"ON A CLEAR DAY," said Bogdanovic as a hostess seated them at a table overlooking the river, "you can see Sing Sing prison on the opposite shore."
The window next to the table reflected the warming glow of a fireplace and a sea of flickering flames of stubby candles that reminded Dane of votive tapers in a church. Through the window she saw scattered across the broad, placid surface of the gray, slowly flowing river an expanse of flat, thin shards of drift ice that looked like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle.
"It's a charming spot," Dane said. "How did a city boy ever find it?"
"The way all good restaurants are discovered. I was brought here by a friend."
"Am I correct in deducing that the friend was a woman?"
"You tell me the basis of that deduction, and I'll tell you whether you're right."
"It's elementary. You said a friend brought you here. Only a woman takes a man to a place as romantic as this."
"It was strictly a business lunch."
"For you, perhaps," she said, smiling. "But not for her."
"You're wrong there. The business was murder. The Griffith case. The woman was also a detective. The murder had been done in the city, but the victim's body was found in a boathouse several miles from here, so it was a matter of interjurisdictional cooperation that brought us together. Romantic ambiance had nothing to do with Arlene Flynn's bringing me here."
"Before I concede the point, I would have to question her, woman to woman. Perhaps you'll introduce me to her someday."
"You'd like her. She's the chief investigator for District Attorney Benson. And a hell of a detective. Since her outstanding work on the Griffith case, Goldstein has been trying to lure her away to work for him."
"Why hasn't he succeeded?"
"Arlene prefers living and working in Stone County the way someone else I know chooses to live and work in California, when she belongs in New York."
"Chauvinism, thy name is Bogdanovic."
A waiter in a snug white jacket appeared with menus. "Would you care to order from the bar?"
"A glass of white wine, I think," Dane replied. "A chablis, if you have it."
The waiter bowed slightly. "Of course."
Bogdanovic asked, "New York or California?"
"We have both, sir."
Grinning, Bogdanovic looked at Dane. "Your call, Maggie."
"Oh, the California," she said emphatically.
"Scotch for me," said Bogdanovic, grumpily. "Single malt. Do you have Dalwhinnie?"
"We certainly do, sir. How would you like it?"
"Neat, of course," Bogdanovic said, sharply. "It's the only acceptable way."
As the waiter withdrew, Dane laughed. "Now I appreciate how Sherlock Holmes felt when he called Watson the one fixed point in a changing universe. For Sgt. John Bogdanovic, it's single malt neat or none at all. It's New York chablis over California. And the only crimes that matter are committed in New York City."
"Not all of them," he said, frowning as he picked up a menu. 'Just most."
"Obviously, Arlene Flynn doesn't agree with you."
"That is her mistake. And probably her tragedy." "Did you two work well together on the Griffith case?"
"Why wouldn't we? If you are supposing there was a male/female problem, there wasn't. She's an excellent detective, a true professional in every way. So am I."
"I have no doubt. I'm confident that you will solve Theo's murder in short order. It will be fascinating to see how you go about doing it."
"I see the solving of a murder in terms of a room that has three doors," he said, putting down the menu. "Each door has a sign. One says Love, which is to say hate or betrayal. The second is labeled Money. And the third is Revenge. But only one door is real. The others open to a brick wall. The job of the detective is to know which of the doors will get him into that room. At the moment, in view of Janus's background and all of those who might have had a reason to hold a grudge against him, I'm concentrating on door number three." He laughed. "I sound like one of those emcees on a TV game show! 'Well, Monty, I choose door number three.' "
"Explain for me why you're so positive it's door three."
"As to the first door, nothing has turned up so far pointing to Janus's being romantically engaged. Agreed?"
"I believe I can vouch for Theo's not having been involved in a love affair."
"Murder in the name of love—the crime passionnel—is most likely to be a spur-of-the-moment event. The scene of the crime is usually in a domestic setting. An irate husband or wife bursts into the bedroom and catches the loved one in flagrante in the love nest, a gun blazing. I have difficulty picturing a jealous or jilted lover shooting Janus sitting alone in his Rolls-Royce in the heart of Manhattan. As to door two, murder for profit, you have to look for someone who stands to benefit from a will or an insurance policy. According to you, the beneficiaries of Janus's estate are charities and other entities, not someone unwilling to let time and nature run their course. This is one case in which I won't have to stake out a funeral to check out the mourners for possible suspects."
"There won't be a funeral as such," Dane said, peering out the window. "Theo didn't want one. He was not what you would call a religious man. But at some point, I presume, there may be some sort of a memorial. A strictly secular one."
