Murder in the Ball Park

by Robert Goldsborough

  I laughed. “No, and for a very good reason. I don’t even know myself which donkey—or maybe donkeys—Mr. Wolfe is going to pin the tail on.”

  That got a laugh out of her. “All right, Archie. But you have to promise to take me to dinner after this is all over.”

  “What do you think your neighbor Lily Rowan will think of that?”

  “Oh, Lily’s a good sport. Besides, I’ll tell her it was my idea, not yours.”

  “And that will make it all right?”

  “Of course, it will, Archie. She has nothing whatever to fear from me.”

  “It’s not you that Lily will worry about, but what the hell. That dinner will be on me.”

  “You are a doll. I’ve thought so since I met you. I’ll see you tomorrow night at nine.”

  Several of the others on the list were a harder sell. I got hold of Mona Fentress, and she definitely did not fancy the idea of a gathering at Wolfe’s, nor did I think her husband would.

  “Archie, I’m so terribly busy with my campaign right now,” she argued. “I have appearances every day, every night, which is essential, because I’m playing catch-up with my so-called esteemed opponent, who has a big head start. I had planned to be meeting people and passing out leaflets all day tomorrow up in Chappaqua, Mount Kisco, and Pound Ridge. Besides, Charles won’t like the idea of coming, either, I can tell you that now.”

  “If you both do not come, you will be conspicuous by your absence, and that could be a far bigger detriment to your campaign. And after all, you can still campaign during the day.”

  “I do not like it, Archie, not one bit.”

  “You don’t like murder, either, do you? I have the utmost confidence that you can persuade your husband to join you here tonight, nine o’clock sharp.”

  “Who else will be present?”

  “A number of interested parties. I expect to hear back from you in the next half hour telling me both of you will be present. How would it look if the late senator’s trusted aide and her husband were so uninterested in finding his killer that they couldn’t be bothered to attend a gathering investigating the murder?”

  “But it is a private investigation, not an official one. And really, just what is it going to prove?”

  “That remains to be seen. Also, it is entirely possible members of the police department will be present.”

  “That seems most unorthodox.”

  “Nero Wolfe is unorthodox by his very nature.”

  “Well . . . I will talk to Charles. But I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Oh, I believe you can, Mona,” I said. “I’m placing my bets on you and your powers of persuasion. Remember, I have seen you in action in front of a heavily hostile crowd. I believe you to be capable of great things.”

  Jonah Keller was even more intractable than Mrs. Fentress. “What the hell, Goodwin, why should I bother coming down to some private eye’s place in Manhattan just to hear him pontificate? I know all about Nero Wolfe and his bluster.”

  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, I thought. But what I said was, “I would think you’d want to be present to defend your position.”

  “What position? What are you talking about?”

  “Your position as a staunch defender of the Northern Parkway and an equally staunch opponent of the late and very much mourned Orson D. Milbank. If you are absent from this gathering, people are sure to wonder why. A sign of some guilt, perhaps?”

  Several of the next dozen words out of Keller’s mouth are among those the Gazette or any other newspaper will not allow into its columns. I waited until he had wound down like a tired alarm clock. “Nine o’clock tomorrow night,” I said, giving him the address.

  More words spewed forth from his mouth, but I could tell that he had fired his best shot and found himself out of ammunition. I put a check mark next to his name as one who would be attending. Ray Corcoran was an easier sell. “Oh yes, Archie Goodwin,” he said smoothly. “So you say Mr. Wolfe will inform us as to the status of the Milbank murder investigation? I, for one, am interested in what he has to say. Sure, mark me down as accepting. I will be there. Sounds like a most interesting evening.”

  Next I called Howell Baxter of CLEAR. “Archie Goodwin, that Ohio-lad-turned-city-boy who favored me with a visit,” he cackled. “Now just what can I do for you, son?”

  I told him about tomorrow night’s gathering, and he laughed heartily. “You really want me to come down to New York and listen to your boss show off about how smart he is? Sorry, but you got yourself the wrong fella. I make it a point to keep my distance that big city of yours. Haven’t been there in several years, and I see no reason to go there now.”

