Archie Goes Home

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Let’s look for a spot to grab a late lunch,” I said to Katie when we were back in the car. After a two-block drive, we found a restaurant that advertised “Steaks. Chops. Burgers. Voted the Best in Town!”

  After we had settled into a booth and ordered—corned beef on rye for me, a ham and cheese sandwich for Katie—I said, “You saved the best for last.”

  “A good reporter’s strategy—ask the toughest question at the end of the interview. If you ask that earlier, you’re likely to be tossed out.”

  “We were tossed out.”

  “But not until after we got a reaction from her. I am absolutely positive she and Mulgrew were having an affair.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I thought she seemed awfully nervous, or maybe edgy is a better word.”

  “Being interviewed for a newspaper article can make a lot of people nervous, even when it’s a small paper like the Trumpet—no offense meant.”

  “None taken. Well, maybe you’re right. But I still have a feeling that Carrie Yeager is somehow off-center.”

  “Maybe. Now be honest with me, Katie,” I said, leaning forward. “There isn’t going to be an article by you about Logan Mulgrew in the Trumpet, is there?”

  The color rose in her face. “Well . . . probably not just about him. But I thought it was important to try to smoke out the Yeager woman. I still feel she had something to do with Mulgrew’s death. She may have actually pulled the trigger. After all, she told us that she did know about the gun.”

  “True. I had to wonder, though, whether she is aware enough about newspaper photographers to realize that most of them use a press camera like a Speed Graphic and not a little Leica.”

  “Aha, Archie Goodwin. Your big-city bias is showing through. Maybe they use those kinds of cameras on the large dailies like the ones you’re familiar with, but here a Leica is common. I’ve even used that very one to take pictures to go with my articles. We don’t have a staff photographer, just a freelancer. All the reporters take their own pictures most of the time. Anything to save our almighty bosses’ money.”

  “Okay, I’ll concede you that point. What do you plan to do about Miss Yeager now?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. And what are you going to do yourself? You told me you’ve spent time with Charles Purcell and Harold Mapes. What’s your opinion of them as prospective killers?”

  “To use your own phrase, I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Do you have anyone else in mind?” Katie asked. I told her about my plans to meet with Lester Newman and Eldon Kiefer.

  “So it’s clear that you don’t think that I’ve already identified the killer,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice.

  “I am just keeping an open mind, as Nero Wolfe has taught me to do over the years. Now let’s eat. All this talk has made me hungry.”

  * * *

  2 The Rubber Band by Rex Stout, 1936

  Chapter 16

  On the drive back to Ohio, we continued to discuss the Mulgrew affair and possible killers of the banker. Our conversation was somewhat strained, however, mainly because Katie seemed miffed that I did not buy into her theory that Carrie Yeager had fired the shot sending Logan Mulgrew to eternity.

  “What motive would Miss Yeager have for killing Mulgrew?” I asked.

  “As I said before, I think she’s more than a little unbalanced.”

  “She seemed pretty normal to me, albeit somewhat nervous, as we discussed.”

  “Normal? Maybe it really takes a woman to really read another woman, Archie. For instance, I noticed how she had trouble making eye contact.”

  “Okay, maybe the lady is a little bit shady, if you’ll pardon my rhyming,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. When that didn’t work, I tried another approach.

  “I should think you would be suspicious of Eldon Kiefer, the father of that young woman Mulgrew supposedly impregnated,” I told Katie. “After all, when you called him, didn’t he tell you to go straight to hell, or words to that effect?”

  “Not words to that effect,” Katie snapped. “Those were the precise words.”

  “Well, what about Kiefer then?”

  Katie was behaving in a petulant manner, sitting in the passenger seat of the convertible with arms folded firmly across her chest and looking straight ahead as if transfixed by the winding two-lane highway we were rolling over.

  When she didn’t answer, I persisted. “You mentioned earlier that when Kiefer is home from his trucking trips, he hangs out in a local tavern. Which one?”

  “Charlie’s Tap, so I hear. I’ve never been in the place. Do you plan to talk to him in the bar, or at home?”

  “I thought the bar might be a better spot, although I might have to go there several times to find him.”

  “Well, as you know, he can be pretty ornery. And although I’ve never laid eyes on the man, I’ve learned that he’s something of a fitness buff.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Close to fifty, I think, but he is said to have the build of a much younger man.”

  “Sounds like you are trying to discourage me.”

  “I just want you to know what you could be up against,” Katie said, arms still folded and face set.

  “I appreciate your concern,” I said with a grin. “I will watch my step.” We didn’t do much talking the rest of the way back. It was clear Katie preferred to pout, and I was not one to try talking the woman out of it.

  Back at the house after dropping Katie off at her apartment, I gave my mother a quick rundown of the day’s activities. “What surprised you most from your trip?” she asked.

  “Katie Padgett’s insistence that Carrie was a prime suspect—actually the prime suspect—in Mulgrew’s murder, if indeed he really was murdered.”

  “Do you think it was murder, Archie?”

