Archie Goes Home

by Robert Goldsborough

  “That would be Martin Chase, your crusading young editor, right?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Archie. Yes, the chief called him, and he was mad as hell. He said the Trumpet was behaving, and I quote, ‘like one of those big-city tabloids, the kind that you would find in New York or Chicago.’”

  “He does have a point there. Did he also indicate that he would begin a murder investigation, based on today’s issue?”

  “Marty asked him that question and was told that our coverage has done nothing whatever to change his mind.”

  “Is it too early to ask what kind of reaction the Trumpet is getting from its readers?”

  “No, Archie, and that’s really exciting. Marty figured there would be plenty of reaction, and he brought in two operators to run our small switchboard, starting at eight o’clock. They can’t keep up with the calls.”

  “Did he tell you how the pros and cons were running?”

  “Yes, I talked to him just before I called you, and he said people who didn’t approve of what we wrote were outnumbering the ones who liked it by about two to one.”

  “That must not make him very happy.”

  “On the contrary. Marty says it’s okay to get people angry as long as they talk about you. And right now, he says that we are the talk of the town.”

  “I am sure you are. But you may be the talk of the legal community, as well.”

  “Marty says it’s possible we might get sued by somebody who we’ve written about, but he claims that’s the risk one takes when one stakes out a strong position. Oh, and one other thing: People have been streaming into the office off the street buying copies of the paper at the front counter, several dozen folks so far. One woman bought four copies, another took three, and others took more than one. I’m told that has almost never happened before.”

  “Do you have any idea how the Trumpet’s owners feel about all this notoriety?”

  “I don’t, Archie. The editor, if you want to call him that, is Mr. Ferguson, who doesn’t do any editing. He’s really the publisher and owner, and he’s the one who okayed hiring Marty. I’ve heard that some of the other newsroom people who have to report to Marty think he’s too rash and impulsive. But I happen to think he’s just what the paper needs to be relevant.”

  “You could be right about that, but I happen to believe both Blankenship and your boss are wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Blankenship is wrong in believing Mulgrew’s death was a suicide, and the Trumpet is wrong in pushing for Carrie Yeager as his killer.”

  “Okay, then do you care to nominate a killer?”

  “I do not.”

  “Well, Archie, we will just have to see how it all plays out. I for one think this is incredibly energizing,” Katie said in a smug tone. “And after all, we did not use any names.”

  “You really didn’t have to,” I said. “The great majority of your readers will be able to recognize each of the so-called suspects by the way they were described. As I said earlier, I don’t claim to know anything about libel laws, but I will be surprised if somebody doesn’t sue the Trumpet over this story.”

  “Marty says that we and our lawyers will be ready for them,” Katie replied.

  I couldn’t think of a response to that, so I just told her that I had to take my mother shopping and we hung up.

  “I’m sorry to have been eavesdropping, Archie, but I don’t have to go shopping.”

  “I know you don’t, but I’d had enough of the girl reporter for now. This Mulgrew business is not going well.” I then repeated to her what I’d told Katie about both Blankenship and the Trumpet being on the wrong track.

  “So you believe Logan Mulgrew was murdered, and that the Yeager woman is not his killer?”

  “That’s it, Mom,” I said, leaning back and shaking my head. “But I can’t figure out who did the killing, and it scares the daylights out of me that Carrie Yeager might end up getting nailed for it.

  “Factor number one: Blankenship may be both earnest and honest; but brilliant he is not, and stubborn he is. He has claimed so often that Mulgrew killed himself that now he can’t bear to admit that he could be wrong. He doesn’t want to lose face.

  “Factor number two: This hotshot new editor of the Trumpet wants to be able to crack the case and claim some glory. And Katie, who’s also looking for some glory, has been pushing Carrie Yeager as the killer.”

  My mother sat at the dining room table with me and poured a fresh cup of coffee for each of us from the pot. “What makes you think Miss Yeager didn’t do the shooting, Archie?”

  “I can’t explain it, Mom. It’s just a feeling I’ve got. If Nero Wolfe were here, he would probably figure it all out like that,” I said, snapping my fingers. “But at the risk of stating the obvious, I am no Nero Wolfe, not by a country mile. Other than getting the chance to spend time with you, which has been delightful, I don’t know why I came down here. Well . . . yes I do. I was too damned full of myself, and when dear Aunt Edna laid out her suspicions about Mulgrew’s death, I thought I would just wade in and find the shooter within a day or two. Well, you now see the result of my pride . . .”

  “I’m glad you came, but I’m sorry that things have turned out this way. What do you plan to do now?”

  “I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll hang around for a couple more days, if only to see how this business plays out. If nothing else, it will be interesting to see the community’s reaction to the Trumpet coverage, which I gather so far from Aunt Edna and Katie has been mixed.”

  “Why would I mind, for heaven’s sake? This is the longest you’ve stayed here with me in years, and I happen to be enjoying it.”

  “Even though you’ve turned into a glorified telephone answerer for me?” My mother didn’t have time to respond, because, as if on cue, the instrument rang.

  “Hello? Oh yes, Chief, yes. That will be all right. And he does happen to be here now.”

