happened, just a few days before Hale died, I think, maybe three or four. I hadn’t thought much about it, what with it being typical of him.”

“Yes?” Wolfe prompted.

Potter fingered a blue Wedgwood cuff link. “Before I go on, I want you to know I don’t believe this had any significance, given what happened later. Still, it was interesting. Hale came to see me one afternoon. He’d actually called the day before and asked for an appointment—if you’re interested in the specific date, my secretary surely has it on her calendar. Anyway, I remember thinking at the time—hoping, really—that Hale was coming to tell me he planned to retire. That wasn’t it, though. Mr. Wolfe, are you aware that Orville Schmidt has recently completed a book?”

Wolfe nodded. “The tome of George Marshall and the Truman Doctrine?”

“Correct. Well, although it isn’t out yet, won’t be for another month or so, Hale had somehow got hold of bound galleys or a review copy. He had just finished reading it and he came storming in to say that he spotted six places where material was blatantly plagiarized from previous books on the subject or the period. He claimed whole paragraphs were lifted, practically verbatim, without attribution and with only a word or two changed.”

“Indeed? What did he intend to do with this information?”

“That’s the interesting thing,” Potter said, pausing for coffee. “He told me he merely wanted me to know about it. He said something like ‘I stirred things up enough when Orville’s other book came out; I’m sitting this one out. But you should know in case there’s a flap.’”

“Did you get the impression that Mr. Markham was going to divulge his discovery to others?”

“Not really. Although knowing Hale, it wouldn’t surprise me if he planned to let Orville know what he’d found, if only to watch him squirm.”

“Did you verify Mr. Markham’s findings?” Wolfe asked.

Another shrug. “No, although he gave me a list of the sources from which Orville allegedly lifted the material. As far as I was concerned, he—Hale, that is—was drawing an inordinate degree of satisfaction from the whole matter. I found it graceless. Now, is there anything else you’d like to know? If not, I really should be on my way. I’ve got a full calendar today.”

“I thank you for giving me a few of your precious minutes, Mr. Potter,” Wolfe said dryly. “Before you leave, can you account for your time on the night Hale Markham died—the twenty-third of last month?”

“My God, you’ve got crust,” Potter said, spacing his words for effect in a Kennedy-esque voice just above a whisper. “I’ve just leveled with you, told you something highly confidential, and then
this
.” The man should be on Broadway.

But the president’s histrionics fell on deaf ears. “Mr. Goodwin and I have made the same request of several others. All of them either have accounted for their time on that date or promised to consult their appointment books and report to us. Does this request cause you a particular problem?”

“No—why should it?” Potter said, obviously struggling to stay unruffled. “I’ll check when I get back to the office, if you want to call me. But let me say this,” he puffed. “You’d better not do anything to damage this school in any way or, by God, I’ll take both of you to court, and I mean it.” With that, he rose, squared his shoulders pompously, walked out, and slammed the door behind him.

“Not a half-bad exit,” I said. “Reminds me of the way Bogart blew his stack for effect and marched out of the D.A.’s office in
The Maltese Falcon
.”

Wolfe glowered at me. He knew of course that I knew he’d never seen the movie, and it always peeves him when I make a reference to something he can’t respond to. Never mind that he does that kind of thing to me all the time.

N
OW THAT POTTER HAD BEEN
disposed of, we were down to our final session at Prescott—with Gretchen Frazier, who was due at eleven. Wolfe stayed glued to the chair that he had been parked in for the better part of the last twenty-four hours, with his book in front of his face. I contemplated asking if he wanted me to call downstairs and order beer, but thought better of it. After all, it was only ten-forty-four; if we had been at home, he’d still be up in the plant rooms, and with so many of his other routines already messed up, I didn’t want to throw off his drinking schedule, too. Some things deserve to remain sacred.

It was almost quarter after eleven when the telephone squawked. “Nero Wolfe’s room,” I answered.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Wolfe,” an out-of-breath Gretchen Frazier said between pants. “I’m calling from a house phone in the lobby. What room are you in?”

I told her, and less than a minute later, I was holding the door open for her. She looked younger than she had before, maybe because she was wearing a white blouse, pleated skirt, and tennis shoes. “Oh, I’m sorry I couldn’t come last night,” she began without recognizing me. “On Thursday nights, I teach an aerobics class to a group of—wait a minute, you’re—Mr.
Goodman
, isn’t it? You…you’re the one I had coffee with. The one whose nephew is…what are
you
doing here? Professor Cortland asked me to see Nero Wolfe. And I—”

“Miss Frazier, may I present Nero Wolfe,” I cut in, bending at the waist and making a sweeping gesture toward him with an outstretched arm. Wolfe set his book down, sent a glare my way, and turned toward our guest, dipping his head at least an eighth of an inch. That’s his all-purpose greeting, which he feels is a more-than-adequate substitute for a bow or a handshake, whether the person to whom it is directed is male or female.

She looked at me, then at Wolfe and back to me. I’d almost forgotten how blue her eyes were.

“Miss Frazier, please have a seat,” Wolfe said. “Before you go on, an explanation is in order. This gentleman, whom you know to be Arnold Goodman, is Mr. Archie Goodwin, and he is in my employ. On an earlier visit to Prescott, he chose to represent himself as a Mr. Goodman. I neither defend nor decry his action, but I appreciate your confusion. Do you have any questions relating to Mr. Goodwin’s masquerade?”