  “I’m . . . still not sure. I’ve gone back and forth on this, and I can’t make up my mind. One thing that makes me think it was murder is the shot that got fired into Katie’s apartment window. I know I’m no Nero Wolfe by any stretch of the imagination, and it’s being proven right here.”

  “I am just a simple, semirural Ohio woman, but as I have come to understand your working relationship with Nero Wolfe, you go out and round up the suspects and deliver them to Mr. Wolfe, who then proceeds to identify the guilty party, right?”

  “Simple, semirural Ohio woman, eh? Hah! You taught English in grade school and high school for heaven knows how long while raising a family. And at the same time, you kept the books for the farm so Dad could concentrate on the livestock and the crops.”

  “I just did what I had to do.”

  “You sure did, Mom, and in spades, as they say. As to your observation about how Wolfe and I work together, that pretty well summarizes it. Maybe, just maybe, I can round up all those I feel might have ended Logan Mulgrew’s life. But then what?”

  “One thing at a time. It seems like you’re getting ahead of yourself. Have you talked to everyone you have suspicions about?”

  “No, there are those two others I mentioned earlier—Lester Newman and Eldon Kiefer. Both of them had plenty of reason to dislike Mulgrew.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I remember now. Newman is the brother of Mr. Mulgrew’s wife, and you said that Eldon Kiefer’s daughter may very well have been assaulted and even impregnated by Logan Mulgrew.”

  “Now all I have to figure out is how to approach these two guys. But first, I should phone New York to find out how things are doing in my absence. I’ll call and reverse the charges.”

  “You will do no such thing, Archie Goodwin!” my mother said in a scolding tone I recognized from my boyhood. “You are a guest in this house, and you will not be paying for telephone calls from here. Besides, I rarely use long distance. The last time I did was to see how you were doing in y
our big city. Now you make your call. I’ll go upstairs and give you some privacy.”

  “No need for that, Mom. No secrets will be involved here.”

  She went upstairs anyway, and I did the long-distance routine with a chirping operator. After two rings, I heard the voice of Saul Panzer, saying “Nero Wolfe’s office.”

  “I must say, you have got a fine telephone voice,” I told him.

  “But of course I have. How are things down in beautiful Ohio?”

  “Just fine. Anything I should know about life on West Thirty-Fifth Street?”

  “No new business, if that’s what you’re wondering. What I can report is that your boss, who is of course upstairs with his orchids right now, is one fine gin rummy player.”

  “Uh-oh, I forgot to warn you that Wolfe is something of a hustler.”

  “But I just taught him the game, and he’s been winning more often than me. And as you know, I’m no slouch at the game.”

  “As I long ago learned to my regret. I also learned to my regret never to underestimate Nero Wolfe in games of any kind where cash is on the line.

  “Case in point: Years back, we played darts, or ‘javelins’ as Wolfe called them. We tacked playing cards on a corkboard, and the idea was to get a better poker hand than the other guy by sticking darts into specific cards. In a couple of months, Wolfe milked me for eighty-five bucks. And bear in mind that this was someone who hadn’t—at least to my knowledge—ever thrown darts or played poker before and until we played didn’t know the difference between a straight and a full house.”

  “Well, I haven’t lost eighty-five yet, but I am definitely behind. You had better come home before he cleans me out. By the way, when are you coming back?”

  “I’m not sure, but probably fairly soon. Does Wolfe miss me?”

  “If so, he hasn’t mentioned it. I hope you’re not getting into trouble down there.”

  “No more than usual. Is my boss keeping you busy?”

  “Not overly. I usually only come in mornings, to sort his mail, pay a few bills, that sort of thing. Today I’m working later because Wolfe gave me some dictation and I’m typing up a stack of letters. And for the record, I think Fritz misses you.”

  “Speaking of Fritz, I hope you’re taking advantage of his culinary skills.”

  “That’s the best part of the job, Archie. I stay for lunch every day before heading off to take care of my own work. But tonight, I’m going to be here for dinner as well. We’re having squabs with sausage and sauerkraut. Eat your heart out thinking about it.”

  “Glad to know you still have some clients, Saul,” I said, ignoring his last comment. “You’ll need the cash infusion to cover your gin rummy losses if you persist in going up against Nero Wolfe, that well-known card sharp.”

  “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep that in mind. Tell your mother I said hello. A fine lady.”

  “She has asked after you as well. She thinks you’re an all-right guy, which just goes to show how good you are at fooling people.”

  “I’d love to stay on the line and keep bantering with you, as pleasant as this has been, but I have work to do for Mr. Wolfe, unless you’ve got something else that you want to say.”

  “Nothing that could be printed in a family newspaper,” I told him, and we rang off.

  Chapter 17

  My sparring with Saul was therapeutic, and when our call ended, I sat for several minutes in the living room collecting my thoughts. I opted to tackle Lester Newman first, thereby getting the drive down to Waverly out of the way.

  At that moment, my mother came downstairs. “Is everything in New York all right?” she asked.

  “Maybe too good. They don’t seem to miss me. I’ve decided my next step is to go to Waverly and see Lester Newman. That is, if I can find him.”

