“Not sure, which is why I’m asking. No, don’t try to get up. You’re fine down there. Now, let’s start again,” I said, keeping my Marley pointed at him. “Tell me who you think killed Guido.”
He looked up at me and smirked, as if to say, What are you going to do, shoot me right here and have people from all up and down the block come running to see what happened?
I reached into my pocket and pulled out an item that changed his expression instantly—the silencer. I calmly fitted it to the Marley, repeating the question and keeping the weapon pointed at him. His one line of defense against me was now gone, although what he didn’t realize was that I would never shoot him, silencer or not.
“Hey, come on, will ya?” he said in a hoarse tone, eyes suddenly wide open and drool coming out of his mouth. “You know what happened to Guido.”
“I would like to hear it from you.”
“They got him, the … the boys, you know?”
“The organization?”
“Yeah, right. Now please put your roscoe down.”
“Maybe later. Now why did they kill him? Wasn’t he a loyal employee?”
“I … I …”
“Speak up! I can’t hear you, and I’m beginning to feel kind of twitchy,” I said, jabbing the Marley at him and pretending to have the shakes.
“Guido, he … sometimes … did jobs they didn’t like, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. Tell me about it.”
“He, well, he took what you might call … outside contracts, you know what I mean?”
“You mean jobs for other people, and people who were not part of the organization?”
He nodded as tears started forming in his eyes. He really thought he was a dead man, and I was not about to disabuse him of that.
“Who hired your brother that last time, the time just before he got himself killed?”
“I don’t know,” Marcantonio said as he began to sob. “It was somebody rich and lived good, I think, but he never said a name.”
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“I don’t know, Mister, honest I don’t even know that. Guido didn’t never tell me much about what he was doing. ‘It’s not healthy for you to know,’ that’s what he said to me.”
“So, nothing he said to you about that last job gave you any idea who was hiring him, is that what you’re telling me?” I said, waving the Marley around again in what was meant to be a reckless gesture.
“Yes, sir. Just that this … person had already paid him part of what he would get once the …”
“Once the job was over,” I finished his sentence. “When was he going to get the rest, and where would he get it?”
“Someplace in Manhattan, I think. But as I said before, Guido didn’t like to talk at all about what he did.”
“Did he do a lot of these outside jobs?”
“Yeah, I think so, although I didn’t ever know, not even once, who he was working for.”
“Did you live together?”
He nodded. “Him and me and Mama, we were all together. Guido wanted the telephone to be in my name. He liked to be real private, you know?”
“But he wasn’t all that private because people knew how to get hold of him so they could hire him. What about your sister, Cecilia, isn’t it?”
He seemed surprised at how much I knew. “She lives over in Prospect Heights in her own flat, but I’m pretty sure she don’t know nothing about what Guido was doing. Don’t bother her, she’s a real good kid.”
“Let’s talk about you now, Marcantonio. Just what is it you do to support yourself?”
“I work on the docks, day labor. I show up every morning and they hand out the jobs.”
“Do you usually get work that way?”
“Most days, yeah, if I’m there early enough; it’s a living. What else am I gonna do?”
“After Guido got killed, what happened to the money he already was paid for the hit?”
He frowned and tried to look puzzled. “I guess maybe he spent it.”
“I guess maybe he didn’t have time to spend it,” I said. “I think that you have it.”
“You shaking me down?” he whined. “That ain’t fair. I need that dough for Mama. She got left with nothin’ for herself when Papa died after all his years working on the docks.”
“But your mama had three kids. Don’t all of you take care of her and make sure she has enough to live on?”
That threw Marcantonio, and before he could mount a comeback, I prodded him to stand up. “Let’s go to your place right now,” I said, gesturing with the pistol. “I want to see the money Guido got.”
The younger Capelli brother looked like he was going to start crying again, but he got to his feet slowly as I slipped the Marley into my jacket and kept my hand on it. As we walked the half block to his house, he kept looking around as if to find help. But there wasn’t any on the all-but-deserted street.
When we climbed the steps, he drew the keys out of his pocket and opened the front door. I was right behind him as we entered. The living room was on the right, a dark, heavily curtained room with bulky furniture that looked like it belonged in the previous century except for the small television with a rabbit-ears aerial that sat on a folding metal table in one corner.
“The money’s in my room,” Marcantonio whispered. “I don’t want to wake Mama. Since what happened to Guido, she sleeps most of the time.” He started up the stairs with me at his heels.
“I’ll go up alone,” he said over his shoulder.
“No, you won’t,” I countered in a whisper, jabbing him with the revolver. There were several doors along the wallpapered second-floor hallway, one of which was ajar. A faint, questioning voice came from within, words I couldn’t make out.
“It’s all right, Mama. I got a friend with me. Go back to sleep,” her son said, closing her door. We entered another bedroom, with a window that looked out into a drab and grassless backyard. Marcantonio went to a bureau, pulling open a drawer and reaching in under a pile of clothes. He came out with a shoebox, which he reluctantly handed to me.
