“Oh, I think so. See right there?” he said as he held the flashlight steady.
“To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”
“A loose bolt, that’s what. Nothing that would likely have caused an accident, but still, it needs to be tightened up or you’d have to live with the rattling, which would have gotten a lot worse when the bolt finally fell off.”
“I’ll bet you’ve looked at the underbellies of a lot of automobiles in your time.”
“Enough,” Purcell said with a scowl. “This is not how I figured I would end up, but it’s the hand that I’ve been dealt. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, have I? I noticed you’ve got New York plates, something of a rarity in these parts.”
“I’m visiting family in town. I grew up here a long time ago.”
“I think that I’ve been here too long myself,” the banker-turned-mechanic said.
“Well, you seem to know your way around cars, so mark me down as impressed. I know enough to turn the key in the ignition, and that’s about the extent of it.”
Purcell snorted as he stood under the convertible and tightened the errant bolt with a wrench. “It’s a good thing I do, because my previous career crashed and burned, in a way.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not half as sorry as I am,” Purcell said bitterly, shaking his head.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what was your previous career?”
“No, I don’t mind your asking. Everybody in town knows all about it. I had been in banking since I got out of school—that’s right, an auto mechanic with an actual college degree—two degrees, in fact. Anyway, I had worked my way up in a couple of banks around the state and felt like I had gotten to know the business pretty well. So . . . I got the bright idea to open my own bank, and right here.”
“And why not, since you had already gotten experience in the world of finance?”
“I found out why not,” Purcell said as he hit the switch that lowered the convertible gently to the garage floor. “Somebody didn’t like having competition and made damned sure that I failed.”
“Sounds to me like there was some dirty business involved.”
“You could call it that. I found out just how easy it is to start a rumor, or maybe calling what happened a whispering campaign is more accurate.”
“So I’m to take from your experience that not all bankers are upright pillars of the community?”
That brought a mirthless laugh from Purcell. “That is a fair statement, Mr. . . ?”
“Goodwin, Archie Goodwin.”
“Well, Mr. Goodwin, there was a man here who had a bank that he had owned and run for many years. It had been the only bank in town for decades, and he was determined to keep it that way.”
“Had anyone else tried to open another bank here before?”
“Not that I am aware of, at least not in recent times, certainly not since the Depression. This area has experienced at least modest population growth in the last few years, and there is certainly room for more than a single bank now.”
“But one individual doesn’t think so?”
“Didn’t think so. That individual, Logan Mulgrew by name, is dead. If I told you I was sorry about that, I would be lying.”
“Oh yeah, Mulgrew. I heard that he killed himself, didn’t he?”
“Uh . . . so I’ve also heard. Say, your name is Goodwin, right?”
“It is.”
“If I remember right, a woman by that name opened an account in my bank.”
“You remember right. That would be my mother, who lives in a farmhouse out on the Portsmouth Road. I’m here visiting her.”
“Well, please thank her for me, will you? I wish there had been more people like her. I believe she did get her money back when we had to close our doors, didn’t she?”
“That’s my understanding. Just how did this Mulgrew put you out of business?”
“The rumor mill and the power of suggestion are both alive and well in this town, Mr. Goodwin,” Purcell said. “And Logan Mulgrew knew just how to manipulate them. Oh, he was subtle, at least in the beginning, when he pointed out in casual conversations to his customers and anyone else in hearing distance how well funded and insured his institution was.
“Then he began to send out inserts with his customers’ monthly statements that carried a headline reading ‘Bank Where Your Dollars Are Safe,’ along with text that specified how well protected money was at Farmer’s State Bank & Trust. Never mind that at my own bank, the money was just as safe and just as highly insured.”
“Nasty piece of business,” I remarked.
“Yeah, and it got nastier,” Purcell said as he pulled off his work gloves. “Mulgrew then started a whispering campaign to the effect that it was just a matter of time before my bank would close down. Many of those people who had opened accounts with me rushed in to withdraw their money.”
“Shades of the kind of runs on banks that were common back in the Depression,” I remarked.
“That’s exactly right, Mr. Goodwin. I managed to get everyone their dough, but I was wiped out, ruined, in the process. I had to sell my house, and my life fell apart. Oh hell, you don’t need to listen to this tale of woe. I leave that to my fellow drinkers in the bar where I hang out. We all cry on one another’s shoulders, for a variety of reasons.”
“Sounds like you have plenty of cause to beef. Why do you think Mulgrew killed himself?”
Purcell paused several beats before answering. “I really couldn’t say,” he replied with a finality that sent the clear message that our conversation was at an end.
When I asked how much I owed him, he said a sawbuck would cover it. I handed him the money and we shook hands briefly, then I drove off as he stood in the entrance to the bay, hands on hips and wearing a grim expression.
Chapter 12
“Well, were you able to see Charles Purcell?” my mother asked when I returned to the house.
“Yes, and he made the relatively small repair to the car, which it needed. He is a very bitter man.”
