Audra turned to me. “That was a somewhat abrupt departure,” she remarked with a crooked smile.
“It was nothing you said,” I told her. “Mr. Wolfe is not one for small talk.”
“I can appreciate that. Neither am I. May I trust that you will keep me apprised of developments?”
“You may. In fact, you probably will hear from me more often than from Mr. Wolfe,” I said as I walked her to the front hall, where I helped her on with her mink. The limousine that had brought our guest to the brownstone awaited her at the curb. I assumed it had been there throughout her visit.
After watching the big car pull smoothly away, I relocked the front door and walked down the hall to the kitchen, where I knew I would find Wolfe. The “other business” he referred to as he left the office was the usual planning session with Fritz over the luncheon and dinner menus for the week ahead.
Chapter 18
I walked into the kitchen to find Wolfe and Fritz standing and glaring at each other on either side of the big cutting board. Clearly an argument of some kind was under way. It might have been over chives or leeks or basil or oregano or onions or any number of other ingredients, but I did not wait to find out. No good could come from my trying to serve as a referee, so I went up to bed.
The next morning after breakfast, I ambled into the office with coffee and found a handwritten note on my desk:
A.G.
Please arrange to have Roland Marchbank here
as soon as possible, preferably tonight.
N.W.
That brief bit of correspondence nicely summarizes my relationship with Nero Wolfe: He gives orders, I deliver. That is how it has been for years, and it is unlikely to ever change. My boss rarely makes suggestions as to how I am to make something happen; he simply issues a directive.
I called the Good Government Group’s office and got the same young man who had answered when I telephoned asking for Laura Cordwell. I gave my name and told him whom I wanted to speak to—and why.
“Yes, I recognize your voice. I will transfer you.”
“Yes, what is it?” Marchbank barked. The man must have learned his telephone etiquette from my boss.
I gave my name, reminding him that Nero Wolfe was looking into Pierce’s murder. “Mr. Wolfe would like to talk to you at his office,” I added.
“Look, your man Panzer has already talked to me. What more would be accomplished by my seeing Wolfe?” he snarled.
“Are you happy with how the police have been progressing on Mr. Pierce’s killing?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what have you got to lose by seeing Nero Wolfe?”
“I am absolutely swamped here without Lester.” His voice had now taken on a whine.
“Let me read your quote that ran in the New York Times the day after Lester Pierce’s murder: ‘We at the Good Government Group will not rest until the perpetrator of this brazen crime is brought to justice.’ Do you still feel that way?”
The response was silence for at least thirty seconds, followed by an extended sigh. “All right,” Marchbank said grudgingly. “Just when does this man Wolfe want to see me?”
“Tonight, preferably at nine o’clock.”
“What! That is damned short notice.”
“I am sure you are as anxious as we are to find Mr. Pierce’s killer.”
“All right, all right, you have made your point. Give me the address.” I did and told him we would expect him at nine. His response was to hang up without comment.
After Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, settled in, and rang for beer, I reported on my conversation with Marchbank. “He says he will be here tonight, but he’s not in the least happy about it.”
“We are not seeking to make him happy, Archie. Can you reach Mr. Cohen on the telephone?”
“I’m sure I can at this hour, why?”
“Just call him.”
I dialed one of the many numbers I knew by heart, and Lon answered on the second ring. “Mr. Wolfe would like to talk to you,” I said, staying on the line.
“Hello, Mr. Cohen,” Wolfe said. “Would the Gazette be interested in an article about my looking into the death of Lester Pierce?”
“Of course we would.”
“Will you have a reporter interview me?”
“Reporter, hell, I’ll do it myself. I haven’t forgotten how to write a news story, and this definitely is news, although I am not surprised that you’ve decided to make your involvement official. Tell me what you want to say.”
“Very well. After thoughtful consideration, I have decided to undertake an investigation into the shooting death of Lester Pierce, one of New York’s most highly respected civic leaders. I have no suspects at present, and my investigation is to be financed by an anonymous client. Do you have enough to construct an article?”
“I can flesh it out a bit, although I do have a question,” Lon said. “What made you decide to accept this commission?”
“I feel there has been a marked lack of progress in the official investigation.”
“Would you like to include a quote that is critical of the police?”
“No, I would not. I believe my ‘marked lack of progress’ comment speaks for itself.”
“All right. Anything else you wish to add?”
“No. I would like the finished version read back to me.”
“That will be done. I should have something within the hour.”
“I await your call,” Wolfe said, hanging up.
“Well, I will be damned,” I said. “I did not see that coming. You threw me a curveball.”
“I recall you told me once that as a youth playing baseball, you were adept at hitting curveballs,” Wolfe replied, a corner of his mouth twitching. This is one of his versions of a smile.
“That was years ago, when I was young and possessed great reflexes. Things have a way of sneaking up on me now. What do you hope to accomplish with this Gazette article?”
“We will see. And if I know Mr. Cohen, he will have written something within the hour.”
Within the half hour was more like it. When the phone rang, I figured it was Lon and I figured right. I nodded to Wolfe, who picked up his phone and motioned me to stay on the line.
