Free Death on Deadline by Robert Goldsborough Page B

why we were spending all this time on a non-case.
    Back in the office with coffee, Wolfe retreated behind The Good War, leaving me to watch the clock and wonder whether the Scotsman was really going to show up.
    At five minutes after nine, the doorbell rang. I went to the hall, and through the one-way glass I saw MacLaren on the stoop—I recognized him from his photographs—along with a guy about a head taller who looked like he’d have no problem qualifying for the Jets’ defensive line. The latter was wearing a raincoat and a scowl.
    I walked back to the office doorway. “They’re coming in pairs today,” I said to Wolfe. “MacLaren’s here, and he’s got a hulk with him. Undoubtedly a bodyguard. Instructions?”
    “I’m only interested in seeing Mr. MacLaren,” he answered, never taking his eyes off the book.
    “As you wish, sir,” I said, in what I thought was a pretty good imitation of Sir John Gielgud. I opened the door with the chain lock on. “Yes?” I inquired mildly, through the crack.
    “I’m Ian MacLaren; I’m here to see Nero Wolfe.” His voice had a healthy dose of Scottish burr and he spoke with an economy of language I found ominously nasty.
    “We’re expecting you. Who’s your friend?”
    “George? He goes everywhere with me.”
    “Not in this house, he doesn’t. Have him wait in the car,” I said, pointing through the crack in the door at the second stretch Lincoln that had graced our curb that day. I swung the door open for MacLaren, but blocked the hulk. Okay, so opening the door was a mistake, but I really felt George would head for the limo.
    Instead, he grabbed my shoulder with a beefy hand and started to bull his way in. I blocked him again, and he clipped my cheek with a right hand that knocked me back against the doorjamb. Like a lot of big guys, though, he thought one punch would be enough, and he let down his guard. Bracing my right foot, I caught him with a left to the stomach that staggered him. I didn’t give him time to recover and laid a right to the same spot, which was flabbier than I would have thought from eyeballing him. The second one buckled his knees and the third, another left, doubled him over. Both hands went to his stomach and he let out a soft little sigh.
    “Stop that!” MacLaren snapped, shooting his cuffs. “George, wait in the car,” he said disgustedly. “Come to the door if I’m not out in an hour.”
    George managed a groan and stumbled down the stairs as we went in. I think I damaged his ego. “Was that necessary?” MacLaren demanded as I closed the front door behind us.
    “I don’t like anyone thinking I’m a pushover just because I happen to be six inches shorter than they are,” I shot back. “Tell George he needs to work on blocking lefts.”
    We stopped in the doorway to the office. I performed the social niceties. “Ian MacLaren, this is Nero Wolfe.” Wolfe looked up, but at me, not our visitor.
    “What happened to you?” he snapped.
    I realized then that George’s punch had scored some points. My hand went to my left cheek and I winced from the tenderness, coming away with blood on my fingers. “Mr. MacLaren’s … uh … driver and I had a debate on the stoop as to who would be sitting in on this conversation. I outtalked him.”
    Wolfe snorted as MacLaren eased into the red leather chair. “I assume Mr. MacLaren’s driver remained outside.”
    “In the car,” I said, dabbing my cheek with a handkerchief.
    Wolfe turned his attention to our visitor while I settled in at my desk. The press baron, whom I had in left profile, seemed to be all angles—long straight nose, pointed chin, deeply lined cheeks, a flat head covered with well-groomed dark hair flecked with white. Somehow the pieces fit together pretty well, though; I was forced to admit he wasn’t at all bad-looking, hardly an ogre. And his gray suit, while maybe not as expensive as Dean’s, was a nice fit. He studied Wolfe with a democratic smile as he