The Battered Badge

by Robert Goldsborough

  “A bit early in the day for me, thanks anyway.”

  “It is for me, too, Mr. Goodwin, but I always like to ask,” he said, taking a chair opposite mine. “Now, tell me how I can be of help in this sad business.”

  “To be honest, I am not sure you can, but we—that is, Nero Wolfe and I—are talking to as many people as we can in the hopes that we’ll learn more about your father’s death.”

  He nodded. No question, Malcolm Pierce was one clean-cut specimen, with razor-cut hair, blue eyes, straight nose, and square jaw, looks he inherited from his father, whose photo I had seen in the newspapers. “I don’t suppose you are going to tell me who your client is, are you?”

  “No, as I said on the telephone, that individual has chosen to remain anonymous.”

  Another nod. “Have you spoken to my brother or sister?”

  “No, but I plan to.”

  “And to repeat what I said on the phone, you really also should talk to my mother, that’s important.”

  “I’m sure we will. Do you have any thoughts as to who would want to kill your father?”

  “I certainly do not mean to sound rude or dismissive, Mr. Goodwin, but it seems glaringly obvious to me that the crime syndicate was behind what happened, as I also said to that policeman, I believe Rowcliff was his name. I know it is extremely difficult to pin anything on the mob and make it stick, but it is hard to come to any other conclusion.

  “As you and your boss know, my father had fought against organized crime for years, and it seems clear they finally got tired of his attacks on them. Other than the mob, he had no enemies that I was ever aware of. My guess is that my brother and sister will tell you the same thing.”

  “What about your father’s personal life?” I asked, knowing the question might get me tossed off the premises.

  “I really don’t know anything about that, Mr. Goodwin,” he said without the slightest hint of animosity or resentment, although he stiffened slightly. “That would be a question for my mother, although I honestly can’t tell you what her reaction would be.”

  “Was it your impression that your father was happy with the staff he worked with at the Good Government Group?”

  “I believe so, although we did not talk a lot about it. I won’t say he was exactly secretive about his work, but he tended to compartmentalize the various areas of his life, and he rarely talked to me about the goings-on at the Good Government Group.”

  “Other than your siblings or your mother, is there anyone you can think of who might be helpful in our investigation?”

  He laughed. “Why not try the head of the syndicate, what’s his name—Ralph Mars? Although I doubt you’ll have much luck getting him to open up. Nobody else ever has, as far as I know.”

  “Do you have any reason to doubt that the mob was behind your father’s killing?”

  “Absolutely none whatever,” Malcolm said. “To me, it’s your classic open-and-shut case. I believe the police aren’t pursuing my father’s murder more vigorously because they know the syndicate never gets nailed. Those people can kill with impunity.”

  “It seems I have taken enough of your time,” I said, looking at my watch and standing.

  “Not at all, Mr. Goodwin. I am just happy that you are concerned about what happened to my father, regardless of who your client is. Does your Nero Wolfe have any reason to doubt it was a mob-driven murder?”

  “I believe Mr. Wolfe is open to numerous options. He does not always share his mental processes with me.”

  “It must be interesting working for him, though, based on what I have read about him in the newspapers over the years.”

  “Oh, it is, and frustrating at times, too. But then, he is a genius and I am merely a spear carrier.”

  “I doubt that very much, Mr. Goodwin,” Malcolm Pierce said, flashing a grin. “And to repeat myself, make sure someone—you or Mr. Wolfe perhaps—talks to my mother. I believe she will be up to it and may be of some help in discussing my father. She is a strong woman.”

  I thanked him for his time and for the opportunity to see the legendary Dakota, which brought yet another grin from the eldest of the Piece siblings.

  By the time I got back to the brownstone, Wolfe was seated in the office with beer and a book after his visit with the orchids on the roof. As I walked in, he looked up, his expression questioning.

  “Malcolm Pierce is without doubt smooth and amiable,” I said.

  “Are you using smooth as a synonym for evasive or perhaps duplicitous?”

  “Not necessarily. It is just that he always seemed quick to respond, with no hemming and hawing, no indecision whatever. He seems absolutely convinced the Mafia was behind his father’s killing.”

  I then proceeded to give him a verbatim report of our conversation. When I had finished, Wolfe went back to his book without comment.

  “Do you feel I asked all the right questions?”

  “It was an adequate interview. When will you talk to the others?”

  “I thought I would make calls this afternoon and try to see both of them tomorrow.”

  Wolfe returned to his book, which I took to be an unspoken “satisfactory.” I did in fact call both Marianne and Mark Pierce and got less than enthusiastic responses from each.

  “What could be accomplished by my seeing you?” the Pierce daughter said when I reached her at her magazine office on Seventh Avenue, identified myself, and offered my sympathy.

  “I have told the police everything I know, which isn’t very damned much. I don’t see how Nero Wolfe, who I know claims to be a genius, can make a rabbit jump out of a hat, so to speak.”

  I explained to Marianne that she had nothing to lose by seeing me, and that maybe, just maybe, she might have something to say that, without her realizing, might help with our investigation.

