The Battered Badge

by Robert Goldsborough

“I won’t ask you to, headline hunter. Just dig up some dirt on the tycoon who is known as ‘America’s Grocer’ from Connecticut to California and everyplace in between. And we need it quickly.”

  “But of course you do. Never mind the million-plus readers who eagerly await our next information-packed edition. If we come up with what you and your boss want, can you guarantee us an exclusive on how you will use the sins and transgressions of Weldon Dunagan against him?”

  “That is beyond my limited power to promise. For such a guarantee, you need to speak to Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Uh-huh, the old pass-the-buck trick. Or in some quarters, it’s referred to as ‘bait and switch.’”

  “You have lost me there, but then I’m just an earnest, hardworking, underpaid private flatfoot.”

  “I couldn’t have described you better myself,” Lon said, “although I might question the ‘hardworking’ part.”

  “Very funny, and typical of your so-called sense of humor. When can we expect to hear from you?”

  “Don’t push it, underpaid private flatfoot. I promise I will sic one of my men on it as soon as I hang up, which I am about to do.”

  I was doubtful Lon’s bloodhounds would dredge up anything about Dunagan. After all, there had been no whispers of scandal in all his time in the public light, dating from when he opened his first natural-foods grocery store in Fresno, California, twenty-five or more years ago. Since then his phiz has graced the covers of Fortune, Forbes, and even Time, and he once sat in on a presidential council of business advisers. It was enough to make any man arrogant, as he surely was, based on my brief meeting with him.

  Imagine my surprise when, an hour later, I got a call from Lon. “Well,” he said, “I really didn’t think anything would turn up, but … it did.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “I wouldn’t dare do that. We’ve got an old-timer who’s been here forever, named Ben Beazley, and he’s got a mind like a steel trap. He doesn’t do reporting anymore, he’s too old and can’t move around well, but we still use him on the rewrite desk, where he takes reporters’ calls from out on the street and puts their dictated words into English. He’s damned good at that.

  “Anyway, he’s got something like total recall, and he remembers an event from years back, early in Dunagan’s career. We never ran a story on this, and I don’t know why, but Beazley remembers a wire service piece about how Dunagan drove a small-time grocer by the name of Sunderland out of business in a little burg in Minnesota. Like he has so often over the years, Dunagan knocked out this guy’s operation by slashing the prices in his own new store in town, and then once he had a monopoly, he jacked his own prices back up.”

  “Yeah, I have read about that tactic of his, and possibly in your very own newspaper.”

  “And just to cap it off, about a dozen years later, Dunagan closed the store in that hamlet because it wasn’t showing a large enough profit. Now the residents have to drive fifteen miles to the nearest grocer.”

  “Another example of Dunagan’s operating principles, or so I’ve read. Capitalism at work.”

  “But there’s more,” Lon said. “Sunderland committed suicide just weeks after his store folded, and then within a few months, his daughter, who was single and had been his only employee, also shot herself.”

  “Did the story get much exposure?”

  “Only locally, not even in the Twin Cities’ papers, according to Beazley. He said he took it to the Gazette’s wire editor at the time, but he wasn’t interested. When this happened, we were in a big push to concentrate more heavily on local news. The story never got far enough up the line here that I even knew about it. I’m hearing this for the first time.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to tell me Dunagan came out of the whole business unscathed.”

  “Even back then, he had a very efficient public relations machine that went to great lengths to defend the grocery chain’s policies. Case in point: A psychiatrist from Minneapolis magically appeared at Sunderland’s inquest, claiming that the grocer had been a patient. He testified that Sunderland had suffered from severe depression ever since his wife’s death five years earlier. During the inquest, no mention was ever made of the store’s closure.”

  “And the daughter?”

  “At the inquest into her suicide, the same shrink—claiming she had also been his patient—said that for years the woman had suffered from schizophrenia. After her death, the town’s small weekly paper did a somewhat amateurish feature headlined ‘An American Family’s Tragedy.’ No more was written anywhere about the Sunderlands, as far as Beazley knows.”

