“I suggested that to her, but she strongly demurred.”
“You should have insisted!”
“Mr. Cramer, let us have this discussion at another time. Miss Hutchinson, am I correct that you did not recognize the caller’s voice?”
“Correct, I didn’t recognize it,” Cordelia said, after clearing her throat.
“She also told me the incriminating photograph came to her by mail,” Wolfe said. “I believe this. However, I also believe that the blackmail notes, which I have, were created by Miss Hutchinson herself.”
“What! Are you out of your mind?” It was Cordelia’s father, who came halfway out of his chair.
“I believe my sanity to be intact, thank you,” Wolfe said. “When Miss Hutchinson brought us the notes, both printed in ink with block letters, I asked about the envelopes, which she said she had thrown away.”
“What of it?” Kathleen asked.
“Come now, Mrs. Willis. Would anyone who has received a blackmail letter—and kept it—throw away the envelope it came in? That goes against the very essence of human nature. If for no other reason, an envelope would instinctively be saved in part for any evidence of the sender’s identity it might provide—such as fingerprints. There were never any envelopes.”
Cordelia was staring at her lap and vigorously twisting a hanky. Her parents both looked at her, but she kept her head down.
“Does this mean Miss Hutchinson planned her own blackmailing? It does not,” Wolfe said, answering his own question and flipping a palm. “However, it does indicate the thrall in which she was held by the telephone caller and her terror at the photograph being made public. This individual also told her—perhaps insisted—that she should engage me to have the ransom money delivered to a specified location.”
Annie Hutchinson raised her hand like a pupil in a classroom and Wolfe nodded toward her.
“Just a minute,” she said. “How did this phone caller know you would even accept the assignment?”
“A very good question. The caller was taking a chance on my acceding to Cordelia Hutchinson’s request that we stop the blackmailer, but not necessarily identify him or her.”
“But were you planning to identify him or her?” Annie persisted, leaning forward in her chair.
“We had made provisions for that.”
“One last question, Mr. Wolfe, and then I’ll shut up,” Annie said. “Of all the detectives in New York, and there must be dozens, why were you selected by the blackmailer?”
“Another excellent query. Now we arrive at the confluence of our two metaphorical rivers: the blackmailing and the plot against Mr. Goodwin. There were two interests here, and these interests did their planning in concert.
“It probably began with a chance meeting months ago between two individuals, each with a goal. One sought a substantial sum of money to improve a standard of living, the other sought revenge upon me through Mr. Goodwin. Each party felt he or she had hit upon a way to accomplish both ends.”
“Let us get on with the blackmailing,” Parkhurst Hutchinson grumped. “After all, that is what we are paying you for.”
“Let us indeed, sir,” Wolfe replied amiably. “Your daughter had planned a trip earlier this year to Italy as she told me, one that was to include many cities and attractions throughout that country. Her first stop was Florence, and something occurred there that made her drastically alter her itinerary.”
“A man!” her father said.
“Yes, a man named Carlo Veronese, from a wealthy and well-established Florentine family. Is that not correct, Miss Hutchinson?”
Cordelia looked up and nodded, then dropped her head back down again. I was almost feeling sorry for her.
“You met Mr. Veronese, seemingly by chance, while you were window shopping on the Ponte Vecchio Bridge, is that also correct?”
“It was by chance,” she said in a voice just above a whisper.
“I think not,” Wolfe replied, pushing the buzzer under his desk. “I believe the meeting was carefully planned.”
“Not by me!” Cordelia squeaked.
“No, not by you,” Wolfe agreed as the door opened and Saul Panzer and Carlo Veronese stepped in. Cordelia gasped, as did Marlene Peters.
“Good evening Mr. Veronese,” Wolfe said, not inviting him to be seated. “Thank you for coming. Do you recognize some of the people here?”
“Two,” Carlo said, abashed. He gave a tight smile to Cordelia and avoided looking at Marlene.
“Tell us how you happened to meet Miss Hutchinson in Florence earlier this year.”
