When I returned to the office after watching the stony-faced O’Hara leave the brownstone and climb into a waiting car, I said to Wolfe: “That was an impressive performance. Within minutes of O’Hara’s arrival, you had managed to smoothly switch the topic of conversation from your supposed meddling in police business to Rowcliff’s ineptitude. Nice job.”
“That remains to be seen,” Wolfe said.
“Do you think O’Hara will reach out to Cramer?”
“Archie, you are the one who likes to give odds. You tell me.”
“Okay, since you asked, I’m laying two to one that (a) O’Hara does make the call, and (b) Cramer agrees to go back to work.”
Chapter 21
It did not take long the next morning for my odds-making skills to be put to the test. I was in the office after breakfast sipping coffee when I answered the telephone and was greeted by the voice of none other than the Gazette’s Lon Cohen.
“I know something that you don’t know,” he chortled.
“You mean you interrupted my morning reverie with that supposed nugget of information? Am I supposed to play a guessing game?”
“As much fun as that would be, I don’t have the time.”
“And you think I do?”
“Of course. Detectives don’t have deadlines like us poor mortals. Anyway, I am going to read to you from a New York Police Department press release that came over the local wire just minutes ago. Under the headline ‘Cramer Back Leading Homicide,’ it reads:
Inspector Lionel T. Cramer has returned to his position as head of the Department’s Homicide Squad, according to Police Commissioner Daniel J. O’Hara. “I am delighted to report that Inspector Cramer has returned to the helm of Homicide,” Commissioner O’Hara said. “He has compiled a superb record over the years and is anxious to resume his duties. Captain George Rowcliff, who has done an admirable job of stepping in during Mr. Cramer’s absence, will fill an important management role in the reorganized Traffic Division.
“How is that for news?” Lon said. “And the great thing is that it came out too late for any editions of the morning papers. We will play it on page one.”
“This is good for Cramer, bad for Rowcliff. One question still needs to be answered, though,” I said.
“Yeah, why did Cramer have dinner with Ralph Mars of crime syndicate fame? Maybe your boss can find that out.”
“So he can feed it to you for a scoop?”
“I didn’t say that, but …”
“So there you go, getting greedy again.”
“It’s an occupational hazard. Hell, a guy can try, can’t he?”
“I would begin to worry about you if you didn’t at least try,” I said. “But I’d advise you not to hold your breath on this one. It’s likely the truth may never come out about that dinner.”
“I disagree. I think it will. And if that happens, I hope it doesn’t damage the inspector too much. I know he’s ornery and cantankerous, but we’re all used to dealing with him.”
“Ornery? Cantankerous? It sounds like you’re describing my boss.”
“Now just what would Nero Wolfe say if he heard you talking like that?”
“He’s heard me call him those before—and a lot of other adjectives just as descriptive.”
“Well, now that it’s official you two are working on the Pierce murder—as reported in a Gazette exclusive—I know that you will keep me in mind whenever there are developments our readers would like to learn about.”
“Back atcha. Conversely, Mr. Wolfe and I know that if you find anything of interest, you will pick up the telephone and call us.”
“Conversely, huh? Being around Wolfe for so long has done wonders for your vocabulary.”
“I’m a quick learner. Talk to you later.”
When Wolfe descended by elevator from the plant rooms at eleven and settled in behind his desk with beer, I repeated the press release about Cramer’s return.
“Congratulations,” he said. “Your handicapping skills remain strong.”
“Now I suppose you want me to give you odds on whether Cramer will be calling us or dropping in.”
“No, that is what gamblers would term a sure thing. It is simply a matter of when the call or visit comes. I would place my money on a visit.”
“No bet. One thing is certain: any conversation with the inspector is bound to be interesting.”
We had a chance to find out just how interesting after Wolfe had come down to the office at six after his visit with his orchids. No sooner had he settled in than the doorbell rang. “Wanna guess who?” I asked.
Wolfe shook his head, and I went down the hall. Through the one-way glass in the door I saw a bulky and familiar silhouette. “Good evening, sir,” I said as I swung the door open for Cramer. “Welcome to Shangri-La.”
“Ever the clown,” he muttered. “I saw that movie way back when with Ronald Colman, and this sure ain’t the place.” He then went by me like an express train passing a local and headed down the hall to the office, keeping his overcoat on. It was like old times.
“So you have got your teeth into this Pierce business,” Cramer was saying to Wolfe as he settled into the red leather chair and pulled out a cigar, again like old times.
“I have a client, yes, sir.”
“Care to name him or her?”
“Perhaps at a later date.”
“Why am I not surprised? As you know only too well, I got … removed from my position before I really got started on the Pierce business. Is it asking too much for you to fill me in on what you’ve learned?” he asked, chewing on the cigar, which as usual was unlit.
“Not at all sir, with this proviso,” Wolfe said. “I have need of a piece of information from you.”
“Whatever it is, ask and maybe I will answer—but only after I’ve heard what you have dug up on the murder.”
