Murder in the Ball Park

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Of course I did, one of the bloodiest battles of the war. Three days of fighting, weren’t there?”

  “Yes, but it seemed like three weeks. You seem up on the campaign. Did you serve?”

  “Only stateside, Washington, with the army. I was a major,” I said. “Although I never felt I deserved the rank.”

  “Nonsense! If you were given a commission, of course you deserved it,” Corcoran said. “I was promoted to major myself, near the end of the war, so we have something in common. He paused and wrinkled his brow. “Archie Goodwin. That name sounds somehow familiar. Why do I recognize it?” he asked cordially.

  “I work for the detective Nero Wolfe.”

  “Of course, that’s it!” he said, coming forward, grinning and clapping his hands once. He ran a palm over well-barbered light brown hair. “I’ve believe I’ve seen your name in the New York papers a few times. To what do I owe this visit?”

  “My boss has been hired to investigate the shooting of your state senator.”

  His smile was replaced with a look of concern. “It was a terrible thing that happened, outrageous,” he said solemnly, giving his necktie a tug. “I was definitely not one of Orson Milbank’s supporters, Mr. Goodwin, but I always felt that he took his job very seriously, and I admire that in any man, whether I agree with everything he says or not. In fact, those two small flags on either side of my VFW award came from Orson. He was always passing out flags, large and small. He donated the big flag that hangs in our VFW hall down the street from here, where I just had a meeting to plan our annual picnic for disabled veterans.”

  I nodded. “I understand you were among those who strongly opposed the senator’s position on the building of a parkway that would connect this area with New York City.”

  Corcoran nodded. “That is no secret, of course, Mr. Goodwin. I—as well as our entire association and many other civic leaders—have been a strong supporter of the Northern Parkway project, which we feel is absolutely vital to the growth and prosperity of our three-county area if we are to continue to grow, develop, and prosper. Orson felt otherwise, as you know.”

  “But I understand that he recently had backed off at least to a degree on his opposition to the road.”

  “That is correct, sir. And at the risk of ascribing motives, I feel that he shifted because of his concern over the fall election. Many people in this part of the state believe as our association does—that the future lies in the private automobile. Already in the few years since the end of the war, all across the country new four-lane highways, many of them divided by medians and with limited access, have been built, and many more are on the drawing boards from coast to coast. This is the beginning of a new era, and we up here simply cannot afford to be left behind our brethren here and in other states.”

  “What do you see as the benefits of a Northern Parkway?”

  “Where to start?” Corcoran asked, spreading his arms, palms up. “New businesses, factories, housing developments, retail centers, schools, you name it. Some areas of our three fine counties have languished as a backwater because of a sadly outdated system of roads, many of which have been in place for a half century or even longer. A lot of these roads were built in the horse-and-buggy era and look like it. The new parkway will rapidly change all of that.”

  “Any chance the presumed influx of people also will bring new businesses that could harm local enterprises in the process?”

  His hands formed a chapel. “Mm, no, we are very careful about protecting existing members of our association. We always have been.” Like the gas station operator, I thought.

  “What do you think of the theory that Franco Bacelli orchestrated the senator’s death?”

  “Good Lord! I couldn’t possibly comment on such an accusation,” Corcoran said, jerking upright and looking shocked.

  “Mr. Corcoran, in your position, you must know a great deal about what goes on in this corner of the world,” I told him. “Do you have any thoughts as to a possible suspect?”

  He studied a cufflink, then steepled his fingers again and frowned. “No, there isn’t anyone who I could even conceive of doing such a thing, Mr. Goodwin. Not a soul. We have an extremely low crime rate here, as you probably know. Nothing like your Manhattan, no offense intended.”

  “None taken. How did you and your association feel about Senator Milbank’s proposed alternate route for the parkway?”

  “Frankly and candidly, we did not think much of it,” he said, frowning. “The route we envisioned was ideal, in that it entered or came very close to the maximum number of the larger population centers throughout the three-county area. The senator’s proposed route, on the other hand, was much less convenient to several of our bigger communities.”