“She was … identified to me, I would say.”
“By whom, Mr. Veronese?”
“By … her,” he said, pointing at Marlene, who started to say something but changed her mind. Like Cordelia, she was looking down.
“Miss Peters,” Wolfe stated. “Had you known her previously?”
Veronese nodded. “We met last year.”
“Would you say you were good friends?”
“Mm, yes, good friends, but not …” He made hand gestures that I took to mean the two had not been lovers.
“Why did Miss Peters want you to meet Miss Hutchinson?” Wolfe posed.
Veronese shifted from one leg to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the grilling he was getting. “She said it would help to make her boyfriend back at home … what is the word—jealous?”
“Why should Miss Hutchinson want him to be jealous?”
“Marlene … Miss Peters said it would get him to make what you call a proposal to her.”
“That’s not true! Lanny had already proposed to me, and you knew it!” Cordelia cried, glowering at Marlene. “How dare you …”
“Photographs of you and Miss Hutchinson were taken in the Boboli Gardens,” Wolfe said to Veronese. “You knew about that, of course.” The Italian nodded, hanging his head.
“And you also arranged for a photographer to take those pictures, a paparazzo? Did Miss Peters help you with that?” Another nod.
Wolfe looked at Marlene. “It’s … just … it’s not what it sounds like,” she mumbled. “I … don’t want to say any more right now.”
“I understand you and Douglas Hutchinson have spent time together,” Wolfe said. Doug shifted in his chair.
“Well, we did go out a few times, a while back,” she responded.
“Yes, and you and he are still keeping company, aren’t you?”
“What? No, I mean, I really don’t see where this is any of …” Marlene’s voice trailed off, and she began crying. By this time, Cordelia was sobbing, too, for different reasons. I just hoped Wolfe could hold up. He detests female emotions, and we had more than enough of them in the room, especially since Cordelia’s mother had begun shedding tears quietly.
Wolfe stayed focused on Marlene. “When Mr. Goodwin asked you about this relationship, you said ‘it just didn’t click.’ And when the same question was asked of Douglas, he used precisely the same words, as if the two of you had been expecting the question and had done some rehearsing. What about it, Mr. Hutchinson?” Wolfe said, turning to Doug.
“That was just a coincidence,” he said dismissively, throwing his arms up. “We haven’t been together in ages.”
Back to Marlene. “Is it true what he says, Miss Peters, that you haven’t been together in ages?” Wolfe was attacking the weakest point in the pair, and he did not let her sniffling deter him.
“Oh for God’s sake, leave her alone!” Doug barked and stood. “I’m getting out of here.”
“Not just yet you aren’t, son,” Purley Stebbins said, stepping forward and putting one of his oversized paws on the young man’s shoulder, forcing him back down into his chair.
“So, let us leave this couple for the moment and go back to the beginning of this chain of events,” Wolfe said. “A few minutes ago
, I spoke of a chance meeting between two individuals, whom I shall call X and Y. Each had a specific goal. They saw how they could aid each other in achieving these goals.
“Their plan, while flawed, appealed to both of them. The person intent upon killing Mr. Goodwin was also the telephone voice of the blackmailer, a voice unknown to Miss Hutchinson. This person, X, sent one of the photographs taken in Florence to her, demanding seventy-five thousand dollars in currency in return for the other photographs. X dictated the content of two ransom notes to her, undoubtedly suggesting she print them to avoid a handwriting test.
“X then stipulated that she attempt to hire us to deliver the money to a specified spot in Central Park, knowing that if we did accept the assignment, Mr. Goodwin would almost surely be the one making the delivery, as I am patently unsuited to such work. If all went well, Mr. Goodwin would be dead and the money would go to the other member of the cabal, Y. The one final thing that did go well for X and Y is that we accepted the assignment from Miss Hutchinson, who was totally ignorant of both the death plot and the ultimate destination of the seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“This plan sounds awfully convoluted, to use one of your own words,” Cramer said. “I don’t see how in hell it could work.”