  “I doubt that very much, Mr. Goodwin,” she responded. “Besides, I happen to be extremely busy at work. I have what you might call a high-pressure job.”

  “Then perhaps you could benefit from an after-hours drink tomorrow to relieve some of that pressure. On me, of course.”

  After a pause of several seconds, followed by a sigh, she said, “You are one persistent cuss, aren’t you?”

  “So I have been told. And some people have even dared to call me personable, as well as affable.”

  I detected an ever-so-slight snicker at the other end of the line. “All right, Mr. Goodwin, do you know where my office is?”

  “I do, and I also recall that there’s a quiet little bar just across the street with a great jazz pianist, whose name, if I recall, is Herbie.”

  “I know the place, too, very well in fact, and it is Herbie; what about six thirty tomorrow?”

  “That sounds fine. How will I know you, Miss Pierce?”

  “You can start by calling me Marianne. I’ll be wearing … let’s see … a gray turtleneck sweater and a gray skirt. And just how will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll probably be wearing a smirk and a blue blazer.”

  “With brass buttons on it?”

  “Absolutely not. I definitely am not the collegiate type. See you at six thirty tomorrow.”

  The next call was to Mark Pierce at his advertising agency on Madison Avenue. My luck held when he answered his own phone. As with his siblings, I expressed my condolences and said I wanted to see him regarding our investigation into his father’s death.

  “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Goodwin, but I really can see no reason to talk to you,” he said after I had introduced myself. “There is nothing whatever I can add to what I already have told the police.”

  “Speaking of the police, are you happy with how they have performed in all of this?”

  “Hah! I’m sure that you can answer that one yourself,” Pierce growled.

  “Then what do you have to lose by seeing me?�
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  “At the risk of sounding like someone who is indispensable, what I have to lose is time, which for me is a valuable commodity.”

  “When I talk to people, I try to be as efficient as possible. I do not want to waste your time any more than you want to have it wasted.”

  He replied after a pause of several seconds. “All right, Mr… . Goodwin, is it? As it happens, I am going to be working from home tomorrow, as I do about once a week. I live up in Dobbs Ferry. Do you know where that is?”

  “I do, passed through there a couple of times. It seems like a nice, peaceful village.”

  “It is that, and just far enough from the city so that I feel I’m in another world. I don’t know if you’ve got a car or would take the train, but if you can be at my home around eleven forty-five tomorrow morning, I will take a break from work and give you a half hour or so, but not much more.”

  “A half hour should be fine, and I will be driving up,” I said, and I took down his address and directions. I would be missing both lunch and dinner in the brownstone. Fritz would not like that, but then, I was hardly wild about it myself.

  Chapter 15

  The drive north the next morning was surprisingly pleasant for mid-November, and when I am behind the wheel, no matter the destination, I always find myself in a positive frame of mind. Traffic was light as I took the Henry Hudson Parkway north, and at some point around Yonkers, the road became the Saw Mill River Parkway. After I had passed through Hastings-on-Hudson, I saw a welcoming sign announcing that I was entering Dobbs Ferry.

  Following the directions I had been given by Mark Pierce, I had no trouble finding my destination, a two-story gray-and-white frame house with a wraparound porch on a quiet street well away from the town’s business district. My guess is it was built sometime late in the nineteenth century. In response to my pushing a buzzer, the front door was pulled open by a slender, red-haired woman whose smile made me feel welcome.

  “You are Mr. Goodwin, right?” I pleaded guilty.

  “I’m Pamela, Mark’s wife. He’s just finishing up some work. Can I get you coffee?”

  “Yes, I would like some,” I said as she led me through the front hall and into the cheerful, yellow-walled living room, whose large front windows looked out on a park that sloped down to the gray waters of the Hudson two blocks distant.

  “You have got a terrific view here,” I told Pamela as she set a hot cup of java on an end table next to the sofa where I had parked myself.

  “Yes, we love it,” she said. “That’s a big part of what sold us on the house. There is something very soothing about watching a great river move slowly by on its way to the city and the sea. What a history this old valley has!”

  I was about to respond when a stocky, black-haired man soundlessly stepped into the room. Mark Pierce could not have looked less like his brother, Malcolm. “Mr. Goodwin, I see you have met my wife,” he said with a slight grin as we shook hands. “I hope Pamela has kept you entertained. She has the personality in our family. I’m afraid I am the somber—some would say dour—half of the team.”

  “Nonsense!” she told her husband. “You are artistic, thoughtful, and introspective, while I tend to run off at the mouth and be something of a dreamer.”

  “We can discuss our personality traits later and not bore Mr. Goodwin with them,” Pierce said with pursed lips. “He and I are going to talk up in my office.”

  Carrying my cup of coffee with me, I followed him upstairs to a room that also had a view of the Hudson. It clearly was a working space, dominated by a slanted drawing board covered with sheets of paper that had sketches on them. Other sketches were tacked to a corkboard.

  “Pardon this mess,” my host said. “I’m in the middle of a campaign for a brand of coffee that our agency just landed. In fact, it happens to be the brand that you’re drinking right now. At the agency, we always use the products we advertise. I’m usually at the office about four days a week, but it can be such a madhouse that I find when I’m under a deadline, I can usually get more done here.”