  “Waverly is in our phone directory, Archie. Maybe he’s listed. So you’ve decided to push ahead?”

  “I have.”

  “You were always our most headstrong one growing up, and you still are. You remind me so much of your father—even more so as you get older.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Definitely. You both always knew what you wanted, and by heaven, you were going to get it.”

  “Maybe that’s why he and I didn’t always get along. We were too much alike.”

  Sure enough, Lester Newman was listed in the regional phone book Mom had, along with his address in Waverly, which I vaguely remember as being a quiet little burg.

  The next morning, after a drive of less than a half hour, I found myself in Waverly, which still seemed like a quiet little burg, small enough that I quickly found the street where Newman lived. I also found his house, a modest two-story white stucco number that would soon need a paint job.

  I walked up an uneven sidewalk with grass growing up through the cracks and pressed the bell. After a wait of close to a minute, the front door opened slightly, and a hunched-over man with a gray crew cut glanced up at me through one eye, the other one being closed. “What do you want?” he rasped. “I’m not buying whatever it is that you’re selling.”

  “And I’m not selling anything. My name is Archie Goodwin, and I would like to talk to you about your late sister, Sylvia Mulgrew.”

  “And just why would I want to talk to you, Mr. . . . Goodwin?” Newman asked through the narrow slit. “By the way, just who are you?”

  “I am a private detective, and I happen to be interested in the lives of your late sister and her husband. It has been said that your sister may not have died from natural causes.”

  “That so? And just where has that been said?”

  At least I had piqued his interest. “Up where she and her husband had lived,” I answered.

  Slowly, the door swung farther open, revealing that Newman was supporting himself with a cane. “All right, come on inside,” he said in a grumpy tone. I found myself in a small but neat living room.

  “Have a seat,” he muttered, gesturing toward a sofa. “You caught me as I was just finishing up washing the dishes, but that can wait.”

  I looked around the room I was in and focused on a framed display on the far wall. Against a blue velvet background was mounted an array of army medals and ribbons, which I recognized.

  I pointed at the display. “That is very impressive, sir,” I told him. “Good Conduct Medal, World War II Victory Medal, Purple Heart, and best of all, the Distinguished Service Cross, along with a lot of ribbons.”

  “I earned every dang one of ’em,” he said gruffly. “I also should have gotten the Medal of Honor, too, but those bastards . . . oh, never mind. Say, you seem to know your medals. Were you in?”

  “Yes, but not like you. I was stuck in Washington the whole time.”

  “As an officer, I suppose?”

  “Yes, major.”

  “Hell, I should be calling you sir, not the other way around. But that’s okay, everybody did their part. I was a platoon sergeant, Fifth Army, at Anzio.”

  “One of the bloodiest battles of the war, so I read and heard,” I remarked.

  “I’m here to tell ya. It’s the closest thing to hell that I’ll ever see before I kick the bucket. And it’s what made me the wreck I am now. Say, you got me talking about the damned war, and I still don’t know why you are so interested in my poor dead sister. Tell me more.”

  Time to come clean. “As I told you, I am a private detective, based in New York, although I’m originally from these parts and am currently staying with my mother just a few miles north of here.”

  “Goodwin . . . Goodwin. Say, wasn’t there a farmer by that name up on the Portsmouth Road at one time?” Newman asked.

  “My father, dead for a number of years now.”

  “Back to my question: Why all the interest in Sylvia?”

  “I’m curious about the circumstances of
her death, and the death of her husband.”

  My host narrowed his good eye in my direction. “I’m curious, too, very curious,” Newman said, spacing the words for emphasis. “First off, let me tell you that I’m a lot younger than I look, even though I still had to talk the army into letting me enlist because I was over the stupid age limit that they had set. The war added a lot of years to me, not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

  “So noted.”

  “Even though we were brother and sister, Sylvia was a lot older, and she was almost like a mother to me. In fact, my late wife used to say, ‘It’s almost as if you had two mothers when you were growing up.’ And she was right about that. Sylvia looked after me when I was a kid, and I can tell you that I was a terror.”

  “Then at some point your sister married Logan Mulgrew,” I said.

  “That miserable son of a bitch. I knew from the start that the man was a rotter, but Sylvia couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see it. Mulgrew could be charming, no question, but it was easy for me to see right through him. Even down here in Waverly, the word was getting through about Mulgrew and his . . . his escapades.”

  “Did you ever mention anything to your sister about all this?”

  “I started to once, years ago, but she cut me off in midsentence. She said something like ‘There is too much idle gossip going around our town, and I refuse to listen to it.’ She even quoted from the book of James in the New Testament about the tongue being ‘a world of evil among the parts of the body.’”

  “Well, when people begin using the Bible in an argument, you know their position is pretty well set,” I told him.

  “Yeah, I knew there was really no use of my going on. Sylvia wasn’t about to listen. And then when she started getting sick, Mulgrew wouldn’t even let me see her. He said I upset her too much, which was total hogwash.”

  “Do you have any thoughts about your sister’s death—and Mulgrew’s?”

  “Before we go any further, Mr. Goodwin, has someone hired you to poke into all this?”