  “And of course nobody ever connected the shrink with the Dunagan operation, right?”

  “I think that is a good assumption, Archie. I’m, of course, curious as to how you plan to put this information to use.”

  “That will be up to Mr. Wolfe,” I replied. “But I thank you.”

  “That is all I get—thanks? Not a few tidbits that we can use in a story?”

  “Not yet, but stay tuned.”

  After hanging up with Lon, I dialed the offices of Dunagan International and asked for Mrs. Kirby. “May I tell her who is calling?” the receptionist asked.

  “Yes, it is Archie Goodwin. She will recognize the name.”

  “Hello, Mr. Goodwin,” Carolyn Kirby said in an indifferent tone. “What can I do for you today?”

  “As you know, my boss, Nero Wolfe, is continuing his investigation into the death of Lester Pierce, and he would very much like Mr. Dunagan to visit him at his home on West Thirty-Fifth Street tonight at nine o’clock.”

  “I will certainly pass along the invitation to Mr. Dunagan when he gets out of a meeting, but I must tell you that after your visit here, it seems unlikely that he will accept it. He was extremely upset for some time after you left.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Kirby. It was not my intent to cause trouble in your hallowed halls.”

  “I am sure it was not, but I feel it only fair to tell you how Mr. Dunagan probably will react.”

  “If you say one single word to him, it might help.”

  “Really?

  “Yes, and that word is ‘Sunderland.’”

  “I have no idea what that means, Mr. Goodwin. Will he?”

  “Oh, I believe so. I hope that after you speak that word to him, he may choose to call me.”

  “Perhaps he will …” she said, but without conviction.

  Less than a half hour later, the phone rang in the office. “Goodwin, just what are you trying to pull?” Weldon Dunagan snapped. “Have you ever been sued?”

  “Not recently. Are you suggesting something I have said or done might be actionable?”

  Dunagan spewed a few words that questioned my parentage, then started in again, telling me where to go. The destination did not seem to be a pleasant one. I remained silent, as he seemed to be winding down, and I didn’t want to rile him any further. Finally, he spoke again: “Just what is your boss up to, Goodwin?”

  “He is investigating the murder of Mr. Pierce and wants to talk to you.”

  “What is all this Sunderland business?”

  “You will have to ask Mr. Wolfe about that. I am simply the messenger.”

  Several seconds of silence followed. “All right, you already know what I think of private detectives,” Dunagan said, “but I will come to your place tonight, if only to find out what Wolfe is trying to pull. What’s the address?”

  I gave it to him and said we would look forward to seeing him at nine. He responded by hanging up.

  When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms after his morning session, he placed a raceme of purple Miltonia, one of my favorites, in the vase on his desk and rang for beer.

  “Mr. Dunagan will be here at nine tonight,” I told him.

  He opened his eye wide, for
him a show of emotion. “What means of persuasion did you employ?”

  When I unloaded, he glared at me. “Your method was highly inappropriate.”

  “Is that so? Let’s see, my assignment was to get Weldon Dunagan here, no matter how. You seemed totally uninterested in the process, so what was I to do except be resourceful?”

  “I did not say ‘no matter how,’” Wolfe snarled. “I expected you to use a certain amount of tact.”

  “Tact, with Dunagan? You must be joking. The man has all the finesse of a pile driver. He did not get to where he is by being tactful and gentlemanly. Sure, now that he’s king of the hill, at least in the grocery world, he wants to be seen as some sort of elder statesman. But along the way, how many people has he trampled and driven out of business? How many other Sunderlands have there been that we have never heard about?”

  “Are you finished with your diatribe?” Wolfe asked.

  “I am.”

  “Good. Your defense of small businesses is admirable, and I commend you for it. However, there is little if anything to be gained by demonizing Mr. Dunagan at this point, whatever his moral failings.”