  “Well, that is surely too bad, Mr. Baxter,” I told him. “This would have been a fine chance for you to be in the same room with such people as Jonah Keller and Ray Corcoran. On an equal footing with them, you might say. And it is quite possible this meeting will get some press coverage.”

  “Say, I’ve got a group of nice young ladies from Vassar who could come along with me. They’ve just made some new signs that—”

  “No, Mr. Baxter, stop right there. I’ve seen those sign-carrying girls of yours, and they are absolutely adorable, as well as effective. But for this meeting, Mr. Wolfe has requested only you. We want you to be on the same stage, so to speak, as Mr. Keller and Mr. Corcoran. Unless, of course, you would feel uncomfortable being in the same room with them.”

  “Uncomfortable with those two jackasses? Hell, I could out-argue both of them at once. Together, they haven’t got a brain worth talking about. All right, dammit, I’ll be there. Give me the address.”

  Immediately after I hung up with Baxter, the phone rang. “You win, Archie, we will come,” Mona Fentress said. “I don’t like it, and I can assure you that Charles likes it even less, but if this will help in finding Orson’s killer, the time spent is more than worth it.”

  I thanked her and then tackled the three men who had worked on Milbank’s team. Ross Davies and Todd Armstrong both readily agreed to come, while Keith Musgrove balked. “I really don’t see what could be served by my attending such a function,” he said in that high-pitched voice that grated on me.

  “I know how close to the senator you were,” I said. “You must be interested in hearing how the investigation into his death is progressing.”

  “But as you have described it, this is not a formal inquiry,” he argued. “What can possibly come of it? The whole business sounds like a total waste of time.”

  “Mrs. Fentress said she will come,” I replied. “And, by the way, so will Messrs. Davies and Armstrong. So the late senator’s whole team will be on hand. Except you, of course, if you choose for whatever reason to stay away. Your absence would doubtless raise questions as to why you chose to avoid being here.”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll come, of course,” Musgrove mumbled, unnerved. “I didn’t realize this was such . . . such an important meeting.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. Mr. Wolfe will be pleased to hear you will be with us tomorrow night.”

  The next thing on my chore list was a call to—believe it or not—Franco Bacelli. Somewhere, Wolfe had located a telephone number for him, which I dialed, figuring I’d end up talking to some underling. But to my surprise, the prince of darkness himself answered.

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me!” he said when I extended the invitation. “You mean your fat boss really expects me to be there while he tries to pin the killing on this old Sicilian. Forget it.”

  “But when you were here before, I thought you claimed you are clean on the shooting.”

  “You’re damned right I am, pal.”

  “Then what have you got to fear? I seem to remember you saying you never cover your face with a newspaper when photographers are around.”

  “That’s right. I don’t and never have. Who else is go
ing to be at this shindig of Wolfe’s?”

  “No photographers, but a room full of interested parties. You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

  “Any cops?”

  “Very likely,” I said. “Inspector Cramer has been known to drop by.”

  “Cramer!” he snorted. “I think it would be worth coming just to see the expression on that old flatfoot’s face when I walk into the room. All right, what the devil, I’ll be there.”

  “Remember, it will be like last time, we are letting only you in, and not any of your . . . colleagues.”

  “Okay, that’s a deal. Are you gonna try to frisk me?” he asked, laughing.

  “No, I don’t think so. After all, you’ll be outnumbered.”

  Another laugh. “Hey, even when I’m outnumbered, I’m not really outnumbered. How do you think I’ve survived this long?”

  “We’ll expect you at nine tomorrow,” I said, hanging up and turning to Wolfe. “Well, they’re all coming, every last one of them. It seems that nobody can resist a good show.”

  He put down his book, drew in air, and uttered a single word: “Hubris.”