“It did not work, Inspector, although Mr. Goodwin came close to losing his life. He did indeed take the satchel of money, seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth, to the specified spot in Central Park, although he was not alone. To use a police term, he had backup, including Mr. Saul Panzer, whom you see there standing next to Mr. Veronese.
“X, who wanted my colleague dead, made the mistake of hiring a petty and inept mobster named Noah McManus to do the killing. When Mr. Goodwin set the satchel down at the base of a tree and began to walk away, McManus called out to him. Mr. Goodwin turned and a bullet that should have killed him tore through his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. A moment later, the would-be assassin was shot in the back, fatally.
“I believe that X, thinking Mr. Goodwin was now dead, did what he had intended to do all along, which was to kill McManus, who was probably the only person who knew X was behind the planned killing. As Mr. Goodwin lay on the ground in pain, McManus prepared to fire a second and probably fatal shot at him, but unintentionally and ironically, X saved the very life he had sought to end.”
Chapter 26
After that recitation, a hush fell over the room for several seconds. Once more, to my discomfort, I became the center of attention, as everyone stared at me, several of them agape, perhaps in surprise because I was alive. Finally, Tom Hutchinson broke the silence. “I’m sure glad you’re okay, Archie, but I’ve got a question which might seem unimportant after all that happened in Central Park. What became of the money?”
“Your youngest sister could answer that for you,” Wolfe said. “It has been returned to her. In the ensuing chaos after the melee in the park, another one of my agents, Fred Durkin, scooped up the satchel before either X or Y could retrieve it. It was returned to Miss Hutchinson intact.”
“And just how did Goodwin get patched up?” Cramer demanded. “Gunshot wounds have to be reported.”
“You and I can discuss this later, Mr. Cramer. There’s more to tell about X and Y. Needless to say, neither of them was happy about the debacle in Central Park that made so many headlines, upset our civic leaders, and gave fodder to newspaper editorial writers.”
“One more thing,” Cramer said. “How do we know that either Panzer here or Durkin didn’t fire the shot that killed McManus?”
“It is true that both were armed, but neither of them ever fired his weapon,” Wolfe said. “You can put them on the witness stand or give them lie-detector tests.”
Cramer looked unconvinced. “You claim McManus told no one else about the plan to kill Goodwin. What about the one you insist on calling Y?”
“Y did not know that killing Mr. Goodwin was part of the plan and was angered by everything that happened in the park. Y later confronted X and a struggle broke out in which X was killed.”
“Okay, it’s time to put names with these letters,” Cramer said. “Or do you even know the names?”
“I do, sir. X, as you may have surmised, was Alan Marx, the man who was found dead recently in his Upper East Side residence, having been bludgeoned with a fireplace poker.”
Cramer nodded. “The brother of Simeon Marx, who strangled that dancer and who you helped send to the chair.”
“The selfsame. He detested me, and by extension, Mr. Goodwin. I am sure, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Alan Marx was the voice at the other end of the doomsaying telephone calls we received, and was responsible for the shots fired at Mr. Goodwin out on Thirty-Fifth Street and into our front-room windows. I also think it likely that Mr. McManus was the gunman in both of those cases. Of course, now we will never know.”
“So that leaves the one you call ‘Y.’”
“Yes, Inspector. He is in this room,” Wolfe said, fixing his gaze on Douglas Hutchinson as Purley Stebbins moved behind him.
Doug spun around, feeling Stebbins’s strong hand once again on his shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about, fat man?” he blurted. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Of all the Hutchinsons, you are the one most in need of money,” Wolfe said, “and your youngest sister presently has the most readily available capital of any of your siblings. She looked to be easy pickings for you and your longtime friend Miss Peters here.”
“My God, this is preposterous!” Parkhurst Hutchinson barked, bounding to his feet and turning toward his son. “Tell me that Nero Wolfe is out of his mind, dammit. Tell me!”
