Archie Meets Nero Wolfe

by Robert Goldsborough

  CHAPTER 18

  Sunday morning, I was up and dressed even before the early-rising Mrs. Price. The newspapers got delivered at the front door of the house before daybreak, and I scooped them up at a few minutes after six. I sat on the brick steps and went through the Times first, page by page. There wasn’t a word about Bell’s death. Next I tackled the Herald-Tribune with the same result. That left the Daily News, which the Williamsons got for the household staff and which did a better job of covering crime news than the two silk-stocking newspapers. On page 22, down at the bottom, I spotted a brief piece with a one-column headline reading MAN SLAIN IN BRONX GANGWAY.

  The details were sparse, describing “the body of an unidentified man who appeared to be in his thirties” having been found in the Bronx gangway by a passerby late Friday night. The article went on to say that he had been shot three times according to police and that “neighbors did not report hearing gunshots, suggesting that a silencer may have been used in the killing.” The item ended, as so many of this sort did, with “police are conducting a thorough search for the perpetrator and also are seeking the identity of the dead man.”

  I placed the Times and the Herald-Tribune on the table in the entry hall and took the Daily News down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Price had now started breakfast. “My goodness, you’re up early again today,” she said, turning from the stove, where she was scrambling eggs.

  “The early bird ... you know.”

  “I know, ‘gets the worm.’ Well, instead of a worm, how about bacon and eggs? And the coffee’s ready.”

  “My, but you are cheerful this morning,” I told her.

  “And why not? The sun is shining, the birds are singing, Master Tommie is back with us, and the meat purveyor is coming with a shipment of beef today, including filets, the kind of steaks that Mr. W. loves, medium rare. The Depression hasn’t hit this house, at least not yet.”

  “Is any of that beef for us, or does it all get consumed upstairs?”

  “Well, some of it is for us, Mr. Archie Goodwin,” she said, shaking a finger at me in mock scolding. “The mister and missus have always wanted the staff to be well fed, and Lord knows, I try my humble best to make sure that happens.”

  “And based on these last few days, you certainly succeed, Mrs. Price.”

  “Well, I am so glad to hear you say that,” she responded. “Not everyone is as gracious—or as grateful—as you are. Now you start eating, mind you, while the bacon and eggs are still hot.”

  “Oh, and before I begin, here’s today’s Daily News,” I said, putting the tabloid newspaper on the table.

  “Ah, doing my work now, are you?” she said with a chuckle. “I usually bring in the morning papers. What did you do with the other two?”

  “Put them on the round table upstairs in the foyer.”

  She clapped her hands in approval. “That is exactly what I do. The mister, he likes to read his Times and his Tribune with breakfast in the dining room before he takes the train to work.”

  The others began filing into the kitchen. First Waverly, then Emily Stratton and Mary Trent, and finally, Carstens and Simons. The latter two, although they lived off the estate, took breakfast at the Williamsons’ on weekdays because, as Mrs. Price had proudly confided in me, “they get better meals here than at home. They probably would prefer to have dinner here, too, but they would have to explain the reason why to their wives.”

  Lloyd Carstens sat down and picked up the Daily News, paging through it as he drank coffee. “Hmm, guy got shot in the Bronx, no identification on the body. Police guessed he was in his thirties. Maybe that’s our vanishing Mr. Charles Bell,” he said with a sour chuckle.

  “There is nothing in any way humorous about that,” Emily Stratton huffed, glaring at him.

  “Aw, you wouldn’t know humor if it hit you over the head,” Carstens said, tossing the paper aside and beginning to eat.

  “Sadly, neither would you,” the housekeeper fired back.

  “That’s giving it to him, Emily!” Simons roared, clapping his hands. “He is just an old—”

  “Nobody asked you to chime in, Mr. Horse Breath,” Carstens jeered. “Stick to your manure-filled stables, that’s where you belong—knee-deep in dung.”

