The Bloodied Ivy (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  When I’d translated that, I nodded. “A little. I know, for instance, that he was a political conservative, to put it mildly, that he once had a newspaper column that ran all over the country, that he had written some books, and that he was more than a tad controversial.”

  “Succinct though superficial,” Cortland said, sounding like a teacher grading his pupil. He studied the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance in choosing his next words—or else trying to reboard his train of thought. “Mr. Goodwin, Hale Markham was one of the few, uh, truly profound political thinkers in contemporary America. And like so many of the brilliant and visioned, he was constantly besieged and challenged, not just from the left, but from specious conservatives as well.” He paused for breath, giving me the opportunity to cut in, but because it looked like he was on a roll I let him keep going, lest he lose his way.

  “Hale was uncompromising in his philosophy, Mr. Goodwin, which is one of the myriad reasons I admired him and was a follower—a disciple, if you will. And do not discount this as mere idle palaver—I think I’m singularly qualified to speak—after all, I had known him nearly half again a score of years. Hale took a position and didn’t back away. He was fiercely combative and outspoken in his convictions.”

  “Which were?” I asked after figuring out that half again a score is thirty.

  Cortland spread his hands, palms up. “How to begin?” he said, rolling his eyes. “Among other things, that the federal government, with its welfare programs and its intrusions into other areas of the society where it has no business, has steadily—if sometimes unwittingly—been attenuating the moral fiber of the nation, and that government’s size and scope must be curtailed. He had a detailed plan to reduce the government in stages over a twenty-year period. Its fundamental caveat was—”

  “I get the general idea. He must have felt pretty good about Reagan.”

  “Oh, up to a point.” Cortland fiddled some more with his tie and pushed up his glasses again with a thumb, blinking twice. “But he believed, and I concur, that the president has never truly been committed to substantially reducing the federal government’s scope. The man is far more form than substance.”

  That was enough political philosophy to hold me. “Let’s get to Markham’s death,” I suggested. “You say you’re positive his fall down that ravine was no accident. Why?”

  Cortland folded his arms and looked at the ceiling again. “Mr. Goodwin, for one thing, Hale walked a great deal.” He took a deep breath as if trying to think what to say next, and he was quiet for so long that I had to stare hard at him to get his engine started again. “In recent years, walking had been his major form of exercise. Claimed it expurgated his mind. Almost every night, he followed the identical course, which he informed me was almost exactly four miles. He started from his house, just off campus, and the route took him past the Student Union and the Central Quadrangle, then around the library and through an area called the Old Oaks and then—have you ever been up to Prescott, Mr. Goodwin?”

  “Once, years ago, for a football game, against Rutgers. Your boys kicked a field goal to win, right at the end. It was quite an upset.”

  Cortland allowed himself a sliver-thin smile, which was apparently the only kind he had, then nodded absently. “Yes…now that you mention it, I think I remember. Probably the only time we ever beat them. We had a…Rhodes Scholar in the backfield. Extraordinary chap. Name escapes me. Lives in Sri Lanka now, can’t recall why.” He shook his head and blinked. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Anyway, you should remember how hilly the terrain of our campus is, which isn’t surprising, given that we’re so close to the Hudson. Innumerable times, Prescott has been cited as the most picturesque university in the nation. There are several ravines cutting through it, and the biggest one is named Caldwell’s Gash—I believe after one of the first settlers to the area. It’s maybe one hundred fifty feet deep, with fairly steep sides, and the Old Oaks, a grove of trees that looks to me like it’s getting perilously decrepit, is along one side of the Gash. Hale’s walk always took him through the Oaks and close to the edge of the Gash.”

  “Is there a fence?”

  “A fence?” Another long pause as Cortland reexamined the ceiling. “Yes, yes, there had been—there was…years ago. But at some point, it must have fallen apart, and never got replaced. The paved, uh, bicycle path through the Oaks is quite a distance from the edge—maybe thirty feet—and there are warning signs posted. On his postprandial strolls, though, Hale sometimes left the path—I know, I’ve walked with him many a time—and took a course somewhat closer to the edge.”

