The Battered Badge

by Robert Goldsborough

  But we were not at the end of the story just yet. I told Cramer that I would have Wolfe call him to set up a meeting. Only seconds after I hung up, the phone rang. It was Lon Cohen.

  “Archie, you are not going to like this news,” he said. “I’m really sorry to be its bearer.”

  “Well, hit me with it.”

  “I know that you don’t read one of our afternoon competitors, the Journal-American. They have a columnist named Everett who writes a feature called Just Between Us, which is a poor imitation of Chad Preston’s East Side, West Side, All Around the Town, with which you are familiar.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “So, we just got a copy of their first edition, and here is what Mr. Everett leads his column with:

  We have it on good authority that the reinstated Homicide Squad boss Inspector L. T. Cramer was seen dining recently with mob kingpin Ralph Mars in the back room of a well-known Mafia eatery down in Little Italy. The subject of their conversation is not known, but the meeting has everyone abuzz at Police Headquarters on Centre Street. We have as of deadline time been unable to get any comment, either from Cramer or his bosses.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Me too, Archie, particularly because neither Chad Preston nor anyone else at the Gazette will run an item without either an attribution or some sort of confirmation. Therein lies the reason we never published an item about the Little Italy meeting.”

  “You’ve got higher standards,” I said.

  “True, and sometimes we end up paying for those standards, not that I am complaining. I take some comfort in the fact that our circulation is considerably larger than the Journal-American’s.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “First, to find out who leaked that item to Everett. Next, to get a quote from Cramer and to learn what the higher-ups at headquarters think about this item. I have already put Preston on it, and he says he has a hunch.”

  “Care to share it?”

  “Why not? He thinks Rowcliff is the leak.”

  “That would hardly be surprising, given that he lusted after the top spot in Homicide and instead, he’s been kicked sideways, or maybe even down one flight of stairs.”

  “I would say down is the correct direction, Archie. As respected as the Traffic Department may be, this is definitely not where Rowcliff wants to spend the rest of his career. I’ve already heard about his grumbling from Chad Preston, who says he’s been going around the building moaning about how unfairly he’s been treated. And Chad says that it is common knowledge at 240 Centre Street that he, Rowcliff, feels Cramer never really valued him, so there may be some bad blood in the works here.”

  “There’s absolutely no question as to which of those two is the classier—or the more able.”

  “Yeah, but as you are aware, class and ability do not necessarily rise to the top,” Lon said.

  “Agreed. Please keep us posted on developments. This is not going to make my boss happy.”

  “Nor should it. I would still like to know exactly what that conversation between Cramer and Mars was all about. Apparently, Everett at the Journal-American doesn’t know either, or he would have written about it. Anyway, Archie, as I said, I am going to turn Chad Preston loose on this whole business and see what he comes up with.”

  “I’ll be interested in hearing what shakes out,” I told Lon, neglecting of course to mention that Wolfe and I already knew the essence of the Cramer-Mars tête-à-tête. So it seemed that the inspector was back in the soup once again. I recalled what he had said last time he was here about “paying for our sins.”

  When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, I filled him in on the latest developments, and he rewarded me with a glower.

  “Okay, I am not happy about this, either,” I told him. “What do you think about Cramer saying he has an inkling as to who Pierce’s killer is?”

  “Pfui. I am not about to quibble over Mr. Cramer’s use of inkling, which the dictionary defines as ‘a slight knowledge or vague notion.’ I suspect what the inspector really means is that he has a strong idea as to who the guilty party is. But then, so do I, although he and I may not be in agreement.”

  “Care to share a name with me?”

  “Not at present. I am still working my way through the mare’s nest created by Mr. Rowcliff and that Journal-American knave.”

  “Do you think this latest business has the potential of sinking Cramer’s ship for good?”

  “Possibly, although I am optimistic that Mr. Cohen and the Gazette’s highly competitive columnist Preston still have arrows in their quiver that may prove effective in foiling the attack upon Mr. Cramer.”

  “I hope you are right, although that stuff running in the J-A seems awfully damning and needs some sort of response.”

  “I have a feeling, Archie, that at least a portion of the response you desire may come from a surprising quarter,” Wolfe said.

  I tried to question Wolfe as to what he meant, but he would say nothing more, instead busying himself with signing the stack of correspondence from other orchid fanciers that I had typed up earlier. It was not until after lunch—at 3:10 to be precise—that we got word of another development, which came in the form of a telephone call from—who else?—Lon Cohen.

  “Is Mr. Wolfe on the line with you?” he asked, and I signaled Wolfe to pick up.

  “He is now.”

  “Okay, this Chad Preston column will run in our final edition today, which has not yet been delivered to you. Here it is:

  The source behind the unconfirmed rumor in another publication that Inspector Lionel T. Cramer had been seen dining with syndicate biggie Ralph Mars is none other than Captain George Rowcliff. Rowcliff recently got bumped from his spot as acting head of the Homicide Squad by Cramer, who returned to his old post. Attempts to reach both men for comment had been unsuccessful by press time, but we will continue our efforts to talk to them.

  “Now what do you think of that?” Lon asked.