“He has much to be bitter about, Archie, as I told you. Did he talk about his problems?”
“He did, at some length, but he really clammed up when I asked if he had any idea why Mulgrew might have killed himself. Also, and you will be interested in this, I told him my name and he remembered that a Goodwin was among the people who opened accounts with his ill-fated bank.
“I said you were my mother, and he told me he hoped you’d gotten all your money back. I reassured him that you had.”
“It was very thoughtful of him to remember. I have heard—from Edna, of course—that Mr. Purcell spends a lot of time now in a local tavern.”
“He did make reference to that and said he and some of the other regulars commiserate about their problems. Not a very healthy way to go through life.”
“And he has no wife to go home to anymore. He can’t be a very cheerful presence in the home of his son and daughter-in-law. Now I will ask you the very same question that you posed to me soon after you arrived here: Do you think Charles Purcell might have killed Logan Mulgrew?”
“I wouldn’t reject the idea. I have a little more trouble, though, imagining him firing a shot through the window of Katie Padgett’s apartment. Somehow, he doesn’t seem like the type, although I can’t tell you why.”
“I would hate to think of him, or anyone else, for that matter, doing such a thing.”
Shifting gears, I asked: “Can you picture that dairy farmer, Harold Mapes, as a murderer?”
“Really, Archie, I don’t really even know the man. Oh, I did meet him twice or maybe three times, each time in our church. He and his wife attended for a while, and then they stopped coming, probably because of their embarrassment at having lost the farm and their inability to keep up
their financial pledge to the church. Mrs. Mapes, her name is Emily, seemed very nice, but is extremely reserved. My impression is that he does most of the talking for both of them.”
“Where is the farm they work as tenants?”
“On this very road, Archie, about six miles south of here. It’s a beautifully maintained place with a two-story white frame house with a bay window set in a grove of oak trees and two barns, both recently painted. Are you thinking of visiting Mr. Mapes?”
“The thought has occurred to me.”
“And just what do you hope to accomplish in such a visit?” asked my ever-practical mother.
“I am not sure. Nero Wolfe has said that when I have an itch, I need to scratch it.”
“And you have got an itch?”
I nodded.
“Would it do any good if I told you to be careful?”
“It might. Do you feel that Harold Mapes is the violent type?”
“Well, as you already know, he is certainly the angry type, at least as far as the subject of Logan Mulgrew is concerned.”
“With good reason. It seems fair to say that Mulgrew cost him his livelihood.”
“I have an idea, Archie.”
That got my attention. Whenever my mother used those words, I have an idea, when I was a kid, it usually meant that she was about to propose something that would pose a challenge for me, like spending more time on my homework or raking leaves or washing the car. “What is your idea?” I asked, having no clue as to where this was headed.
“As I mentioned, the Mapes couple attended our church sometime back and then stopped. We now have a program where we take a basket of fruit to those who have drifted away for whatever reason.”
“Ah, the laying on of a Christian guilt trip.”
“No, not at all, Archie. None of us who take these baskets ever say anything like ‘We would like to see you back in church again.’ Rather, we ask if there is anything at all we can do for them or anyone they would like us to pray for.”
“And how has that worked out?”
“A few whom we’ve called on have returned to Sunday services, at least on occasion, although that is not the main reason for our visits. We really want to be seen as a caring community.”
“Put me down as impressed, Mom. And as you well know, I am not a churchgoer.”
“I am very aware of that,” she replied with just a touch of resignation. “But back to my idea. I believe a basket of fruit is in order for the Mapes family, and you and I should be the ones to deliver it.”
“You want me to go along?”
“And why not? There is something particularly neighborly about a mother and her adult son calling upon some neighbors. And, if we are fortunate, both Mrs. Mapes and her husband will be present. It will give you the opportunity to size up the man in a nonthreatening situation.”
“Maybe they will beware of Greeks bearing gifts, as it were.”
“I don’t think so, and our basket of fruit can hardly be mistaken for a Trojan horse. But we won’t know until we’ve tried, will we?” my mother said with irrefutable logic.
“Point well taken. All right, I’m game for this approach. After all, I don’t have a better idea.”
Wanting to be as much help as I could, I drove my mother to a local grocery store, where she bought a variety of fruits—oranges, apples, peaches, pears, and two kinds of grapes. We then stopped at a dime store and bought a basket.
“You really didn’t have to drive me around, Archie. I am still quite capable behind the wheel,” my mother said after we had arrived at home and she began to assemble the fruit basket.
“Oh, I know that, but I felt I should do my part on this project,” I said. “When do you suggest we visit the Mapes family?”
“Tomorrow morning, about ten o’clock. In the past, that’s when I’ve been most successful at finding people home.”
Chapter 13
So it was that the next morning, my mother and I ventured forth on a mission with mixed goals: Christian fellowship and an ongoing death investigation. I drove south on the Portsmouth Road until my mother said, “It’s coming up on the left, Archie. There’s the grove of oak trees I mentioned.”
