Bloodied Ivy (17 page)

“Look, I don’t disagree,” I said between bites of a clam cake, “but I’d like to remind you that less than an hour ago, you were riding through some of the very North America you are extolling—and a most attractive part of it, I might add. I didn’t hear any rhapsodizing then.”

Wolfe looked at me as if he hadn’t heard a word, and damned if he didn’t shift gears, smoothly at that, into a discussion of why the French had never been as effective in colonization as the English—nor as enthusiastic, not only in North America but around the world. I kept on chewing.

After lunch, we had coffee in the office, where business is fair game. “Okay,” I said, spinning in my desk chair to face Wolfe. “Where do we stand on Markham’s death? Is it a case, or isn’t it?”

“As usual you are chafing for activity, Archie, which is not in and of itself bad,” Wolfe said. “You are the quintessential man of action, and I applaud your enthusiasm and energy—after all, those are the qualities that render you invaluable to me. To denigrate those qualities would be fatuous, and I will not do so.”

He paused to drink, and I recognized what he was up to. He was now ready to take the case, but he wanted me to be the one to push it, so he was getting cute and trying a little flattery. Part of me got stubborn, but I also knew that if I didn’t strike while he was still in a mellow mood because of his safe return home and a stomach filled with Fritz’s cooking, he might lapse into his usual state—terminal laziness.

“The way I see it, Cortland is right; Markham had to have been pushed into that ravine,” I said conversationally. “Fact Number One: He was an experienced hiker and climber. Fact Number Two: He knew that terrain well—he walked it every day. Fact Number Three: The ground was dry and firm at the spot where he went over the edge.” I paused to look at Wolfe, whose eyes were closed. “Fact Number Four: We have heard from Elena Moreau that Markham had dizzy spells, which might explain the plunge except for one thing. The branches on the bushes at the spot where his fall began were broken so cleanly that he must have gone over the edge with some velocity—I was surprised at first that the local police hadn’t wondered about it, but once I’d made their acquaintance I could see where they could overlook evidence staring them in the face. Anyway, had Markham simply stumbled or passed out and fallen like a deadweight, those branches, at least the larger ones, would have been bent back maybe, but not snapped off like they were. There must have been a lot of momentum behind his body to cause that type of break—the kind that comes from a shove, not just a fall. And we know from Cortland that the body was carried out of the Gash by a different route, so those branches weren’t broken by anybody lugging the body back up.”

He drew in more coffee, finishing the cup. “We haven’t heard from any of the gentlemen yet as to where they were on the night Mr. Markham died. I suggest you call them now and get their answers.”

“Potter, Schmidt, and Greenbaum?”

“And Mr. Cortland as well.”

“You want me to ask our client where he was that night, too?”

“I do,” Wolfe said, ringing for beer and starting in on his new book,
Hold On, Mr. President
, by Sam Donaldson.

I shrugged and opened my notebook to look up Cortland’s numbers. I thought about trying his office, if only to hear the dulcet tones of Ms. Auburn-Hair, but then I remembered that somewhere along the way, the professor had mentioned he didn’t have either office hours or classes Friday afternoons. I dialed his home number and he answered after four rings. “It’s Archie Goodwin,” I said cheerfully, as Wolfe set down the book and picked up his instrument.

“Mr. Goodwin, I’m glad you called!” He sounded as if he meant it. “I was just getting ready to call
you
. The police did phone me last night. They asked if I would come down to the station.”

“Did you?”

“Of course. They—actually it was the chief—Chief Hobson—wanted to know why I had hired you and Mr. Wolfe. I must say his manner wasn’t very gracious.”

I kept my voice somber. “What did you tell him?”

“I reminded him what I had said at the commencement of their so-called investigation—that I was convinced Hale’s demise was not accidental, and that, in the face of their obstinate refusal to delve deeper into the matter, I had turned to Mr. Wolfe. That merely increased his ire, though, and he opined that it was unwise of me to go off and get some ‘high-rolling New York hotshot’—and that was the exact terminology he employed—who would come up to Prescott and start stirring things up just to get publicity for himself.”

I looked to see Wolfe’s reaction, but his face remained impassive. “Did the chief say he’d look into Markham’s death?” I asked.