  “So who’s to say your friend didn’t get a little too close just this once and go over the cliff?”

  “Not Hale Markham.” Cortland shook his small head vigorously, sending his glasses halfway down his nose. “This was a dedicated walker. He even wore hiking boots, for instance. And he was very surefooted—his age, which happened to be seventy-three, shouldn’t deceive you. During his younger days, he’d done quite a bit of serious mountain climbing, both out west and, er, in the Alps. No sir, Hale would not under any circumstances have slipped over the edge of the Gash.”

  “Was the ground wet or muddy at the time?”

  “It had not rained for days.”

  “What about suicide?”

  He bristled. “Inconceivable! Hale reveled in life too much. His health was good, remarkably good for his age. No note of any kind was discovered. I should know—I checked through his papers at home. I’m the executor of his estate.”

  “What about an autopsy?”

  “No autopsy. The doctor who examined the body said Hale died of a broken neck, a tragic consequence of the fall. He estimated the time of death to have been between ten and midnight. And the medical examiner set it down as accidental death. But there really wasn’t any kind of an investigation to speak of. Most distressing.”

  “All right,” I said, “let’s assume for purposes of discussion that there is a murderer. Care to nominate any candidates?”

  Cortland squirmed in the red leather chair, and twice he started to say something, but checked himself. He looked like he was having gas pains.

  I gave him what I think of as my most earnest smile. “Look, even though you’re not a client—not yet, anyway—I’m treating this conversation as confidential. Now, if you have evidence of a murder—that’s different. Then, as a law-abiding, God-fearing, licensed private investigator, I’d have to report it to the police. But my guess is you don’t have evidence. Am I right?”

  He nodded, but still looked like something he ate didn’t sit well with him. Then he did more squirming. The guy was getting on my nerves.

  “Mr. Cortland, I appreciate your not wanting to come right out and call someone a murderer without evidence, but if I can get Mr. Wolfe to see you—and I won’t guarantee it—he’s going to press pretty hard. You can hold out on me, but he’ll demand at the very least some suppositions. Do you have any?”

  Cortland made a few more twitchy movements, crossed his legs, and got more fingerprints on his lenses. “There were a number of people at Prescott who…weren’t exactly fond of Hale,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “I’d, uh, chalk a lot of it up to jealousy.”

  “Let’s get specific. But first, was Markham married?”

  “He had been, but his wife died, almost ten years ago.”

  “Any children?”

  “None. He was devoted to Lois—that was his wife. She was one of a kind, Mr. Goodwin. I’m a bachelor, always have been, but if I’d ever been fortunate enough to meet a woman like Louis Markham, my life would have taken on a Byronic richness that…no matter, it’s in the past. As far as children are concerned, Hale told me once that it was a major disappointment to both him and Lois that they never had a family.”

  “What about relatives?”

  “He had one brother, who has been deceased for years. His only living relative is a niece, unmarried, in California. He left her about fifty thousand dollars, plus his
house. I’ve been trying to get her to venture here to go through Hale’s effects—we can’t begin to contemplate selling the place until it is cleaned out, which will be an extensive chore. Hale lived there for more than thirty years.”

  “Has the niece said anything about when she might come east?”

  “I’ve talked to her on the phone several times, and she keeps procrastinating,” Cortland whined. “When I spoke to her last week, she promised that she’d arrive here before Thanksgiving. We’ll see.”

  “Okay, you mentioned jealousy earlier. Who envied Markham?”

  He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “Oh, any number of people. For one, Keith Potter.” He eyed me as if expecting a reaction.

  “Well, of course,” I said. “Why didn’t I think of him myself? Okay—I give up. Who’s Keith Potter?”

  Cortland looked at me as if I’d just jumped out of a spaceship nude. “Keith Potter is none other than the beloved president of Prescott.” He touched his forehead with a flourish that was probably supposed to be a dazzling gesture of sarcasm.

  “Why was Potter jealous of Markham?”

  I got another one of those long-suffering-teacher-working-with-a-dense-student looks. “Partly because Hale was better known than Potter. In fact, Hale was arguably the most celebrated person in the university’s history. And we’ve had three Nobel Prize laureates through the years.”