  “I promised that I would not take a lot of your time, and I will keep that promise,” I told him.

  “Good. As I was coming downstairs, I overheard Pamela tell you that we bought this house because of its location. That’s partially true, but we also liked the size of the place. It has given us the room for two separate work spaces: my studio and her office right next door. She’s a freelance magazine writer and a good one, if I do say so myself.

  “She’s always got assignments. And the walls are so thick that we can’t hear each other, not that we make all that much noise. But it does give us each a sense of privacy.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Three years now. We were in the city before, in Hell’s Kitchen on the West Side, and we moved here when Pamela was pregnant. Our little guy, Timmy, is napping down the hall in the nursery, which is connected to our master bedroom.”

  “Nice layout all around. Did you grow up in Manhattan?”

  “I did. My parents had a co-op on the Upper East Side. I lived there until I went off to a design school in Rhode Island.”

  “Did you have what you would call a happy childhood?” I asked as we sat in two beanbag chairs in one corner of the spacious room.

  “Mr. Goodwin, I cannot believe that you drove all the way up here to talk about my formative years, so to speak. I thought that you and that so-called genius boss of yours were concerned with my father’s murder.”

  “We are, but we felt maybe there was something in the past that might explain what has happened.”

  “I can’t imagine what that would be. It seems to me that Nero Wolfe and the police either don’t think the mob is behind my father’s death or they simply do not know how to tackle those goons,” Mark said with a scowl. “I have to question myself whether the thugs are behind Dad’s killing.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, look,” he said, spreading his arms, “what does the syndicate have to gain by this murder? Nothing, absolutely nothing! The Good Government Group already has shown, I am sorry to say, that it has no ability whatever to rein in the mob’s operations in the city. So why would they try to rile up the cops with such a senseless killing? It seems like they would be creating an unnecessary headache for themselves.”

  “Let sleeping dogs lie, is that it?” I said.

  “Exactly! And it seems to me that Three-G is something like a sleeping dog. Let’s face it; they are no real threat to the mobsters, whatever my father may have liked to believe. Although I have to say in defense of the organization, it has been more successful in its investigations into some of the city’s departments. But still, Three-G’s main thrust has always been to the crime syndicate. I refuse to believe they killed my father.”

  “Maybe that’s why Nero Wolfe is looking into other options.”

  “And just what might some other options be?” Mark said.

  “We’re not entirely sure. Other than the crime syndicate, did your father have any enemies you are aware of?”

  “Not at all, as I told the police,” he said, looking none too subtly at his wristwatch. “People seemed drawn to him, to the degree that he was being encouraged to run for governor, as you may be aware.”

  “Yes, I had read about that. Is there any likelihood your father had a secret of some sort that might have endangered him?”

  “Of course it’s possible, Mr. Goodwin. For heaven’s sake, everyone has secrets, and most of us go to great lengths to ensure they remain that way. If he had any secrets, I am afraid that I’m not aware of them.”

  “Do you think his supposed interest in running for governor would have somehow endangered him?”

  “I simply can’t see his political ambitions causing anyone to want to kill him.”

  “Would you say he and your mother had a good marriage?”
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  “As good as most, I suppose,” Mark said. “If they ever fought, I never heard about it, although you should ask my brother and sister. I’m sure you plan to question them, if you have not already. Now, I’m sorry to be so brief, but if you will excuse me, I am in the middle of that campaign I mentioned earlier to make a certain coffee ‘the breakfast choice from Maine to California and everywhere in between.’”

  Mark Pierce stood, which I saw as my cue that the interview had come to an end, and he pointedly turned his back on me, going over to his drawing board, sitting and peering at one of his sketches of a man grinning at the cup of coffee he held in both hands as if it were a prized possession. I got up, no longer a welcome guest. If indeed I ever had been one, at least by the man of the house.

  When I got to the bottom of the stairway, Pamela materialized. “Done already?” she asked, smiling.

  “Yes, and I appreciate your husband’s time and your hospitality,” I told her. “And the coffee was delicious. You have a fine home. I hope you continue to enjoy it for years to come.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Goodwin. We have been very happy here. I am only sorry for what happened to Mark’s father. He was a true gentleman. I do so hope the person who planned his murder is found.”

  “So do I, Mrs. Pierce,” I said as I stepped out of the house.

  Driving back to New York, I reviewed my impression of Mark Pierce. Surly might be too strong a descriptive, but Wolfe, whose vocabulary is far larger than mine, probably could come up with a better word. One thing seemed certain: The younger Pierce son did not seem overly broken up over his father’s violent death. But then, people react to tragedy in far different ways from one another. I know that when my own father died, I was devastated internally but showed very little outward effect, to the point that an aunt remarked, “Archie seems very cold about all of this.”

  I had to wonder if Mark knew about his father’s amorous activities. If Lily Rowan and her friends were aware of these escapades, it seems likely that his offspring all would have realized what was going on as well. Assuming they did know, it is certainly understandable they would choose not to acknowledge the transgressions. In times of crisis, most families tend to present a united front against the outside.