The Battered Badge

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Moi?” Lily said. Now both eyebrows went up.

  “Yes, you, my love. What with all your good works, you are well connected around town, particularly with, shall we say, the power elite?”

  “Ah, the power elite, is it, Escamillo? I’ve never thought of people I know in that term.”

  “I have to admit I lifted that phrase from a book Mr. Wolfe was reading a while back. I also admit that I’ve never read the book myself, but I was taken with its title. And you have to concede that you know a lot of people who do wield a substantial amount of power.”

  Lily rolled her eyes. “Power? Well, I suppose so. But then, powerful people are very often rich people, and I happen to seek out rich people because they have money to give away to good causes. That is, if I can get them to part with some of it.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think you have much trouble in that area.”

  She shrugged. “I win some, I lose some, but on the whole, I think I have a pretty good batting average, to use a term you’re familiar with. Now let us get specific: Whom do you think I can help you with?”

  “Because Lester Pierce’s shooting is apparently what really got Cramer in the soup, what did you think of Mr. Pierce?”

  “You mean Saint Lester? I do not mean to make fun of the dead, but that is what he was called—behind his back, of course—by both friends and foes. He got the ‘saint’ label for two reasons: One, he was an elder at that big Presbyterian church in Midtown, a title that he wore like a badge; and two, the man acted holier than thou much of the time in his dealings in the community. Pompous would be a good word to describe him.”

  “You mentioned friends and foes. Who were his foes?”

  “The crime syndicate, of course, which did not enjoy his steady stream of attacks on them, which really spoke well for Lester. But a lot of the state’s politicians—in both parties—thought all of his self-righteous posturings were a precursor to his running for office. It was widely rumored that he hoped to be governor someday in the not-too-distant future. To him, I think being the head of Three-G wasn’t an end in itself, just a stepping-stone to Albany.”

  “How did you feel about him personally?”

  “I met him three or maybe four times at benefit luncheons and such, and I found him to be … well, full of a phony sort of bonhomie, like so many politicians and would-be politicians.”

  “Bonhomie, eh? I’ll have to look that one up. I can’t remember Wolfe ever even using it.”

  “See how much you can learn by knowing me?” Lily said. “Consider yourself fortunate.”

  “Oh, I do, and I have for years. So I gather it is fair to say you were not overly impressed with Mr. Pierce.”

  “It wasn’t just his false friendliness that turned me off. He was tall and handsome, no question, and he was aware of his looks. But he had a reputation—apparently well deserved—as a lothario. You know what that word means, don’t you?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “It seems that Saint Lester had himself quite a fling with one of his colleagues at Three-G, one Laura Cordwell, a former beauty queen, Miss Missouri no less, with brains to boot, as in an MBA from Columbia. Their shenanigans were among the least-well-kept secrets in town.”

  “You are full of juicy tidbits today. You and Lon Cohen should get together and swap stories about the great and the near great in our fair metropolis. I seem to recall that Mr. Pierce had a wife. Did she know about this dalliance?”

  “Dalliance? Now you are the one throwing fancy words around, Escamillo. Ever the competitor. The answer is yes, the formidable Audra Kingston Pierce was said to be well aware of her husband’s moral … deficiencies. For whatever reasons, she apparently chose to ignore them.”

  “Tell me more about the Widow Pierce.”

  “I’ve run into her on a number of occasions, mostly benefit luncheons and cocktail parties. Audra comes from money—lots of it,” Lily said. “Old New England wealth. Her family made its fortune in textile mills before that industry deserted Massachusetts and moved to the South. She’s an attractive sort of woman, in a glacial sort of way. You get the feeling she acts superior because she really is superior. I would hardly call her warm, but she is extremely generous with her money and has given hundreds of thousands to good causes. And she has given her time to these causes as well.”

  “Did Pierce marry the lady for her dough?” I asked.

  “Not at all. He inherited plenty of his own. His father and grandfather were Pittsburgh steel barons. So in a sense, the marriage was a dynastic union.”

  “Children?”

  “Three, all of them grown, of course. They all seem to stay out of the gossip columns. I can’t tell you anything about them, I’m afraid, other than I recall at least two, a son and daughter, had big society weddings out on Long Island. And I believe there’s another son as well.”

  “Do you know anything about this guy Marchbank, the second in command at the Three-G outfit? I remember that he was quoted in the papers after Pierce’s death, demanding that the police find the killer immediately if not sooner, or words to that effect.”

  “You would get an argument from Laura Cordwell over who was number two in the organization.”

  “Do I smell a rivalry?”

  Lily took a sip of coffee and gingerly set her cup in its saucer. “You do indeed. From my sources, I understand that Marchbank, who held the title of assistant executive director, was constantly frustrated because he felt Laura blocked his access to Pierce.”

  “She obviously possesses something Marchbank lacks.”

  “Very funny, Mr. Goodwin, I get it.”

  “Okay, so subtlety has never been my strong suit. Have you met this Marchbank?”