Stone-faced, Doug looked up at his father, saying nothing. Sweat broke out on his brow, and any resistance seemed to have left him.
“Douglas Hutchinson, appalled by the violence in Central Park and irate because of his failure to get the seventy-five thousand dollars, went to Marx’s home in a rage,” Wolfe said, oblivious to the emotions that roiled all around him. “A struggle ensued in the otherwise empty residence, and Alan Marx fell dead from an injury to his skull. Only young Mr. Hutchinson knows precisely what occurred and who initiated the fracas. I leave it to others to make that determination.”
The room had become an emotional shambles. Various Hutchinsons embraced one another, and several were in tears. Kathleen hugged Cordelia, and Tom wrapped his arms around his mother, who sobbed into his chest.
All the bluster had gone out of Parkhurst, who sat slumped in his chair, staring at the floor. Marlene Peters had apparently become a pariah, as she was ignored.
Purley Stebbins led Doug out of the room while Cramer paused at the big desk, looking down at Wolfe. “We still have things to discuss,” he said. “But they can wait—at least until tomorrow.” As he walked out, I followed him down the hall in my sometime role as butler. I held the front door open for him, but got neither a look nor any thanks—not that I expected either.
When I got back to the office, Parkhurst Hutchinson sat in the red leather chair recently occupied by Cordelia and leaned forward, speaking in a low voice. “I can pay you the balance right now if you like,” he said.
“That is not necessary. Mr. Goodwin will send you a bill.”
“Mr. Wolfe, you warned me when I hired you that you might find things that were distasteful, unpleasant, and embarrassing to me and my family. I remember your precise wording. You were certainly correct about that.”
“It gives me no satisfaction to be proven right,” Wolfe said.
“I have been too hard on Doug these last few years,” Hutchinson said, still keeping his voice low. “I blame myself for all that has happened, and I will spend whatever it takes to get the finest legal minds in this city to defend my son.”
“Your son must shoulder some of the blame himself,” Wolfe observed. “He is an intelligent adult and is possessed, as we all are, of fre
e will.”
Those words offered no solace to Parkhurst Hutchinson, who turned toward his wife. She was standing, surrounded by her three daughters and her eldest son, who together formed a protective cocoon around her. They made an opening in that cocoon for their father, who joined them in encircling and consoling a grieving woman.
I looked around for Marlene Peters, but she must have slipped out when I was eavesdropping on the conversation between Wolfe and Parkhurst Hutchinson. She was now probably walking along Thirty-Fifth Street, alone with her thoughts of what might have been.
Chapter 27
The next morning, true to form, Inspector Cramer arrived at the brownstone shortly after eleven. After getting the okay from Wolfe, I let him in. My smile was met with a grim nod as he walked by me toward the office. After settling into the red chair and pulling out an unlit cigar, the inspector looked at Wolfe and shook his head. “I don’t know whether to thank you or tell you to go to hell,” he said.
“Indeed a quandary,” Wolfe replied. “I’m afraid I am not in a position to counsel you. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, perhaps? Beer?”
Cramer waved the offer away with his stogie. “The Hutchinson kid—hell, he’s hardly a kid, is he?—spilled his guts at the station this morning without much prompting. His father got him a lawyer—a damned good one, too, one of the best in town—but young Hutchinson wouldn’t listen to the mouthpiece’s advice. He babbled like a magpie, and some of what he said might even be true.”
“I am surprised,” Wolfe said. “He seemed so truculent here that I supposed he would stubbornly deny everything.”
“No, he caved in, totally. I think he saw how devastated his young sister was last night when she learned of his betrayal of her, and he had no fight left in him, none at all.”
“Did he tell you how he and Alan Marx met?”
“Yes, he did. Say, that beer of yours looks good. If it’s not too much of an imposition, I wouldn’t mind some after all.”
Wolfe pushed the buzzer on the underside of his desk, using the long-short-long signal that indicated to Fritz that a guest wanted a beer.
Archie in the Crosshairs Page 18