The Battered Badge

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Do you have a chair that will suit Mr. Wolfe? You know how he can be.”

  Cramer snorted. “I am bringing a chair from O’Hara’s office, which is almost as big as the one in your boss’s office in the brownstone.”

  “Speaking of the commissioner, did he ask to be present tomorrow?”

  “It did not come up,” Cramer said. “He is on vacation again, somewhere down south in the warmth. He doesn’t even know about this meeting, and I’m not about to tell him. If he comes back angry that he missed all the fun, Dunagan can calm him down. After all, the commissioner does report to the Police Board.”

  “Good point. When Wolfe descends from communing with the orchids, I will fill him in, although don’t be surprised if he’s changed his mind and has decided to skip your party.”

  “He had better not be absent,” Cramer said sharply. “It is important that he and I present a united front.”

  “I will be sure to tell him,” I said. When Wolfe did come down from on high, I gave him the details. “Cramer says he’s got a chair that will suit you. It’s from Commissioner O’Hara’s office.”

  He grunted and rang for beer, then riffled through the day’s mail, which I had stacked on his desk blotter.

  “Are you really going through with this?” I asked.

  The answer I got was a glare, after which Wolfe uncapped the first of two beers Fritz had just brought in on a tray along with the usual chilled pilsner glass.

  “You haven’t inquired as to whether I am available to chauffeur you down to Centre Street tomorrow night.”

  “Well?” he demanded, glaring again.

  “All right, since you have asked, yes, I am available. I had contemplated inviting Lily Rowan to dinner at Rusterman’s, but on reflection, I could not imagine you having to ride thirty-plus blocks in a New York taxi. That is simply too frightening to contemplate.”

  After yet a third glare, Wolfe finished the mail and picked up his latest book, Only in America by Harry Golden, while I began typing the correspondence Wolfe had dictated the day before. I had finished only one letter when the telephone rang. It was Lon Cohen.

  “I worry when I don’t hear from you for several days,” he said. “Is there something that I should know?”

  “I believe it is fair to say some news may be forthcoming regarding the Lester Pierce killing.”

  “When?”

  “Soon, maybe within the next day or so, but don’t hold me to that.”

  “Archie, we’ve been working with you on this. The Gazette has earned the right to a scoop, and you know it.”

  “Patience, my friend, and you will very possibly be rewarded.”

  “What’s this ‘very possibly’ claptrap, private snoop? Have the two of you switched your allegiance to another newspaper?”

  “How can you say that after what we’ve been through together over the years? Remember all the good times?”

  “But what have you done for me lately?” Lon asked.

  “Some people are never happy.” I sighed. “Well, you will just have to trust in us and hope for the best.”

  “Why is it that I am not encouraged by your words?”

  “Stay tuned,” I said. “Now I must say good-bye. I believe it is fair to say you will be hearing from us again, possibly in the next two days. Will you be in your office late tomorrow night?”

  “I am always in the office late, as you damned well know,” he said.

  “That’s good to hear. Stay close to your phone.”

  Lon started to reply, but his words were cut off when I cradled my phone.

  Chapter 29

  Anyone who chanced to be walking or driving along a certain block of West Thirty-Fifth Street at a quarter past eight that Friday night would have been treated to the sight of Nero Wolfe, clad in a gray overcoat with fur collar, wearing a black felt hat and carrying his red-thorn walking stick, coming deliberately down the steps of the brownstone and climbing into the backseat of a Heron sedan idling in front.

  I was at the wheel of the Heron. As I pulled smoothly away from the curb, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Wolfe tightly grasp the leather strap that had been retrofitted onto the car on his orders. On the rare occasions when he ventures forth from the brownstone—to the barber, the Metropolitan Orchid Show, or out to Louis Hewitt’s Long Island mansion once a year for dinner—Wolfe will ride in a vehicle driven only by me or, on rare occasions, by Saul Panzer. Even then, he rarely speaks, clenches his teeth, and never relaxes.