  “You’ve been pretty tough on Milbank from what I hear. You have said he was a barrier to progress and called him ‘one of the great minds of the nineteenth century,’ right?”

  That got a chuckle from Corcoran. “Oh, sometimes I suppose we do things for effect,” he said with a shrug. “I believe that was among the quotes I gave to one of the local newspapers about Orson. I wouldn’t take that too seriously. I don’t believe he did. After all, as a politician, he tossed off a lot of comments about opponents during campaigns that were for effect as well.”

  “What do you think of that group calling itself CLEAR?”

  Corcoran waved a hand dismissively and snorted. “They’re a weird bunch, always harping on the fact that we need to keep all of our open spaces. This despite the fact that we already are blessed with award-winning park systems and forest preserves within our boundaries, to say nothing of several popular state parks. No, these folks want to return to the days when those first Dutch settlers put down their roots around here more than three centuries ago. They challenge every single building project or new road that gets proposed.”

  “What do you think of the guy who runs CLEAR?”

  Another snort from Corcoran, along with an indulgent chuckle. “Howell Baxter? Oh, he’s a fanatic; I don’t know what else to call him. In his ideal world, this area would be filled only with a few settlers living in log cabins and a tribe or two of Indians hunting with bows and arrows. In fact, I have it on good authority that Baxter actually lives in a log cabin himself, although I have never seen it.” Another chuckle, this one derisive.

  “I gather Mr. Baxter and his group weren’t very happy with Milbank when the senator suggested a compromise route.”

  “They sure as heck weren’t. Baxter, who up to that point had seemed to be so buddy-buddy with Orson, began to call him all sorts of names in print. From my perspective, the man is absolutely impossible to please.”

  “Would he have been angry enough to want Milbank dead?”

  “Oh, now I would never go that far, Mr. Goodwin,” Corcoran said, holding up a hand. “After all, among other things, Howell Baxter claims to be a pacifist.”

  “Just an often angry pacifist, it seems.”

  “I’ll say. Well, is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Corcoran. I appreciate your time.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Goodwin, not at all,” he said, standing and holding out a paw, which I shook. “Very nice to have met you. When you came in here, I actually thought for a minute that you might be sizing me up as a possible suspect. Silly, isn’t it?”

  “Very silly, indeed,” I agreed, rising to leave.

  Chapter 10

  I left Carmel and the ever-so-upright Raymond L. Corcoran in my wake and undertook the third and longest leg of my fact-finding expedition, this one north to Wappingers Falls in Dutchess County. The drive proved a scenic one, through rolling hills and past farm fields and pastures filled with black-and-white cows, red barns, and green tractors. It looked a lot like the Ohio countryside where I grew up. The last leg took me up Route 9 a little east of the Hudson, and just after I
passed the WELCOME TO HISTORIC WAPPINGERS FALLS sign, I pulled up in front of a small roadside grocery to get directions.

  “Ah, so you’re gonna see old Howell, are you now?” said the wizened little lady behind the counter who wore a soiled apron and had a pencil behind one ear. “He’s gotta be dern near as old as me, although I ain’t never been able to get him to tell his age. Which is all right, because I won’t tell him mine, neither,” she cackled. “He comes in, oh, three, four times a week for one thing and another. I think it’s because he mainly likes to argue with me—about doggone near anything. If I say it looks like rain, he says no, it’ll be sunny all day. If I say Jack Benny was funny on the radio the other night, he’ll tell me how lousy he thought the show was. Howell’s contrary and cantankerous, but I have to say I like him anyhow. He sort of grows on you, you know?”

  I said I knew. “So his house is about a half-mile ahead, on the right?”

  “Easy to see,” she said. “You’d be blind to miss it. Log-cabin type of place it is, perched up on a little rise above the road. Bet you’re gonna talk to him about that rabble-rousing outfit of his, right?”