  Chapter 28

  Nero Wolfe loves to perform before an audience, and he would have a big one this June evening. He had taken it upon himself to invite Inspector Lionel T. Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbins, bringing the number of guests to twelve—or thirteen if you counted our “special mystery guest,” a term I’m stealing from that brand-new television quiz show What’s My Line?

  While Wolfe was in the plant rooms that afternoon, I set up extra chairs in the office, two rows facing his desk plus, of course, the red leather chair. I restocked the cocktail cart along one wall with fresh ice and a variety of liquors and mixes.

  I then went down the hall, almost to the kitchen, to check the curtained alcove that hides what we call “the peephole.” In the alcove, one can look through a small hole in a painting of the Washington Monument hanging on an office wall and see and hear what goes on in the office. The hole is undetectable from inside the office. We have used this simple but effective device on numerous occasions, both to eavesdrop on conversations and to watch the reactions of those who think they are alone. Our mystery guest would be in the alcove tonight.

  Next, I put in a call to Lon Cohen. “Got yourself any plans for this evening?” I asked.

  “Nothing special, why? Am I invited to dinner again?”

  “Don’t be so greedy. You were just here, and our grocery budget is still recovering. Wolfe has invited all the principals in the Milbank case to the brownstone tonight, and we just may have some news for you later.”

  “In that case, I will be at my desk waiting for your call.”

  Invariably, when one of these events is scheduled, I find myself growing more nervous as the day drags on. Not so for Nero Wolfe. To see him at dinner, devouring lamb chops with walnuts or pork stewed in beer, you would never think he was preparing to unmask a murderer in less than two hours. His conversation at the table on such an evening might range from how the routes of the railroads affected the growth of America to various theories on why audiences invariably rise when the “Hallelujah” chorus from Handel’s Messiah is performed.

  At eight thirty, Saul Panzer arrived with our mystery guest, whom he ushered to the kitchen, where said guest would remain until all the others were in place. Saul then joined me in the greeting and seating duties. The first to arrive, Charles and Mona Fentress, warily stepped in, both looking like they would much rather be elsewhere. Elise DuVal was right behind them. She kissed me on the cheek and glowered at Mona, who pointedly ignored her.

  Then in quick succession came a snarling Jonah Keller, a nervous Keith Musgrove, a somber Ross Davies, a puzzled Todd Armstrong, and a gregarious Ray Corcoran, who pumped my hand and said he felt “privileged” to be invited.

  As I stood on the stoop looking out into the twilight, a black Lincoln eased smoothly to the curb and Franco Bacelli stepped out, grinning up at me and doffing his black homburg.

  “Bet you thought I wouldn’t show, eh? Well, I’m here and I’m unarmed,” he cackled, throwing open the jacket of his pinstriped silk suit to show me a silver living and empty pockets. He bounded up to the door and winked as he entered the house. By my count, that left only the law enforcement pair, who always arrived late, and Howell Baxter, the open-spaces lover from CLEAR.

  “I’m here, city boy, I’m here!” Baxter yelled as he jogged toward the brownstone, waving his arms. “I told you I don’t get down to this town very often, and I always find myself all turned around when I do. On top of that, my train into Grand Central was behind schedule. Sorry to be late,” he said as he came up the steps, panting. He wore an ill-fitting sport coat and a rumpled shirt, but he had put on a tie for the occasion, likely the only one he owned.

  As I ushered Baxter in, I turned to see a spartan Ford sedan pull up behind Bacelli’s Lincoln. Cramer and Stebbins climbed out, both of them wearing dark suits and frowns. “You’re just in time,” I told them. “Although we were not going to start without you.”

  Cramer lumbered in, not bothering to acknowledge my presence, and the square-faced Stebbins followed suit. Stebbins and I have cordially disliked each other for years, rarely exchanging more than a few words in all that time. We both are fine with the arrangement.

  When I closed and locked the front door and went to the office, I found Saul had gotten everyone seated except Cramer and Stebbins, who stood with their backs against the wall, focusing their attention and animosity on a smirking Franco Bacelli, who seemed to be relishing the stares he was getting from everyone around him.