She looked flustered for an instant and then shrugged. “Well…yes, I
do
have a question,” she said, nodding, “although not so much about the—what did you call it—masquerade? Professor Cortland said you wanted to see me because you think Hale—Professor Markham—was…killed?”

“Not technically correct,” Wolfe said. “But first, can we get you anything to drink? Coffee, perhaps?”

“No, nothing, thank you.” She balanced on the edge of the chair as if she were going to leap up and run out at any moment. “I’m in kind of a hurry and I’d like to be home in less than an hour. I’m behind schedule on two papers.”

“We will respect the demands upon your time. As to your question, it is Mr. Cortland who thinks his colleague was murdered, and he has asked Mr. Goodwin and me to undertake an investigation.”

“Murder?” she said, shaking her head and screwing up her face. “I don’t believe it. No way! It’s bad enough he’s dead. Why would anybody want to murder him?”

“Madam,” Wolfe said, still trying to find ways to get comfortable in his chair, “I’m not now prepared to state that Mr. Markham died at someone else’s hand, but I concede the possibility exists. You do not?”

Gretchen shook her head again, her face showing more dismay than denial. “I…I don’t know.”

“Very well. How
do
you think Mr. Markham met his death?” Wolfe asked.

“An accidental fall, like the reports said.”

“But was not Mr. Markham a mountain climber and hiker, very surefooted?”

“Ye-e-e-s, but anybody can get careless and slip. There’s no other explanation.”

“So it would seem,” Wolfe said. “Do you know how Mr. Markham felt about Elena Moreau?”

“What?” The question surprised Gretchen, as Wolfe had intended, and she brushed her hair out of her face. “Oh, Dr. Moreau—I know they were good friends. I think they’d known each other for a long time.”

“How would you describe their relationship?”

“Good friends,” she repeated, with tension edging into her voice.

“I see. How would you describe the relationship between
you
and Mr. Markham?”

“In what way?” she asked, her cheeks reddening.

“Just that,” Wolfe said, turning a palm over. “What was your relationship?”

“Teacher to student,” she answered woodenly. “He was my adviser, and besides that, he was a wonderful professor. I admired him more than anybody else I’ve ever known. And I miss him terribly.”

“That’s understandable. Miss Frazier, where were you on the night Mr. Markham died?”

With that question, the pressure that had been building in Gretchen broke, and her tears came like one of those sudden July storms. Wolfe is uncomfortable enough around women when they’re calm, but waterworks invariably send him running for cover. He was out of his chair and into the bedroom faster than when he heads for the dinner table, leaving me to comfort Gretchen Frazier for the second time in three days. I did my best, sitting next to her and handing her one of the monogrammed handkerchiefs Lily had given me on my last birthday. Her sobs continued for at least a minute before she took a couple of deep breaths.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “That wasn’t very mature of me, was it? You always seem to see me crying. Please apologize to Mr. Wolfe.”

“We all have to have some kind of release,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic. “And I also know that you’re anxious to get back to your work. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t follow up on Mr. Wolfe’s last question.”

She nodded, still fiddling with the handkerchief. “I’m pretty sure I was at home in my apartment studying; that’s where I am most evenings. Except Thursdays, you know, when I teach aerobics.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No. I live alone.”

Somehow, I had expected that answer. I thanked Gretchen for her time, putting my arm on her shoulder, and I escorted her to the door, slipping on the chain lock after she had left.

“You can come out now,” I said loudly to the closed bedroom door. “All’s clear.”

Wolfe emerged, looking grumpier than ever, and replanted himself in the chair that he had come to know and loathe.

“She’s gone,” I said. “After you upset her with your hard-as-nails line of questioning, I had to soothe her before I sent her on her way.”

“Did you get an answer as to where she was that night?” he snarled.

“Of course. She was home and was deep into her studies—alone.”

“Your opinion of her?” Wolfe was deferring to me, based on what he likes to think are my infallible instincts about women, particularly those of the species under thirty.

“Smarter than she acts—she’d have to be to make it to star-student status at the graduate level. She’s somewhat on the ingenuous side, though, and I never trust that type.”

Wolfe absorbed that. “Assuming that Mr. Markham’s death was no accident, what odds would you place on her as the murderer?”

“You really like to put my skill in reading females to the test, don’t you?” I said. “Okay, here it is: I could go six-to-five either way, but leaning slightly toward innocent. Don’t ask me why—like with Elena, it’s just a feeling I’ve got. However, I think young Gretchen knows more than she’s telling. I suppose now you’re going to order me to take her dancing so I can unleash my legendary charm and wrest her innermost secrets from her.”

“The idea hadn’t occurred to me,” he said airily, raising both eyebrows.

“You know, it’s quarter to twelve,” I said, changing the subject. “Shall we eat here before driving back?”

Wolfe looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “We will leave immediately. Call Fritz. Ask him what we will be having for lunch.”

T
HE DRIVE HOME, I’M PLEASED
to report, was uneventful. Not surprisingly, Wolfe alternately sulked and grimaced from his roost in the back seat, despite my rigid adherence to the speed limit, my total avoidance of tailgating, and—if I may say so—an overall superb job of driving. As we headed south in the midday sun, I commented several times on the splendor of the autumnal colors, but all I got from the rear were grunts. “Some fun you are to ride with,” I snapped as we came within sight of the Manhattan skyline.

Wolfe wasn’t happy until he was back inside the brownstone and at the dining room table attacking Fritz’s clam cakes. Then he got positively gregarious and began to expound on why North America was so conducive to exploration and, ultimately, to settlement and development.