  I nodded to show I was impressed. “So the president of the school resented its superstar teacher. Is that so unusual? I don’t know much about the academic world, but one place or another I’ve gathered the impression that most colleges have a teacher or two who are often better known than the people who run the place.”

  “Unusual? I suppose not. But Potter—excuse me, Doctor Potter—is an empire builder. His not-so-secret goal is to sanctify his name by increasing the endowment to Prescott, thereby allowing him to erect more new buildings on the campus. The edifice complex, you know?” Cortland chuckled, crossed his arms over his stomach, and simpered.

  “I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but that’s not so unusual either, is it? Or such a bad thing for the university?”

  “Maybe not,” Cortland conceded, twitching. “If it’s accompanied by a genuine respect for scholarship and research, uh, things that all schools aspiring to greatness should stress. But Potter desires, in effect, to upraise a monument to himself. That goal easily eclipses any desire on his part to improve the facilities purely for academic reasons.”

  I was itching to ask if the ends didn’t justify the means, but Wolfe would be coming down from the plant rooms soon, so I pushed on. “How did Potter’s obsession with buildings affect his relationship with Markham?”

  Cortland sniffed. “Ah, yes, I was about to get to that, wasn’t I? Potter had fastened on to Leander Bach and was working to get a bequest out of him—a considerable one. I assume you know who Bach is?” I could tell by his tone that I’d shaken his faith in my grasp of current events.

  “The eccentric multimillionaire?”

  “That’s one way of describing the man. I prefer to think of him as left-leaning to the point of irrationality. And that was the rub: The talk all over campus was that Bach wouldn’t give a cent of his millions to the school as long as Hale was on the faculty. He had the gall to call Hale a Neanderthal.”

  I stifled a smile, then shot a glance at my watch. “Mr. Wolfe will be down soon,” I said. “And I—”

  “Yes, I’ve been monitoring the time, as well,” Cortland cut in. “And we’ve still got six minutes. Mr. Goodwin, as you can appreciate, my stipend as a university professor hardly qualifies me as a plutocrat. However, I’ve had the good fortune to inherit a substantial amount from my family. Because of that, I can comfortably afford Mr. Wolfe’s fees, which I’m well aware are thought by some to border on extortionate. And I can assure you that this check,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his crazy-quilt sportcoat, “has the pecuniary resources to back it. If you have any question about my financial condition, feel free to call Cyrus Griffin, president of the First Citizens Bank of Prescott. I’ll supply you with the number.”

  “Not necessary,” I said, holding up a hand and studying the check, drawn on Mr. Griffin’s bank and made out to Nero Wolfe in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars.

  “That’s just a good-faith retainer,” Cortland said. “To show Mr. Wolfe—and you—that I’m earnest. I will be happy to match that amount on the completion of Mr. Wolfe’s investigation, regardless of its eventuation.”

  I tapped the check with a finger. Our bank balance could use this kind of nourishment—we hadn’t pulled in a big fee in almost three months, and I was beginning to worry, even if the big panjandrum wasn’t. But then, he almost never deigned to look at the checkbook. Such concerns were beneath him. Even if Wolfe refused to take Cortland on as a client, though, it would be instructive to see his reaction to somebody else who tosses around four-syllable, ten-dollar words like he does.

  Maybe I could talk somebody into making a syndicated TV show out of their conversations and call it “The Battle of the Dictionary Dinosaurs.” All right, so I was getting carried away, but what the hell, it would be fun to see these guys go at it. Besides, I’d pay admission to watch Wolfe’s reaction to Cortland’s mid-sentence ramblings.

  “Okay, I’ll hang onto this for now,” I said to the little professor. “It may help me get Mr. Wolfe to see you, but I can’t guarantee anything. I’ll have to ask you to wait in the front room while we talk. If things go badly—and I always refuse to predict how he’ll react—you may not get to see him, at least not today. But I’ll try.”

  “I’m more than willing to remain here and plead my case with him directly.” Cortland squared his narrow shoulders.