  “Has there been any reaction yet from either Commissioner O’Hara or Weldon Dunagan?” Wolfe asked.

  “No, but I would not be surprised if Chad is on the horn to one or both of them as we speak. Then things should get even more interesting.”

  “The glee is apparent in your voice,” I said.

  “Not glee, Archie, but certainly the competitive juices are flowing,” Lon said. “This Everett has been trying to run Cramer down mainly because Preston’s columns have defended the inspector. That’s what happens when a guy is number two in the column game, and Everett is definitely number two, a distant second.”

  “I know you will update us with bulletins as they occur,” I told him. “Don’t be shy about calling.”

  “Shy—me? Not a chance.”

  Chapter 27

  We had barely gotten settled in the office with coffee when the telephone rang. “That will be Lon,” I told Wolfe, and I was right.

  “Seems like all I’m doing lately is reading to you, and now I’m about to do it again,” he said as I motioned to Wolfe to pick up his phone.

  “Well, let the record show that we here in the brownstone appreciate it,” I said. “Are we going to like what you’ve got for us?”

  “Oh, I believe you will,” Lon replied. “This is not one of Chad Preston’s columns, but rather a news story under Preston’s byline that we are running on page one with a two-column headline that reads ‘Dunagan Blasts Print Attack on Cramer!’ Here is the article, word for word:

  Grocery magnate and recently appointed Police Review Board member Weldon Dunagan today decried a report in another New York newspaper that Inspector Lionel T. Cramer of the Homicide Squad had been seen dining privately with mob boss Ralph Mars in a Little Italy restaurant.

  “I find this piece of so-called journalism to be spurious and irresponsible, as well as an unfounded attack up
on one of the department’s longest-serving and most-decorated officers,” Mr. Dunagan said. “I have directed the Police Review Board to initiate an investigation into the source of this scurrilous item.”

  Police Commissioner Daniel J. O’Hara joined Mr. Dunagan in denouncing the news item, saying, “This is an insult to Mr. Cramer, who has every right to sue.”

  For his part, Inspector Cramer said, “My record speaks for itself.” Mr. Mars did not respond to numerous attempts to reach him for a comment.

  “Okay, there it is,” Lon said.

  “Mr. Cohen, I note the inspector did not deny that a meeting with Ralph Mars took place,” Wolfe said.

  “I thought you would pick up on that.”

  “It seems to me you have stacked the deck, to use one of Archie’s favorite terms, against Mr. Rowcliff.”

  “Do you deny that he has it coming?” Lon asked.

  “I do not,” Wolfe said. “I assume disciplinary action will be brought against the captain.”

  “Almost surely, and it well may be the end of his career. He hitched his wagon to the wrong star, specifically the Journal-American and its second-rate columnist, if I may be allowed to crow.”

  “I for one would not deny you that pleasure, Mr. Cohen. I hope you will avail yourself of the opportunity to join us for dinner in the very near future. Archie will be issuing an invitation.”

  “That is an invitation I look forward to receiving,” Lon said.

  “Well, what’s next?” I asked Wolfe after we had hung up.

  “Call Mr. Cramer. Before all this foofaraw over dueling newspaper articles erupted, the inspector proposed a meeting, saying he had an inkling as to the identity of Mr. Pierce’s murderer. Let us learn whether his inkling matches my own.”

  “So you’ve got an inkling of your own?”

  “I do, and have had for some time. But I am not about to argue over whether we each have the same idea, and if we do, who came up with it first.”

  I picked up the phone to call Cramer, but before I could begin dialing, the doorbell rang. “Hah! No need for the telephone, we both know who that is,” I told Wolfe as I left the office and headed down the hall to the front door.

  “Good afternoon,” I said to Cramer, who stepped inside without a word and walked slowly down the hall to the office. He sat in the red leather chair and nodded to his host.

  “We were about to call you, sir,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Cohen read us the article about you that will be running in this afternoon’s later editions of the Gazette.”

  “Yeah, he read it to me as well,” Cramer said in a subdued tone. “Nice of him. But, of course, I’m sure he knows the truth about me and Mars having that dinner, just as you do.”

  “You have no reason to be chagrined,” Wolfe said. “Your motives and intentions were good. As Archie likes to say about basketball, ‘no harm, no foul.’”

  “Thanks for that,” the inspector said, sounding like he meant it. “What I can’t figure out is how two people—O’Hara and Dunagan—who were out to get me now defend me, and in print, no less. They suddenly are in my corner. It makes no sense, not that I’m complaining.”

  “People sometimes have epiphanies, as it is written that Paul did on the Damascus Road. There is often no explaining the human animal,” Wolfe said.

  “I suppose so,” Cramer replied. “I have no idea what will to happen to Rowcliff, and at the moment, I’m not sure that I even care. I defended the man for years, even when he made an ass of himself, which was more than once. But dammit, he was as brave as a bear. He could have been a great cop.”

  “Perhaps, but I believe you would be better off not dwelling on what might have been. Some people are their own worst enemy, and this would seem to be the case with Mr. Rowcliff.”

  “I guess you’re right,” the inspector replied, shaking his head. For whatever reasons, he had not once pulled out a cigar to gnaw on.