“Oh, kind of.” Cortland sounded disgusted. “But it was patently obvious from his manner that he really wasn’t very interested and still didn’t believe Hale was murdered. He seemed more intent on inveigling me into dismissing Mr. Wolfe. When I refused, he informed me that you and Mr. Wolfe had better watch out, and that if you pulled any shenanigans in his jurisdiction, he’d see that your licenses got pulled.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” I said, winking at Wolfe, who scowled in return. “Have you heard from any of the people we talked to last night and this morning?” Cortland said he hadn’t, and then asked how the questioning had gone. I gave him a brief rundown—after all, he
was
our client—and then got around to a question a private detective doesn’t normally pose to a client:
Where were you at the time the crime took place?
Actually, my wording went like this: “Oh, by the way, Mr. Cortland—can you remember where you were on the night that Mr. Markham died?”

There was a pause on his end, then he cleared his throat noisily. “Why on earth would you pose that, uh, question to me?” he asked sharply.

“I’m merely trying to get everyone placed that night between ten and midnight,” I answered matter-of-factly. “It helps Mr. Wolfe organize his thinking.” I winked at Wolfe again.

“I was at home, grading midterms,” Cortland sniffed.

“Alone?”

“Of course! As I’m sure I’ve told you. I’m a bachelor. I live alone.” He sounded offended.

“Right, you did tell me. Say, by any chance do you know where I can reach those Three Musketeers—Potter, Schmidt, and Greenbaum—right now?”

Cortland still sounded put out, but after consulting his school directory, he gave me the office and home number of each. I thanked him and signed off, promising he’d be hearing from Wolfe or me again soon. He didn’t sound impressed.

“I do believe we’ve gone and gotten our client miffed,” I told Wolfe. “That’s the chance he takes, though, when he hires a high-rolling New York hotshot like you.”

“Archie, your humor wears thin. You have more calls to make.” With that bit of harrumphing out of the way, he rang for beer and picked up his book again. Some people simply can’t take a joke.

For no particular reason, I called Schmidt first, trying his office number. A female with a voice not nearly as pleasant as Ms. Kearns’s informed me none too politely that Mr. Schmidt was never in his office on Friday afternoons. I thanked her anyway, figuring she’d had a rough week.

I dialed Schmidt’s home number and scored. “Hi, this is Archie Goodwin,” I said, “calling to find out if you’d had a chance to check your calendar for September twenty-third.”

“Oh, it’s Arnold-Archie, is it?” he said with a brittle chuckle. “Yes, I looked at it first thing when I got to the office this morning. I had no meetings or other activities that night, so I must have been at home.”

“Was someone with you?”

“Alas, no, I’m afraid I’m totally without alibi,” Schmidt answered in a tone of mock seriousness, followed by another chuckle. “My wife was in California the last two weeks of September visiting her mother, so I was all alone. Does that vault me straight to the top of your fabled list of suspects?” I ignored the remark and thanked Schmidt for his time. My mother taught me to always be polite to everyone, even jerks.

Next I called Greenbaum at his office, and wouldn’t you know it, I got the same woman, who gave the same answer in the same tone that she had three minutes earlier; I would have thanked her again if she hadn’t hung up on me. I then tried Greenbaum at home; no answer. During my last few calls, Wolfe had remained hidden behind his book, but as I learned long ago, that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention. As I started to dial Keith Potter’s office number, he set the book down and leaned forward.

“I assume you’re going to try Mr. Potter next?” he asked.

“Oh, I thought I might. Why?”

Wolfe’s reply was to dip his head slightly, which passes for a nod. It also was his way of indicating that he’d be listening in, too. Surprisingly, Potter answered himself, which forced me to adjust my opinion of him upward at least slightly. However, his reaction when he found out who was calling made me cancel the adjustment.

“My God,” the president said, “I really didn’t think you’d have the gall to persist.”

“Just following orders,” I said.