  She nodded and pursed her lips. “Only once. Audra introduced us at a luncheon at the Sherry-Netherland. He’s not much to look at: short, dark-haired, and wearing what seems to be a permanent scowl. And from that brief time, I felt he had the personality to match his scowl. Later I learned that’s pretty much the way he is all the time: sour, sarcastic, sullen. The man is a lawyer, and just as Pierce was leveraging Three-G as a stepping-stone to political office, Marchbank was trying to use his own position to take over as head of Three-G. Like Pierce, Marchbank comes from wealth himself.

  “His grandfather made a bundle in gold mining out west years ago, and the family fortune is said to be substantial.”

  “Since you have such good connections, do you think Mr. Marchbank will end up getting the top job at the Good Government Group, or will that go to the beauty queen?”

  “I really don’t know, Archie. My sources aren’t everywhere.”

  “So you say. What can you tell me about the lovely Laura?”

  “I assume your interest is purely professional?”

  “Dare you even ask?”

  “Oh, I dare ask, all right, knowing your eye for comely lasses, and Laura Cordwell is indeed comely. She also is probably better suited to run the organization. As was the case with Marchbank, I only met her once at a party, and we talked amicably for several minutes. That was enough to see that she’s loaded with tact and charm, both of which Marchbank lacks. And, oh yes, there are those looks of hers as well. But who gets the top spot will really be up to Weldon Dunagan.”

  “Yeah, the grocery baron; so he calls the shots?”

  “Absolutely. The story goes that without him, there would not even be a Good Government Group. He is said to be its largest contributor by far.”

  “Hardly good news for Inspector Cramer,” I said.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  I told her the story of Cramer having broken up a brawl involving Dunagan’s son, Kevin, years ago and later testifying against the young man in court. I also mentioned the elder Dunagan’s profane vow to see Cramer tossed off the force.

  “I guess I had forgotten about that, if I even r
emembered it happening,” Lily said. “You are right—this is not good for the inspector, particularly with the clout that Weldon Dunagan has in the so-called corridors of power. Whatever became of the prodigal son?”

  “He served some time and now works for Daddy in the family grocery business.”

  “That is certainly one way of finding employment with a prison record,” Lily observed dryly.

  “As far as I know, Kevin Dunagan, who was an only child, has sinned no more, or at least he hasn’t committed any sin worthy of more time in a jail cell. So I suppose one would have to say he has paid his debt to society.”

  “I have never met the young man, so I really have no comment,” Lily said.

  “But you have met several of the others who were close to Pierce, and I have not. Do you have any thoughts as to who might have wanted him dead?”

  “Well, wouldn’t it figure to be a mob hit? Some of the papers have strongly suggested that, and in the past the syndicate has been known to gun down its enemies from passing cars. And Pierce certainly qualified as an enemy of the mob, the way Three-G has relentlessly gone after them.”

  “A definite possibility, of course. I was just looking for other options.”

  “I really don’t know who else would qualify as a suspect. Okay, so he was fooling around with the former Miss Missouri, but is that really enough reason for Audra having him shot? I don’t believe so. She apparently had tolerated his numerous escapades in the past.”

  “Do you think the beauty queen was a gold digger, entranced by Lester Pierce’s wealth?”

  “Hardly, Archie. She came from money herself. Her father is said to be one of the richest men in Missouri. His money comes from banking, so I’ve heard.”

  “What about this? Maybe Pierce had grown tired of Laura Cordwell and was dumping her, so she had him bumped off.”

  Lily brushed my comment away with a well-manicured hand. “Oh, nonsense! You men always seem to think women go all goofy when they are discarded. If anything, it would have been Laura who showed Lester Pierce the door. But in the unlikely event he did happen to cut the romantic ties with her, do you really think she would have any trouble finding someone else?”

  “I can’t comment because I have never met her.”

  “But you are dying to, right?”

  “I didn’t say so.”

  Lily laughed. “Okay, I will let that one rest for now. Going way back to your original question, I simply cannot imagine who, other than the mob, would want Pierce dead. Now I have a question for you: Just why is the inspector in such hot water now? Earlier you said Pierce’s shooting was what apparently—your word—got my Dutch uncle in the soup. But over the years, he has survived all sorts of crises and has continued to run the Homicide Squad. Why would this situation be so much different? Is there something else going on?”

  “I must be more careful with my language,” I said with a grin. “Okay, you’ve got me. There is speculation—and it is just speculation as far as I know—that Cramer has gotten cozy with the mob.”

  “More nonsense!” she said, loud enough that diners at two tables turned toward us.

  “I know that sounds unlikely, but the inspector has been seen dining with Ralph Mars.”

  “I haven’t read or heard anything about that. This sounds like a tidbit you got from Lon Cohen,” Lily said. “How much credibility do you think the story has?”

  “I really don’t know, but the place where they were said to be seen together is a popular red-checked tablecloth spot in Little Italy for very private chats.”

  “I still think it’s preposterous.”

  “I am not about to argue, although if that meeting happens to have occurred, I hope the word does not get out. Right now, Cramer has all the trouble he can handle. It is bad enough that Commissioner O’Hara has it in for him because he’s a holdover from Skinner’s days running the department, and as I’m sure you are aware, O’Hara hates Skinner.”

