The Battered Badge

by Robert Goldsborough

  I dialed and was rewarded with a cultured female saying, “DunaganMart Foods, how may I direct your call?” I told her I wanted to speak to Weldon Dunagan, and she transferred me to another cultured female voice, which informed me that I had reached the executive suite.

  “My name is Archie Goodwin, and I work for the private detective Nero Wolfe, of whom you may have heard. I would like to speak to Mr. Weldon Dunagan.”

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Goodwin, but Mr. Dunagan will be occupied in meetings all day. May I get word to him regarding why you wish to see him?”

  “You may. Mr. Wolfe is investigating the death of Lester Pierce.”

  “I believe that sad occurrence is in the hands of the police,” she said. “I am sure Mr. Dunagan would tell you the same thing.”

  “It is our understanding that Mr. Dunagan is not happy with the way the police department is conducting the investigation, Miss … ?”

  “It’s Mrs. Kirby,” she replied, taking on a slightly more cordial tone.

  “Well, Mrs. Kirby, I believe Mr. Dunagan will be very interested to learn that someone other than the New York City Police Department is taking an active interest in the heartless murder of one of the city’s most respected civic leaders, an individual who I know worked very closely with Mr. Dunagan. I realize how busy your boss must be, and I would be happy to come to his office and discuss the matter with him at his convenience.”

  That little speech resulted in several seconds of silence on the other end. Finally, Mrs. Kirby spoke. “Please give me your number, Mr. Goodwin, and I will talk to Mr. Dunagan when I can catch him in a free moment.”

  “You would not just be putting me off now, would you, Mrs. Kirby?” I said in what I hoped was a friendly voice.

  “No, Mr. Goodwin, I would not,” she replied in a neutral tone. “I happen to have known—and liked—Mr. Pierce myself, as he met here with Mr. Dunagan several times on Good Government Group matters. He was a fine gentleman, and I am sure I feel as strongly as Mr. Dunagan that his murderer must be caught.”

  “Well said. When am I likely to hear from you or Mr. Dunagan?”

  “I promise that you will receive a call from someone this morning, even if that someone happens to be me.”

  “It would not bother me in the least if it happened to be you, Mrs. Kirby.”

  At 10:15 a.m., the phone rang. “I managed to corral Mr. Dunagan between meetings, and he said he could give you a few minutes at one o’clock,” Mrs. Kirby said. “I hope that time is suitable for you.”

  I told her it was, not bothering to mention that I would have to miss lunch in the brownstone. But then, such sacrifices sometimes had to be made, at least by me, although rarely if ever by Wolfe.

  Following Mrs. Kirby’s directions, I entered a glass-and-stone skyscraper in the man-made canyons of Lower Manhattan and rode an elevator to the forty-fourth floor. The doors of the elevator opened onto a carpeted lobby big enough to hold a tennis court. On one wall, silver foot-high capital letters spelled out DUNAGAN INTERNATIONAL.

  Other walls were graced with framed photographs of the exteriors and interiors of DunaganMarts in this country and around the world, along with a head and shoulders oil portrait of the white-haired Weldon Dunagan, wearing a pin-striped suit and a tight smile.

  If I was supposed to be impressed with the surroundings, it worked, at least to a degree. I walked thirty feet across thick carpeting to a mahogany-and-chromium reception desk where a well-coiffed brunette with a turned-up nose gave me a smile that showed off the artistry of an orthodontist. “May I help you, sir?”

  All I had to do was give Dunagan’s name as well as my own, and she quickly picked up a white telephone that had no dial. “Mr. Goodwin is here,” she spoke, then gently cradled the instrument. Less than a half minute later, a tall, slender woman of a certain age, also well coiffed, emerged from a door to the right of the front desk.

  “Mr. Goodwin, so nice to meet you; I am Carolyn Kirby,” she said, holding out a slender hand, which I took. She was no slouch in the smile department herself, with a grin that would have lit up a funeral parlor, although she clearly was older than her telephone voice had suggested. I followed her down a long hall to a set of paneled double doors at the end.