“I’m afraid our catch so far is a meager one, sir,” Wolfe said, “but you are welcome to what little we have.” With that, he unloaded everything we had done, including my interviews with the Pierce offspring, plus Laura Cordwell and Weldon Dunagan, and Wolfe’s conversation with Marchbank.
“Yeah, you sure don’t have a lot,” Cramer agreed when Wolfe had finished. “Any thoughts?”
“Only that I do not believe the crime syndicate was behind the killing, even though one of its own hit men almost surely was Mr. Pierce’s killer,” Wolfe said. “But I have a feeling you know something about that, Mr. Cramer.”
“What do you mean?” the inspector barked.
“A table in the back room of a restaurant in Little Italy, where you dined not long ago with a well-known member of New York’s crime syndicate.”
Cramer’s face almost instantly turned red. “Where in the hell did you hear about that?”
“The source is immaterial, sir. As far as I am aware, nothing about your clandestine meeting has been made public.”
Cramer spat a word. “I was afraid that would come back to bite me in the butt,” he said. “I figure you got this from your buddy Cohen. His paper has the best damned bloodhounds in town.”
“If it is any consolation, the likelihood of the Gazette reporting on your conference is slim,” Wolfe said. “They do not entirely trust their sources.”
“I suppose as the price for keeping your mouth shut, you want to know why I sat down with Mars?”
“I do not operate in that manner, and you know it. But I would be interested in learning the rationale for your meeting with Mr. Mars.”
The inspector looked like he could use a drink, but he did not ask for one. “All right, here’s what happened,” he said. “I got a call at home from Mars, who told me Lester Pierce was not killed under orders from what he referred to as ‘the organization.’
“I then asked who did the shooting, and he said he wanted to have a f
ace-to-face talk, that he didn’t trust telephones.”
“Mars probably figured you had your own line tapped,” I put in.
“Maybe. Anyway, I stupidly agreed to meet him at that restaurant, which is known not only for good Italian food but also as a mob meeting place where private conversations take place.”
“Hardly a prudent move on your part,” Wolfe observed.
“Hell, I already said I was stupid—don’t rub it in! So I went to Little Italy. There was nobody else but us in that back room, other than waiters and busboys. Mars probably had seen to that. He didn’t want to be seen with me any more than I wanted to be seen with him.”
“Had you previously met the man?” Wolfe asked.
“No, never. Oh, of course I had seen him on television, on news segments when he had to appear reluctantly in court over some mob troubles, so I knew what he looked like. I didn’t expect to like Mars, and I was right. He’s shifty, as you would expect, but at least he didn’t try to feed me a line of bull.
“After we sat down, the first thing he said was, ‘I know you probably don’t have any use for me, and I doubt we will ever see each other again. But I want you to know what I said on the telephone: We had nothing to do with what happened to Lester Pierce. But I know who did.’
“I told him to go ahead, and he said one of his underlings—he did not give a name—was a ‘loose cannon in more ways than one.’ I asked what he meant, and he told me that this guy was insubordinate—that’s actually the word he used. The mob apparently had employed him often as a hit man—Mars didn’t say so directly, of course, though he all but admitted it. As I said, he’s shifty, but he also can be transparent.
“It turns out that this hit man, whose name I didn’t know at the time, had gotten into the habit of doing freelance jobs, jobs that were not ‘authorized’ by the syndicate. The mob doesn’t mind gunning people down, as we all well know, but they like it to be their idea, and this maverick had put his so-called skill to use to make money on the side as a hired gun. Mars told me that the guy had been warned before, and now he was going to be silenced.
“‘Wait a minute,’ I said to him, ‘give us the shooter, and we will take it from there.’
“‘I can’t do that,’ he replied. ‘We have to settle it in the family, to set an example.’ I asked him if he knew who had paid his man to shoot Pierce, and he said, ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. That’s not our affair.’
“I tried to tell Mars that if the mob didn’t want to be blamed for the killing, their best course would be to find out who hired the rogue gunman, but he didn’t seem to give a damn. ‘Hell, we’ll be blamed for it anyway,’ he told me.”
“Did you believe Mr. Mars’s version of the circumstances surrounding the Pierce shooting?” Wolfe asked.
“By and large, yes, not to say the man is trustworthy; but subsequent events have borne him out.”
“Including Guido Capelli getting shot,” I said.
“Yeah, as you both know, but by that time I had been put on leave,” Cramer grumped.
“Was there a specific reason?” Wolfe asked.
“I had two strikes on me,” the old cop said. “For one, O’Hara wanted to get rid of everyone who had been on Skinner’s management team. And for two, Weldon Dunagan, who is now on the Police Review Board, hates my guts and has for years. You might remember that I once had occasion to arrest his son, and I helped put him in jail.”
“I do recall that,” Wolfe said. “But nevertheless, you have been returned to your old position.”
“Yeah, and I’m not clear as to why that is,” Cramer said, wrinkling a ruddy brow. “I do know that Rowcliff didn’t exactly do a bang-up job, but I could have told them that. George is one hell of a good street dick, brave, tough, fearless, but as a manager … forget it. Still, I can’t figure out why O’Hara brought me back. For one thing, I believe he’s afraid of Dunagan and his power, and I have to wonder how the grocery store tycoon feels about me being back in harness again. He can’t possibly like it. I can tell you this: all I have to do is slip up, even in a small way, and I am history,” he said, making a slicing motion with his hand.
