The Battered Badge

by Robert Goldsborough

  “You are just filled with good cheer today, aren’t you? But then, what should I expect from a member of—what do you call it?—the Fourth Estate. None of you are ever happy unless you’ve got some grim news to trot out for your avid and hungry reading public.”

  “You have cut me to the quick, my longtime poker patsy. And here I was just trying to alert you to a problem involving a man you and Nero Wolfe have known for years, however you choose to define your relationship with him.”

  “I would look upon your call as an act of altruism if I were not by nature the suspicious type.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I believe you to be on a fishing expedition to learn whether one Lionel T. Cramer has been seeking our assistance. I can only repeat my earlier comment about the inspector and the George Washington Bridge. Since we are on the subject, just what leads you and your police reporters to believe Cramer is consorting with those on the wrong side of the law?”

  “Aha, so I have whetted your curiosity, have I?”

  “Let us stipulate that I have a healthy curiosity.”

  “Is that what you call it? All right, Archie, certain of our … shall we say informants … have said soon after Pierce’s killing, the inspector was seen dining in the back room of a certain Italian restaurant on Mulberry Street down in Little Italy.”

  “Since when is dining on spaghetti and meatballs an indication of suspicious behavior?”

  “It’s not the dining per se, but just whom he was dining with and the venue.”

  “Okay, I will bite, pardon the pun.”

  “Sorry, I won’t pardon it, I’ve got my standards,” Lon replied. “But since you asked, Cramer’s dinner partner was one Ralph Mars, and that particular restaurant’s back room is a favorite meeting place of people who prefer privacy.”

  “But somehow, I gather the Gazette has found ways to circumvent that privacy.”

  “It is well known that restaurant kitchen staffs are underpaid. I will say no more.”

  “Heaven forbid. This is, of course, the Ralph Mars, longtime underworld kingpin.”

  “Well, to be specific, he wasn’t born with that surname. But, yes, you have correctly identified him.”

  “The great Tony Bennett wasn’t born Tony Bennett either, but that doesn’t seem to bother anyone. Everyone, Italians included, has every right to change their name. Did your restaurant kitchen spies happen to eavesdrop and learn the content of the conversation between Messrs. Cramer and Mars?”

  “Unfortunately, they did not,” Lon said.

  “So, for all you know, the two may have been discussing the Giants’ last-second victory over the Pittsburgh Steelers last Sunday. Everybody else has been talking about it.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think football was the subject of their talk, Archie.”

  “All right, what do you think?”

  “I’m not sure, but doesn’t it seem odd that one of the city’s top cops is seen breaking bread with a top hoodlum in a room known for clandestine meetings?”

  “I concede that to be an unusual occurrence. But I have seen no mention whatever of the backroom meeting in your dear old Gazette, and I pride myself on going through the paper thoroughly every day.”

  “We … don’t have enough to go on,” Lon conceded.

  “Is that so now? You said earlier that, if I may paraphrase, ‘based on what the Gazette’s police reporters have been hearing, Cramer may get indicted.’ Care to elaborate on that?”

  “Not at present. But you have got to admit, Archie, that on top of the heat Cramer had already been getting from the Three-G group, followed by Pierce’s murder, things don’t look so good for him to be supping with the shadowy Mr. Mars.”

  “All right, I will concede that to be unusual behavior on the inspector’s part, to say the least. But this is still circumstantial evidence of malfeasance, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “I know that your boss also reads both our paper and the Times thoroughly every day. Does he have any opinion as to Cramer’s job security?”

  “Mr. Wolfe says in effect that the inspector has been in plenty of pickles before and he likely will be in others in the future. He does not seem overly concerned.”

  “Well, tell him that he should be prepared for a great fall,” Lon said.

  “I will, and I’ll tell you his reaction when next we meet, which will be at Saul Panzer’s poker table on Thursday.”

  “I can hardly wait to get even for last week, Archie,” Lon said as we both hung up.