  Carolyn Kirby rapped lightly on one of the twin doors and pulled it open, revealing an office with windows on two sides that, while smaller than the lobby, was still larger than almost any living room or parlor I had ever set foot in. A broad­-shouldered Weldon Dunagan, clad in a double-breasted, pin-striped suit similar to the one in his portrait, worked at an oversize cherry­wood desk that was set on a diagonal in the far corner.

  Carolyn gestured me to one of a pair of chairs in front of the desk and silently made her exit. Dunagan did not acknowledge my presence as he continued signing a stack of correspondence. He was sending a clear message that his time was more precious than mine. Given his income, he was correct.

  After signing the last of the documents, he carefully screwed the top on his fountain pen and slid it into his breast pocket, then looked up. “Mr. Goodwin,” he said, fixing ice-blue eyes on me, “first, you should know this: I have little or no use for private detectives.”

  “So noted, Mr. Dunagan.”

  “However, I have even less use for most police officers, particularly the ones who are presumably trying to learn who killed Lester Pierce. My general attitude about the police is part of the reason I recently agreed to become a member of the Police Review Board. So when Mrs. Kirby told me that your Nero Wolfe—whom I happen to have heard of, although I can’t remember where—was looking into the case, I agreed to see you. Has Wolfe managed to learn anything yet?”

  “He has just begun his investigation,” I responded.

  “Is that the standard private eye’s response to questions about progress in a case?” Dunagan demanded.

  “Responses vary. The reason I am here is to ask if you have any thoughts as to who would want Mr. Pierce dead.”

  “Hah! I, of course, got asked that obvious question by the thickheaded Captain George Rowcliff, who is acting head of the Homicide crew. Do you know him?”

  “We have met.”

  Dunagan sneered. “The police desperately need brighter people, but then, that’s always been obvious. Cramer was running that operation, but he got pushed aside. Good riddance.”

  “I have always had the impression that Mr. Cramer was well regarded,” I deadpanned.

  “You obviously don’t know a lot about the inspector’s history, Mr. Goodwin. I will just leave it at that. Back to your original question—who would want Lester dead? The crime syndicate, of course. That’s patently clear to damned near everyone. I think the police department is afraid to take them on. What about your boss—is he afraid of those thugs too?”

  “I have worked for Mr. Wolfe for a long time, and there are very few people he has ever been afraid of. Let’s get back to Lester Pierce. I’m sure you knew him very well. Are you aware if he had made enemies other than in the mob?”

  “As far as I am aware, Lester led an exemplary life—family man, churchgoer, fighter against injustice and particularly against organized crime. It would be hard to imagine this could have been anything other than a mob hit.”

  I had to wonder how well Dunagan really knew Lester Pierce, but I pushed ahead. “Did his staff seem to relate well to him and his leadership?”

  “Of course they did—what a question! Why wouldn’t they? The man was a born leader.”

  “I am simply exploring every avenue. I understand you are by far the biggest contributor to the Good Government Group. Does that mean you will be the one who selects Mr. Pierce’s successor?”

  “I find that to be impudent!” Dunagan fixed a glare at me, one that probably had intimidated others sitting in my chair.

  “Impudent, why?” I said with a shrug. “Because of your strong fina
ncial commitment to the organization, I simply assumed you want to ensure that it has capable direction going forward.”

  That threw him off. “Well … of course I want to see Three-G remain in good hands. That goes without saying. I believe Roland Marchbank is fully capable of steering the ship, so to speak.”

  “Our sources tell us Laura Cordwell also has her eyes on the top job.”

  “And just who are your sources, Mr. Goodwin?” Dunagan demanded, red-faced and with a vein throbbing in his neck.

  “I am not at liberty to say, but I can assure you they are reliable.”

  “By God, I have had enough of you and your insolence!” Dunagan said, standing and pushing a button on his desk. “Mrs. Kirby will show you out.”

