“Not yet, Archie, but she’s off to what seems like a good start,” Lon said. “Imagine the publicity she will get from her announcement today. Everybody, including even the Times, will play this on page one, and most of the papers—including us—will run a multi-column photo of the lady. And then, of course, there are the television stations, our relatively new competition, which seem to go even further overboard than we do over any story that involves a pretty face.”
“She gave out no clue about this when I had coffee with her a couple of days ago. I wonder whose idea it was.”
“Our Albany man thinks it originated with her and her alone. He says the lady is ambitious—very ambitious. He also pointed out that one drawback to her candidacy is that she may well be seen as a blatant opportunist, and I have to agree with him on that.”
“You said you had two items of importance, although you’ll have to go some to top that one.”
“Staying on the subject of the Fentress family, you wanted to know if the advertising man has a . . . special friend,” Lon said. “The answer is yes, according to those on the Gazette staff who earn their keep by ferreting out this type of information. The woman in question is Caroline Jackson Willis, described to me as a twice-divorced socialite. ‘Socialite’ is a word that can carry many meanings, as you probably are aware, Archie.”
“You mean such as ‘idle rich’ or ‘gold digger’ or on a more positive note, ‘patroness of the arts’?”
“You get the idea. Giving the lady the benefit of the doubt, Mrs. Willis probably best fits into your last category, what with her being on all sorts of museum boards and such, although she could fit into the other two slots as well, seeing as how both her husbands were very well fixed. Anyway, rumors have it that she and Fentress have been together on occasion, mostly at discreet private parties in places like Park Avenue duplexes, rubbing shoulders with other members of the Social Register.”
I made a mental note to ask Lily about Mrs. Willis. “You’re filled with interesting information today, Mr. Newspaperman.”
“You’re welcome. Now does all of this entitle me to the get the name of your client?”
“ ’Fraid you’ll just have to wait on that—at least until I get the green light from Mr. Wolfe.”
A prolonged sigh came from the other end. “And after all that I’ve done for the two of you.”
“Believe me, it is much appreciated. But as you told Mr. Wolfe yourself at dinner, you’ve gotten as good as you’ve given in our dealings over the years.” Lon conceded the point, and we signed off just as Wolfe entered the office, fresh from his morning visit with the orchids.
While he got settled and rang for beer, I reported on Lon’s discoveries. He listened, but seemed distracted. “The Gazette,” he pronounced.
“Yes, the Gazette, as in Lon Cohen. Now what do you think about what he just told me on the tele—”
“The Gazette, four days ago, Archie. I admit to being guilty of opacity. The death notices, third column, middle of the page, surname Thompson. Get it.”
As a matter of course, we keep copies of the Times and the Gazette for three weeks. I went to the shelf and pulled out the requested edition, turning to the page with the death notices and found the item.
THOMPSON, RICHARD, 29—A heroic marine from Queens who served valiantly in World War II. He was a superb rifleman, earning the Marine Rifle Sharpshooting Badge, the Bronze Star, the Navy and Marine Corps Medal, and the Purple Heart. Fighting on Okinawa, he was credited with killing nineteen Japanese. He is deeply mourned by his sister, Marguerite Hackman of Queens. Services have been held.
After reading it over twice, I turned to Wolfe. “Seems like a long shot, pardon the pun,” I said, handing the page to him.
“Perhaps, but here we have: one, a skilled marksman dead; two, an apparently premature death; and three, a death that took place shortly after the killing of Mr. Milbank. As you know, I always have been suspicious of coincidences. Call Mr. Cohen and find out if his newspaper has further information on this marine and the circumstances of his demise.”
“Our last conversation ended with him wanting some quid pro quo, specifically the identity of our client. Now he’ll really be after me to cough it up.”
Wolfe drew in air and exhaled. “Very well. Give him what he wants with the stipulation that her name not be released without my permission. He will honor that.”
I agreed with him and dialed Lon. “You again? Look, I just gave you everything I had. My cupboard is empty, honest it is.”
