Archie Meets Nero Wolfe

by Robert Goldsborough

  “That may well be, and I’ll try my best to allay that suspicion,” I told him as we went to the garage and climbed into the Pierce-Arrow, with me behind the wheel. “When you get out to the road, take a left,” Williamson said. The auto handled beautifully, nothing like my father’s rickety old truck.

  “I have told Tommie that he would be getting a new driver this afternoon,” his father said.

  “How did he take the news?”

  “Oh, he seemed fine with it. He’s a pretty stoic boy on the whole, and I don’t think he ever felt strongly one way or the other about Charles Bell.”

  “More important, how has he been since ... well, since he’s been back?”

  “Surprisingly good. His mother and I were terribly worried about the emotional damage that might have been done, but so far we’ve seen no signs whatever of any, shall we say ... scarring?”

  “Has he talked much about what happened?”

  “A little. He was blindfolded and bundled into that food purveyor’s truck—that phony food purveyor, I should say—and got taken someplace in New York City, he couldn’t tell for sure, probably the Bronx, given that’s where we were told to go with the money both nights. It was an upstairs flat, he said, second or third floor. He was carried up, so he couldn’t be sure. And all the window shades in the place were pulled down, so he was never able to see out.”

  “What about the kidnappers?”

  “There were two men,” Williamson said as he gave me directions to turn right onto a street that ran along some railroad tracks. “They both wore dark glasses the whole time that Tommie was without a blindfold. And to answer your next question, neither of them resembled anyone in my employ—and that includes the man you are replacing.”

  “Was Tommie treated well?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. He was well fed and never harmed in any way. He was given fresh pajamas, and his clothes were laundered. Turn left here, it’s just another block.”

  The MeadesGate Academy stood well back from the road, a respectable-looking two-story brick building with white shutters and a slate roof. Williamson directed me along a curving, finely graveled lane that wrapped around the structure to a parking lot in the back, where several other automobiles idled, all apparently waiting for students. Two of the vehicles, I noted, were Rolls-Royces, another an exotic-looking vehicle that I guessed had been made on the European continent. Among the other machines, I also spotted a Duesenberg, a Cadillac, two Packards, a Lincoln, and a Graham Paige phaeton.

  “You could hold a chauffeurs’ convention here every afternoon,” I observed.

  “Yes, and I would bet that several of them are armed.”

  “Count me as one,” I said, patting my left shoulder.

  Williamson shot me a look. “Is that really necessary?”

  “You don’t want a second surprise where your son is concerned, do you? After all, I am acting as a bodyguard as well as operating this fine machine.”

  He started to reply and then waved from the open window as the students, all boys and identically dressed in dark blazers, ties, shorts, and kneesocks, poured out of the school building. A blondish lad waved back, donning his cap and running toward the automobile.

  “Hi, Dad!” he said, hugging his father, who had climbed out of the vehicle.

  “Tommie, meet Mr. Goodwin. He will be driving you to and from the school for a while. Why don’t you ride up front with him?” Williamson said, sliding into the backseat.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Goodwin,” the boy said, holding out a hand. I pumped it.

  “Good to meet you, too, Tommie. Did your day go well?”

  “I guess so,” he said. “We had a fire drill, and everybody had to march outside in single file.”

  “I used to have those once in a while when I was in school.”

  “That must have been a long time ago.”

  “Tommie!” his father put in. “Mr. Goodwin isn’t all that old, you know.”

  I laughed. “Everything is relative. I was surprised when I learned that my own father wasn’t alive when Lincoln was president.”

  That drew a laugh from the boy, so we seemed to be off to a good start. Back at the mansion, Williamson hustled his son off to see Sylvia Moore, who as I learned went over his homework with him for at least an hour every afternoon.