  “I will do my best to hide any animosity I feel toward the gentleman when he comes tonight. However, you may find that he has plenty of animosity to go around.”

  “I consider myself forewarned,” Wolfe said, popping the cap off the first of two chilled beers Fritz had brought in and set before him.

  Chapter 23

  I continued to be in a fog as to why Wolfe was so interested in seeing Weldon Dunagan, especially after the grocery tycoon and I had had our short, less-than-pleasant conversation in his office. But then, I often have been unclear about my boss’s actions over the years, and when I finally see the reasoning behind his moves, it usually becomes apparent.

  Like our other recent nine o’clock callers, Dunagan was prompt, and I played doorman for him, greeting the man on the stoop as a white Rolls-Royce purred at the curb. “Please come in, Mr. Dunagan, I will take your coat.”

  He glared and said nothing, shucking the black cashmere overcoat and thrusting it at me. Not a good start. I led him down the hall to the office, where Wolfe was sitting at his desk reading. He opened his mouth to say something, but Dunagan beat him to it.

  “All right, I’m here! I have already told your lackey that I’ve never had any use for private eyes, and the nature of your summons only reinforced that. What sort of cheap trick is this?”

  “Please be seated, Mr. Dunagan,” Wolfe said calmly. “May I offer you something to drink?”

  “Don’t try to butter me up, dammit. I did not come here to socialize. I came to learn just what your game is.”

  “My game, sir, is to find the murderer of Lester Pierce. Won’t you reconsider my offer? We have a very fine cognac, said by some to be the best in the world.”

  That threw Dunagan off stride. “Well … I do happen to have a weakness for cognac. All right,” he harrumphed as he eased himself into red leather chair and shot the cuffs on his white-on-white shirt. Without needing a signal from Wolfe, I went to the serving cart and poured a generous serving of Remisier into a snifter, placing it on the small table next to our guest along with the bottle.

  “Before we get started, just what’s all this about ‘Sunderland’?” Dunagan demanded.

  “I must apologize for Mr. Goodwin,” Wolfe said smoothly. “I had asked him to invite you here this evening, and he sometimes gets overly zealous in carrying out my requests. He apparently had learned something about—”

  “I was not involved in any way with what happened to those people!” Dunagan roared.

  “It is of no matter,” Wolfe responded, flipping a palm. “As I said before, we are here to discuss one issue and one issue only, the death of Lester Pierce.”

  “Of course, of course,” Dunagan said, settling into the chair and taking a sip of Remisier. “But before we go any further, just what is your involvement in the case?”

  “I have been employed by an individual to determine the identity of the killer or killers.”

  “And who is your client?”

  “I am sorry, sir, but I am unable to divulge that information.”

  “The old lawyer-client confidentiality thing, is that it?” Dunagan said. “Except you are not a lawyer, are you?”

  “I am not, nor do I wish to be. However, my covenant with those who engage me is every bit as binding as those between an attorney and his client or between a priest and his parishioner.”

  “Okay, so—my God, this is good,” Dunagan said, licking his lips and holding up his snifter, peering at it. “Somebody could make a fortune by marketing this nectar. I could see it being sold nationally in my stores.”

  “Unfortunately, very little of what you refer to as ‘this nectar’ exists,” Wolfe said. “There are nineteen bottles in the world—not counting the one before you—and all but four reside in my cellar.”

  “A tragedy.”

  “However, if the value of Remisier lies only in scarcity, perhaps it does not merit high praise.”

  “Maybe, but I like to fancy myself as something of a connoisseur of brandies, or of cognac, if you prefer, and this is far beyond anything I have ever tasted.”

  “Then by all means, have more. Mr. Goodwin has placed it well within your reach,” Wolfe said.

  Dunagan did not need encouragement and helped himself to a second serving. I felt like telling him that it goes down better if it is nursed, rather than gulped, but I held my tongue.

  “So where was I?” our guest said. “Oh yes, I was about to ask about your progress in the investigation.”