  “Please, gentlemen, please! Let us all show a modicum of civility at this table,” Waverly implored. “Everyone has been on edge ever since little Tommie got taken away from us, but he is home safe now. We should be giving thanks for that, not snapping at one another.”

  “That’s not why we’re on edge,” Carstens whined. “It’s him.” The gardener pointed a gnarled index finger at me. “He is a spy in our midst. He doesn’t know any more about being a chauffeur than I do. And I’d like to know what his credentials are as a bodyguard. He’s just a second-rate private detective.”

  “Mr. Williamson selected him for the position. That should end any discussion whatever of the matter,” the butler stated in clipped tones.

  “Hah! He may be almost a kid, but remember that he came here with those other shamuses,” Carstens persisted. “What does that tell you? He’s here giving us all the once-over.”

  “Mr. Williamson hired me to be a bodyguard for Tommie, taking him to and from school, at least for the time being,” I said. “And because Mr. Bell was gone, I combined that task with the job as chauffeur, also for the time being.”

  “Well, the chauffeuring part just might be permanent now, if that body in the Daily News story turns out to be Bell,” Carstens said with a smirk.

  “Really!” It was Emily Stratton again. “I find you most offensive.”

  “You are not alone in that opinion,” Simons said. “Besides, people get bumped off in New York every day of the week. Why Carstens thinks this particular stiff happens to be Bell is beyond me.”

  “Maybe Mr. Carstens is right about one thing, though—that I’m the real reason for the tension here during meals,” I said. “From now on, I will eat at different times from the rest of you.”

  “No, you will not!” Mrs. Price snapped, getting to her feet. “Don’t forget that this is my kitchen, and I decide, along with Mr. Waverly, who eats here and who does not. Do you have any objection to Mr. Goodwin dining with the rest of us?” she asked the butler, hands on broad hips and chin jutting out as if daring contradiction.

  “None whatever, Mrs. Price,” he said stiffly. “The matter is settled.”

  “I think that Mr. Goodwin is very nice,” Mary Trent said softly. Those few words, the only ones she spoke at breakfast, seemed to at least temporarily defuse the situation, and everyone spent the rest of the meal in silence, attacking their food but not each other—or me.

  When we left for school that morning, Tommie Williamson immediately hopped in beside me, clearly not caring whether his parents saw him riding up front. “Can we kick the football around after school today?” he asked before we had even left the grounds of the estate.

  “What about your homework?”

  “I usually don’t have much of it on Mondays,” Tommie said quickly, expecting the question. “Besides, Miss Moore is still away until tomorrow.”

  “So you don’t do homework when she is not here, is that it?”

  “No, I always do it anyway, but when she’s here, she helps me. I don’t always need her help, but I let her think that I do. It makes her feel good.”

  “How much time do you spend on homework every day?”

  “About an hour.”

  “I’ll tell you what. When you get home this afternoon, do your homework for an hour, and we’ll still have time for the football before dinner. It still will be light enough. But you have to get your mother’s permission, because I don’t want to get into trouble with her. Does that sound okay?”

  “Yeah, it does, Archie,” he said with a grin.

  “Speaking of Miss Moore, are you looking forward to her coming back?”

  “I guess so. She’s pretty nice, except sometimes now she gets real sad, like she’s going to sta
rt crying. I feel bad for her, but I don’t know what to say.”

  “Do you have any idea what makes her sad?”

  “I know her mother has been sick, maybe that’s why.”

  “Yes, that could be the answer. Has she always been sad?”

  “No, just maybe the last, I don’t know, maybe a month or two.”

  “Well, I believe you are the type who can cheer her up,” I said. “I’m sure she was terribly worried when you were gone.”

  “She really did cry when I came back, and she hugged me until I thought I couldn’t breathe.”

  “That shows how much she cares about you. I’m sure the others on the staff feel just the same way.”

  He shrugged, looking out of the window. “I don’t think Mr. Simons likes me very much. I like to go in and look at the horses in the stable sometimes, but he always looks angry when I’m there.”