  “I am very surprised, Mr. Dunagan, that you do not seem concerned about what is going on in a civic group you have done so much to foster.” I rose to leave just as Carolyn Kirby stepped into the room, her face a question mark.

  “Mr. Goodwin is leaving,” Dunagan said between deep breaths. “Hold all my calls until you hear from me.”

  I grinned at the lady as she held the door for me, her expression still reflecting puzzlement.

  “I must say I’m glad for the opportunity to have met you,” I told her. “I am only sorry we did not have the opportunity to chat. I believe we both would have found the experience educational.”

  I looked over my shoulder to take one last look at Weldon Dunagan, who had his head down, apparently studying a sheet of paper on his desk. As far as he was concerned, I had ceased to exist.

  Chapter 11

  “You would not like him one iota,” I told Wolfe in the office after my meeting with Dunagan.

  “I did not expect to, based on what I have read and heard about the man. Report,” he said, drinking from the first of two chilled beers Fritz had placed before him after his descent from the plant rooms that afternoon.

  “I don’t think I penetrated Dunagan’s defenses, as you suggested I might be able to do, but here it is.” I then gave him the verbatim of our conversation, hardly a challenge for me because of its brevity. When I finished, he sat with his eyes closed for a full minute. When he opened them, he said, “We have not heard from either Saul or Fred.” No sooner had he spoken than the phone rang, as if on cue.

  It was Saul, and I motioned for Wolfe to pick up his receiver. “It’s good to know people who know people,” he said to us. “I was surprised at just how quickly I was able to be put in touch with someone who was present at the dinner between Ralph Mars and Inspector Cramer. Of course it helps to spread a few dollars around in the right places.”

  “You will be reimbursed,” Wolfe said.

  “Oh, I am not in the least worried about that,” Saul replied. “I know where Archie keeps the petty cash. Anyway, I don’t want to oversell the importance of what I’ve come up with. For the record, my source is an underpaid restaurant employee who very possibly is in this country without the necessary documentation. He clearly recalls that dinner meeting between Mars and a man he described in detail to me.”

  “A man who happens to bear a striking resemblance to a longtime police inspector?” I asked.

  “You catch on fast. You may find that you have a future as an operative. My source had occasion to visit their back corner table several times to refill water glasses, bring more bread, and do the other things expected of a busboy. ‘Mr. Mars comes in often,’ he told me, ‘and this time he was with a man I had never seen before. They were talking very quietly, with their heads close together like they were telling secrets to each other.’

  “When I asked the busboy if he had heard any of the content of their conversation, he said one word kept coming up. ‘Peerze,’ he told me. ‘They said Peerze to each other, more times than once, but that was all that I could understand. Will you still pay me?’

  “Of course I gave him something—a double sawbuck to be specific—but I didn’t learn anything else from him, and I wasn’t surprised, since his English is none too good. So as I said earlier, I don’t want to oversell what I got.”

  “Satisfactory,” Wolfe replied, which for him amounts to high praise. But then, in his eyes, Saul can do no wrong.

  After we had hung up, I turned to Wolfe. “Any thoughts?”

  “If nothing else, it appears we now know the subject of the unlikely parley.”

  “Yeah, but just where does this put us?”

  “Perhaps we will learn more when Fred reports,” Wolfe said, but his tone was less than enthusiastic.

  In fact, Fred Durkin did have some success with his assignment. He phoned us that evening, a few minutes before we went in to dinner. “Archie, I found out a few things about this Capelli character from this, uh … acquaintance of mine.”

  “Is this someone whose name you want to share with us?” I asked as Wolfe picked up his instrument.

  “Not really, Archie. Do you have to know?”

  “This is Nero Wolfe. Do you consider this source to be reliable?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. Over the years, he has been well, involved in—”

  “That is enough, Fred. Go on,” Wolfe said.

  “Yes, sir. It turns out that Capelli had a reputation within the mob as something of a rogue.”

  “Meaning that he didn’t always follow orders from the boys on high?” I asked.