  “I wish there were a way for you and Nero Wolfe to do something,” Lily said.

  “I do too, but as things stand, we sit on the sidelines, and it seems we are likely to stay there.”

  * * *

  1 Not Quite Dead Enough by Rex Stout

  Chapter 6

  Days passed with no new developments in the Pierce shooting. Like so many other newspaper stories that start out on page one with bold and breathless headlines followed by exclamation points, this one gradually receded farther toward the back of all the city’s daily newspapers, muscled aside by fires, garbage workers’ strikes, local government corruption, show-business antics, and, of course, other murders, these involving victims far less well known than Lester Pierce.

  One killing that caught my eye was back in the second section of the Gazette, headlined “Hit Man Hit!” The short article reported that “Guido Capelli, a reputed mob triggerman, was found shot, execution-style, in the early hours this morning on a side street near the docks in Brooklyn’s Red Hook neighborhood. Police said he died from a single gunshot fired at close range to the back of the head. Capelli had been a suspect in several gangland killings over the last several years but had never been convicted of any of the murders. No witnesses have come forth, according to a police spokesman.”

  Nero Wolfe rarely compliments me; that is not his style. But he once remarked that “upon occasions, albeit rare, you have exhibited a certain amount of presentiment.”

  “I guess that’s nice,” I replied. “But what does it mean?”

  “It means you get hunches,” he said. “Not all of them have significance, of course, but infrequently, you have shown flashes of inspiration.” From Wolfe, that constitutes a compliment.

  I don’t know if I got a flash of inspiration from that brief article in the Gazette, but it spurred me to telephone Lon Cohen.

  “Didn’t you very recently accuse me of calling you on a daily basis?” Lon snapped. “Now it looks like I am going to find myself on the receiving end.”

  “I haven’t started calling you every day—not yet, anyway. But I do have a question.”

  “Of course you do. Why should I expect anything less?”

  “You had a short piece in today about a mob hit man getting a dose of his own medicine over in Red Hook.”

  “Yeah, and that was a pretty snappy headline, don’t you think? ‘Hit Man Hit!’ You would think we were trying to show the Daily News that they are by no means the only ones who get cute with their headlines.”

  “All right, mark me down as impressed. I have a thought about this.”

  “You, having thoughts?” Lon shot back. “I thought that was Nero Wolfe’s job on the team. You are supposed to be the man of action.”

  “Okay, okay. Do you happen to know anything about this guy Capelli’s modus operandi as a hit man?”

  “Modus operandi, is it? Some of Wolfe’s vocabulary really has rubbed off on you, Archie.”

  “Maybe so. Anyway, I’ll rephrase the question in language you can understand. Did Capelli have a preferred way of killing his victims?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Lon said. “The guy was never convicted of a syndicate killing, although it was common knowledge that he had been a triggerman on more than one occasion. He only served jail time once several years back for being the wheelman in a bank robbery in Queens that went wrong. Why are you so interested?”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that soon after what looks like the mob murder of Lester Pierce, a mobster gets himself executed?”

  “Not particularly. The syndicate has been known to eliminate one of its own on many occasions, and for all sorts of reasons. Job security is not among the strong suits where mob membership is concerned. It seems to me that you are obsessing over what happened to Pierce, at least in part because it has forced Inspector Cramer into what may end up being his permanent retirement. Are
you suggesting that this Capelli was Pierce’s killer, and then he got silenced because his bosses figured he might blab?”

  “Does that really sound so far-fetched?”

  “Okay, I suppose not,” Lon conceded, “but how in heaven’s name could you or anyone else prove any of this? How many times can you think of that a syndicate killing has been solved? The answer to that, which you know as well as I do, is … none, zero, naught.”

  “Well, in the unlikely event that any of your bulldog reporters learn details about how Capelli met his fate, I would appreciate a call.”

  “I am sure you would. Likewise, if you ever have anything at all to tell me about your interest—or should I say Nero Wolfe’s interest—in the unfortunate death of one Lester Pierce, I would be more than happy to hear from you.”

  “As in, you scratch my back and I scratch yours?”

  “If you must put it that way,” Lon said, “assuming that is simply a figure of speech.”

  “Consider it as such,” I replied, wondering if we would ever have any information to pass along to each other, either about Capelli’s killing or the Pierce murder and Inspector Cramer’s real or imagined involvement in it. I felt some kind of action on my part was called for, so in lieu of any other steps, I dialed Saul Panzer.

  Saul is a freelance operative we often use, although that description hardly does him justice. He commands double the market rate for non-agency operatives, and even at that he may be undervaluing himself. He is able to sniff out clues better than a bloodhound, and he can hold a tail better than anyone I’ve ever seen, in part given his ability to blend into the scenery. We both were tailing the same guy one time, and I never spotted Saul, yet he was the one who never lost sight of our prey.

  Saul’s appearance belies his skills. He’s about five feet seven, and he tips the scales at somewhere around 140 pounds after a big meal. His face is about two-thirds nose, but his gray eyes are a far more important feature—they miss nothing. Nero Wolfe puts it best when he says he trusts Saul “more than might be thought credible.”