“The Gazette threw a big bash at the Waldorf Astoria for honored war veterans last year, right?”
“Sure, that was our ‘Heroes Among Us’ banquet—and I was there, sitting at the publisher’s table. For my money, it was a first-class event, one of the best things the Gazette has ever done in the way of community service. At the table with us were two Medal of Honor winners plus a guy with the Navy Cross and another one who wore the Silver Star. These are the real heroes, all right, not a bunch of egotistical, overweight, and overpaid baseball players who never seem to have time to sign a kid’s autograph book.”
“Nice speech, Lon. It almost makes me want to stand and applaud. Now, I have a favor to ask.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“I don’t think what I’m about to ask will be all that difficult. I assume somewhere in your vast building there is a guest list from the heroes’ banquet.”
“Probably. Does this have anything to do with that marine whose obit we talked about?”
“Yes, in part, it does.”
“Care to tell me any more?”
“Not at the moment, but as Mr. Wolfe assured you earlier, if and when something breaks, you and the Gazette will be the first to know, as has almost always been the case in the past where we are involved. And remember, we did tell the identity of our client as an act of good faith.”
“True enough. All right, I’ll check with our special events people about the list and get back to you.” He did, less than a half hour later, and after leaving a note for Wolfe and telling Fritz I’d be out for a while, I stepped into the June sun and took a ten-block walk to the Gazette building.
When I walked into Lon’s office, he was on the phone as usual and waved me to a chair. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he barked into the mouthpiece, “but we’ve already run two major pieces on that new bridge. Can’t that man find something else to write about? Tell him to show a little initiative for a change.”
Lon slammed the phone down and turned to me, shaking his head. “For more than a year, this guy begged to be made an around-the-town columnist, and the managing editor finally gave in. But it turns out this bozo hasn’t had an original idea in his life, and everything he suggests has been done to death, by us and by every other paper in town. By far the most interesting damned city on the planet, well over seven million of us according to the folks who take the census, and he can’t seem to find anything new. If he doesn’t start showing some imagination, it will be right back to the police beat for him.”
“The life of a big-time newspaper executive sure isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be,” I said.
“It’s sure as shooting isn’t, Archie. Oh, here’s what you asked for.” He handed me a thick bundle of typewritten pages, held together by twine. “Everybody’s on here.”
“Not just the veterans, but all the others who attended the banquet as well?”
“Oh, don’t worry, they are here as well. This was an expensive evening, and we got a lot of businesses and associations to help us sponsor it. Every one of them that kicked in money or food got invited. Archie, this should have occurred to me earlier: there’s a good chance that Richard Thompson was at the dinner.”
“More than a good chance, Lon. I happen to know that he was there. And for the record, he also was the subject of one of the features in your paper’s ‘Heroes Among Us’ series a while back.”
“Jeez, you’d think I would have remembered that, or at least checked on it once you and Wolfe pointed me toward the guy,” Lon said, slapping his forehead with a palm. “I sit before you a chagrined man. I must be slipping if I don’t even have a handle on what my own paper has done.”
“Your secret is safe with me, newshound. Besides, you’ve got a lot of balls to juggle in your job. Now, by chance, do you have a seating chart to the Waldorf event?”
“No, although I anticipated your question and asked,” Lon said. “There was open seating, although we encouraged the sponsors to spread out so there was one or more of them at every table to interact with the veterans. So nobody here knows exactly who sat where.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I said, rising to leave.
“Just bring that list back when you’re done with it. Our people have only one other copy.”
I got back to the brownstone at just after ten, meaning Wolfe would not be down from the plant rooms for almost an hour. That gave me time to wade through the dozens of pages of attendees. Going over the list, I occasionally made a light pencil mark next to one of the names. Every individual I had expected to find was listed, giving me a sense of satisfaction.
I had just finished with the final page of names as the elevator came to life, indicating Wolfe had begun his descent. I placed the stack of sheets on his desk blotter and turned to the orchid germination records Theodore had put on my desk earlier that morning so I could enter them into the files.
“Good morning, Archie. Did you sleep well?” Wolfe asked as he invariably does when he enters the office in the morning. I gave him an affirmative answer as he placed a raceme of orchids in the vase on his desk, settled into his chair, and rang for beer.
“What is this?” he demanded as he held up the sheaf of papers.
“Do you recall my mentioning that Marguerite Hackman told me her brother had attended a dinner at the Waldorf Astoria for decorated war veterans from the New York area last year?”
“I do,” he snapped.
“What you have there is a list of all those, veterans and others, who attended that dinner. I felt you would find it of interest. I put light pencil marks beside some of the names.”
He frowned but began reading. I turned back to the germination records, listening to the faint rustle of paper each time he flipped a page. It took him far less time than me to go through the roster, perhaps twenty minutes, and when he finished, he exhaled loudly. “Very satisfactory.”