  When I am driving Wolfe, I make a point of not talking because he feels I am incapable of piloting the car and jawing at the same time. I drove downtown at a far slower speed than when I am alone, and I never ran an amber light. We pulled up at the front door of the old, domed building at 240 Centre Street whose architecture was better suited to a European city than to New York.

  I parked, daring a ticket, and opened the back door for Wolfe, who climbed out and walked the few steps to the arched doorway, his stick tapping a beat on the pavement. We went through the marble lobby with its coffered ceiling and took an unoccupied elevator to the third floor. Room 317 obviously was used for conferences. It was spartan, hardly unusual in a police building, with a long table that had four chairs on each side and one at each end. As it was only 8:35, the room was empty except for one person: Sergeant Purley Stebbins.

  “Mr. Wolfe,” he said stiffly, “the inspector suggested you sit here.” He gestured to a well-padded chair with arms that was placed off to one side of the seat at what appeared to be the head of the table. “The inspector will be next to you.” The sergeant turned to me. “And you can sit behind Mr. Wolfe,” he added, managing to avoid calling me by name.

  Wolfe settled into his designated chair, finding it to be adequate, although less than comfortable. “I need to say something,” Purley told him. “While we are here alone, I want to thank you for all you have done for the inspector.”

  “You are too generous with your gratitude,” Wolfe remarked. “Mr. Cramer has once again shown he is able to protect himself adequately. He did not need assistance from me.”

  Purley’s expression indicated he did not believe the denial, but he made no response. At that moment, the door swung open and Roland Marchbank stepped in, peering around grimly as though he had wandered into the wrong place—until he spotted me.

  “You! What are you doing here? I thought this was a police meeting.” Then he noticed Wolfe. “Just what in the hell is going on?” he asked Stebbins, who was wearing his usual rumpled brown suit. “Are you an officer?”

  “I am a sergeant, sir,” Purley said. “The inspector will explain everything when he comes in. Please take a seat anywhere you wish.”

  As Marchbank slid into a chair, the door opened again, and Audra and Marianne Pierce entered the room, looking first at me and then at Wolfe. Audra nodded at Wolfe, then whispered in her daughter’s ear, probably telling her the identity of the very large man in the yellow shirt and brown, vested suit.

  Purley played host once again, telling the women to sit wherever they chose, as Audra turned and gave a reserved nod and a whispered hello to Marchbank, to whom she introduced Marianne. He stood and shook her hand, favoring the young woman with a tight-lipped smile, the only kind he apparently possessed.

  The next two members of the Pierce family also arrived in tandem, brothers Malcolm and Mark, each wearing a suit and tie and providing a study in contrasts. Malcolm sauntered in self-assured and with a grin, while his younger sibling wore a frown that competed with Marchbank’s own dour countenance.

  As they were getting themselves seated, the former Miss Missouri made her entry, looking even more self-possessed than Malcolm Pierce. All that practice prancing on beauty pageant runways in high heels undoubtedly contributed to Laura Cordwell’s grace and poise. Her smile definitely contained an element of irony as she chose a seat
at the table directly across from the widow Pierce, who eyed her unblinking and with a cool detachment.

  The last of the guests, Weldon Dunagan, came in seconds after Laura. He looked first at Wolfe, then scanned the seated assemblage and chose a chair between Laura and Roland Marchbank.

  “Where’s Cramer?” Dunagan barked. “It looks to me like everybody else is here.”

  “They are, Mr. Dunagan,” the inspector said. He had come in through a side door and strode to his place at the head of the table. He wore a navy blue double-breasted suit that fit him perfectly. I had never seen the man so well garbed.

  As I took in the scene, I realized we were in some sort of parallel universe, a complete reversal of one of Wolfe’s assemblages in the brownstone. Cramer was playing the role of Wolfe, and Purley Stebbins was cast as me, while Wolfe had become Cramer and I was—you guessed it—Stebbins.