I took the lid off and looked at stacks of used currency, twenties and fifties, which filled the box to the top. “How much is in here?” I asked.
“A grand. Guido was supposed to get another thou after he did the job, but … you know what happened.”
“Yeah. Who gave him this?”
“I dunno know, honest I don’t. He just said he had a live one, like I told you, a rich one. Wouldn’t tell me a thing, but he was like that. He never said who his jobs was for.”
“You have any idea where this … client lived?”
He shook his head. “Naw, I’m tellin’ ya, he didn’t never talk about his work, either for the outfit or when he was doing them jobs on the side.”
“How did your mama think Guido earned a living?”
“He told her he was in sales and that seemed to be okay with her. You gotta remember that she’s old and don’t speak hardly any English,” he said, nodding toward her closed door. “I really need that money to take care of her,” he added in a whiny voice.
“Take it,” I said, holding the box out to him. “I don’t want it. But now that I know where you live, I might be visiting you again to see if you remember anything more about who Guido did that job for.”
Marcantonio gave what I’m sure was a sigh of relief as I turned and went down the stairs and out the front door. I hoped I had seen the last of the tired old house in Bushwick.
Chapter 25
I got back to the brownstone just in time for lunch, but I did not report to Wolfe then because of course any talk of business is verboten during meals. In the office with coffee later, Wolfe remarked about the bruise on my left cheek. “Perhaps you fell?”
“Perhaps I did not, but to resurrect an oft-used boxing
quote, ‘You shoulda seen the other guy!’ Would you like a report?” He nodded.
I proceeded to describe my visit to Brooklyn, leaving nothing out. When I finished, I said, “It seems I haven’t brought back a lot to show for my time.”
“We know a little more than when we—” Wolfe was interrupted by the telephone. I picked up my receiver and gave my usual greeting.
“Mr. Goodwin, this is Audra Pierce. I would like to speak to Nero Wolfe, if he is available.”
I cupped the receiver and identified our caller to Wolfe, who picked up his phone while I stayed on the line.
“Madam, I have nothing more to report at present,” he told our caller.
“But I have something to report to you,” she said. “I was visited by Inspector Cramer today, and he just left. I must say he is both brighter and more civil than Captain Rowcliff, which makes me wonder why Lester did not like him. He was quite thorough in his questioning—and polite as well.”
“That does not surprise me, madam.”
“What might surprise you, though, is that he asked about you.”
“To what end?”
“To be specific, he asked me if I knew you and I am afraid he caught me off guard, as I was a little slow in responding. I finally said to him, ‘Why are you asking?’ and he said, ‘Just curious.’ I then told him that I had heard of you, of course, but that I hadn’t met you. However, because of the way he looked at me, I am pretty sure he felt I was lying. I am sorry.”
“There is nothing to be sorry about,” Wolfe replied. “Does it concern you that the inspector may think you have hired me?”
“No, it really does not.”
“It does not disquiet me, either. I suspect I will be hearing from Mr. Cramer before long.”
“Oh, dear, I hope that I have not caused a problem for you.”
“Not at all, I am used to visits from Mr. Cramer. During your meeting, did he tell you anything you found to be of interest?”
“Not really. He obviously wanted to know if Lester had any enemies, anyone who disliked him enough to kill him, and I am afraid I was not much help to him, as I haven’t been to you as well. I am sorry to hear you have no news, but I will remain optimistic.”
Wolfe said good-bye and I stayed on the line, assuring her that we would telephone her when we had something to report.
“Well, do you want to bet on how long before Cramer comes calling?” I asked Wolfe.
“No, but I would be surprised if we do not hear from him, either in person or by telephone, before I go up to visit the orchids at four.”
Sure enough, a few minutes before three, the doorbell rang. “There he is, right on schedule!” I told Wolfe.
“Nice to see you again,” I told Cramer as I opened the front door.
“I’m not sure that I can say the same,” the inspector growled as he stepped in and headed down the hall to the office, with me in his wake as usual.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Wolfe said, looking up from a book.
“I have yet to see one single thing that’s good about it,” Cramer responded, dropping into the red leather chair that he has occupied so often that he seems to own it. “I just came from a visit with Audra Kingston Pierce, who is quite the lady,” he said, jamming the unlit cigar into his mouth.
“So I have been told.”
“As you say. Is she your client?”
“Yes, she is,” Wolfe said.
“I thought so! On a hunch, I asked her if she knew you, and she paused before answering, then told me she had heard of you but hadn’t met you. Mrs. Pierce is an attractive and cultured lady, but she is a poor liar.”
“Liar is too strong a word,” Wolfe replied. “I prefer to say she was being evasive.”
“Have it your way. In any event, she was not at all forthcoming about her relationship with you.”
“Perhaps she felt I would prefer that our arrangement remain private. Did you learn anything helpful from her?”
“Not really. She told me she and Pierce had not been close in recent years, and while she did not come right out and say that he had a roving eye, she certainly suggested it.”
“What is your next step?” Wolfe asked.