Those two words from Wolfe are the equivalent of an ordinary mortal screaming “Spectacular!” or “Magnificent!” I swiveled to face him, stifling a grin. “Glad you think so,” I told him.
“Your notebook please,” he said, finally taking a sip from the beer that had gone untouched during his perusal of the pages.
Chapter 26
The first task Wolfe gave me was not one I relished, but I had been expecting it and knew that at some point, it had to be done. That point had arrived. I dialed the Flushing number and got an answer on the second ring.
“Hello, Mrs. Hackman. This is the man who called himself Alan Nelson when we met at your house.”
“Of course, I recognize your voice,” she said in a tone that strongly suggested she would rather be doing ironing or vacuuming than talking to me. “What is it that you want?”
“I would like to come and see you again, this time as myself.”
“And just who would that be?”
“My name is Archie Goodwin. I am a private investigator in Manhattan, and I work for another detective, Nero Wolfe.”
“Now his name, I recognize. Tell me why I should bother seeing you, Mr. Goodwin?”
“It involves your brother and the shooting death of State Senator Orson Milbank at the Polo Grounds.”
I heard nothing other than breathing on the other end for several seconds. “You are not going to bring me good news, are you?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Hackman. After my visit the other night, you have every right to demand total honesty from me, plus an apology.”
“I will consider accepting that apology, but you still have not told me why I should see you.”
“This is not something I prefer to discuss on the telephone. I will say only that Mr. Wolfe and I are interested in identifying the individual who we believe helped to destroy your brother’s life, and we feel there’s a good chance you can aid us with that identification.”
Another pause. “Just
when do you propose coming here, Mr. Goodwin?”
“Whenever it is convenient for you. Given my history with you, I realize I am in no position to make demands. What about this afternoon?”
“All right, three o’clock,” she said, her voice now several degrees warmer than when she answered the phone, but still by no means friendly. “This time, I would like to see identification with a photograph, if you happen to have some.”
“You will see it before you unlock your door,” I said.
The second taxi ride I had taken to Flushing in the last few days got me to Marguerite Hackman’s house precisely at three. I rang the bell and held up my private investigator’s license, with its mug shot, so that Marguerite could see it through the glass in her front door. After nodding, she swung the door open for me. Her expression now was every bit as sad as her voice had been when we first met, and I knew I was in large measure responsible.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” I said as I stepped into the living room.
“Your apology is accepted,” she said, still unsmiling. “Please sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
I told her no, thanks, and parked myself in an easy chair while she dropped onto the sofa, eying me with an expectant expression. When I hesitated, collecting my thoughts, she spoke: “Mr. Goodwin, my brother is dead and nothing in God’s world can bring him back. You need not worry about sparing my feelings at this point. I have no more capacity for mourning. Please feel free to say what you have to.”
“Nero Wolfe has been hired to find out who killed Senator Orson Milbank, and—”
“Isn’t that a job for the police department?”
“Yes, it is, but the individual who hired Mr. Wolfe does not feel they have been doing a good job.”
“Well, I do read the newspapers regularly, and over the years I have seen Nero Wolfe’s name appear on a few occasions, usually to do with the solving of a crime, if I’m not mistaken. If your name was in any of those stories as well, I’m sorry but I don’t remember it.”
“Don’t be sorry. Mr. Wolfe is the one who does all the solving. I’m just his errand boy.”
That almost brought a smile, but not quite. “Mrs. Hackman,” I continued, “you said not to spare your feelings. All right, here goes: it seems probable, although not provable at present, that your brother fired the shot that killed the senator, very likely with the same rifle that I saw in the closet upstairs when I was here before. Is it still there?”
“Yes, yes, it is,” she said. “Are those keys you took when you were here before somehow connected to all of this?”
“You are very perceptive,” I told her. “One was a key that opens all sorts of gates at the Polo Grounds; the other does much the same at Yankee Stadium. You had told me those were among the places he briefly worked. Any idea why he would take keys away with him after he had left those jobs? Revenge against the Giants and Yankees for having fired him, perhaps?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” Marguerite said, her expression thoughtful. “When Dick was a kid, before he got all wild and rebellious, he loved baseball, absolutely adored it, particularly the Yankees and Giants, but never the Dodgers, for some reason. Anyway, he got hold of everything he could find about the two teams. Those baseball trading cards boys like to collect so much, of course, but also autographed pictures of the players that he had sent away for.”
“Did he go to games often?”
She shook her head. “It was the Depression, and we didn’t have much money. My father took Dick a few times, to see Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig and Mel Ott, but not often. Later, I think he used to sneak into games. He never said so, but I’m sure of it.”
“Not surprising,” I said. “Kids have been doing that for years, at every level from the bush leagues on up to the big time. I found ways to get into games for nothing myself back in my home county in Ohio. Back to those keys, Mrs. Hackman. Why would he take them?”