  “You mean CLEAR?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s his passion, you might say. Howell, he don’t like change, not one bit. I don’t much like it myself, so leastways there’s something that the two of us agreed on.”

  “How do you feel about your senator getting shot?”

  She spread her arms, palms up. “I liked him well enough when he was against that doggone road they plan to build, but then he got kinda weak in the knees and started to chicken out, as maybe you heard.”

  “I did. Do you think that’s why he was killed?”

  “Nah, I think it had to do with women somehow. Talk in these parts for a long time has been that he liked the ladies at lot, so maybe it was some jealous husband. We had one of them deals here a few years back. Guy from over in Poughkeepsie was making time with the wife of a local jewelry store owner who caught ’em together in the middle of . . . well, I think you get the picture. Anyway, he shot the Poughkeepsie man dead, right there in the bedroom of his own doggone house not a half-mile from here.”

  “What happened to the jeweler?” I asked.

  “Went free,” she said, slapping a palm on the counter and cackling again. “Justifiable homicide, they called it. Then he kicked his wife out, and she’s never been seen in these parts since.”

  “Interesting story. Well, I’ll be off. Thanks for the directions.”

  “As I said, you can’t miss Howell’s place. Oh, I almost forgot. Tell him that Nellie—that’s me—says she just got some nice T-bones in. Howell loves his steaks, and I’ll set one aside for him, but only if he comes by to get it tomorrow. After that, tell him I’ll sell it to whoever drops in. As I said, I like Howell, but he knows dern well that I’ve got me a business to run, and times are tough, as I’m sure you know. Being neighborly goes only so far, doesn’t it?”

  I told her it did, and that I would pass along the message. I drove north until I saw the log cabin, sitting on a knoll just back from the road, as Nellie had described. I steered up the steep gravel drive to the front door, and as I engaged the emergency brake, a lean man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard showed himself in the doorway. “Nice wheels you got there, son,” he said as I climbed out. “Bet that buggy had to cost you a dandy piece of change.”

  “That it did, all right. May I assume you are Howell Baxter?”

  “Assume all that you want to, son. Just what brings you to this small corner of our fair state?”

  Before I could answer, Baxter invited me in. “Just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Do you drink the stuff?”

  I said I did and was led into a large room with a timber-beamed ceiling, hardwood floor, woolen rugs with colorful geometric patterns, and shellacked log walls bearing a lot of Indian artifacts, including a feathered headdress, tomahawks, and oil portraits of tribal chiefs and teepees. I almost felt like I was in some sort of museum.

  “I like this room,” I told Baxter as he gestured me toward a chair made partly of logs and handed me a mug of steaming black coffee. I sat.

  “It’s okay, I guess,” he answered. “Suits my needs just fine, has for years. Now what’s your story, lad?”

  I began to tell him who I was and how I happened to be in his small corner of this fair state, to use his phrase. Before I could finish, he broke into a sly grin.

  “So, Archie Goodwin of New York City, you are really here because you and your boss—what’s his name, Nero Wolfe?—think I was behind the killing of one Orson D. Milbank, Senator.” His grin yielded to a dry but hearty laugh. “By damn, I like it! Yes sirree, I really do like it! Makes me feel dangerous, intriguing. I haven’t felt dangerous in what?—forty years—back when I was still young enough to chase women, not that I ever caught any of them very often.” Baxter laughed again, this time so hard that it morphed into a cough. When he recovered, he drank coffee, and before he could say anything more, I cut in.

  “Mr. Baxter, please let me be clear. No one who I am aware of, least of all Nero Wolfe, is accusing you of anything. As I started to say before, because of your involvement in the Northern Parkway issue, we thought you could possibly have some thoughts about who might wish the senator ill.”

  He nodded, pursing his lips. “My own relations with Orson were, shall we say . . . uneven. But before I get into that, I gather you know at least a little something about our organization.”