“Perhaps,” Wolfe said. “In the meantime, what are your plans regarding the Pierce case?”
Cramer took a deep breath and then another. “We have got to find out who hired Capelli, and with him dead, that’s not going to be a picnic.”
“We tried, and with some unfortunate results,” Wolfe said.
“Wait a minute,” Cramer said, jerking upright. “What haven’t you told me, besides the name of your client?”
Wolfe then related Saul Panzer’s ill-fated attempt to learn who was behind Capelli’s death, including his mugging on a Brooklyn street.
“I thought you and your men had better sense than to play games with the mob,” Cramer snorted. “Panzer is lucky to be alive.”
“I concur,” Wolfe said. “I now have given you everything we have except our client, and I am not at liberty to divulge that information.”
“I can’t be concerned about that right now,” the inspector replied, getting to his feet. He squinted at the cigar he had been gnawing on—he almost never lights one—and instead of hurling it at our wastebasket and missing, as is usually the case, he tucked it into the breast pocket of his suit coat and walked down the hall without a backward look.
After I had seen Cramer out and locked the front door, I returned to the office. “He definitely has mellowed,” I told Wolfe.
“Manifestly. Nothing reminds a man of his mortality as much as when he is deprived of his status, especially when those doing the depriving are intellectually or morally his inferior. Clearly, Commissioner O’Hara qualifies as inferior to the inspector in the intellectual area, and although I have yet to meet Mr. Dunagan, I strongly suspect that he does not measure up morally.”
“I couldn’t say, although I found Dunagan to be arrogant, dismissive, and generally unpleasant during our brief meeting,” I said. “Do you think Cramer suspects we—you, really—had a role in his reinstatement?”
“I do not. The inspector has consistently viewed us as adversaries, and I cannot conceive of his altering that perception. He would be shocked beyond words were he to know we had interceded on his behalf. But lest you accuse me of sentimentality,” Wolfe said, “I believe it is in our best interests that he is in a position of authority within the police department. Do you choose to take issue with that stance?”
“Not in the least. This may sound strange, but I am happy—well, almost happy—to have him running the Homicide Squad again.”
“But as the inspector has told us, his hold on the job remains far from secure,” Wolfe cautioned. “Mr. Dunagan may prove a formidable foe. Despite all that I have heard about him, I should like to meet the man.”
“What you are really saying is that you expect me to get in touch with the grocery tycoon and find a way to lure him to the brownstone for a conversation, is that what I am hearing?”
“Your hearing is most adequate.”
“Assuming I can persuade him to visit you, which is a big assumption, do you have a suggested time for this meeting?”
“Tomorrow night, nine o’clock.”
“Ah, I see, our daily nine p.m. chat session. This is getting to be a routine.”
Wolfe’s response was to open an orchid catalog and bury his nose in it. The discussion had been terminated.
Chapter 22
It was one thing getting Police Commissioner O’Hara to visit the brownstone. Weldon Dunagan would be quite a different matter, as I knew from meeting the man and having been summarily dismissed by him. I started the process, as I often do, by phoning Lon Cohen at the Gazette the next morning while Wolfe was upstairs playing with the orchids.
“Why is it that when I get a call from you, I always feel that I am about to get my pocket picked?” he said
.
“What a thing for you, of all people, to say! You, who regularly help to relieve me of my hard-earned dollars at Saul Panzer’s poker table. Just whose pocket is it that gets picked?”
“Can I help it if you have never learned the fine points of that noble game? Now just what sort of aid are you seeking?”
“I need to find an Achilles heel.”
“Now that is a new one, I must say. Just what kind of heel are we talking about?”
“Maybe skeletons in the closet would be more accurate. We are looking for what you might have on one Weldon Dunagan.”
“Ah, why do I have a feeling in my bones this has to do with the death of Lester Pierce?”
“Because you are without doubt a sensitive and perceptive member of the Fourth Estate.”
“Yeah, right, Archie. What makes you believe there’s anything in the way of dirt to be had on Dunagan?”
“The law of averages. The man has been obscenely rich and powerful for a long time now, and it figures that along the way, he almost certainly has been up to some sort of shenanigans, personal and/or professional, whether or not the Gazette has ever reported on them.”
“I’m not aware of any trouble Dunagan has ever been in, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. I’ll do some nosing around at this end. By the way, what’s in it for me?”
“After all the scoops we have given the Gazette over the years, do you dare to even ask?”
“Oh, I dare ask, all right. You may have given us a lot of scoops, but we have fed you all manner of information that helped get us those scoops and helped Wolfe have a nice bunch of paydays.”
“So it is quid pro quo, as my boss likes to say. That seems fair to me, and it’s time you gave us a quid so we can eventually supply you with a pro quo.”
“I will not try to dignify responding to that mangled bunch of your gibberish,” Lon said.
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