The farm buildings looked prosperous. The white house with green shutters and a bay window was set well back from the road, nestled in those trees, and two big red barns were flanked by smaller outbuildings.
I drove in on a blacktop drive neatly edged with bricks and pulled up close to the front entrance. We got out, my mother carrying the fruit basket, and before we could get to the bell, the door swung open.
A gray-haired woman of middle age looked over rimless glasses at us, her face a question mark.
“Hello, Mrs. Mapes, I am Marjorie Goodwin, from the Presbyterian church in town. You may not remember me.”
“Oh yes,” the woman said, slowly breaking into a dimpled smile. “Of course I remember; you were the very first person to greet us when we were at the church that first time, and you made us feel so welcome. Please do come in.”
“This is my son, Archie,” Mom said. “He just happened to be in town visiting me, and I asked him to come along.”
“I am happy to see you both,” our hostess said, gesturing us through an entrance hall and into a sun-filled living room with two large windows on its south wall and that bay window on the west. “Please sit down. Would you care for some coffee?”
We both said we would, and Mrs. Mapes left for the kitchen. She must have opened a back door, because I could hear her calling to the outside, “Harold, come on in, we have some guests.”
Before she returned with the coffee, a tall, lean man with white hair falling over one eye stepped in and looked at us with his own questioning expression. My mother explained who we were, and he nodded.
“Yeah, I do remember meeting you at the church. That was a while back,” he said, easing into a chair. “I believe Emily is bringing coffee. And I’m here to tell you that she makes good coffee,” he added, tugging at the collar of his blue work shirt.
“We hope you both have been well, and we’ve brought some fruit, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you may grow some of your own, at least apples,” my mother said, handing him the basket.
He took it gingerly just as Emily Mapes returned carrying a tray with four coffee cups. “There’s always a pot brewing here,” she said as she served each of us. “Harold can’t live without it, or so he tells me.”
“We’re happy to find you both at home and hope you are doing well,” my mother said.
“We are, Mrs. Goodwin, thank you,” Emily replied. “I am afraid I’m embarrassed to say that we haven’t been to church for some time now. Life on a farm can be very busy, and . . .”
“No need whatever to be embarrassed or to explain,” Mom said, waving away the spoken concern with a hand. “It’s just that we at the church have missed you and wanted you to have this little expression of our affection. Whenever you are able to come back, you would be most welcome.”
“Things here can get a little hectic sometimes,” Mapes said, directing his comment at me. “I don’t believe you’re from these parts, are you?”
“No, I live in New York and am visiting my mother for a few days. It’s nice to get away from the city sometimes.”
“By golly, it’s been at least a dozen years since I’ve been to New York, and that was only for a couple of days when I got mustered out of the Marines. I saw service in the Pacific during the war and got wounded at Okinawa, although not badly. It was pure hell on that island, though. Were you in the service?”
“Army,” I said. “I spent most of my time in Washington.”
“I would’ve gladly traded places with you,” Mapes said with a wry grin, “but I know that everybody had a part to play. Did you have to work in that big Pentagon building they built during the war?”
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“Only briefly, I’m happy to report. Say, I’m not a farmer, but I must tell you that I’m impressed with what I’ve seen of your spread.”
Mapes nodded curtly. “I’m happy to show you around, if you care to.”
“I’d like that, if the ladies will excuse us,” I said.
“You two go ahead,” Emily Mapes said. “It’s such a nice day to be outside. We will just stay in here and chat.”
I followed Mapes out through the kitchen to the back door. “None of my crew are here today,” he said as we stepped outside. “I milked the cows alone this morning, and I’ll do it again tonight, but that’s okay; it’s not all that hard now with milking machines. But they’ll be back tomorrow.”
“How many do you have working here?”
“Two, and the three of us are enough to handle everything except at harvest time, when I bring in some others,” he said as we walked out to one of the barns. “Just so that you know, I don’t own this farm, I wish I did. I work it as a tenant for a very rich man who lives out of town.”
“Maybe you can buy it from him sometime,” I suggested.
“Hah! That is not very damned likely,” he said. “Maybe you don’t know this, but I had a spread of my own at one time, and I lost it because of . . . well, I lost it.”
“Because of what? Or if you’d prefer not to say, I would understand.”
“No, I don’t care,” Mapes said, brushing back the errant shock of hair from his forehead. “Everybody around here knows about it anyway. I couldn’t keep up the payments on my own farm and . . . well, it got foreclosed on.”
“That had to be a bitter pill,” I said as we walked into a barn and Mapes leaned on a green-and-yellow tractor, rubbing a hand along the gleaming chassis as if caressing it.
“Bitter, yeah. I heard somebody say once that lawyers are the meanest people in the world. Well, Mr. Goodwin, they’re wrong; it’s bankers, those sons of bitches. Or at least one banker, who . . . oh, never mind. My wife says that I’ve become too damned sour.”
“It sounds to me like you have good reason.”
Archie Goes Home Page 7
