“But in the process, he got Bacelli all riled up,” I said.
“That he did. And he got me all riled up, too, Archie Goodwin.”
“We you riled up enough to take some action against Mr. Milbank?”
That brought a grin. “You should know that I’m a pacifist, always have been. In the Great War, or World War I, as your generation of young bucks calls it now, I was a CO—that stands for ‘conscientious objector.’ Just check the records if you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t fight, but I was given the option of doing some other service, and I ended up working at a mental hospital down in Virginia during the war.”
“So I should assume being a pacifist precludes bumping someone off—or hiring someone else to do the bumping off?”
“You just don’t want to let loose of that bone, do you?” Baxter said, his grin still in place. “Even if I had wanted to kill Orson Milbank—which I didn’t—I never would have considered such a thing. It’s not in me.”
“Is there anybody else who you would like to nominate as the one behind the killing?”
Baxter threw up a gnarled hand. “Not really. Oh, I suppose somewhere along the way, Bacelli will find himself dead center in the spotlight if he isn’t already there. From what little I read in those big city papers you’ve got, the man’s got enough trouble now, what with the Feds closing in, not that I feel any sympathy for him. But somehow I can’t see him behind the killing. And as far as Keller and Corcoran are concerned, neither of them has ever much liked our late senator, although I just can’t believe either one would risk his precious position in the community to engineer a murder. As much as I’m against that parkway, it doesn’t seem to me that any road is worth killing for.
“Those are just my thoughts, for what they’re worth. I’m sure you bright detective types are better at analyzing this kind of situation than one poor ol’ country boy who’s lucky to have two nickels to rub together.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily put too much stock in the brains of detective types—other than my boss, of course. Thanks for your time, Mr. Baxter,” I said, rising. “By the way,” I said, turning back to him, “I did enjoy that quote of yours, the one where you called the senator the biggest traitor in New York State since Benedict Arnold. Very clever. Those big city papers of ours couldn’t resist it.”
“Why thank you, son. I have to admit I thought that was pretty snappy, too. And I sure enjoyed jawing with you as well. When your boss or the law down there in the big city decides that I’m a killer, just have them come up here. This is where they’ll find me—unless I’m out somewhere picketing or marching with those fine young Vassar women from over Poughkeepsie way.”
Before leaving Baxter’s homey log abode, I told him there was a T-bone steak with his name on it down the road at Nellie’s little grocery. That brought the biggest smile that I’d seen on his pleasant, weathered face yet.
Heading the convertible back south, I drove down Route 9, stopping in a roadside diner on the edge of Peekskill for a corned beef sandwich on rye, a glass of milk, and a slice of Dutch apple pie that was as good as I remembered it from a stop I made at the same café years before.
The rest of the trip home was in darkness, and by the time I had garaged the car and rung the buzzer on the stoop, it was almost midnight. Fritz, whom I knew would still be up, unbolted the front door and swung it open. Walking into the empty office, I found a handwritten note on my desk:
A.G.
Please see me at 8:30 a.m.
N.W.
At that hour, Wolfe would still be having breakfast in his bedroom, so apparently the relapse had come to an end almost before it started. As I was absorbing this, Fritz appeared in the doorway. “Archie, I have saved you a plate of the Brazilian lobster salad,” he said.
“As I have said many times, you are a prince among men,” I told him. “What’s been going on here?”
“I think perhaps he is going back to work.”
“Really? What makes you say that?”
“Mr. Wolfe answered a telephone call just as I was serving him beer after dinner. The man on the other end was angry, very angry. He was so loud I could hear his voice through the receiver.”
“Aha, that sounds like none other than our old friend Inspector Cramer.”
He shook his head. “I do not think so, Archie. It was a different voice. This person, whoever he is, will be coming here tomorrow at eleven.”
“Well, the day promises to be interesting. Now if you please, bring on that lobster salad. It will give me the strength to cope with the challenges that await.”
Chapter 11
The next morning at eight thirty, I rapped once on Nero Wolfe’s bedroom door, got the word to enter, and stepped in. Wolfe always takes breakfast in his room on a tray Fritz brings up at eight fifteen, sometimes eating in bed, other times on the table by the window. This day, he was at the table, clad, as usual, in canary yellow pajamas that only served to emphasize his volume. He had already polished off his orange juice and a bowl of fresh figs and cream and had started in on the first of two hefty slices of Georgia ham, broiled, of course.
He glowered at me, setting his knife and fork down and dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “You have never met Charles Fentress.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No, sir, I haven’t. What have I missed?”
“The man is a ninnyhammer. He telephoned here last evening and launched into a tirade about you and, by association, me.”
“Really. What have I done to set him off?”
“After Mrs. Fentress met with you yesterday, she went home and told him that you believe he murdered Senator Milbank.”
“You may recall that after my meeting with Mona Fentress, I reported to you on our conversation.”
“I do,” Wolfe said as he cut a piece of ham.