“All right, Mr. Wolfe, here it is. Tell me what you think.”
Nero Wolfe, the well-known New York private detective, today announced that he has begun an investigation into the death of Lester Pierce, the head of the watchdog Good Government Group. Mr. Pierce was gunned down in front of his Park Avenue co-op more than two weeks ago. Paragraph. Mr. Wolfe, who declined to name his client, told the Gazette he was stimulated to take action in the case because of what he called, quote, a marked lack of progress in the official investigation into the death of Mr. Pierce end quote. The well-known civic leader, 56, had headed the group popularly known as Three-G for six years. When asked by the Gazette for his reaction to Mr. Wolfe’s entry into the investigation, New York Police Commissioner Daniel J. O’Hara declined to comment.
“That’s it,” Lon said.
“Will the headline contain my name?” Wolfe asked.
“Yes, and your picture as well. The headline reads ‘Noted Detective Nero Wolfe Jumps into Pierce Case.’ The piece will run on page three and the presses are about to start rolling with your okay. The first copies should be on the street in half an hour,” Lon said.
“Satisfactory,” Wolfe said, hanging up as I stayed on the line. “All right, don’t say we never do anything for you,” I told Lon.
“Heaven forbid. I have no doubt that your boss will crack this Pierce business wide open, and I am sure that when that happens, the Gazette will be the first to know, right?”
“Smell a scoop, do you, typewriter cowpoke? Well, just hold your horses, because this could be a long haul. And I have a feeli
ng things are going to get wild around the brownstone once your piece about Wolfe hits the streets.”
“You are about to see the power of the press at work,” Lon said. “It cannot be overestimated. Prepare yourself.”
Lon Cohen was correct, and not for the first time. Just after we finished lunch and had gotten settled at our desks in the office with coffee, the bell rang, again and again. Someone was insistent. I walked down the hall and through the one-way glass in the door saw an individual I had hoped never to lay eyes on again. I retraced my steps and returned to the office, standing in the doorway.
“We have an unexpected visitor,” I told Wolfe, “none other than your old friend, Captain George Rowcliff. Should I let him stand there until his finger gets tired or open the door and tell him to buy a one-way ticket to Saskatoon?”
“Neither, Archie,” he said offhandedly. “Invite the gentleman in.” As much as it pained me, I followed orders and swung the door open for our angry visitor. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t need any,” I told Rowcliff.
“I want to see Wolfe, and I want to see him now!” he rasped, his eyes bulging as they often do when he is angry.
“All right, all right, don’t get snippy about it,” I said, holding open the door. He barged past me much as Cramer has done so many times, striding down the hall with me trailing in his wake.
“So, you are meddling in police business once again!” Rowcliff growled as he parked in the red leather chair without an invitation to sit. “Maybe you could get away with your high-handed tactics before, but not now that I am in charge.”
“Mr. Rowcliff, I did not realize you had been anointed as the permanent head of the Homicide Squad,” Wolfe said, eyebrows raised.
Rowcliff’s ears turned red and his eyes began to bulge again. “I know you’re out to get me—both of you,” he yelped, turning in my direction and then glaring back at Wolfe. “I also know that you’re the ones w-who planted that da-damned item in Chad Preston’s sleazy Gazette column.” He had begun to stutter, as he does when he gets flustered.
“Whether you choose to believe it or not, sir, neither Mr. Goodwin nor I had anything to do with that mention in the Gazette.”
“Huh! So you claim,” Rowcliff retorted. “Well, the main reason I came here is to tell you to st-stay out of my way, or by heaven, I will see that your licenses get pulled. You have gotten away with high-handed tactics in the past, but those days are over now, and the sooner you realize that, the bet-bet-better.”
“Are you finished?” Wolfe asked as Rowcliff got to his feet abruptly and turned toward the door.
“Quite finished,” the cop said over his shoulder. “I hope that I have seen the last of you two.”
I started to reply in kind, but as he so often does, Wolfe read my mind and held up a hand to stifle me. So, biting my tongue, I followed Rowcliff down the hall and closed and locked the front door behind him as he went down the steps to an unmarked car that sat at the curb.
“I knew precisely what you were going to say to the departing officer, and I can hardly blame you,” Wolfe said. “However, we will surely have an opportunity in the near future to take our angry visitor down a peg.”
“I live for that moment. By the way, I know I did not talk to that Gazette columnist Preston, and you said you didn’t, so …”
Wolfe closed his eyes and murmured, “I understand Saul to be on friendly terms with Mr. Preston.”
Chapter 19
I had plenty to tell Wolfe that evening when he descended from the plant rooms at six, as a lot had happened during his two-hour playtime with those three climate-controlled rooms full of orchids. I waited until after he had gotten settled at his desk with beer before bombarding him.
“That piece about you in the Gazette got a lot of attention,” I told him. “While you were having fun up on the roof, I was busy answering the telephone. News hawks from the Times, Daily News, Post, Herald Tribune, and Journal-American all wanted to talk to you, and some of them, including the guy from the Times who had spoken to you earlier, were damned persistent. But I told them all the same thing: ‘Mr. Wolfe is not available, and I don’t know when he will be.’ In a couple of cases, I simply had to hang up.”