  Chapter 3

  When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six and settled with a beer in his reinforced chair, I recounted my conversation with Lon Cohen, including the episode in the back room of that notorious Italian eatery. He leaned back, saying nothing. I was about to make a comment when the phone jangled and I answered in the usual way.

  “Mr. Goodwin, this is David Watkins of the Times. I would like to speak to Nero Wolfe.”

  “May I tell him the nature of this call, Mr. Watkins?”

  “I want to get his thoughts on the predicament Inspector Lionel T. Cramer of the Homicide Squad finds himself in. I know that in the past, Mr. Wolfe has been helpful to the inspector in his investigations.”

  “Just a moment,” I said, cupping the mouthpiece and turning to Wolfe. “It’s David Watkins of the Times. He wants to ask to about Cramer’s situation.”

  “I have nothing to say!”

  “How would you like me to phrase that to the man?”

  Wolfe frowned and picked up his receiver while I stayed on the line.

  “This is Nero Wolfe,” he barked.

  “Yes, Mr. Wolfe. David Watkins of the Times. We are interested in getting your thoughts on Inspector Cramer being placed on administrative leave. Do you believe such to be fair treatment of a man who has served this city for so long?”

  “Mr. Watkins, I am not in possession of sufficient information to venture an opinion on this matter.”

  “But surely you have some thoughts,” Watkins persisted.

  “I am not about to speculate on Mr. Cramer’s situation without adequate knowledge of the specifics. Good day, sir,” Wolfe said as he cradled his instrument.

  Watkins began a new sentence, although all I heard was “But …” before the connection got severed.

  “Now are you satisfied?” Wolfe said, glaring at me and returning to his book and his beer.

  “Look, you are a public figure, whether you happen to like that or not,” I told him. “People like reading about you. Besides, I know you enjoy seeing your name in print—don’t try to deny it.” That earned me another glare, so I removed myself and went to the kitchen to see how Fritz was progressing with dinner—squabs with sauce Vénitienne.

  The squabs were superb as usual, as were the cherry tarts that followed. Wolfe has a hard-and-fast policy to not discuss cases at mealtime, but because we did not presently have a case, he chose—much to my surprise—to expound on our long and often stormy relationship with Inspector Cramer.

  “I realize Mr. Cramer and his current situation are on your mind, Archie,” he said. “I concur with your judgment that we would far prefer working with the inspector than with that … man, Rowcliff.” Wolfe pronounced “man” as if it were a disease.

  “But to borrow a phrase I have heard you use in regard to your weekly poker game,” he continued, “we must play the hand we are dealt. And in this instance, our hand leaves us little choice but to stay out of the game, whatever our wishes. You know as well as I do that Mr. Cramer would not solicit our help, even if we had aid to give—which at present we do not. Are you in agreement?”

  “I am. I simply cannot believe he is involved either in Pierce’s shooting or with the crime syndicate. But as you say, the inspector would never approach us for help. His pride simply will not allow it.”
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br />   “He is an obstinate individual, as we have observed over time: competent, generally; mercurial, occasionally; brave and honest, unquestionably,” Wolfe said. “But he also is maddeningly stubborn and intractable, as we have experienced. Do you have anything to add to that appraisal?”

  “No, sir, you have nailed it,” I said to my boss, who also can be maddeningly stubborn and intractable, although I agreed with his position in this instance. “I see no choice for us but to sit this one out.”

  Chapter 4

  The next morning’s Times had a short article about Cramer on page twelve, reporting in essence that he remained on administrative leave and that Commissioner O’Hara had declined to make a statement. Wolfe’s name did appear in the piece, which may or may not have pleased him as he reviewed a copy of the paper in his bedroom with breakfast. It read: “Nero Wolfe, the well-known private investigator who has collaborated with Mr. Cramer on numerous murder cases, had no comment regarding the inspector’s current situation.”