Cramer snorted. “Look, I know I am following in your tracks here, or at least in Goodwin’s. I also have Rowcliff’s notes from when he talked to them all, and I didn’t learn much, but then George has never been a very good interviewer. That’s off the record, of course. Got any advice for me?”
“I do not, sir, except to say this: when you have completed your interviews with them, I suggest we meet and compare notes.”
“Do you now? That is not something I’m used to hearing from you. This case is important to me, Wolfe, and I don’t want to be fed a line of gobbledy-gook here.”
“I am quite serious about our working together, Mr. Cramer. And in all candor, it is in my interest that you get whatever credit is due in this matter.”
That brought a guffaw from the inspector. “Now I get it,” he said, clapping his beefy hands twice. “Whatever our past skirmishes, you would rather deal with me than with someone like Rowcliff or even, heaven forbid, our current excuse for a commissioner, who would love nothing more than to present me with my walking papers.”
“I am not about to argue that point, sir. Will you have something to drink? It is to my shame as a host that I did not offer you a libation earlier. I am about to have beer.”
“Well, I am on duty but—what the hell, I’ll have one, too. The nice thing about being an inspector—and I still am one, at least for the time being—is that I have a driver, and during working hours, he has to be cold sober. It wouldn’t look good if the driver of a police vehicle got a DWI.”
While I listened, the two of them reviewed the career of Lester Pierce. “I only met him a couple of times,” Cramer said, “but I found him to be a grade-A stuffed shirt, or maybe a cold fish is a better description.
“He had this superior attitude, saying—in a patronizing way—that he held the greatest respect for the police department, but that he felt it was in desperate need of new blood, preferably college trained, and of embracing what he referred to as ‘the new realities of urban law enforcement in these postmodern times,’ whatever the hell that means.”
“I never met Mr. Pierce, but I understand he was possessed of political ambitions,” Wolfe said.
Cramer took a sip of his beer. “As the story goes, he badly wanted to be governor, and he was using his job as head of Three-G to burnish his reputation as a civic reformer.”
“What have you learned about his character?”
“I know exactly where you’re going with this,” Cramer said. “As his wife alluded to, the man was a skirt chaser, a discreet one, of course. But discretion or not, word has a way of getting out. The fact is that we all, every one of us, end up paying for our sins.”
“You are being philosophical today,” Wolfe said.
“Maybe. After all, look who ended up dining with a Mafia boss, and not so long ago.”
“But you did not get caught in the act,” I said.
“Not yet, anyway, although I’ve gotten wind of rumors about that evening that are floating around.”
“Back to Mr. Pierce,” Wolfe said. “What have you learned about his alleged liaisons?”
“You are asking every question this afternoon,” Cramer replied sharply. “It’s all take and no give.”
“Very well, sir. What do you wish to know?”
“Talk to me about what you have learned concerning Lester Pierce’s extracurricular activities.”
Wolfe turned to me, preferring to avoid the subject. “He is said to have had an extremely close relationship with one of his employees, the very attractive former beauty queen, Laura Cordwell,” I said.
“So I have heard,” the inspector replied.
“You’ve talked to her, Goodwin. What does she have to say for herself?”
“I did sit down with her in her office at Three-G all right, face-to-face, and when I brought up the question of her personal relationship with Pierce, she figuratively slammed the door on me. End of story. On that particular subject, my advice would be to approach the lady with caution.”
“I will take that into consideration,” Cramer said in a tone that indicated he was not looking forward to meeting with the woman.
“When I get done talking to her, and all the others, I will get back to you,” he said, rising and walking out of the office. “And by the way, thanks for the beer; I needed it.”
Chapter 26
For several days, the murder of Lester Pierce was all but forgotten in the brownstone and also in the pages of the city’s newspapers. Wolfe toiled for hours writing yet another article for one of the orchid publications he subscribes to, and I found myself happily spending a lot of time with Lily, dancing with her at the Churchill, dining at Rusterman’s Restaurant, and going to the Garden to see the Rangers wallop Toronto.
I kept hoping Wolfe would suddenly close his eyes and that his lips would begin to push out and in, out and in, which is what occurs when he plays at being a genius and solves a case. No such luck.
On a Wednesday morning when I was in the office typing up Wolfe’s magazine article, the phone rang. Never was I so happy to hear Inspector Cramer’s voice.
“I have talked to all those people, and I want to sit down with Wolfe and go over what I came up with. I have an inkling about Pierce’s killer, a strong inkling.”
I’ve got a lot of respect for Inspector Cramer—along with some reservations. I never thought he wasn’t smart, but his kinds of smarts are in no way similar to Wolfe’s kinds. Cramer tends to be a plodder, albeit a tenacious one, while Wolfe possesses flashes of inspiration, flashes he cannot even describe. “I have genius or nothing,” he has said in defining himself.
So when Cramer tells me he has “an inkling,” I take it with the proverbial grain of salt. Usually, he is so far behind Wolfe that when the murderer is unmasked, it comes as a surprise to the inspector. As I was to learn, though, things would be different this time around.
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