“Okay, here it is,” he said:
Word around Gotham is that the rank and file in the police department is clamoring for the return of Inspector Lionel T. Cramer, who has for reasons unknown been put on the shelf by Commissioner O’Hara pending a decision on his future. Cramer’s acting replacement in the Homicide Bureau, Captain George Rowcliff, has proven ineffective and has alienated staff members at all levels throughout One Police Plaza with his arrogance and dictatorial attitudes. The widely respected Cramer, probably the best department head in the recent history of the department, was not available for comment, nor was Commissioner O’Hara, who, according to an aide, is vacationing on a Caribbean island. When your scribe asked this aide if any progress is being made in the hunt for the killer of civic leader Lester Pierce, I received a terse “no comment” as well as a hang-up. Perhaps Mr. O’Hara should return from luxuriating in his island paradise and teach manners to both his aide and to Captain Rowcliff.
“That’s it,” Lon said. “What do you think?”
“I am curious as to the source of Mr. Preston’s item,” Wolfe said.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Lon replied. “Chad protects his sources every bit as closely as Fort Knox guards its stash of gold. If I were to ask him where he got the item, he would tell me to—never mind what he would tell me. It would not be fit to print or to even repeat over the telephone.”
“Just so,” Wolfe said, hanging up his instrument.
“I appreciate your giving us the item,” I told Lon.
“Have you got anything to give me in return, Archie?”
“Not at the moment. But we will be in touch.”
“So you say. Just remember who your friends are.”
“How can I forget? You won’t let me,” I said as we signed off.
Turning to Wolfe, I said, “I have an idea about who placed that item in Preston’s column.”
“You have no idea whatever!” Wolfe snapped, a beat too quickly.
“Okay, so I have no idea. Pardon me for thinking out loud in your presence. Go back to your book,” I told him. “It’s a nice evening for November. I’m headed out for a stroll to clear my mind.”
Wolfe did not respond, and when I returned home from my walk over to the Hudson and back, he had gone to bed.
I spent much of the next morning after breakfast catching up on office work: typing up correspondence, updating the orchid germination records, and paying the grocery, heating, telephone, electric, and beer bills. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven, he asked as usual if I had slept well, and I replied in the affirmative. Just as he got settled and buzzed for beer, the telephone rang, and I answered it with my usual spiel.
“Is Mr. Wolfe there?” It was a cultured female voice.
When I asked who was calling, she replied, “Audra Kingston Pierce,” spacing the words and giving them equal stress.
“Just a moment, I will see if he is available,” I said, scribbling her name on a sheet and handing it to Wolfe, who picked up his phone while I stayed on the line.
“This is Nero Wolfe.”
“Mr. Wolfe, I am Audra Kingston Pierce.” Again the words were carefully spaced. “May I assume you recognize my name?”
“You may.”
“I should like to come and see you, at your convenience, of course.”
“For what purpose, madam?” Wolfe asked.
“I would like to discuss my husband’s death, and I know that you have an interest in that sad event. I spoke to my daughter by telephone on another matter this morning, and she told me that she and her brothers all have been interviewed by your Mr. Goodwin about the murder.”
“That is correct.”
“May I inquire as to whether you are working on behalf of someone?”
“I happen to have an interest in the case,” he said, adding nothing more.
“As you would expect, so do I, and I would very much like to see you.”
Wolfe’s mug bore a slightly strained expression. He looked at me, and I nodded vigorously. “Very well,” he said, “can you be at my home tonight at nine?”
“I can,” the lady replied. “I believe I have your address.” She read it off, and Wolfe told her she had it right.
“Things are about to get interesting,” I said to Wolfe after we had hung up. He did not react, probably because he was seething about his upcoming conversation with Mrs. Pierce. He is not enthusiastic about having women in the brownstone, although he makes an exception for Lily Rowan, maybe because the first time I brought her to meet him, her opening request was to see his orchids. And on many successive visits, he has welcomed her with what for him passes as enthusiasm.
I have been known to needle Wolfe about his general aversion to women, and on one occasion, his reaction was, “Not like women? They are astonishing and successful animals.” Another time, he said, “Not that I disapprove of women, except when they attempt to function as domestic animals. When they stick to the vocations for which they are best adapted, such as chicanery, sophistry, self-advertisement, cajolery, mystification, and incubation, they are sometimes superb creatures.” So it was that I perversely looked forward to the evening’s visit from Audra Kingston Pierce, and I was not to be disappointed.
At five minutes before nine, our bell rang, and I went to the front door to admit Mrs. Pierce. Behind her in the darkness, a Lincoln limousine idled at the curb, but I paid it scant interest. It was the lady who commanded my attention.
She was fifty-five. I knew that because of the information I had received about her. But I had a hard time believing that number. From her face, it was obvious she and Marianne were related, but if you were to see them side by side, you would swear they were sisters. And if she’d had some facial work done, it was skillful. Under an open mink stole, Audra was clad in a maroon blouse-and-skirt combination with matching purse and pumps. She had the figure of a coed, or at least of many of the college-age girls I had known in my checkered past.