  The phone rang as I sat in the office with a postbreakfast coffee. It was Lon Cohen. “Is this now to be a daily ritual?” I asked.

  “No sarcasm, Archie; it does not become you. I feel I have a solemn responsibility to keep you and your boss apprised on developments in l’affaire Cramer.”

  “Getting pretty hoity-toity with the French now, aren’t we? Okay, what gives?”

  “It seems that one of the people calling for the inspector’s scalp has an ax to grind, so to speak.”

  “And yet you refuse to pardon me when I try to get cute with words. Very punny.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s call a truce.”

  “Fine by me. Now who is this with the ax to grind?”

  “Weldon Dunagan; I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “The grocery store tycoon, right? These days there are DunaganMarts from coast to coast.”

  “And now some overseas as well,” Lon said. “The chain has grown like crazy in recent years, mainly by advertising and marketing what they claim are wholesome and unprocessed natural foods.”

  “So what is Dunagan’s gripe with Cramer?”

  “One of our reporters with a good memory recalled that years ago, Cramer helped to break up a beating on the street.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember it now. The inspector was being driven home to Queens from his office one night, and he and his chauffeur, a patrolman, saw two young punks pounding on a third guy on a street in Long Island City. It got some news coverage at the time.”

  “I remember it, too,” Lon said. “But what I had forgotten, if I ever even knew it, was that one of the jerks doing the beating was Dunagan’s son, Kevin. Of course, it may not have registered with me at the time because the elder Dunagan was not nearly as well known as he is today.”

  “And so he’s still holding a grudge against Cramer, is that it?”

  “Yeah, especially since the inspector was a witness at Kevin’s trial, and the kid ended up getting some prison time.”

  “That had to make Daddy angry.”

  “There’s more, Archie. Weldon Dunagan is far and away the largest financial supporter of the Good Government Group. And there’s still more: Dunagan has been heard to say, ‘I’ll see that so-and-so Cramer get tossed off the force if it’s the last thing that I ever do.’ Except that the man did not say ‘so-and-so,’ if you happen to get my drift.”

  “I do. And I assume Dunagan has a lot of influence, including with people in local government.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “Why hasn’t Dunagan’s comment about Cramer ever been in print? Or did I miss it?”

  “The same reason Cramer’s dinner in Little Italy with Ralph Mars hasn’t been reported,” Lon said. “We simply don’t have enough to go on, only hearsay, and my guess is the other papers don’t either, assuming that they even know as much as we do.”

  “Well, I have to believe that sooner or later, all this stuff involving Cramer will come out.”

  “I have to agree,” Lon said, “and things will only get worse for the inspector, although he is not the only one feeling the heat from Dunagan on the Pierce murder. We hear that the grocery king feels the whole police department is falling down on the job regarding the investigation. He apparently has had some angry conversations with Commissioner O’Hara. We can’t confirm this, but I think our source in the police department is pretty solid, even though he insists on remaining anonymous.”

  Just as we hung up, Wolfe entered the office with a raceme of yellow Cymbidium, placed it in the vase on his desk, and rang for beer. He was barely settled in his chair when the phone rang. I answered in the usual way and got rewarded with the rasping voice of Inspector Cramer. “Wolfe there? What am I saying—of course he is—it’s after eleven!”

  I mouthed our caller’s name, and my boss frowned, picking up his receiver while I stayed on the line. “This is Nero Wolfe.”

  “Listen, Wolfe, the last thing I need right now is to see your name in any story that has anything to do with me. Do you understand that?”

  “If you please, Mr. Cramer!” Wolfe snapped. “I did not initiate a conversation with that reporter on the Times, and as you have read, I made no comment whatever about your situation—nor do I plan to.”

  After several seconds of silence, Cramer exhaled, saying, “All right … all right,” in a tired tone. He hung up.

  I turned to Wolfe, who popped the cap on the first of two bottles of chilled Remmers on the tray Fritz had brought in. “All I can say is if that’s a sample of what life is like in the Cramer household these days, I feel sorry for the inspector’s wife, having to put up with a caged lion.”