  “You told Archie you have an inkling, that is the word you used, as to who murdered Lester Pierce,” Wolfe said. “I am interested in your choice.”

  Cramer reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen and scribbled something, handing the sheet to Wolfe, who read it and gave his thin-lipped version of a smile. “We are of one mind, sir,” he said. I went around behind him and looked over his shoulder at the name the inspector had printed. Maybe by now you have guessed the identity, but I had not, although the individual was one of three possibilities on my own list.

  “We are in agreement,” Cramer said. “I have a proposal.”

  Wolfe dipped his chin and said nothing. The inspector had the floor.

  “You have been damned effective over the years with what I like to call your charades. Now it is my turn to host one.”

  I think that took my boss by surprise, although he remained silent, leaning back in his chair, hands interlaced over his middle mound. I am not sure if he knew what was coming next, but I know I didn’t.

  “All right,” Cramer continued, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees, and focusing directly on Wolfe. “There is a pleasant enough conference room at Centre Street, although nothing like this,” he said, looking around the office. “But it will do for my purposes.”

  “What are your purposes?” Wolfe asked.

  “To gather all the suspects together—along with whomever else you choose—while we, you and I, name the murderer.”

  I could not believe my ears. Cramer was actually suggesting that Wolfe leave home in the brownstone and venture forth to police headquarters on Centre Street blocks away in Lower Manhattan.

  “When do you propose such a meeting would take place?”

  “As soon as I am able to round up all the key people in this case—Dunagan, Marchbank, Miss Cordwell, Pierce’s widow, and her three children.”

  “How do you go about persuading each of these people to appear in a group?”

  “I suppose the same way you persuade them to come here in a group to unveil a killer. I can also be persuasive,” Cramer said contentiously.

  Wolfe leaned back and considered the inspector from barely open eyes. “Sir, if you are able to bring these individuals together in your offices, I will be present for the denouement you are planning.”

  For the second time in the space of a minute or so, I was stunned, although I tried not to show it. I looked at Wolfe, who pointedly ignored me.

  “Then it’s a deal,” Cramer said. “Would you like to make any additions to the guest list?”

  “No, it appears complete. Now as to logistics: Will you have a chair that accommodates me?”

  “You can count on it,” Cramer said, rubbing his palms together.

  Wearing a self-satisfied grin, the inspector walked out with a spring in his gait. After locking the front door behind him, I returned to the office. “What game are you playing?” I demanded to Wolfe.

  “Game? I am not participating in any game,” he replied, looking up at me with eyes now wide open.

  “Oh, now I get it,” I said, sliding into my desk chair and slapping my forehead with a palm. “You know damned well that Cramer won’t be able to get every one of them in the same room at the same time.”

  “I know nothing of the kind, Archie. In fact, were I a betting man like you, I would gamble a sizable percentage of my holdings that Mr. Cramer will be successful in prevailing upon each of the seven to attend his assemblage.”

  “Hell, you could just as easily have worked things to have the whole business held right here like you usually do.”

  “Perhaps, but Mr. Cramer and I reached the same conclusion, and it is possible he arrived at it before I did. In any event, he has earned the right to oversee the proceedings. I will not begrudge him that opportunity.”

  “I just can’t believe I am hearing this. You do not have to save Cramer’s bacon, if that’s you
r intent. He has already been exonerated, if that’s the right word, by both Commissioner O’Hara and Weldon Dunagan, he of the Police Review Board. Do you mean to tell me you are really going all the way down to 240 Centre Street, that tired old police headquarters that ought to be replaced, where you will have no beer and will be forced to sit in a chair you will detest, despite what Cramer says, all the while listening to him pontificate?”

  “The inspector may pontificate,” Wolfe conceded, “but I assure you I will do my share of the talking as well. And by the way, although I haven’t said it, you also will be present.”

  “Yeah, somehow I already had figured as much. You are going to need a chauffeur to take you all the way down to the wilds of deepest Lower Manhattan, and it might as well be me, right?”

  “You have framed the program most succinctly,” Wolfe said, pulling the platinum pocket watch out of his vest pocket and glancing at it. “It is three minutes past the time for me to board the elevator.”

  Chapter 28

  For more than two days, we heard nothing from Inspector Cramer, and I found myself chuckling inwardly. As I had suspected would happen, he probably was unable to pull together a gathering of those most closely involved in the Pierce murder case.

  Then came a call on a rainy Thursday morning. “Goodwin, we are set for tomorrow night,” Cramer snapped. “Nine o’clock in Room 317 at Centre Street. I made it that time because I know Wolfe’s schedule, and that hour won’t interfere with either a meal or one of those twice-a-day visits with his precious orchids.”

  “And everybody said they’d be there?”

  “Yep. It took a little persuading, particularly with Marchbank and both of the Pierce sons, but I wore them down. I figured Dunagan would be a tough sell, but the man surprised me and said to count him in. He wanted to know exactly what was going to happen, and I told him he would have to wait and see.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t wild about that.”

  “No, but he badly wants to see this business cleared up for the good of the department. Like the rest of us, he is sick and tired of all the newspaper attacks on the police.”