  “Thank you all for coming tonight,” the inspector said as he sat. “Now I—”

  “Now just hold on a minute!” Marchbank interrupted. “I want to know what those two are doing here?” he demanded, pointing at Wolfe and me.

  “They are Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin, and—”

  “We know very well who they are,” Marchbank said. “What I want to know is why they are here.”

  Cramer glowered at him. “If I may be allowed to complete a sentence, sir, they are present at my request and have been most helpful in this investigation.”

  “This is damned unorthodox,” Marchbank persisted as he shifted in his chair.

  “Then by all means mark me as unorthodox; I have been called far worse over the years. Does anyone here have objections to their being present?” Cramer looked from face to face around the table and got no response.

  “Very well, we will continue. I have identified Messrs. Wolfe and Goodwin. Around the table, starting clockwise on my left, are Malcolm Pierce; his brother, Mark; their mother, Audra; and her daughter, Marianne. On the other side, after the empty chair, are Laura Cordwell of the Good Government Group, Weldon Dunagan of DunaganMarts, who is also a member of the Police Review Board, and on my immediate right, Roland Marchbank, also of the Good Government Group. Are there any questions?”

  “I have one,” Mark Pierce said heatedly. “How was the so-called guest list put together?”

  “A legitimate question,” Cramer answered. “Each of you had a close relationship with Lester Pierce, and one or more of you may be able to shed some light on the cause of his death.”

  Cramer’s statement set off a flurry of heated conversation, with everyone talking at once, either to one another or to the inspector. As the pandemonium finally died down, Malcolm Pierce spoke: “Pardon my puzzlement, but from the beginning it has seemed obvious to me that the crime syndicate was behind my father’s death, as I have so stated on several occasions. I still hold to that belief. What reason do any of you have to think otherwise?”

  “As has been stated by numerous individuals—myself included—what did the syndicate really have to fear from the Good Government Group? Three-G had been hammering away at the mob for years with little or no success,” Cramer replied.

  “Now it is true that the man who in all probability shot Lester Pierce was a mob triggerman named Guido Capelli,” the inspector continued. “But Capelli himself was shot dead mob-style a few days later, and by the very people he supposedly worked for. The apparent reason: he had a reputation for taking on outside jobs, jobs definitely not sanctioned by his bosses.

  “They did not like that because, one, he was making money on the side, and two, the syndicate was getting blamed for murders they did not commit. We learned that Capelli had been warned before, but he kept on going rogue. The killing of Mr. Pierce was the last straw.”

  “I definitely do not subscribe to the mob being behind Lester’s death,” Marchbank said, “but do they really care whether they get blamed for killings that they have nothing to do with?”

  “A good point, but oddly enough, some of these mobsters have a rather skewed ethical standard,” Cramer responded. “They feel that their own hits are justified, but they don’t approve of other people hiring killers.”

  “Okay, so if we are to assume that the syndicate did not target my father, just who did?” Marianne Pierce asked.

  Cramer turned to Wolfe, nodding. “Each of you in this room was interviewed by one or more of us—Mr. Cramer, Mr. Goodwin, and me,” Wolfe said, adjusting his bulk in the almost adequate chair.

  “Yeah, and I was lucky enough to sit down with all three of you at one time or another,” Marchbank put in testily.

  “Correct,” Wolfe responded. “Each of those around this table with one notable exception has conceded that the crime syndicate was not behind the shooting of Mr. Pierce.” With that, they all looked to their left, their right, and across the table. The room became deadly quiet.

  Weldon Dunagan tugged at his silk necktie and cleared his throat. “All right, I think you and the inspector have strung this out long enough,” he said. “Are you going to accuse someone or not?”

  “First, I would like to learn whether anyone has something they would like to say before I continue,” Wolfe responded. “We are in no hurry.”

  “I disagree,” Mark Pierce said. “I believe I speak for everyone here when I claim we all, every one of us, would like to leave as soon as possible. Nothing has been accomplished here tonight.”