  She hung up and turned to me. “As I’m sure you could tell, that was Chief Blankenship. He’s coming over, and he wanted to be sure you were around.”

  “That spells trouble of some sort. All right, I will gird myself and prepare for the worst.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang, and Mom admitted the police chief in his crisply pressed uniform. “Please come in,” she said. “I am just brewing a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Goodwin. I am sorry to intrude, but I felt this visit was necessary.” Blankenship sat on the living room sofa as directed, and my mother served him coffee as I walked in. “Good morning, Chief,” I said, taking a chair facing him.

  “I don’t happen to think this is such a good morning,” the policeman said, his square-jawed face locked in a grim expression. “I am sure you’ve had a chance to read the paper.”

  “We both have,” Mom said as she sat and eyed Blankenship. “What do you think?”

  “I think the coverage is a disgrace,” he said. “And I’m sorry to say this, Mrs. Goodwin, but I lay a large part of the blame on your son.”

  “Really? And just why is that, Chief Blankenship?”

  “He has been a bad influence on that young reporter. He’s been a real Svengali.”

  “As a onetime English teacher, I am glad to learn that you must have read Mr. du Maurier’s novel Trilby, but I can hardly see my son in the role of that controlling, manipulating fictional character you mentioned.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that. It seems that since Mr. Goodwin arrived in town, Katie Padgett has been energized to the point that she is determined to stir up trouble over the death of Logan Mulgrew.”

  “If I may put my two cents’ worth in,” I said, “you should know that I have had almost nothing to do with Miss Padgett’s reporting. She is now being spurred on by that new young editor at the Trumpet.”

  “That m
ay very well be,” Blankenship said, “but you also seem to have taken a great interest in Mr. Mulgrew’s death. I continue to believe your presence here is an unsettling factor. Now I know the limits of my authority, and I realize that I can’t force you to leave, but I really wish you would, for the overall good of the community.”

  “Chief Blankenship, I gather that you continue to believe Logan Mulgrew killed himself,” I said.

  “I do. And I gather that you continue to believe he was murdered. Do you have a suspect in mind?”

  “No, it could be one of several people.”

  “That is far from helpful, Mr. Goodwin. It would appear that the Trumpet would have us believe, although they did not use her name, that the caregiver is the most likely suspect. How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “All right. Tell me why you think Mulgrew was killed.”

  “By all accounts, the man seemed to be enjoying life, and there did not appear to be any indication that he was devastated by his wife’s death. Although I do not subscribe to the Trumpet’s somewhat breathless tabloid treatment of the Mulgrew story, it seems to me they did a fairly thorough job of suggesting people—and not just Miss Yeager—who had strong reasons to dislike the banker. It seems clear that you do not agree.”

  “No one has yet to show me a compelling case for murder. Or a compelling case for any one individual as the killer, for that matter,” Blankenship said, rising. “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Goodwin. I hope to continue seeing you around town, in less-tense circumstances.”

  It was obvious that, by “less-tense circumstances,” Blankenship meant with me no longer present in the community.

  Chapter 25

  “The chief seems to be under a great deal of strain,” my mother observed after Blankenship had left.

  “Without question. I think he is seriously beginning to doubt his contention about suicide.”

  “I believe that is the real reason that he came today, Archie, not to urge you to leave. He respects your opinion, and he was hoping you might have some definite idea about a murderer.”

  “If that was the case, I’m sorry to have disappointed him. If nothing else, I was firm in my rejection of Carrie Yeager as the killer. I’m good at saying who didn’t do the killing. I just can’t figure out who did. I’m no help to anybody.”

  “Now, Archie, that is not true, and you know it. Right now, you are the balance beam between a man who believes nobody killed Logan Mulgrew and a woman who is positive she knows who killed him.”

  “And what good does that do me? As I said before, I think I’ll just stay around for another day or two to see what the Trumpet has up its sleeve, and then head back to New York.”

  To get my mind off the case, I decided to drive around the area with the top down on the convertible. I invited my mother to come along, but she said she had lots of tasks around the house. Only later did I learn what was going on.

  My spin on that sunny June afternoon took me to as many of my old haunts as I could think of—or remember. Both my elementary school and high school looked pretty much like I remembered them, although each building seemed somehow smaller than when I had walked their halls. And I was sorry to see that the old minor league baseball park was gone, replaced by a one-story factory building that manufactured ball bearings, according to a sign out in front. I reminded myself to ask my mother if the town still had a team and, if so, where it played its games.

  The county park with its swimming pool and the pond where you could rent a rowboat was still there. My first date had been in one of those boats, and I remember impressing the girl with how skillfully I could handle the oars. What she didn’t know was that I had gone out alone twice to practice rowing. The last thing any teenage boy wants is to be embarrassed the first time he is with a girl. And I was damned if I was going to make a fool of myself in front of Eleanor Ann Cochran, who my friend Spud said was the prettiest girl in the high school. And I agreed.

  Years later when I told Lily Rowan that I had gone out with the most beautiful girl in my school, she replied, “Well, isn’t that nice. You have come a long way. Now you go out with the most beautiful woman in New York City.” She had me there; I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, deny it.