  “Trust me. This is the best way to handle the situation. Now let’s get you settled.” I opened the soundproofed door and escorted the professor into the front room, then went down the hall to the kitchen to let Fritz know we had a guest so that he would monitor the situation. It simply wouldn’t do to have people wandering through the brownstone.

  That done, I returned to the office, where I just had time to get settled at my desk when the rumble of the elevator told me Wolfe was on his way down from the roof.

  TWO

  WHEN WOLFE WALKED INTO THE office, I was at my desk entering orchid germination records in the personal computer he had finally agreed to buy after getting tired of my badgering. He detoured around the end of his desk, slipped a raceme of yellow oncidium barbatum into the vase on his blotter, and carefully settled his seventh of a ton into the reinforced chair that had been custom made for him years ago.

  “Good morning, Archie. Did you sleep well?” It was his standard eleven o’clock question.

  “No complaints. Fritz tells me it rained buckets last night, but I’ll have to take his word. As the night watchman said when they woke him after the bank had been robbed, ‘I didn’t hear a thing.’”

  Wolfe huffed his opinion of my humor and rang for beer. “Before you get too deeply immersed in whatever your day’s activities will be,” I said, swiveling in his direction, “I’d like to discuss Hale Markham.” He sent a glower past the oncidium barbatum in my direction but said nothing.

  “You know, the brilliant champion of the far right who tumbled down that ravine last—”

  “Archie,” he said, mouthing the word as if it were a communicable disease, “I can conceive of no reason why Hale Markham should be the subject of a discussion in this room.”

  “Well, try this on and see how it fits: The man was murdered.”

  His eyes bore in on me, unblinking. “Is this flummery?”

  I tried to look hurt. “Am I the flummoxing type? No, sir, I have it on good authority—well, reasonably good authority—that the professor may have been helped to the bottom of that ravine.”

  Wolfe scowled. He was waiting for two things: beer, to be delivered by Fritz Brenner, and an explanation, to be delivere
d by me. He got the beer first—two chilled bottles and a glass on a tray. Fritz set them on the desk in front of Wolfe as usual, then did a snappy about-face and marched out. Wolfe took the opener from his center desk drawer, popped the cap on one bottle, and poured, watching the foam settle.

  “On whose authority?” he demanded, returning his attention to me.

  “There’s a man sitting in the front room who says he was a colleague of Markham’s at Prescott. Name: Walter Cortland. Occupation: political science professor. He came to see me this morning and gave me this.” I got up and set the check in front of him.

  Wolfe fingered it, drained half the glass, and resumed his scowl. “All right, report,” he grumbled.

  When Wolfe tells me to report, he almost always means verbatim, which isn’t hard for me. As Cortland had mentioned when he was buttering me up, I’ve been known to repeat hours-long conversations to Wolfe without missing a comma. And I don’t even own a tape recorder.

  This one was a snap, of course, and after I finished, Wolfe leaned back. “It’s hardly necessary to mention that the man in the front room is your problem,” he said offhandedly. “You undertook to invite him here without consulting me. Further, nothing in your conversation with him in any way buttresses his claim that Mr. Markham was helped to his death.”

  I wasn’t about to give up. “Through the years, you’ve complimented me at least twice—make that three times—on my ability to play hunches. Call this a hunch.”

  “No, sir, not good enough,” Wolfe sniffed, reaching for his current book, In Hitler’s Germany, by Bernt Engelmann.

  “Before you get comfortable, I’d like to point out that the bank balance is at its lowest point in the last ten months,” I said, pulling the checkbook from my center desk drawer and shaking it at him. “I know you find it distasteful to worry about such mundane things as money, and I also know how repulsive you find work. But I remind you that you have to continue paying my princely wages, as well as those of Mr. Brenner, whom we agree is the finest chef in both hemispheres, and Theodore Horstmann, whom you claim has no parallel as an orchid tender. On that one, I’ll have to take your word. Then there’s the electricity, telephone, heat, and air-conditioning for this old brownstone, to say nothing of the bills from the butcher, the various other food purveyors, the beer distributor, the—”