  “It’s possible that he’s just trying to protect you. Horses can be pretty mean sometimes, I know. When I was about ten, I got kicked by a horse at my uncle’s farm in Ohio, and all I was trying to do was pet him.”

  “Gee, did you get hurt?”

  “My pride did, but I also ended up with a bruised shin that turned black and blue. I walked with a limp for two weeks. Anyway, perhaps Mr. Simons is worried about something of that sort happening to you.”

  “I still don’t think he likes me.”

  “What about Mr. Carstens?”

  “He doesn’t talk much, but I can tell he’s worried whenever I’m outside playing that I’ll step on his flowers. I was flying a kite in the backyard in the spring, and he got angry because the kite fell into a bed of yellow tulips. And it didn’t even hurt a single one of them.”

  “Do you and Miss Stratton get along well?”

  “Uh-huh, she’s okay I guess, but kinda bossy. She orders Mary around a lot, and I think she would try to order Mrs. Price around, too, if she thought she could get away with it,” Tommie said with a chuckle.

  “Do you like Mrs. Price?”

  “I do. She’s always making really good desserts, and for my last birthday, you should have seen the cake she baked. It was at least this high”—he held his hands about six inches apart—“and she made a picture of a train on top out of different-colored frosting. She knows that I like trains.”

  “And she also knows you like cake?”

  “And pies, and cookies.”

  “How about Mary—is she nice?”

  He nodded. “She plays games with me when Miss Moore is away, like now. Last night, we played a card game she taught me called ‘old maid.’ It was a lot of fun, except I think she let me win.”

  “It could be that you’re just a good card player.”

  “Maybe, except I still think she could have beaten me last night. Funny thing, when we were playing up in my room, Mr. Waverly came up about four different times to see how we were doing.”

  “Perhaps he wanted to play the game with you, too.”

  “I don’t think that Mr. Waverly plays games. He seems too serious. He doesn’t smile very much.”

  “Does he get cross?”

  “No, he has a very soft voice, and he talks different because he’s English, but I think it sounds nice. He always calls me Master Tommie.”

  “I think English people tend to be very formal,” I told him as we pulled into the well-manicured grounds of the MeadesGate Academy, and Tommie hopped out of the car to join his classmates who were filing into the building.

  When I got back to the Williamson estate, I eased the Pierce-Arrow into the garage and had just started up the steps to my quarters when I heard my name being spoken in a voice just above a whisper. It was Mary Trent, who slipped in through the open overhead door and looked around as if she were being followed.

  “Mr. Goodwin, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to you. Can we go up to your rooms?”

  “I really don’t think that’s a very good idea, Miss Trent.”

  “I’m not a child, you know. I am probably just about your age.”

  “I was not suggesting you are a child. But we can talk down here, with the automobiles for company. I’ve got a small desk over in the corner, and a guest chair, too.”

  “I would rather be somewhere more private,” she said as if afraid she would be overheard.

  “Let’s make this more private then,” I told her, lowering the garage door. “Now, sit down and tell me what it is you want to talk about.”

  She parked herself uneasily on the edge of the straight-backed chair and fixed large brown eyes on me. She was not at all hard to look at. “I am sorry you were spoken to so rudely at the breakfast table, Mr. Goodwin.”

  “That didn’t bother me. And please call me Archie.”

  “I will, if you call me Mary.”

  “It’s a deal. Anything else you’d like to say?”

  “Are you really a detective?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “There are things you and your colleagues should be aware of,” she said, clasping her small hands in her lap.

  “Go on.”

  “For one thing, Miss Stratton and Mr. Carstens are really very good friends.”

  “It certainly did not seem that way at breakfast.”