  The rest of my drive proved that, as somebody once wrote, you can’t go home again. Well, technically you can, but it is never the same.

  When I got back to the house in the late afternoon, I suggested to my mother that we revisit the local Italian restaurant and she agreed, not having begun preparations for dinner. I found her to be unusually reserved as we ate, which I attributed to the turmoil surrounding the Mulgrew case. My coming home had definitely been a mixed blessing for her.

  The next morning before breakfast, I paged through the Trumpet and was surprised at the lack of coverage of the Mulgrew business. Oh, there was a piece on page one by Katie that quoted “Our local newspaper seems determined to make a case for the murder of Logan Mulgrew where none exists. I have nothing further to say on the subject.” The only other mentions were two letters from readers, one pro, one con.

  “I am shocked that the Trumpet would lower itself to this sort of scandalmongering,” wrote Mrs. L. Williams, while Jonathan Schmidt commented, “I am delighted to see that your newspaper has tackled a serious issue.” Lon Cohen had told me once that it was important for a paper to follow up a big story on the second day with more information, “to keep the momentum going,” as he put it. The Trumpet seemed to lose momentum on day number two, for whatever reason.

  Mom still seemed distracted at breakfast, with little interest in the newspaper. I was tempted to ask what was troubling her, but thought better of it; I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

  Her mood continued throughout the day, even in the grocery store, where I drove her, and by midafternoon, she was looking out of the window every few minutes. Then at just after four, I saw something out of that same window that made me blink.

  A sedan pulled into the driveway, and not just any sedan. It was a royal blue Heron, and lest there be any confusion about its owner, the car carried the familiar black-numerals-on-orange-background license plates that marked it as being from the state of New York.

  I stepped outside in time to see the big car ease to a stop. The driver’s side door opened, and out stepped one Saul Panzer, all five feet seven of him, wearing the familiar flat cap and with a day-old beard on a face that was two-thirds nose. He nodded to me with a lopsided grin.

  If I thought that was a shock, and it was, there was a bigger one to come, both literally and figuratively. Like a good chauffeur, Saul held open the back door and out stepped none other than Nero Wolfe, clad in a three-piece suit with a yellow shirt and a brown-and-yellow tie. He wore a sour expression and carried an applewood walking stick.

  “Well, what are you gaping at?” he demanded, glaring in the same way he often does when I have said or done something he does not agree with.

  “For starters, I’m more than mildly surprised that you have chosen to grace the provinces with your presence. Dare I ask how the journey was?”

  He responded with something that sounded like a growl and said, “May we go inside? I would like to sit, for the first time in hours, in something that is not in motion.”

  “By all means, let’s go in,” I said as Saul, behind Wolfe, kept on grinning.

  “Hello, Mr. Wolfe,” my mother said as we stepped into the kitchen. She avoided my look and turned away. I was beginning to figure things out.

  “Mrs. Goodwin,” Wolfe said, bowing slightly. “Thank you in advance for your hospitality.”

  “I am happy to host you. And you, too, Mr. Panzer. It has been some time since we have seen each other.”

  Saul took off his cap and smiled. “I am planning to get a room at one of the local hotels, Mrs. Goodwin.”

  “You will do no such t
hing!” Mom told him. “This is a big house with plenty of bedrooms upstairs, and they sit empty other than on those too-rare occasions when my children and/or grandchildren deign to come for a visit. I will show both of you to your rooms. Archie, you can bring their luggage in.”

  “Everything is in the trunk,” Saul said, tossing me the keys. Nice to know I had been given a role. I carted in Wolfe’s large leather suitcase, which he had taken when we went to Montenegro in search of a killer,3 as well as Saul’s smaller bag and a big cooler, which I opened and found to contain more than two dozen bottles of Remmers beer, along with a stein and a bottle opener. Wolfe had come prepared.

  I carried the suitcases upstairs and learned that Mom had put Wolfe in the big corner bedroom and Saul in a smaller one next door. Like a good porter, I put their suitcases in the proper rooms and then began to fill the refrigerator with the bottles of beer.

  As I finished with those little chores, Mom came into the kitchen. I turned and said, “All right, just what—”

  “Before you start in on me, Archie, hear me out,” she said, holding up a hand as if in self-defense. “Yes, I took it upon myself, without asking you, to telephone Mr. Wolfe and tell him about the situation here, at least as well as I have figured it out. He listened patiently and then said, to my surprise, ‘I will discuss this with Mr. Panzer.’

  “You can imagine my surprise when he called me back and asked if he could come here and stay in this house. He said Mr. Panzer could drive him. It has always been my understanding that Nero Wolfe will go to great lengths to avoid leaving his brownstone.”

  “I am every bit as surprised as you are. Did you ask him to come?”

  “No, as I said, I thought that maybe he might have some advice for you.”

  “And you figured I would be too proud to ask him, right?”

  “Well . . .”

  “All right, Mom, what is done is done, and I am not about to dwell on it. I’m still getting over the shock of seeing Wolfe climb out of that car. He probably drove Saul crazy during the trip.”