  “Tommie likes you,” his father said. “But hear me, Goodwin, and hear me well: I do not want you questioning my son about what he has been through. I am sure one of the reasons Nero Wolfe wanted you here was to pry information out of him, but I will not have it, which I also told Wolfe. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, putting the car on the garage and going upstairs to unpack and get settled in.

  The chauffeur’s second-floor quarters were plenty spacious—a large bedroom with windows overlooking the expansive grounds in the back, and two watercolor paintings of snowcapped mountains; a sitting room even bigger than the bedroom with windows, a sofa, two chairs, more watercolors—these of waterfalls—and a slick mahogany floor-model radio that looked new; and a yellow-tiled bathroom with both a tub and a shower. I guessed there probably was more space here than any of the others on the staff had in their quarters upstairs in the mansion proper, which may have contributed to the hostility some members of the household felt toward the recently and suddenly departed Charles Bell. And to top it off, he had two telephones, one upstairs and the other in the garage, although in this case, both were on the same outside line.

  I gave the place the once-over, and not lightly. It seemed clean and dust-free, with nothing left that I could find to indicate that Bell had spent three years on the premises. Other than his uniforms, the closets and bureau drawers were cleaner than a surgeon’s scalpel just before an operation, and the bookcases in the sitting room likewise contained nothing except an empty ceramic vase and a tin ashtray that had been filched from a Chinese restaurant in Trenton, New Jersey. I hung up my suit, sport coat, and slacks, and filled three drawers with the rest of my clothes, including a stack of dress shirts.

  If I had to spend time out here in the distant provinces, at least I had nothing to complain about regarding the quality of the room and board. I contemplated taking an exploratory stroll around the property but quickly scotched the plan, which would have been interpreted—quite correctly—as detective-style snooping by a staff already suspicious of the reason for my presence in their midst.

  I lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling, considering the situation. I was expected to be alert but not overly inquisitive when in the presence of other members of the staff, friendly with Tommie but not openly curious about his recent ordeal, and respectful toward the Williamsons without being a toady.

  Okay, I could handle these challenges. But whether my stay in this palatial retreat would result in any concrete accomplishments in the eyes of Nero Wolfe was quite another matter.

  CHAPTER 16

  At dinner that evening, conversation once again was at a minimum. The butler, Waverly, led us in a prayer of thanks that Tommie had been returned safely to his parents. Sylvia Moore volunteered that the boy seemed to be his old cheerful self during their late afternoon homework session. Emily Stratton added that Mrs. Williamson “has the color back in her cheeks and has regained her strength. I feared for our lady’s health. That dear one is none too strong to begin with, as all of you know,” she pronounced gravely. I wanted to question that last statement, given that Mrs. Williamson was an accomplished rider who seemed to be very fit, but I held my tongue.

  The dinner contingent was smaller than at lunch, what with Carstens and Simons having gone to their homes. Mary Trent, the young maid, said nothing during the meal, mostly nodding at the brief pronouncements of the others. And Mrs. Price, whose pot roast was excellent, seemed reserved, perhaps because no one complimented her cooking, although they all cleaned their plates. I got no questions about my first day on the job and I volunteered nothing.

  Back in my comfortable quarters
, I telephoned Nero Wolfe at nine o’clock, our prearranged time. “There is not a great deal to report,” I told him, “although I am slowly, make that very slowly, getting to know the closemouthed staff of this stately establishment. You will not be surprised to learn that I am viewed with a healthy dose of suspicion. I also met Tommie today. I think we are going to hit it off, although I’ll take it slowly. Williamson has warned me not to quiz the boy about the details of his captivity.”

  “Nonetheless, I suspect that in the days ahead, you may very well learn some specifics of that event from him.”

  “Such is my plan. Do you have any further instructions?”

  “Continue to proceed with restraint. Haste is the tool of the fool.”

  “That’s very good. Who said it?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh. Well, I will by all means avoid haste, and will telephone you at the same time tomorrow. Don’t be surprised if my report is short again. Is anything going on with the investigation at that end?”