  “They were putting on an act, Mr.—Archie. I believe it has something to do with Tommie’s kidnapping.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded primly. “I try not to eavesdrop, but sometimes I hear things because I go about my work quietly. The day after Tommie came home, I heard part of a conversation between the two of them. I was dusting in the dining room, and Mr. Carstens had come into the parlor. He almost never enters the house, but it was clear to me that he was looking for Miss Stratton.

  “‘What are you doing here?’ she said to him in a sharp voice, and he answered ‘We have to be careful, really careful now. I’m worried about Charles having—’ At that point, Archie, Mr. Carstens quit talking and came through the doorway into the dining room. I ducked behind a tall Chinese screen that shields the serving staff from the diners. I know he did not see me, and I heard him say to Miss Stratton, ‘I just wanted to be sure that no one was around.’ Then they went off to somewhere else, I suppose to finish their conversation.”

  “Uh-huh. And what do you think that conversation was about?”

  “Well, I know this is a terrible thing to say about the people I work with, but I think they might have, well ...

  “Might have what?”

  “Might have ... had something to do with the kidnapping,” she murmured.

  “Then what do you think Carstens was going to say about Charles Bell when he stopped talking in midsentence?”

  “I believe he was starting to tell Miss Stratton that he was worried Charles found out about the plot to take Tommie.”

  “So you believe this whole business started inside the house?”

  “Don’t you?” she answered.

  “Well, I seem to remember you telling one of the other detectives that you did not recognize the voice of the man who telephoned Miss Moore, bringing her indoors and away from Tommie.”

  “That is correct, I didn’t.”

  “Well, if it was an inside job, the caller had to be one of four men—Waverly, Bell, Carstens, or Simons.”

  She shook her head. “It did not sound like any of them, Archie.”

  “Bear in mind the caller could have disguised his voice—in fact would have—if he were on the household staff. It also could have been a woman disguising her voice to sound like a man. Now think about it hard, Mary, and see if you can remember that voice.”

  “It’s no good,” she stated with conviction. “I don’t believe it was any of them. I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. All that proves is that one or more of the people here may have worked with someone on the outside, as seems likely.”

  “I wish I could have been more helpful,” she said as she got up. “I’d better get back, or they—Miss Stra
tton, that is—will wonder where I am. Thank you for taking the time to listen to me ... Archie.” She went up on tiptoes and kissed me firmly on the lips. I started to push her away, but then kissed her back, quickly wishing I hadn’t.

  “I think we have both been wanting to do that for the last few days,” she said in a husky tone, and before I could answer one way or the other, she turned and went out through the small door next to the big garage doors.

  I cursed myself silently and ran a handkerchief across my face to get rid of the lipstick that I was sure she had left as her mark.

  The rest of the day was uneventful until I picked up Burke Williamson early that evening at the little commuter rail station. When I took this job, one of the things that surprised me was that this man, one of New York’s wealthiest, rode the old Long Island Railroad to and from work most days, alongside the great masses of salesmen, secretaries, stockbrokers, store clerks, and myriad others who toiled in Manhattan’s concrete-and-steel canyons.

  As if to answer my unspoken question, he had told me earlier that “thousands of ordinary folks of all types stay in my hotels every week, and I want to spend time around these people, feel their energy, observe them, and talk to them, get to know a little bit about them, at least twice a day on these trains. It makes me feel connected to my clientele.”

  Williamson did not seem connected to any of his fellow commuters that evening as he got off the train and stormed over to the waiting car, face frowning and red, with arms churning like pistons at his sides. This appeared to be one angry man.

  “Goodwin, we are going to see Nero Wolfe tonight!” he growled as he dropped into the backseat and slammed his briefcase down next to him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “After dinner. I would drive myself, but my night vision is not good. It was bad enough going into the Bronx those two nights when Tommie was missing, but then I had no choice. Now I do. I got a telephone call at the office today from Inspector Cramer of the Police Department, who informed me that Charles Bell was found shot to death last Friday night in the Bronx.”

  “Bell, dead ... killed?” I said in a shocked tone, doing my best to feign both ignorance and surprise.