“Then you also will recall that I told you she seemed very eager to rile up her husband.”
“You quoted her as saying she was going to have fun at his expense over what she called ‘this business,’ meaning the murder.”
“And now it appears that our capricious Mona also is having some fun at my expense, as well. At no time did I suggest to her that I considered her husband a suspect, let alone the prime suspect.”
Wolfe scowled. “During our acrimonious conversation, I told him you are not in the habit of making unfounded allegations, but he refused to listen. We talked around each other for several minutes before he demanded that you and I meet with him either at his advertising agency office or his home. I said such was impossible, that we would meet with him here or not at all. He bridled and whined at my ultimatum but finally acquiesced. He is to arrive at eleven.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said with an exaggerated groan.
“I share your lack of enthusiasm, but perhaps we may learn more about the circumstances leading to Senator Milbank’s death from the angry and petulant Mr. Fentress.”
“Yeah, maybe. Before I go downstairs, do you want me to report on my activities of yesterday?”
Wolfe nodded and went on attacking his breakfast as I filled him in on my trip north. He offered no comments during my recitation, and when I was finished and was met with more silence, along with the hint of a nod, I went downstairs to my own breakfast, which I always have at a small table in the kitchen.
As I ate and paged through that morning’s Times, I could feel Fritz’s eyes on me. After finishing the grilled ham and corn fritters, I swiveled in my chair and answered his unspoken question. “The man you heard on the phone with Mr. Wolfe last night is named Charles Fentress. He is coming to visit us at eleven. It will not surprise you to learn that this gentleman is unhappy.”
The furrows in Fritz’s brow deepened. “Do you think that there will be trouble, Archie?”
“Nothing we won’t be able to handle. But look on the bright side: Mr. Wolfe�
�s relapse did not last long at all, which means you will be able to do your work without interference.”
That didn’t totally erase the frown, but at least Fritz allowed himself a small sigh of relief. The man is a compulsive worrier. He worries when Wolfe isn’t working for fear we will go broke. He worries when Wolfe is working, concerned that he is not getting enough to eat, if you can believe that. And he worries that when I’m out on a case, following Wolfe’s orders, something terrible will happen to me on the mean streets of the greater world beyond the brownstone.
After breakfast, I took a cup of coffee into the office and put the orchid germination records in order. As I finished, the phone rang.
“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”
“Hello, Archie, it’s Elise.”
“Of course. I recognize your mellifluous voice.”
She giggled. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a way with words?”
“All the time. I try to add a new one to my vocabulary every day. I have been told it adds to my appeal.”
“It certainly does, Archie. I’m curious as to how the investigation is going. What can you tell me?”
“Only that we are hard at work.”
“Any specifics?”
“Not at the moment. But if there are developments, you will hear from us.”
“Is there something that I can do to help, anything at all?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll ask Mr. Wolfe and let you know.” She wanted to keep talking, but I politely discouraged her, claiming a heavy workload. In truth, I had no workload whatever at the moment, and what I did accomplish the rest of the morning until eleven o’clock wasn’t worth a mention.
The whirring of Wolfe’s elevator came seconds before the doorbell rang. The figure I saw through the one-way glass panel in the front door could be described as medium height, dark, and cross. Charles Fentress was clad in a superbly tailored three-piece Glen plaid suit, and his blue silk tie probably cost as much as a four-course meal at Rusterman’s.
The bell rang a second time, longer, as I swung the door open. “About time,” Fentress snapped. “Who are you?”
“Archie Goodwin. Who are you?”
“You know who I am, and unfortunately, I know too much about you. Your man Wolfe is expecting me, and you will be the subject of our conversation,” he said, jabbing an index finger at me. Fentress might have been considered handsome, with his square jaw and close-cropped black hair, except for a surly expression, which may well have been an ever-present condition.
I ushered him in, and he followed me down the hall to the office. “Where’s Wolfe?” he demanded as I gestured him to the red leather chair. “He will be here shortly,” I said, neglecting to add that he invariably preferred to enter only after his guest or guests had arrived and been seated. Wolfe would deny it, even to me, but he possessed a theatrical streak.
Once our angry guest had dropped into the chair, exhaled loudly, and crossed his legs, Wolfe walked in, detoured around his desk, placed a raceme of orchids in a vase, and dipped his head a quarter of an inch, which for him was a greeting. “Good morning, sir. Would you like to have something to drink—coffee perhaps? I am having beer.”
“No, thank you,” Fentress said, flashing a monogrammed cuff on his custom-made white-on-white shirt. “I did not come here to socialize.”
“I do not equate the offer of a beverage with socializing,” Wolfe replied evenly. “It should be expected of any good host.”
“I am also not here to discuss etiquette,” the advertising executive said stiffly. “I will leave that to Emily Post. Let’s get right to the point.” He turned toward me. “I am prepared to sue this man for slander, and maybe you, too, while I’m at it.”