“Dick may possibly have been angry about losing those jobs with the Giants and Yankees, although during that period about a year or two ago, he was more irrational than angry most of the time, as indeed he was right up to . . . up to his death. I really think he took the keys as souvenirs. It certainly wouldn’t have been with the intent to get into the Polo Grounds to shoot that senator. That whole business came along much later.”
“You may be right,” I said. “Back to what I told you when I came in. It’s all but a sure thing that your brother shot the senator.”
Marguerite nodded. “Since your last visit, I have done a great deal of thinking and reflecting on events, and I have come to the same conclusion,” she said quietly. “As I told you, Dick was a very troubled man.”
“It sounds like he had good reason to be, what with all he had seen and been through during the war. Your brother may have fired the fatal shot, but it’s more than likely that he was a pawn, not the planner of the crime. That is the person Mr. Wolfe seeks. And to do that, we need your help.”
“By that, I assume you mean my trying to identify the man who called here several times and visited Dick once.”
“Yes. But first, are you absolutely sure it was a man?”
“I don’t know how sure I am about any of this any longer, Mr. Goodwin. The voice on the telephone certainly seemed to be a masculine one, although I suppose voices can be disguised.”
“Do you think you would recognize that voice if you heard it again?”
“I honestly believe I would, yes. I’m pretty good that way. When I listen to those radio shows that have movie stars on as guests, I can almost always identify the actor or actress before someone says their name.”
“What about the figure you saw from your bedroom window, the person who came to the house to visit your brother?”
“Now that really could have been almost anyone. It was dark outside, and I’m assuming that it was a man. He had a hat pulled down low over his face, as I believe I mentioned to you when you were here before.”
“Might that individual have been a woman?”
“I suppose anything is possible. I’m not sure how large the figure I saw was. It may have been a woman dressed like a man. I feel like I’m on the witness stand,” Marguerite said, running a nervous hand through her dusty blonde hair.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to act like a lawyer or a district attorney grilling you, Mrs. Hackman. It’s just that we are fairly short of information about this person, and you have actually talked to him—if we can assume it’s a man.”
“I really think that I’ve told you everything I can. I don’t see that there’s any more I can do.”
“Mr. Wolfe believes you can be of help, if you are willing.”
“Is it anything . . . illegal?”
“Absolutely not.”
“All right, tell me what would be expected, and I will make a decision,” she said firmly. “But hear me on this: I will not be pushed into something that I do not want to do.”
“I understand,” I told her, proceeding to lay out the plan Wolfe had devised. She listened, sometimes nodding, sometimes frowning.
Forty-five minutes later, I left Marguerite Hackman’s house. She had finally talked me into having some coffee, and she also insisted on calling a taxi to pick me up. “They’re so difficult to find in this neighborhood,” she said. “Sometimes, I feel like we here are a forgotten part of New York.”
“That may be, but it is not a part of the city I will soon forget,” I told her as I stepped out of her house and strode to the yellow cab idling at the curb.
Chapter 27
When I got home, Wolfe had finished his afternoon session with the orchids and was reading Modern Arms and Free Men by Vannevar Bush. I reported on my meeting with Mrs. Hackman, and although I did not get a “very satisfactory” this time, Wolfe approved of its outcome.
My next task was easily as challenging as
my assignment in Flushing. Wolfe presented me with a sheet on which he had written a list of those he wanted me to round up and invite to the brownstone the next night. As invariably happens when the man I work for thinks he has zeroed in on the target of an investigation, he invites all of the principals of the case to his office for what Inspector Cramer calls “one of those damned charades of his.” Never mind that those so-called charades invariably present Cramer with the solution to a crime and the individual responsible for it.
Over the years, the amazing thing to me has been that I can usually, albeit sometimes with cajoling, get every one of the suspects in a case to show up on our doorstep, even the guilty party or parties. “Hubris invariably overcomes the fear of detection,” Wolfe has said as an explanation as to why the culprit shows up, only to be led away by the police.
As I looked over the list I had been given, I hoped hubris would once again be at work in the mind of one or more among these people. Wolfe obviously knew who it was, or he wouldn’t be having this party. The best I had been able to do was narrow it down to two, or maybe three.
My first call was to Elise DuVal. “Do you mean that Nero Wolfe has found the killer?” she said in the breathless tone she may have perfected years before in front of Hollywood cameras.
“It appears that way, although he hasn’t shared a name with me, so we will both be surprised tomorrow night.”
“Wait a minute, Archie. After all, I am the client. Shouldn’t I know who it is right now?”
“Sorry, but it does not work that way with Nero Wolfe. All of us are going to learn at the same time.”
“Just who do you mean by ‘all of us’?”
“You will find that out when you get here tomorrow night.”
“That simply is not fair! After all, I’m the one spending the money on this.”
“Elise, I believe that when all of this is finished, you will be satisfied that you got your money’s worth—and more—from Nero Wolfe.”
“Well, I still don’t like it,” she said petulantly. “Can’t you at least give me a little hint?”
Murder in the Ball Park Page 17