There was a silence of several seconds. “All right,” he snapped, “hold on while I check my book.” Another silence, this one lasting a half-minute. When he came back on the line, he sounded pleased with himself. “Let’s see…on the twenty-third, I had a breakfast with the chairman of the English Department…a ten-o’clock meeting with the provost to go over the schedule of activities for Homecoming…lunch at the Union Building with several members of Prescott’s New York City Alumni Club. At three
P.M.
, I was interviewed—for well over an hour, at that—by a reporter from
University Management
magazine who is doing a series of profiles of presidents of major schools. I went home about five, as I remember, to change for a banquet at the same place you stayed, the Prescott Inn. Cocktails were at seven, dinner at eight. It kicked off a campaign to raise funds for a new field house. The one we have was built more than forty years ago and holds only four thousand for basketball games.”

“Truly a pity,” I said. “What time was the dinner over?”

“Oh…probably ten-fifteen, something like that. I went straight home from there.”

“You drove?”

“Mr. Goodwin, Prescott, unlike New York, is a genuinely safe place, day or at night, despite your employer’s attempts to turn a tragic accident into a murder. I
walked
home. My house is only four blocks from the Prescott Inn.”

“Were you alone?”

A deep breath. “Yes, I was alone. And I recall that my wife was still up reading when I got home. Can we end this interrogation now, Mr. Goodwin? I think I’ve been generous enough with my time and patience.”

I was about to thank him when Wolfe signaled me. “Mr. Wolfe would like to say something to you,” I said. “Hold the line.”

Before Potter could protest, Wolfe was talking. “I appreciate your time and patience, but I am going to presume further on your good nature. I would like to meet Leander Bach.”

“Then I suggest you call him for an appointment,” Potter said sharply. “His office is in Manhattan, as you probably know.”

“I am aware of that, but I am hoping you will intercede for me.”

“Why on earth should I?”

“As I said when we talked yesterday, in the matter of Mr. Markham’s death, our interests—the university’s and mine—should coincide. We both seek the truth.”

“I don’t see how Leander could possibly be of any help to you. Despite the animosity he and Hale Markham felt toward each other, I’m not even sure they ever met.”

“You’re very likely correct on both counts,” Wolfe conceded. “Nevertheless, I feel a conversation with him could prove to be helpful.”

Another deep breath on Potter’s end. “All right, I’ll call him and tell him you want to see him. But I assure you I won’t prejudice him in your favor. I still don’t approve of what you’re doing.”

“Your candor is admirable, sir,” Wolfe said. “Will you phone him today?”

“Yes, right now! Good-bye!” Potter banged down his receiver.

“Pretty rude for a university president,” I observed, hanging up, too, and swiveling to face Wolfe. “I don’t think I’ll bequeath any of the Goodwin family fortune to that field house. What do you think seeing the tycoon will accomplish?”

“Perhaps nothing,” he said, lifting his shoulders slightly and then dropping them. “But at least Mr. Bach will be prepared for our call. And if he’s as curious by nature as I suspect, he’ll want to know what we are up to.”

“So a call to Bach is the next order of business?”

“One of them. You said that when the Prescott police interrupted you in Mr. Markham’s house earlier this week, you had been there only a few minutes. Am I correct that you feel a need to return?”

“It’s been on my mind,” I admitted. “I was going to suggest it this morning, but I wanted to get you back here as quickly as possible. I’ll go tomorrow.”

“I appreciate your solicitude,” Wolfe said. “And I also appreciate that this will make a third trip to that place for you in a single week.” The very thought drove him to pour the second bottle of beer into his empty glass.

“All in the line of duty. After all, as you yourself said a few minutes ago, I am the quintessential man of action, remember? This time, though, I’m going to take Cortland with me to Markham’s house, as a buffer against that group of lads who comprise Prescott’s finest.”

Wolfe reached for his book. “I was going to suggest that myself, of course,” he said.

Of course.

S
ATURDAY MORNING AT QUARTER PAST
eight, I once again was piloting the Mercedes north up the Henry Hudson Parkway. As much as I enjoy being behind the wheel, this was starting to get tiresome, but I wasn’t about to complain; after all, the project had been my idea, and Wolfe
was
at work, or at least giving orders.

After Wolfe’s “suggestion” that I might want to run up to Prescott and finish going through Markham’s house, I called Cortland and got a cool reception: He was still in a sulk about being treated like a suspect, but he softened when I told him what I wanted to do.

“By all means, you should come and see the house again. This time, we can take my car. The police recognize it, and if they happen to drive by, they’re not likely to stop.”