Wolfe’s response was to open his current book and begin reading.
“No comment on any of that, eh? All right, try this one on for size: Police Commissioner O’Hara also called, and to say he was furious would be an understatement. He demanded that you come to his office and explain what you’re up to. I gave him the company line: ‘Mr. Wolfe has a hard-and-fast policy never to leave home on business.’ Of course that did not satisfy him, and he said he would call again. Somehow, he knows enough about you to realize that every day from nine to eleven in the morning and four to six in the afternoon you are sequestered with the orchids.
“That’s the price of fame, I suppose. Anyway, the chances are Mr. O’Hara will be calling again, probably very soon.” I had barely gotten those words out when the telephone rang.
“All right, Goodwin,” the commissioner harrumphed after I had answered in the usual way. “I know that your boss is in. He’s always in or else playing with those damned flowers of his. Put him on!”
“Just a moment, sir, I will see if he is available,” I replied, cupping the phone and mouthing O’Hara to Wolfe, who scowled and picked up his receiver while I stayed on the line.
“This is Nero Wolfe.”
“And as I’m sure your assistant has told you, this is Police Commissioner Daniel J. O’Hara, and I want to see you.”
“For what purpose, sir?”
“Don’t try to get cute with me, Wolfe; it won’t wash. Just remember this and remember it well: I can get your license lifted with one phone call, as well as that of your flunky Goodwin.”
“And for what reason?”
“Getting in the way of a police investigation, something I should be used to from you by now.”
“I fail to see how I have in any way impeded the work of your department,” Wolfe said evenly.
O’Hara snorted. “You know damned well what I’m talking about.”
“I am afraid I do not, sir.”
“As I said before, I want to see you. Your man tells me you never leave home on business, and as I just said, by now I should be used to your eccentric behavior. But bear in mind that this is not the era of Skinner and Cramer any longer.”
“So I have been led to understand. Whatever the era, however, I see no reason to leave my home to indulge you. If you remain insistent upon a face-to-face meeting, I will be available here tomorrow at nine in the evening. I am sure you have the address.”
“Pretty high-handed, aren’t you?”
“I tend to respond in kind. Shall I expect you at nine?”
The commissioner uttered a phrase not worth repeating, but followed that by grumbling, “I will be there” and hung up.
“So now I’m a flunky? Is that better or worse than a lackey, as I also have been called by one or more members of the police over the years?”
Wolfe ignored my questions, which is hardly unusual. “So, do I have any instructions?” I asked.
“Not at the moment, other than to continue keeping those newspaper reporters at bay. Tell them I am not available, nor will I be until further notice.”
“Well, my goodness, those words will surely keep them happy.” Once again I got ignored, but I pushed on. “Care to tell me what the strategy is with Marchbank tonight?”
“We shall take the measure of the man and see of what stuff he is made,” Wolfe said, returning to his book.
That shut me up, so I went to the kitchen to see how Fritz was progressing with the dinner preparations.
At two minutes to nine that night, the doorbell rang. Marchbank was prompt, which was a point in his favor. As I let him in, his face was fixed in a frown—a point against.
I hung up his coat and gave him the once-over. Both Lily’s and Saul’s descriptions of the man came back to me: short, dark-haired, and wearing what seems to be a permanent scowl.
They had failed to mention his most prominent feature, however: bushy black eyebrows in need of a trimming that gave him a fierce look. I was impressed by his charcoal three-piece suit, though. At least he has some taste, I thought as I led him down the hall to the office.
He parked himself in the red leather chair and glared at Wolfe, who ignored the facial expression. “Good evening, sir, will you have something to drink? As you see, my choice is beer.”
“I didn’t realize this was a social call, but—oh, why not. Have you got rye?”
“We do,” I said. “With water or a mix or on the rocks?”
“Rocks.” I went to the serving cart as Marchbank spoke to Wolfe. “All right, you’ve got me here now. I answered all of your man Panzer’s questions, and I don’t know what more I can tell you. What’s the play here?”
“The play, sir, is that I am engaged in finding the killer of Lester Pierce, as you may already know from Mr. Panzer.”
“Yes, and he couldn’t—or didn’t—tell me who engaged you, and I would like to know the identity of that individual,” he demanded.
“That detail is not a part of this discussion.”
“Is that so? Just why all the secrecy?”
“Does not knowing my client’s identity concern you?”
“I guess it shouldn’t,” Marchbank said, shrugging. “My main interest is to see Lester’s murderer caught.”
“Do you have any thoughts as to who that might be?”
Marchbank ran a hand through his thick mop of hair. “On the surface, the crime syndicate would seem to be the obvious answer,” he said, although he did not sound convinced.
“Can you with certainty state that either Mr. Pierce or the Good Government Group has posed a serious threat to organized crime in this city?” Wolfe asked.
The Battered Badge Page 12