"I see. One of those events where a Mark Antony in a pinstriped suit gets up not to bury Caesar, but to praise him.''
Dane turned from the window angrily. "There is a great deal to praise him for."
"His numerous virtues aside," Bogdanovic said sarcastically, "I remind you that somebody murdered Caesar."
"And you believe that that somebody was lurking behind door three with revenge in his heart."
"Revenge is a category that includes several possibilities. It might have been the need to settle a grudge or some grievance arising from something Janus did, either recently or a long time ago. On the other hand, he might have been killed preemptively. He could have been eliminated to prevent him from doing something, or to stop him from continuing a case he was working on."
The waiter arrived with their drinks.
Scooping up his glass of scotch, Bogdanovic said, "A toast to murder."
Startled, the waiter wheeled round and hurried away.
"It's an interesting coincidence that you mentioned Caesar's being murdered," Dane said as Bogdanovic sipped the scotch. "In a case called '
Some Buried Caesar
,' Nero Wolfe also made a journey out of New York City, reluctantly, of course. Some of the world's most renowned orchid growers were competing for the top prizes at the North American Exposition. Wolfe ended up claiming the gold medal and three ribbons."
Bogdanovic lowered his glass. "The number three again."
"Wolfe also found himself investigating three murders, one of which was that of a prizewinning bull. He was the Caesar whom some wanted to bury, by the way."
"A bull?" Bogdanovic exclaimed. He shook his head. "That's not a murder. It's a moo-der. And who did Wolfe find responsible for this Aora-icide? Was it someone like the guy who killed Jake Elwell because he had a beef with him? Or was there an udderly different motive?"
Dane groaned and rolled her eyes. "Sergeant, if Arlene Flynn was subjected to your brand of barnyard humor in the Griffith case, I can hardly fault the woman for turning down Goldstein's repeated offers of a job."
"Arlene happens to have a keen sense of humor."
"She must have," Dane said, smiling as she lifted her wineglass, "to have put up with you."
"It's not my barnyard humor that's got you riled up."
"No? Then what has?"
"You don't like me making jokes at the expense of the sacrosanct Nero Wolfe."
With eyes as icy as the river, she said, "Of whom you have admitted knowing nothing."
The waiter reappeared, smiling solicitously. "Are you ready to order? May I recommend the blackened swordfish?"
'Just a salad for me," Dane said. "Considering the occasion, make it a Caesar."
"Also considering the occasion, and in memory of a murdered bull by that name," said Bogdanovic, "I'll have a sirloin steak and a baked potato."
With an uncertain look, the waiter asked, "How do you prefer your steak, sir?"
"Rare as possible," Bogdanovic said, eyes crinkling and lips twitching with an incipient smile, "but without actually mooing."
As the puzzled waiter strode toward the kitchen, Dane said, "He must think we're crazy. First he heard us talking murder and then we ignored the fact that this is a seafood restaurant."
Looking round the crowded room, Bogdanovic said, "I wonder if Janus was ever a customer here."
"Theo was like you. A meat-and-potatoes man. It's sad that his last meal had to be turkey."
"If a dose of cyanide or arsenic had been sprinkled on it, solving his murder would be a lot easier. Instead, I have on one hand the possibility that he was murdered and Paulie Mancuso driven to suicide as part of a scheme by some mastermind of the underworld, and on the other the prospect of rummaging around in Janus's history for someone whose dislike of him could date back decades. Either way, the likelihood of an arrest is bleak. A bit of poison in his turkey would have limited the suspects to those at the dinner."
"Assume for the moment that Theo was not murdered by someone with an old grievance nor by a real-life Professor Moriarty, but by a member of the Wolfe Pack," Dane said excitedly, "which of them would be a suspect?"
"I could start with Marian Pickering Henry. She had a lot of fun explaining how easily she could have poisoned me."
"Marian would be thrilled," said Dane gleefully. "Not since Agatha Christie gave up the ghost has a woman sent so many souls to meet their maker as a result of a little extra spice added to a meal. Or a drink. Oscar Pendelton calls his best-selling author the poison pen."
"Since we're talking about Wolfe Packers as suspects, did everyone at our table dislike Janus?"
"Not everyone," Dane said as the waiter brought their food.