  “Does everyone agree with Mr. Mark Pierce?” Wolfe asked. “How about the other Mr. Pierce?”

  Malcolm swallowed hard, his earlier bonhomie gone. “What do you want me to say?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  “Whatever you like,” Wolfe said.

  Malcolm jumped up. “Damn all of you!” he said in a suddenly high-pitched tone. “Particularly my brother and sister. You both stood by while my mother here had to put up with her husband’s philandering—and with you among others,” he rasped, pointing a shaky index finger at Laura Cordwell, who recoiled as if having been slapped.

  Audra Pierce audibly drew in air and tensed as her daughter put an arm around her. “I do not believe what you are trying to say,” she told her son. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Believe it, Mother!” Malcolm yelled, still on his feet, hyperventilating and with the veins standing out in his neck.

  “Mr. Goodwin paid a visit to Marcantonio, the brother of Guido Capelli, who shot Lester Pierce,” Wolfe cut in. “He stated Guido was hired by ‘somebody rich who lived good.’”

  “Every one of us in this room is what you might term rich,” Audra said calmly.

  “As far as riches go, I am hardly in the same league with the rest of you!” Marchbank barked.

  “Now, really, Roland, you would be considered wealthy by most standards,” Audra countered.

  “Let us stipulate that all of you are ‘financially comfortable,’ however one chooses to define that term,” Wolfe said, “although some among you live in particularly lavish surroundings.” He turned toward Malcolm Pierce. “Perhaps Mr. Capelli had occasion to visit you at your residence in the Dakota, which Mr. Goodwin informs me is luxurious.”

  “No, I would never have invited him up to—” Malcolm froze in midsentence, but it was too late, and he knew it. For several seconds, the room was dead silent, broken by shocked gasps from Lester Pierce’s mother and daughter, the color having drained from their faces.

  Audra stared at her eldest son, shaking her head as if in disbelief. Her usual controlled demeanor had begun to crumble.

  “All right, now you all know!” Malcolm keened, rocking on the balls of his feet and looking at the ceiling. “I did it for you, Mother, for you. I couldn’t stand what he was doing to you. I would do it again, by God, yes I would! It was the only thing I could do. Do you hear me?”

  I suddenly realized I had just witnessed the first rehearsal of a defendant who was aiming for
an insanity plea. Malcolm’s acting needed work, although a jury might just buy his performance.

  Cramer gestured to Purley Stebbins, who went behind Malcolm and began to read him the new Miranda rights as he helped him to his feet and led him out of the room without resistance.

  The rest of the group appeared to be in some sort of communal trance until Weldon Dunagan spoke. “Bear in mind that what just happened here tonight does not in any way make this a court of law, nor should it be thought of as such. We live in a society where one is considered innocent until proven guilty.”

  High-minded words, but they did little to console any of the three Pierces, who stood huddled together in silence. As for Roland Marchbank, he continued to wear a frown. Whether it was from anger or frustration was difficult to discern. And it was clear Laura Cordwell could feel the general animosity toward her, and she walked out of the room as quietly as possible. Cramer and Dunagan stood in one corner talking in hushed tones, probably hashing over the events of the evening.

  I turned to Wolfe, who had gotten to his feet and wore a scowl. “It is time for us to go home,” I said, and he did not disagree.

  Not a word was spoken on the drive north. I dropped Wolfe off at the front steps of the brownstone and drove the car to Curran’s, pulling it into the big garage. When I returned home, he had gone up to bed.

  I settled in at my desk and dialed a number I knew by heart. “Yeah?” Lon Cohen snapped.

  “My advice to you is to call Cramer immediately. He will still be in his office. I believe you will find the effort worthwhile.”

  “Whoa! What can you tell me first?”

  “I can tell you that Wolfe and I spent the evening at Centre Street tonight, along with a number of other people.”

  “Wolfe, all the way down at Centre Street? Are you putting me on?”

  “I am not. Call Cramer.” I hung up before he could pepper me with questions.