“Bold talk indeed, Mr. Fentress,” Wolfe said, raising his eyebrows and leaning forward. “What is the charge?”
“You know damned well. As I told you on the phone yesterday, your man here has accused me of murdering Orson Milbank.”
Fritz brought in beer and Wolfe uncapped the first bottle and poured, watching the foam subside. “When and where did this occurrence take place?” he asked before taking a first sip.
“That’s what he told my wife when they met for coffee over at Grand Central Station.”
Wolfe turned to me. “Is this true, Archie?”
“It is true that I had coffee with Mrs. Fentress. It is also true that we had that coffee at Grand Central. However, it is not true that I told her I believed her husband had killed Orson Milbank.”
Back to Fentress. “Do you consider Mrs. Fentress a reliable source?”
Our guest let out a sound best described as a snarl. “That sounds like an insult to Mona.”
“Not at all, sir,” Wolfe replied calmly. “But because we are discussing the possible commission of an offense, I merely ask a question that a competent lawyer would surely pose to you on a witness stand.”
“My wife would hardly lie to me,” Fentress huffed, crossing his arms.
“It is good to know you have such an honest and candid relationship,” Wolfe said. “Would others agree?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I thought the meaning of my question was manifest. How is your marriage viewed by others who know one or both of you?”
Fentress took a deep breath. “I hardly see where that is any of your business.”
“You would have a most difficult time in a courtroom, sir,” Wolfe said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “If I were an attorney representing Mr. Goodwin, I believe I would have no problem finding individuals who had witnessed the two of you quarreling in public.”
“I might have expected these sorts of dirty tricks out of a private eye,” Fentress said with a sneer.
“Dirty tricks? Hardly, sir,” Wolfe said. “I am merely showing you how one defends oneself against what might be a baseless charge. I urge you to ask your wife once again to repeat exactly what Mr. Goodwin said to her about you and Senator Milbank.”
“And what if she repeats what she had told me before? Then I will file a suit for slander.”
“I do not presume to speak for Mr. Goodwin, but it seems likely that he will file a countersuit for defamation. Archie?”
“I’ve got a lawyer all lined up,” I said, “and he’s a good one. He’s eager to take me on as a client. I believe you know him.”
“Yes, I do, and he is among the very best in the city, if not the entire nation,” Wolfe said, leaning back in his desk chair and interlacing his fingers over his middle mound. “There you are, sir—a standoff. What is your decision?”
Fentress studied his pricey wristwatch and frowned. “I will talk to Mona again,” he said in a voice just above a whisper.
“A sound course of action,” Wolfe said. “But while we are on the subject of Orson Milbank, I gather you did not like him.”
“I don’t recall ever having said that.”
“But in public quarrels with your wife on more than one occasion, you were heard loudly berating the senator because of the long hours that you claimed he made her work.”
Fentress nodded. “I won’t deny that I didn’t like the man, but just for the sake of argument, let’s say I killed him, or had him killed. What in God’s name would be my motive?”
“Jealousy?” I put in.
“Because he and Mona spent so much time together? Oh, don’t worry,” he snapped, holding up a palm. “I’ve heard the rumors about them, and maybe they are true. But then, we’re all men of the world in this room, right?” He mood changed suddenly, and he gave us a smile similar to those he probably bestowed upon clients of his agency over cocktails when he was about to tell an off-color joke. “Here’s the thing. Mona is free to do what she wants, and so am I, if you get my drift.”
I could tell Wolfe was working to hide his disgust with the ma
n, and he did a good job of it. “Let us stipulate, sir, that any animus you might have had toward the late senator involved his having your wife work long hours—nothing more. Having established that, can you suggest anyone who would want Mr. Milbank dead?”
“The obvious choice, of course, is that hoodlum Bacelli. Hell, I read the papers and listen to the news on the air, so I know all about how angry he got when Milbank backed off of his original route for that parkway heading up north. On top of that, Mona told me that Bacelli phoned Milbank several times in a rage. She answered the phone once when he called the office, and she had to listen to a rant that turned the air blue.”
“Worthy of note,” Wolfe said. “Anyone else you would care to nominate?”
“I’m really the wrong person to answer that, since I had very little to do with Milbank and his work. Based on Mona’s comments to me, I’d say Bacelli would easily be at the top of the list. A couple of others who didn’t like the senator are Jonah Keller, that real estate guy up north, and a man named Corcoran, I forget his first name, who runs some sort of chamber of commerce, also north of here. But I’m probably not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“It is always helpful to get another person’s perspective,” Wolfe remarked.
Fentress stroked his chiseled chin. “I’m curious about who hired you,” he said, returning to his angry mode and switching his attention to me. “Mona told me you wouldn’t say who the client was. Is it her?”
“I am afraid I cannot answer that,” Wolfe responded.
“Well, I won’t take any more of your time,” Fentress said, getting to his feet. He was clearly miffed again, and neither Wolfe nor I was the least bit concerned.
Chapter 12
Murder in the Ball Park Page 8