  “No, unless Saul and the others have made a discovery this evening that I am not yet aware of. Good night.”

  Thursday morning, I got down to the kitchen before any of the others and had coffee with Mrs. Price. “My, but you are the early bird,” she said. “We usually eat around eight. If you’d like, I can fix you some eggs. I’m always here by six thirty myself.”

  “I don’t want to upset your routine. I’m just glad to have this excellent coffee.”

  “You are not upsetting my routine the least bit, laddie. I’m happy to have someone here who appreciates my efforts. I noticed how much you put away at lunch and dinner yesterday.”

  “I guess I’m just a growing boy.”

  “Well, I’ll get the bacon and scrambled eggs started for the others, and you’ll have the first serving, before the rest of them even arrive, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks. Did my predecessor have a good appetite?”

  “Mr. Bell? Oh, it was all right, I suppose,” she said without enthusiasm.

  “Do I take it that you weren’t fond of him?”

  Mrs. Price shrugged. “I don’t mean to speak harshly now that he’s left, but he was a strange fellow who seemed to look down on the rest of us as though he didn’t really belong in service. To me, service is a fine calling, something that one should always be proud of.”

  “Any thoughts on where he’s gone?”

  “No, although I don’t like the thoughts I’m thinking.”

  “Oh?”

  She seemed to be struggling with herself over whether to say more. She turned her back to me and leaned over the stove, working.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy. It’s a bad habit of mine.”

  “Don’t you worry any, laddie,” she said, turning back and putting a chubby hand on my shoulder. “You weren’t being nosy, just curious, which is perfectly natural, given that you’ve taken the man’s place. It’s just hard for me to say what has been on my mind.”

  “I won’t ask.”

  “But maybe it will help me to get it off my chest,” she said, putting a plate of bacon and eggs down at my place and sitting down at the table across from me. “I cannot help but think that somehow, Charles was ... was involved with what happened to dear little Tommie.” She put her head down and looked at her hands in her lap. “I know that sounds like a terrible thing to say, but why would he run away like that, Mr. ...

  “Archie, just Archie.”

  “Why would he run away, Archie? He was not what I would call an overly friendly individual, but it seemed to me that the man was more or less satisfied with his position here.”

  “Do you think that perhaps he felt that others on the staff had the same suspicion you do?”

  She wrung her hands. “All I can say is that when that poor boy was missing, everyone was on edge, nervous and cranky and snapping at one another, and it’s possible some of them might have looked at Charles funny. I hope I didn’t. I do remember that the second day Tommie was gone, he—Charles, that is—got very angry at Mr. Simons, saying something like ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking, damn it. I can read your mind!’”

  “Had Simons said something to Bell?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure about that, and—” She stopped in midsentence as Waverly stepped into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Price; good morning, Mr. Goodwin,” the butler said. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Not at all,” I replied with a grin. “In fact, I was just complimenting Mrs. Price on her scrambled eggs. Best I’ve ever had.”

  “I always use extra butter and freshly ground pepper,” she said. “That’s really what sets them apart.”

  “Well, I look forward to having them again many times,” I told her, rising. “Now I’m off to get the Pierce-Arrow ready for Tommie’s trip to school.” I could feel Waverly’s eyes on me as I went out.

  I had the automobile ready just outside the garage when Tommie came running over with his schoolbooks. I held the front passenger open for him, but he said, “I always sit in the backseat.”

  “But wouldn’t you rather be up here?”

  He bit his lip and looked uncertain. “I’m supposed to sit in the back.”

  “When we picked you up from school yesterday, your father had you sit up front with me.”

  “I guess that was special,” he said.

  “Maybe it was, although I have an idea. What if you climb into the backseat now in case anyone’s watching, then we’ll drive a block down the road and stop so you can move up front.”

  “I’d like that!”

  So it was that Tommie rode beside me as we headed for the school. “Do any of your classmates ride in the front seat?” I asked him.