  “It proceeds apace,” Wolfe replied.

  “That does not sound like progress to me. And lest I carp, the police seem to be doing no better. As I told Goodwin when he was at my office, my overall dissatisfaction with the New York Police Department has led me to accept a seat on the Police Review Board.”

  “So I have heard. The police do appear to be stymied,” Wolfe agreed.

  “No wonder! Commissioner O’Hara had Rowcliff heading up Homicide, which I now concede was a mistake, but look at who he brought back, against my wishes. None other than Cramer!”

  “Although I cannot say I know him well, Mr. Cramer always has seemed most professional and thorough,” Wolfe said.

  “Shows how much you know!” Dunagan replied.

  “Perhaps you can edify me.”

  “You’re damned right I can. Years back, he arrested my son, Kevin, during a minor fracas over in Long Island City and then testified against him in court. Kevin ended up serving two years, a blot on his record that can never be erased.”

  “What does your son do now?” Wolfe asked.

  “I am proud to say he has been working for our company as marketing vice president for more than ten years.”

  “What was the Long Island City set-to about?”

  “Ah, some petty argument over drugs,” Dunagan said with a sniff, waving the offense away with a hand. “At the time, the police were cracking down on pushers, and poor Kevin got caught in the middle.”

  “Was he a drug user?”

  “Everybody was back then, hardly a big deal.”

  “Let us speculate for a moment about what might have occurred had Inspector Cramer not happened on the scene,” Wolfe said.

  “The old ‘what-might-have-been’ game,” Dunagan said. He shook his head and gave a laugh that held no mirth.

  “Speculation to be sure, sir. But let us assume the fracas, as you call it, had continued uninterrupted. It is not conceivable that one or more of the combatants might have been maimed for life or killed. Your son could have ended up either the killer or a victim.”

  “Could have, could have. What is the point of all this, Wolfe?”

  “The point is that Inspector Cramer, the man you decry, may
well have done the Dunagan family an immeasurable favor. Yes, your son did serve prison time, and yes, that without doubt carries a certain stigma. But by all accounts, he has done well in the years since his incarceration. It seems to me Mr. Cramer is owed thanks rather than damnation.”

  Dunagan considered Wolfe’s words, his mood mellowed by the consumption of Remisier. “Are you some sort of buddy of Cramer’s?”

  “We know each other, but one would hardly term us friends. Do you agree, Archie?”

  “Absolutely. Those two have said things to each other that … well, are best not repeated.”

  “I’ve always considered myself fair, Wolfe,” Dunagan said, “tough but fair. Hell, I’ve had to be tough to survive in the dog-eat-dog business world. But I will take what you say about Cramer under advisement. Now what about Lester’s killing?”

  “Mr. Pierce’s death is, of course, the real purpose of this meeting, sir. Do you remain convinced the crime syndicate was behind the shooting?”

  “I did originally, but I have rethought my position. At first, I felt the mob had every reason to want Lester out of the way. But then on reflection, I had to concede that up to now, Three-G has simply not been effective in its war against organized crime, so what would be the mob’s gain in killing Lester?”

  “Your point is well taken,” Wolfe said. “Also, doing away with Mr. Pierce would not eliminate the Good Government Group, would it? I am led to assume that as principal financer, you plan to continue your support of the group with someone steering the ship.”

  “Absolutely! I am as committed to Three-G’s work as ever.”

  “As you now do not feel the crime syndicate was behind Mr. Pierce’s murder, do you have any thoughts as to who was responsible for the killing?”

  Dunagan stared into his snifter before replying. “I have given that a lot of thought, of course, and frankly I cannot imagine who would have any reason to want Lester dead.”

  “Are you aware of any threats that have been directed at other employees of the Good Government Group?”

  “I have not been told of any, and I’m sure I would have heard had that been the case,” Dunagan said. “Back to Lester’s death. What does trouble me is that it sure had some characteristics of a mob hit.”