  “That’s right. He had established himself as a dependable hit man, all right, but sometimes he freelanced for people who were outside the organization, and his bosses did not like that one bit. He had been warned to cut it out, but he liked the cash he was making from these ‘side jobs’ of his.”

  “Did your source suggest Mr. Capelli was behind Lester Pierce’s killing?” Wolfe asked.

  “Yeah, he more than suggested it; he said it was a fact.”

  “Did this person know who had hired Capelli to kill Mr. Pierce?”

  “He said he didn’t, and I believe him. All he claimed to know was that whoever this was, he—or I suppose it could have been a she—seemed to know Pierce.”

  “So because he was freelancing, the syndicate had Capelli killed, is that the story?” I asked.

  “I really don’t know, Archie,” Fred answered. “My source said he wasn’t sure who did Capelli in. From what my guy knew about the murder, he said it had the look of a mob job, but he pointed out that it isn’t unusual for somebody to make a shooting appear like the outfit was behind it so that they are the ones who end up getting the blame.”

  “That is a smart move,” I said, “because none of those mob killings ever get solved anyway.”

  “Did your source have anything else to contribute?”

  “That’s about it, Mr. Wolfe. At first, he didn’t even want to talk to me, but I was forced to remind him that I once got him out of a tight jam.”

  “Did you have need to pay him?”

  “No, sir, that reminder was more than enough to loosen his tongue.”

  “Very well, Fred. We may be seeking your services again regarding the death of Lester Pierce. And you will be reimbursed for your time and efforts.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wolfe. I am always available.”

  After the call had ended, I turned to Wolfe. “Saul and Fred have some interesting sources, don’t they?”

  “Yes, and sources whose anonymity they choose to protect, a stance that is both prudent and, in the long run, beneficial, both to us and to them.”

  “Agreed. As you are aware, I also know a few people around town who have been helpful to us over the years, and even you do not know the names of most of them.”

  “I prefer to keep it that way,” Wolfe said.

  “I agree again. Back to business, what’s next?”

  He drank beer, licked his lips, and glanced at the wall clock. “We, of course, go to the dining room for breaded fresh pork tenderloin. We certainly do
not want to keep Fritz waiting.”

  Chapter 12

  After dinner, in the office with coffee, I waited for Wolfe to continue our premeal discussion, but he seemed in no hurry. As he uncapped one of the two beers before him and reached for his book, I finally broke the silence. “Got an assignment for me? I’m able-bodied, eager, and chomping at the bit. Or should it be champing at the bit?”

  “Both usages are correct,” Wolfe said, setting the book down and sighing, as if he were being put upon. “See Miss Cordwell, get to know her, learn her attitudes toward Messrs. Pierce and Marchbank and her expectations about her future with the Good Government Group. And of course, ask who she thinks might have dispatched Mr. Pierce. I trust you will not find the assignment to be onerous.”

  Years ago, Wolfe got it into his head that I have a talent for beguiling attractive women and getting them to spill their deepest secrets to me. I have suggested on numerous occasions that he grossly overestimates my charm, but he remains convinced of my persuasive abilities with the female species.

  “All right, I will tackle the lady, figuratively, of course. But please bear in mind that she possesses a master’s degree from one of our great universities, while my own higher education, if it can be so termed, consists of but a few weeks at a small Ohio college.”

  That evoked another sigh. “I am sure you will find ways to bridge the academic chasm that separates you,” Wolfe said. With that, he opened his book and disappeared behind it, ending the discussion.

  And of course, in truth, it did not in the least bother me that Laura Cordwell’s educational credentials far outstripped mine. I have never regretted my lack of postsecondary schooling, given that what I have learned in what some call the “college of hard knocks” more than compensates for any lack of time spent in some ivy-covered joint with robed professors who possess multiple degrees.

  I merely went on at length about education to get Wolfe away from his book and concentrate on the case. Part of the reason he hired me was to be a burr under his saddle. The man can be lazy—he has admitted it—and I find it necessary on occasion to steer him back to the business at hand at the risk of irritating him.