“May I assume you to be Mr. Goodwin?” she asked, giving me the hint of a smile.
“You may, Mrs. Pierce. Please come in.”
I held the door as she walked smoothly in and handed me her mink before I could help her off with it. After hanging the fur on the coatrack, I led her down the hall to the office, where she headed directly for the red leather chair as if sensing it was meant for her. She nodded and said to her host, “Mr. Wolfe.” If she was surprised at his dimensions, she did not show it.
“Mrs. Pierce,” he said with the slightest nod. “Can we get you something to drink? As you see, I am having beer.”
“I would like a scotch on the rocks, single malt if you have it,” she said, crossing one leg over the other. That move was not lost on Wolfe who, however much he may profess to be leery of women, invariably appreciates good legs—and Audra Kingston Pierce’s legs were very shapely indeed.
I delivered her drink, a single malt scotch that Saul Panzer had once pronounced the best that had ever tickled his taste buds. And Saul knows his libations.
“I appreciate your agreeing to see me, particularly on such short notice,” our guest said, brushing a nonexistent strand of blondish hair from her forehead.
“You have the floor, as well as my full attention and Mr. Goodwin’s.”
“Thank you. First of all, I must be totally candid with you, as I am not one to beat around the bush. I’m extremely curious as to why you have been investigating my husband’s death. I am not aware that you knew him.”
“I did not,” Wolfe said. “My reasons for an interest in his murder are complex, and I choose not to elaborate on them at present.”
“I see. May I assume you feel that Lester’s death did not come at the hands of the crime syndicate?”
“I would not make that assumption, madam.”
“You hold your cards very
close, don’t you?” she said before sampling the scotch and nodding. “All right, I will rephrase a question I asked you on the telephone: Do you have a client?”
“I do not, although Mr. Goodwin has been informing people, including your offspring, that we have a client who chooses to remain anonymous.”
“Would you like to have a client?”
“That depends on a number of circumstances. Are you offering to engage me?”
“I am.”
“Before we go any further, I would like to know your attitude about the police investigation.”
“It has been absolutely pathetic,” she said, waving the subject aside with a manicured hand. “That man—what’s his name … Rowcliff—is a jackass, plain and simple. He doesn’t seem to have the foggiest idea what he’s doing, at least based on the conversations I have had with him. As far as I can tell, and read in the papers, the police have made no progress whatever.”
Wolfe took a deep breath. “I will ask you the question you posed to me: Do you think organized crime was behind the death of your husband?”
“I … just don’t know,” Audra said. “I suppose it’s understandable to conceive of them wanting him out of the way.”
“You seem unsure about the syndicate involvement in the murder. Do you have any other candidates?”
Now it was her turn to breathe deeply. “No, I really do not. But I guess the reason I am, as you say, unsure, is that for all of the Good Government Group’s railing against the evils of the mob, the group never seemed to me to pose a real threat to organized crime. I know that Lester was frustrated by Three-G’s lack of success against them.”
“Are you aware of any other enemies your husband had?”
She shook her head. “No, I am not. But, Mr. Wolfe, you should know that my husband and I did not have what you would call an overly intimate marriage, particularly in the last few years. We had grown apart, both of us being so deeply involved in our own projects. So I really can’t say who might recently have come to dislike Lester enough to have him killed.”
“Yet you care enough to consider hiring me to investigate his murder?”
“Yes, although it would be stretching the truth to say I still loved Lester, I want to see justice done, to use a trite phrase. After all, he was my husband right up to the end of his life. And money is no object,” she said, pulling out a checkbook. “You may name a figure.”
“We are getting ahead of ourselves,” Wolfe cautioned. “If I am to take your case, you must understand my conditions. My findings might not satisfy you, for a variety of reasons. Perhaps I will conclude that the crime syndicate was indeed behind the murder. Or perhaps my findings will prove to be of great embarrassment to your husband, and by extension, to you. Also, I expect total candor. You may find some of my questions to be offensive, intrusive, or even downright rude. Diplomacy has never been my strong suit. However, I cannot be constrained in any way.”
“I shall take my chances,” Audra said firmly. “You will not find me difficult to deal with; I am prepared to pay whatever you ask, whether it be all up front or in the form of an initial retainer. I am not familiar with the financial intricacies of dealing with a private investigator.”
“Let us start with a check for twenty-five thousand dollars,” Wolfe said, “as, to use your term, an initial retainer. I will expect another payment of the same amount upon completion of my work.”
“Those terms are quite agreeable to me,” our new client said as she pulled an elegant fountain pen from her purse and wrote out a check, laying it carefully on the corner of Wolfe’s desk as if it were a sacred gift from the Magi. “Now, where do we begin?”
“First, if I am asked whether I have a client, I assume you prefer that your name not be revealed.”
“You are correct. I am not seeking personal publicity, rather the contrary.”
“Agreed. Did your husband work well with other employees at the Good Government Group?” Wolfe asked.