"With the exception of you, of course," Bogdanovic said with a smile at what appeared to be perfectly cooked steak. "You think Janus was the cat's pajamas. But, alas, he wasn't poisoned at the dinner. He was killed with a gun in a manner that tomorrow morning's newspapers will undoubtedly describe in gory detail in the headlines as a gangland-style execution befitting the mouthpiece for the mob."
"That was uncalled for, John," she snapped, spearing a leaf of lettuce as though her fork were a dagger. "He wasn't a demon. Theo earned and deserves a better obituary. But as Mark Antony said at the funeral for Julius Caesar, 'The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones.' "
"Let's make a deal, Maggie. No more talking about the case. We'll pretend we're not a couple of sleuths. We are an ordinary couple having Sunday lunch out. How's your salad?"
"It's fine. How's your steak?"
"Perfect!"
"I'm glad. Now what shall we talk about?"
He thought a moment, then said, brightly, "I could discuss the nuances of differences between single-malt scotches."
She sighed in dismay. "That's pretty boring."
"How about the weather?" He gazed through the window at the glowering gray sky above the icy river. "It looks as if we might be in for a little snow. That ought to please the skiers."
"On the other hand, it would be bad for anyone who has to drive into the city in it."
"I suppose that's one of the things you like about living in California. There's no snow to scrape off your car. No need to worry about antifreeze. No steaming up of the car windows while you're dashing merrily along the freeways. Of course, you do have to be worried about all those drive-by shootings we easterners hear about from time to time on the news."
"In New York it's much more personal. You get shot while you are parked in your car."
He winced. "Touché, Maggie. But Janus wasn't a victim chosen at random. He was killed because he was targeted. If it had been anyone else in that car we might be at a loss to know where to start looking for the killer. As it is, we're fortunate in that we appear to have several ways to go in the investigadon. Unfortunately, I don't expect the killer to suffer a sudden pang of conscience that will compel him to walk in and confess. Nor is he likely to blab about it to anyone. Barring any such break, we're left with old-fashioned legwork and the hope that it may provide the clue that will clinch a case we said we weren't going to talk about anymore while we're eating. How the devil did we manage to get back on the subject?"
"The weather. You were talking about snow. I suppose that as you talked about Californians' not having to be concerned about their car windows steaming up, we both thought subconsciously of the shot through the open window of Theo's car." She fell silent a moment, thinking, then said, "I guess we could lay the blame for what happened on that blasted cigar. If Theo hadn't lit it up, he wouldn't have rolled down the damn window."
"He would have been shot," he said, turning attention to his steak, "even if the window had been up."
"Perhaps he would have been," she said, ignoring her salad and gazing at the river.
Jerking up his head, he demanded, "What do you mean?"
Her eyes came back to him. "It would have been difficult to take aim at a target behind a tinted window, and quite impossible through bulletproof glass."
Bogdanovic slapped his knife on the table. "What was that?"
"Theo's car was equipped with tinted bulletproof glass. I thought your crime lab people would have reported it to you. But I suppose they haven't had time yet to examine the car."
"How do you know Janus's windows were bulletproof?"
"He told me he'd had the original windows replaced when he returned from California."
"Did he explain why?"
"No. I assumed it was because of the death threats that came in during, and especially after, the trial."
"What car did he use in California?"
"He usually hired a limousine service to take him to and from court."
"Do you know if the limos had bulletproof windows?"
"I'm sorry, I don't."
"Did he use hired limos the entire time he was in L.A.?"
"I assume so. No, wait! When he took me to dinner after the trial ended he picked me up in a convertible."
"That's odd. If he was worried enough about threats to have all the windows of his Rolls bulletproofed in New York, why was he tooling around L.A. in a convertible? I'll tell you why. The danger was not in California. It was at home. Whatever danger he was guarding against did not arise from the trial. The danger was here. That he knew about it raises a couple of questions. Who was he protecting himself against, and how did he come to know he was in danger?"
Dane thought a moment, then said, "He was warned."
Bogdanovic pushed aside his plate. "Maggie, if you intended to kill somebody, would you alert your intended victim? I don't think so. You would go ahead and do it."
'John, that's it! Theo knew that someone wanted to kill him because that person had tried. It's obvious he didn't know who it was. He would have gone to the police. Yet he didn't do so."
"We don't know that, Maggie."
"If somebody was charged with attempting to murder Theodore Janus, it certainly would have made headlines coast to coast. Did you see any?"
He shook his head slowly. "Not that I can recall."
"Of course you can't. There were no such headlines because Theo hadn't a clue as to who had tried to kill him. Hence, the bulletproof windows for the Rolls."