  Elise DuVal sat in the red leather chair, befitting her position as client. The front row consisted of Franco Bacelli, Howell Baxter, Jonah Keller, Keith Musgrove, and Ross Davies. Parked in the second row were Ray Corcoran, Todd Armstrong, and Charles and Mona Fentress. “Where is Nero Wolfe?” Keller demanded. “Let’s get this show going.”

  “He is on his way,” I said, moving to Wolfe’s desk and reaching under his center drawer to push the buzzer, which would bring him from the kitchen to make his entrance.

  Thirty seconds later, he strode in, detoured around the desk, and rang for beer. “Thank you all for coming,” he said as he looked around, dipping his chin slightly toward each person in turn. “Who are they?” Musgrove squeaked, turning and tilting his head toward the members of New York’s Finest.

  “Inspector Cramer of the Homicide Squad and his associate Sergeant Stebbins,” Wolfe said as he sat. “They are present at my invitation and remain with my forbearance. Do you have any objection to their being present?”

  Musgrove rolled his eyes and shook his head but said nothing more.

  “What about him?” Charles Fentress growled, pointing a thumb in Bacelli’s direction.

  “What about him indeed, Mr. Fentress?” Wolfe countered. “Does his presence discommode you?”

  “I . . . oh, what the heck, this is your show,” the advertising executive said, waving a palm dismissively. “We’re just a bunch of bystanders, wondering why in heaven’s name we’re here.”

  “I hope by the time we have concluded, all of you will have a better understanding of the reason we have gathered. But before we continue, would anyone like refreshments? As you can see, I am having beer. Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Panzer can serve you.”

  The enthusiasm surprised me. Both Fentresses asked for scotch, Elise had a gin and tonic, Bacelli called for a glass of water with ice, Keller ordered an old-fashioned, and Corcoran, Davies, and Baxter opted for beer. Musgrove and Armstrong took a pass. After the orders were filled—and efficiently, I might add—Saul left the office and Wolfe sat back, surveying the gathering once more.

  “From the beginning of my investigation into the shooting of Senator Orson Milbank, I strove to determine a motive and found it difficult to ascertain one,” he said. “I agree th
at—”

  “What do you mean?” Cramer rumbled. “The man had alienated damned near everybody with his waffling on that parkway. And that includes Bacelli here.” He spoke the mobster’s name as if it were contagious.

  “As I started to say before you interrupted me, sir, I agree that Mr. Milbank angered many people because of his various positions regarding the road,” Wolfe said evenly. “But not since frontier times in this country have people killed one another over the proposed route of a road or a railway. And many of those who did the killing represented competing turnpikes or rail lines.”

  “So nice to hear that you are able to pontificate about American history, but just what are you getting at?” Charles Fentress asked in a belligerent tone before taking a sip of his scotch.

  “Be patient, sir, as I explain.”

  “Yeah, whatever you do, for God’s sake, don’t interrupt him,” Cramer put in. “You’ll want to get home before dawn.”

  “I will not detain any of you longer than necessary,” Wolfe pronounced, pouring beer into a pilsner glass from one of the two bottles Fritz had brought in. “Before I continue, I confess that I, too, initially accepted the idea that his attitudes about the Northern Parkway likely caused the senator’s death. Never mind that during my investigation, several people, including Mr. Goodwin, questioned whether a fight over a road was sufficient stimulus to provoke someone to murder. I was deaf to their comments until I finally determined to my satisfaction that the road had nothing whatever to do with Senator Milbank’s violent death.”

  “Hear, hear!” Bacelli cut in, clapping his hands. “Thank the good Lord somebody in this room has some sense,” he added, turning to glare at Cramer.

  It was Wolfe’s turn to glare—at Bacelli. “You, like the police, are here at my sufferance, sir. Another outburst, and I will ask Mr. Goodwin to remove you from the premises. He has had practice doing so on previous occasions in this room, and he is most efficient at the task.” The color rose in Bacelli’s cheeks, and he covered any embarrassment by taking a gulp of his water.