“He seemed to, as far as I could tell. He did not talk to me much at all about his work. As I told you earlier, we were living increasingly separate lives.”
“Who will take over his leadership at the organization?”
“I suppose it will be Roland Marchbank, although I have not heard anything about that. As you probably know, he has been Lester’s second in command for several years.”
“What is your opinion of Mr. Marchbank?”
“Where to start? Roland is … well, hardly what you would term ‘Mr. Sunshine.’ He is dour by nature, I suppose. He always seemed to me to be a strange choice to be the number two person at Three-G, but Lester apparently was comfortable having him there.”
“Would you term Mr. Marchbank ambitious?” Wolfe asked.
Audra gave him a thin, mirthless smile. “Ambitious? Yes, I would say so, definitely. In my mind, there was no question that he coveted my husband’s job. I also happen to know from acquaintances that on occasion he bad-mouthed Lester to other people.”
“In what way?”
“He was heard to say things like ‘Oh, Lester is a fine guy all right, but his mind isn’t really on Three-G these days. He wants to be governor so badly he can already picture himself in that Albany mansion.’”
“Do you concur with that assessment?”
“I concur with half of Roland’s comment, that Lester really did want to be governor, and very badly, although he did not broadcast the fact to many people. More than once, though, he said to me things like ‘I really believe I can solve many of the state’s problems.’
“As to whether he had lost interest in Three-G, I never got that impression at all. I think Roland hoped his comments would somehow get back to Weldon Dunagan, who might then question Lester’s commitment.”
“Did your husband enjoy amicable relations with Mr. Dunagan?”
“Yes, from everything I was able to see. As I’m sure you are aware, Weldon financed the Good Government Group’s operations. He detests the crime syndicate, and Lester shared his passion. Weldon was the first person to visit me after the shooting—even before my children stopped by. He seemed terribly torn up about what happened, and he is not by nature an emotional individual.”
“Did Mr. Dunagan voice any thoughts as to who was behind the killing?” Wolfe asked.
“From the way he talked—and he was very angry—there was no doubt that he was puzzled as to who did the shooting. He did not seem to think it was the mob. ‘Somehow we will get them, whoever they are, Audra, I promise you that,’ he said to me.”
Wolfe drank the last of his beer and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. “Other than Mr. Marchbank, are you aware of any other candidates who might replace your husband at the Good Government Group?”
Audra looked at me and nodded toward her empty glass. I took it and went for a refill as she turned back to Wolfe. “I was wondering how long before you asked that question,” she told him in a voice that was neither friendly nor hostile. “I am sure the name Laura Cordwell is familiar to you.”
“I have heard it but have yet to meet the woman.”
“Very diplomatic. I could continue asking what you know about her, but I have the distinct feeling that would be a waste of time, and I have not come here to waste either your time or mine. Laura’s official title at Three-G has been assistant to the executive director, but she has been much more than that, as many people are aware, you among them, I suspect.”
She did not wait for a response from Wolfe but moved ahead. “Laura came to Three-G three years ago after getting a graduate business degree from Columbia, and she wasted no time ingratiating herself with Lester. Of course, it did not hurt her cause that she had been in the Miss America competition a few years earlier. Oh, dear, I suppose that now I sound like a jealous wife, don’t I?” she said, putting her hand to her lips in a stagey gesture.
When Wolfe
chose to make no reply, Audra continued after a pause.
“It was not long before Laura had made herself all but indispensable in the Three-G structure. Her relationship with Lester became the subject of much speculation, as I was to learn from ‘friends.’ I find it amazing how eager some people are to deliver news that might be found disturbing to the recipient. Sadistic comes to mind. Anyway, I pretended to ignore the situation, but Laura’s closeness to Lester—surely in more ways than one—got under Roland Marchbank’s skin, or so I was told by one of those so-called friends I referred to earlier. Roland felt, correctly, that the former beauty queen was supplanting him as Lester’s trusted right-hand … person.”
“Such a situation might well exacerbate any tensions in the organization’s office,” Wolfe observed.
“That is putting it mildly,” Audra said.
“Has Mr. Dunagan spoken to you since he visited to offer his condolences?”
“No, although he hasn’t had any reason to. Lester’s memorial service will not be held for several weeks. I am sure I will see him there.”
“I recall in a news article on your husband’s death, Mr. Dunagan had been quoted as calling for the removal of Inspector Cramer from the Homicide Squad. Are you aware of any rancor between them?”
“No, I am not. I do know that Dunagan has it in for Cramer, and I am not sure why. And he had encouraged Lester to attack the inspector at every opportunity. And Lester did, being a good soldier.”
“Do you have any other information you feel might be helpful?”
Audra looked at the ceiling as if considering the question. “No … I do not believe so. How do you plan to proceed?”
“With diligence, perseverance, and inspiration,” Wolfe said.
“You do not lack for self-confidence, do you?”
“Madam, I know what I am capable of, and I do not embrace the indulgence of false modesty. Now if you will excuse me,” he said, rising, “I have other business that needs attention.” He walked out and down the hall.
The Battered Badge Page 11