I told him about the Thompson item, which he quickly located. “I’ll be damned, I always go through the paid death notices that come in—chalk it up to my morbid curiosity,” Lon said. “But this guy didn’t register with me, although I have to say that even rereading it now, this seems like it’s a reach.”
“Exactly what I told Wolfe. But he wants to find out more about Thompson and the cause of death. You’re a seasoned news-hound. This is the kind of thing you can find out a lot easier than Wolfe or me.”
“You’re a fine one to be doling out cheap flattery, Archie. Give me one reason why I should do this for you when you won’t even tell me who your client is.” Then I told him.
“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, although I’m really not surprised. I suspected it was the bereaved widow.”
“So now you know, but nobody else does. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I will get back to you when I find out something about one Richard Thompson.”
Chapter 14
After I hung up, the doorbell rang. I walked down the hall to the front door and peeked through the one-way glass, getting a surprise. “What I suggested the other day about building a moat around this place is really worth considering,” I told Wolfe back in the office, silently mouthing a name.
“Egad,” he said, eyes wide. “Well, bring him in.”
I opened the door, keeping the chain on. “I have come here to see Nero Wolfe,” the older and better dressed of two men on the stoop said. “I am—”
“I know who you are. And just who is he?” I demanded, gesturing to the other one.
“He goes everywhere with me.”
“Not in here, he doesn’t. If you want to see Nero Wolfe, you are free to enter—and alone. Otherwise, it’s no soap. That’s the way things are around here, period. Take it or leave it.”
After a long pause punctuated with a mutter, the older man shrugged. “Go back to the car, Victor,” he said calmly. I waited until Victor had descended the steps and was getting into a black Lincoln sedan idling at the curb before I opened the door to our guest.
I took his homburg from him and hung it on the rack near the door. He then followed me down the hall to the office, where I steered him to the red leather chair. “Mr. Wolfe,” he said with a dip of the head as he sat.
“Mr. Bacelli,” Wolfe acknowledged.
“You recognize me?” the Mob kingpin said with a tight smile, running a hand over his full and well-tended head of silver-gray hair.
“You jest. Certainly I do. Your photograph has been in the New York newspapers so often over the years that I am confident eighty percent of the residents of this city would recognize you if they passed you on the street.”
That brought a dry laugh. “You’re right, yes, you are. At least when I walk out of a courtroom and the press photographers start snapping their damned pictures, I don’t put a hat or copy of the Herald Tribune over my face like some of my, shall we say . . . colleagues,” he said, stroking a mustache that was suspiciously darker than the hair on his dome. “I don’t hide from anybody, never have, never will.”
Wolfe considered his visitor though narrowed eyes. “Would you like something to drink? I am about to have beer.”
“Nothing, thanks,” Franco Bacelli said, holding up a hand adorned by a gold ring studded with small diamonds. “U
lcers have put an end to my drinking days, I’m sad to say.”
“A pity. What brings you here?”
“Look, Mr. Wolfe, I won’t beat around the bush; it’s not my style. You are investigating Milbank’s murder—don’t ask me how I know. I have come here to offer my help.”
“Indeed?” Wolfe’s face registered surprise.
“I know that to some people, I am an obvious suspect in the killing of Milbank, given things I’ve said to the senator and about him, especially after he weaseled out of his total opposition to that damned parkway,” Bacelli said. “But I have got lots bigger problems right now than having a new road ruin the peace and quiet of my neighborhood up north.”
“Your problems have been well chronicled,” Wolfe observed as Fritz entered with his beer.
Another sour laugh from the mobster. “They sure as Hades have. A lot of people are out to get me, and I am damned if I’m going to make things any easier for them by getting tagged with this Polo Grounds shooting. Hell, I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Nothing.” As I studied Bacelli from my desk, I could not decide whether his chiseled profile was better suited to a Roman coin or a WANTED poster.
“You said you came here to offer help,” Wolfe said. “How do you propose to do that?”