  “These are not felicitous times for Mr. Cramer, Archie, as we already have discussed. The man finds himself under siege. He is hardly to be envied.”

  “Well, I, for one, feel sorry for the guy. I never thought I would be saying that, given the times he’s hauled me in for questioning or threatened to toss me into the Tombs and throw away the key.”

  “To a degree I share your reaction,” Wolfe said. “Inspector Cramer over the years has incurred our animosity on numerous occasions, but if he is forced from his job permanently, the police department and the city will be the poorer for it.”

  “But, as you have stated before and I concur, there is not a hell of a lot we can do,” I said. That ended our discussion concerning the inspector’s plight, at least for the present.

  Chapter 5

  For the next week, I thought about Inspector Cramer no more than two or three times, and then only in passing. I had plenty to keep me occupied, between typing up Wolfe’s twenty-page essay on the many hybrids of Phalaenopsis for an orchid publication and helping Lily Rowan with the benefit she was hosting for the Humane Society.

  A few words here about Lily: she and I have been friends, make that very good friends, ever since that day years ago in a pasture in Upstate New York when an angry bull charged me and I avoided its horns only by leaping awkwardly over a fence.

  “Very good, Escamillo!” she said, clapping as she observed my jump from her vantage point on the safe side of said fence. For those of you unfamiliar with opera, as I was before I met Lily, Escamillo is a bullfighter in Carmen.

  Lily is very beautiful and also very rich, having inherited millions from her Irish-born father, who made his fortune building much of Manhattan’s sewer system. She also is very lazy, by her own admission. I disagree with this self-description, however, as she consistently uses her wealth for numerous good causes. She has a penthouse slightly smaller than New Hampshire on the roof of a ten-story building on East Sixty-Third Street between Madison and Park Avenues, and she thinks nothing of throwing her home open for charitable events of all sorts. She also thinks nothing of enlisting my help at these soirees, and I have been known to do everything from hanging up visitors’ coats to tending the bar in her ballro
om-size salon while a string quartet played Mozart and Beethoven.

  For the record, as big as Lily’s bank balance is, whenever we go out, whether to dinner, dancing, the theater, or a Rangers’ game at the Garden, I pay—period. Call it old-fashioned if you insist, but that’s the way it is and the way it will always be.

  As we dined at Rusterman’s Restaurant one evening, she leaned forward out of the blue and asked, “What do you and Mr. Wolfe think about … Uncle … about Mr. Cramer’s predicament?”

  Another thing about Lily: Her late father had been a good friend of Cramer’s and through his Tammany Hall connections had helped get him on the force years ago. As the inspector told Wolfe and me once, “Lily Rowan’s father was one of my best friends. He got me out of a couple of tight holes in the old days when he was on the inside at the Hall. I knew Lily before she could walk.”1

  In fact, Lily once said to me that Cramer had been like an uncle to her, so her anxiety over his situation did not surprise me.

  “We are concerned, of course,” I told her as we finished our desserts. “For all the wrangling we have done with the inspector over the years, both Mr. Wolfe and I know what a good, honest, and generally effective cop he is.”

  “And of course, you both would much rather deal with him than with that preening jackass Rowcliff,” Lily responded, arching an eyebrow.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, laughing, “so you have a point there. I won’t argue it or your description of Rowcliff. On a more practical level, I don’t see how we can be of much help to Cramer at present. For one thing, he doesn’t want our aid and has told us as much, in no uncertain terms. This even though we haven’t even offered to help him. Also, someone has come to us asking that we intercede on the inspector’s behalf.”

  “Sergeant Stebbins, no doubt,” Lily said, again arching a well-tended brow.

  “Do you have people stationed across the street from the brownstone?” I asked as we both laughed. “Seriously, maybe you can be of some help here, assuming we ever do get involved.”