And be a Villian

Chapter Five

There are four rooms on the ground floor of Wolfe's old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street not far from the Hudson River. As you enter from the stoop, on your right are an enormous old oak clothes rack with a mirror, the elevator, the stairs, and the door to the dining-room. On your left are the doors to the front room, which doesn't get used much, and to the office. The door to the kitchen is at the rear, the far end of the hall.

The office is twice as big as any of the other rooms. It is actually our living-room too, and since Wolfe spends most of his time there you have to allow him his rule regarding furniture and accessories: nothing enters it or stays in it that he doesn't enjoy looking at. He enjoys the contrast between the cherry of his desk and the cardato of his chair, made by Meyer. The bright yellow couch cover has to be cleaned every two months, but he likes bright yellow. The three-foot globe over by the bookshelves is too big for a room that size, but he likes to look at it. He loves a comfortable chair so much that he won't have any other kind in the place, though he never sits on any but his own.

So that evening at least our guests were at ease, however the rest of them may have felt. There were nine of them present, six invited and three gate-crashers.

Of the eight I had wanted Deborah Koppel to get, Nancylee Shepherd hadn't been asked, and Professor F. O. Savarese couldn't make it. The three gate-crashers were Starlite's president and public relations man, Anderson and Owen, who had previously only got as far as the stoop, and Beech, the F.B.C. vice-president.

At nine o'clock they were all there, all sitting, and all looking at Wolfe.

There had been no friction at all except a little brush I had with Anderson. The best chair in the room, not counting Wolfe's, is one of red leather which is kept not far from one end of Wolfe's desk. Soon after entering Anderson had spotted it and squat-claimed it. When I asked him courteously to move to the other side of the room he went rude on me. He said he liked it there.

“But,” I said, “this chair, and those, are reserved for the candidates.”

“Candidates for what?”

“For top billing in a murder trial. Mr Wolfe would like them sort of together, so they'll all be under his eye.”

“Then arrange them that way.”

He wasn't moving. “I can't ask you to show me your stub,” I said pointedly, “because this is merely a private house, and you weren't invited, and my only argument is the convenience and pleasure of your host.”

He gave me a dirty look but no more words, got up, and went across to the couch.

I moved Madeline Fraser to the red leather chair, which gave the other five candidates more elbow room in their semi-circle fronting Wolfe's desk. Beech, who had been standing talking to Wolfe, went and took a chair near the end of the couch. Owen had joined his boss, so I had the three gate-crashers off to themselves, which was as it should be.

Wolfe's eyes swept the semi-circle, starting at Miss Fraser's end. “You are going to find this tiresome,” he said conversationally, “because I'm just starting on this and so shall have to cover details that you're sick of hearing and talking about. All the information I have has come from newspapers, and therefore much of it is doubtless inaccurate and some of it false. How much you'll have to correct me on I don't know.”

“It depends a lot,” said Nathan Traub with a smile, “on which paper you read.”

Traub, the agency man, was the only one of the six I hadn't seen before, having only heard his smooth low-pitched voice on the phone, when he had practically told me that everything had to be cleared through him. He was much younger than I had expected, around my age, but otherwise he was no great surprise. The chief difference between any two advertising executives is that one goes to buy a suit at Brcoks Brothers in the morning and the other one goes in the afternoon. It depends on the conference schedule. The suit this Traub had bought was a double-breasted grey which went very well with his dark hair and the healthy colour of his cheeks.

“I have read them all.” Wolfe's eyes went from left to right again. “I did so when I decided I wanted a job on this case. By the way, I assume you all know who has hired me, and for what?”

There were nods. “We know all about it,” Bill Meadows said.

“Good. Then you know why the presence of Mr Anderson, Mr Owen, and Mr Beech is being tolerated. With them here, and of course Miss Fraser, ninety-five per cent of the clients' interest is represented. The only one absent is White Birch Soap.”

They're not absent.” Nathan Traub was politely indignant. “I can speak for them.”

“I'd rather you'd speak for yourself,” Wolfe retorted. “The clients are here to listen, not speak.” He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and put the tips of his thumbs together. With the gate-crashers put in their places, he went on: “As for you, ladies and gentlemen, this would be much more interesting and stimulating for you if I could begin by saying that my job is to learn which one of you is guilty of murder-and to prove it. Unfortunatelv we can't have that fillip, since two of the eight - Miss Shepherd and Mr Savarese-didn't come. I am told that Mr Savarese had an engagement, and there is a certain reluctance about Miss Shepherd that I would like to know more about.”

“She's a noisy little chatterbox.” From Tully Strong, who had removed his spectacles and was gazing at Wolfe with an intent frown.

“She's a pain in the neck.” From Bill Meadows.

Everybody smiled, some nervously, some apparently meaning it.

“I didn't try to get her,” Deborah Koppel said. “She wouldn't have come unless Miss Fraser herself had asked her, and I didn't think that was necessary. She hates all the rest of us.”

“Why?”

“Because she thinks we keep her away from Miss Fraser.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. We try to.”

“Not from me too, I hope.” Wolfe sighed down to where a strip of his yellow shirt divided his vest from his trousers, and curled his palms and fingers over the ends of his chair arms. “Now. Let's get at this. Usually when I talk I dislike interruptions, but this is an exception. If you disagree with anything I say, or think me in error, say so at once. With that understood: “Frequently, twice a week or oftener, you consider the problem of guests for Miss Fraser's programme. It is in fact a problem, because you want interesting people, famous ones if possible, but they must be willing to submit to the indignity of lending their presence, and their assent by silence, if nothing more, to the preposterous statements made by Miss Fraser and Mr Meadows regarding the products they advertise. Recently-”

“What's undignified about it?”

“There are no preposterous statements!”

“What's this got to do with what we're paying you for?”

You disagree.” Wolfe was unruffled. “I asked for it. Archie, p include it in your notes that Mr Traub and Mr Strong disagree. You may ignore Mr Owen's protest, since my invitation to interrupt did not extend to him.”

He took in the semi-circle again. “Recently a suggestion was made that you corral, as a guest, a man who sells tips on horse races. I understand that your memories differ as to when that suggestion was first made.”

Madeline Fraser said: “It's been discussed off and on for over a year.”

“I've always been dead against it,” Tully Strong asserted.

Deborah Koppel smiled. “Mr Strong thought it would be improper. He thinks the programme should never offend anybody, which is impossible. Anything and everything offends somebody.”

“What changed your mind, Mr Strong?”

“Two things,” said the secretary of the Sponsors' Council. “First, we got the idea of having the audience vote on it-the air audience-and out of over fourteen thousand letters ninety-two point six per cent were in favour. Second, one of the letters was from an assistant professor of mathematics at Columbia University, suggesting that the second guest on the programme should be him, or some other professor who could speak as an expert on the law of averages. That gave it a different slant entirely, and I was for it. Nat Traub, for the agency, was still against it.”