“I’ve got lots of sources, lots of ways to find out exactly how Milbank got rubbed out,” Bacelli said, studying his cufflink. “I could get started today, just like that,” he went on, snapping his fingers. “It wouldn’t cost you a cent, not a penny.”
“It might well cost me a great deal more than money,” Wolfe commented. “I thank you for your offer, but I must decline.”
“Too proud to take my help, is that it?” Bacelli said.
“I assure you pride has absolutely nothing to do with my decision, sir,” Wolfe snapped. “I believe I can reach my goals through far different channels than I suspect you are likely to utilize.”
Bacelli showed a set of pearly whites in what seemed to be a cross between a smile and a sneer. “Pretty damned sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I prefer the word confident. My methods have worked reasonably well through the years.”
“Is that so? Well, suit yourself, Mr. Nero Wolfe,” Bacelli said with a tilt of his chin. “But I am going to find out who took care of the senator anyway, and I’ll do it before you do, I guarantee that. That will screw you out of your fee. Whatever else happens to me, they are not going to pin the killing of a senator on this tough old Sicilian, I guarantee that.”
Bacelli rose, brushed an imaginary hair from the sleeve of his navy blue pinstriped silk suit, and executed a snappy about-face, striding out of the office. I accompanied him down the hall to the front door and was met with the same silent treatment I had gotten from Charles Fentress and Cramer when they left the brownstone. At this rate, I could get a complex.
“Well, just what do you make of that?” I asked Wolfe back in the office.
“Incredible,” he said after drinking beer and eyeing the unopened book on his desk blotter. “Whatever made him think that I would go along with—oh, enough of this. I can only imagine how the man would set about extracting information.”
“Yeah, and it sounds as if he’s going to push ahead without you. As I asked at the moment when we were so rudely interrupted by Mr. Bacelli the Sicilian, what are my instructions?”
Wolfe drew in air and exhaled slowly. “I would like to talk to the others on Senator Milbank’s staff. In addition to Mrs. Fentress, I believe there were three of them in the group at the baseball game.”
“Yes, Keith Musgrove, who did polling for Milbank; Todd Armstrong, an intern on the senator’s staff who had recently graduated from NYU; and Ross Davies, the campaign manager and strategist.”
“See if you can get them all here tonight at eight thirty.”
“So you’re not tired of having people storm our battlements yet?” Wolfe opened his book without answering me.
Chapter 15
I dialed Mona Fentress to get phone numbers of the trio Wolfe wanted to see. “Oh . . . hello, Archie, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today,” she said.
“Oh, I’m always full of surprises, but then, so are you it would seem, including putting words in my mouth just for the sport of seeing your husband get himself all riled up. He put on quite a performance in front of Mr. Wolfe and me. And while we are on the subject of surprises, exactly when did you decide to run for Milbank’s senate seat?”
“I honestly had not made up my mind yet when I saw you, and that’s the truth. But one question had been going through my mind for days: Who would Orson want to succeed him? I finally came to the realization that it would be me. I hope that does not sound arrogant.”
“Not particularly. People running for office must be sure of themselves and project self-confidence. What does your husband think about your decision?”
“I didn’t ask him, Archie, and honestly, at this point I don’t care. But in the past, he has said more than once that he doesn’t feel women have the temperament to be in politics and government. He’s out in California on business right now, trying to help his agency land a new client, some winery I think, so he’s in for a surprise when he gets back.”
“I’ll say. It sounds like he won’t be part of your campaign team, huh? Sorry—that was uncalled for.”
“That’s all right, Archie,” she said with a laugh. “I could use a little humor these days.”
“Between us, and not for publication, what do you think your chances are in the fall?”
“Keith Musgrove—he was Orson’s pollster and now he’s going to work for me—thinks we are in pretty good shape. He’ll know more when he starts doing some canvassing in the coming weeks.”
“Speaking of Mr. Musgrove, I’d like to get his phone number along with those of Ross Davies and Todd Armstrong.”
“Really? Whatever for?”