  “Only Billy Reynolds. They’ve got a swell Duesenberg.”

  “If you want, I can stop down the road from the school and you can get into the back again.”

  “No, I want to stay up here. They don’t care at the school. Where do you come from, Mr. Goodwin?”

  “Call me Archie, everybody else does. I grew up in Ohio. Do you know where that is?”

  “We study the different states in our geography class. I remember that in Ohio, Toledo makes glass, Cleveland makes steel, Akron makes tires, and Cincinnati makes soap.”

  “You know a lot more about my state than I do. I come from way down in the southern end near the Ohio River, a small town. The only one of those cities I’ve ever been in is Cleveland, and the only reason I went up there was to get the train when I came to New York.”

  “I’d like to ride a train sometime.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Did you ever play football ... Archie?”

  “Yeah, in high school. I was a halfback, and I even scored a touchdown once, against Portsmouth, our big rivals. Closest I ever came to being a hero. Do you play football at MeadesGate, Tommie?”

  “No, only the older boys do. The school has a team that plays against some other schools. But I did get a football for my birthday.”

  “Do you play catch with it?”

  “Sometimes with my dad, but not very often. He’s at work an awful lot of the time, or traveling around to his hotels. He’s been everywhere in the world.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Day after tomorrow is Saturday. If you don’t have a lot of homework to do, we could toss the football around in the yard.”

  “That would be fun. I’m all caught up on my homework, and besides, I think Miss Moore is going away for the weekend.”

  “It’s a deal then. We’ll throw the pigskin to each other.”

  Tommie wrinkled his nose. “The football is a pig’s skin?”

  “Not anymore. At one time, so the story goes, that’s what the balls were made of, though.”

  “I am really glad they quit doing that,” he said as we drove into the schoolyard and he hopped out of the car, running to join his classmates as they filed into the building under the watchful eyes of several teachers.<
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  Saturday at nine, Tommie and I were out on the expansive back lawn of the Williamson estate throwing the football back and forth in the warm morning sunshine. He was better than I would have thought, given his slight frame. He caught almost all my wobbly passes and threw with surprising strength.

  “Hey, you’re really good at this,” I told him. “Are you sure you haven’t been practicing more than you told me?”

  “Uh-uh. Like I said, my dad’s pretty busy, and Mr. Bell never seemed like he was interested in sports. I even asked him once if he wanted to play catch with a baseball, and he said no, he didn’t do things like that.”

  “Too bad for him, poor fellow. He’s missed a lot of fun. What we’re doing is good exercise, although my arm is going to feel it tomorrow. It’s been a long time since I’ve flung a football around.”

  “But we can do it again, can’t we?”

  “Of course we can,” I said. “And we can practice punting the ball, too. There’s plenty of space here.”

  Just then, Lillian Williamson and Mark Simons came into sight, riding horses at a leisurely pace along the bridle path. “Hi, boys!” she said with a wave.

  “Hi, Mom. Watch this pass,” Tommie said, sending a perfect spiral in my direction, which I managed to catch on my fingertips.

  “Nice,” his mother said, grinning. “Don’t wear Mr. Goodwin out now. We need him to drive your dad and me into the city tomorrow.”

  “Let’s take a little breather,” I said. We went up onto the terrace, and as we were sitting down, Mrs. Price came up from the kitchen with a pitcher and two glasses. “I saw the two of you playing ball, and I thought you could use some cold lemonade,” she said. “It’s very warm for October today.”

  “Thank you!” we said in unison as I pulled out a handkerchief and took a swipe at my damp brow. “This is living,” I told Tommie, stretching my legs out and pouring lemonade into our glasses.

  “Yeah! So next time, we can do kicking, okay? I’m not very good at that.”

  “You will get better with practice. It just takes time.”

  He smiled as he drank his lemonade, then his expression turned serious. “Did you know that I got kidnapped?”