  “I don’t know a lot, but I am aware that CLEAR wants to keep this part of the state as unspoiled as possible.”

  “True, as far as it goes,” Baxter said. “We are not a large group by any means, every one of them volunteers except me, and the only money I get is from folks kind enough to send checks and cash to support our work. And believe me, that’s not a lot, welcome as it is.

  “Some of my volunteers are coeds from Vassar, over there in Poughkeepsie, nice, eager young women hoping they can help change the world for the better, even in a small way. A bunch of the girls helped me picket to stop a new county road from being built that would have sliced through one of our local parks, cutting it darn near in half. We got us some local newspaper and radio coverage, and by George, we won that one.” He slapped a hand on his knee for emphasis.

  “Now I know very well that a lot of folks hereabouts see me as an eccentric and maybe even deranged old coot who lives in the past. Now I allow that there is some truth to that—at least the old coot part—but I feel it’s danged important to preserve our heritage up here. This very place was named for a local Indian tribe, the Wappingers. I’ll bet one thin dime you did not know that.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Baxter. I didn’t.”

  “Anyhow, this abomination of a parkway that everybody’s talking about is totally, absolutely unnecessary,” he said, banging his fist down on a lamp table, causing a dog, a German shepherd I hadn’t noticed before, to sit up from a nap in a far corner of the room and yawn before settling back to sleep.

  “It’s simply a creation of the commercial and real estate interests to draw more people up here,” Baxter went on. “They want to open up the area to new housing developments, which will mean more people—more residents to patronize their businesses, which will, these interests hope, also mean new businesses and new industries as well. It will totally change the character of the region.”

  “And you feel this is not a good thing?”

  “It sure as shootin’ isn’t, young Mr. Goodwin. The open spaces, except for a few parks here and there, would gradually disappear, and eventually you’d see the whole danged county paved over and turned into one gigantic suburb of your great and splendid city to the south. Trees would come down by the hundreds and farms would get sold off and their land turned into tracts with blocks lined with identical houses, just like what’s already happened in other places, some of those place
s doggone close to here.”

  “You don’t paint a very pretty picture, Mr. Baxter.”

  “Well, by heaven, it’s not a very pretty picture,” he said, leaning forward. “Back to Orson Milbank and our relationship: That’s why you’re here. I never figured him as a dedicated naturalist, but I did like the fact that he opposed the new parkway, even if he might have had some political or personal reasons for his position.”

  “Like maybe to curry favor with one Franco Bacelli?”

  Baxter laughed and slapped his thigh. “I think I like you, city boy. You cut through all the bull and get right to the point.”

  “I wasn’t always a city boy, back in Ohio.”

  “Good, I mighta known it. You still got some of the country in you, all right. It shows. Yeah, no question in my mind that Milbank was getting bankrolled at least to some degree by Bacelli and repaid him by objecting to the road, which would run too doggone close to that hoodlum’s princely estate. At that time, the senator was doing the right thing for the wrong reason.”

  “But then . . . ?”

  “But then, as I’m sure that a bright fella like you has figured out by now, Orson began to get worried about the November election. He was getting a lot of heat from people like that bloodsucking real estate devil Jonah Keller and his slick accomplice, Corcoran, the so-called ‘businessman’s friend.’ They both hammered on the senator as an impediment to progress, and the local papers went right along with them like a bunch of lemmings blindly jumping off a cliff. The polls I read or heard about showed Milbank trailing the guy who figured to run against him in the fall.”

  I liked hearing the man pontificate, and I encouraged him to continue with a nod and a smile.

  “So, the senator did what he felt he had to,” Baxter went on between sips of coffee. “He ‘modified’ his position, that’s the word he used in a statement—‘modified.’ All of a sudden, he magically came up with an alternate route for the parkway, one that might please at least a few in the business community and maybe, just maybe, would save Milbank his seat in that august group that decides our fate in that ugly pile of stone up in Albany that they call our capitol.”