“Beats me. Nero Wolfe barks orders, and I carry them out. Long ago, I learned my role in this operation.”
“Well . . . of course, I’ve got them here,” Mona said. “Please hold the line.”
She came on less than a minute later and read me the numbers, although she didn’t sound particularly happy about it. “Is there anything I should know?” she asked.
“Not that I am aware of. Bear in mind that Mr. Wolfe is a genius, and he works in strange and wondrous ways, most of which are totally beyond my comprehension. Thanks for those numbers, and best of luck. I would be proud to one day address you as Madam Senator.” Mona Fentress would have liked to pump me further, but I closed the conversation.
I reached all three men on my first try, and none sounded overjoyed to get an invitation to the brownstone. Both Keith Musgrove and Todd Armstrong complained that they had told the police everything they remembered about that afternoon at the Polo Grounds, and Musgrove demanded to know who had hired us. I sidestepped his question and wore down his resistance by pointing out that Nero Wolfe was the best hope for finding Milbank’s killer, especially given the ineffectiveness of the police so far.
Young Mr. Armstrong was easier to persuade since I pointed out that Musgrove already had agreed to come to West Thirty-Fifth Street. Ross Davies offered the least resistance, conceding that he had read about Wolfe for many years and claimed to be intrigued by the possibility of meeting him.
The three arrived together precisely at eight thirty. They formed quite a contrast. Musgrove, easily the eldest, was also the shortest, no more than five foot five, and the one most likely to stand out in a crowd. He sported horn-rimmed glasses with lenses as thick as the bottoms of cola bottles, which magnified his blinking eyes, giving him a permanently deranged appearance. He combed his once-dark hair—what was left of it—all the way across his head in a futile attempt to camouflage his near baldness. Todd Armstrong was a college graduate but looked nearer to eighteen, his baby fa
ce accented by innocent blue eyes and center-parted blond hair. Ross Davies, about halfway between the others in age—say mid- or late-thirties—was a healthy-looking specimen with an intelligent expression and a posture worthy of a military officer, which I was to learn he had been.
“Gentlemen, please step right in,” I told them, “and thank you all for coming. Mr. Wolfe would like to see you separately. Who would like to go first?”
“Why do we need to see him separately?” Davies demanded. “This could take all night.”
“No, sir, I assure you it will not. Mr. Wolfe is always direct and to the point. In all my years here, I have never known him to waste anyone’s time. Now, if one of you volunteers to see him first, the others can wait in the front room, where there will be refreshments and reading material.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll go first, why not?” Davies said. He seemed to be the take-charge guy of the three. I ushered the others into the front room, closing the door behind them, then walked Davies down the hall to the office. After he got seated in the red leather chair, Wolfe entered the room and I made the introductions. I then went to the kitchen, giving Fritz the heads-up that two of our guests in the front room might like a drink, alcoholic or otherwise.
Back in the office, Davies was talking. “I assumed you would have wanted to see all of us together,” he told Wolfe amiably.
“I prefer this approach, sir, because I like to hear individual impressions of what happened at the baseball stadium, not those impressions influenced by what someone else has just described. Before we start, would you like something to drink? As you see, I am having beer.” Davies requested scotch and water, which I mixed at the wheeled cart against one wall.
“Where do you want to start?” Davies asked after taking a sip of the scotch and nodding his approval.
“At the moment you entered the Polo Grounds, sir,” Wolfe said. “I realize you have related these events to the police in detail, probably more than once, but please humor me.”
“Fair enough. As I’m sure you have become aware, Orson was a big fan and a big booster of the American flag. That morning, he gave the rest of us small flags, and we walked down to our front-row seats waving them. Even though I love our flag and have fought for it, I felt a little foolish, as I’m sure several of the others did, but . . .” He turned his palms up in a gesture of helplessness. “I respect the chain of command, and if that is what Orson wanted, then I was on board. I was an army captain during the war, so I am used to both giving orders and taking them.
Murder in the Ball Park Page 10
