“As was no doubt intended. And it is all but certain that the shooter was indeed a syndicate hit man, but one operating in this situation as a freelancer under the temporary employ of another individual.”
“Who?”
“That is precisely the question I hope to answer.”
“What’s stopping you—or the police—from grilling the shooter if you know his identity?”
“That is impossible. He too has been shot dead, and in all probability by the syndicate itself, which does not appreciate its employees being hired by others.”
“Do the police know this?” Dunagan asked.
“I am sure they are aware of the situation, given their army of investigators. So we are agreed that the syndicate was not responsible for Mr. Pierce’s killing.”
Dunagan laughed—actually laughed. “Give me more of this superb cognac, and I will agree to almost anything.”
“The bottle remains at your disposal,” Wolfe said. “If you do not object, I will pose questions you may already have been asked by Mr. Goodwin when he visited you in your office.”
“Fine,” Dunagan said with the carefree wave of a hand. “Ask away.”
“Is it fair to say you knew Lester Pierce well?”
“Absolutely. We worked together hand in glove in shaping the Good Government Group. He shared my antipathy toward corrupt governmental practices—of which there are many—and obviously toward the crime syndicate. I could not have wanted a better partner in this venture.”
“How much did you know about the man’s private life?”
“As much as I needed to,” Dunagan said. “Although we did not socialize a great deal, I had met Audra several times, and I was impressed by her commitment to a variety of fine causes. I also met each of their children, and they all seemed solid.”
“Were you aware of any extramarital relations Mr. Pierce had?”
“I was not, and I find it hard to believe there were any. Good heavens, the man was a pillar of his church. Now I am not a very religious person myself, Mr. Wolfe”—he had now added a “Mr.” in addressing my boss, so the Remisier was working its magic—“but I respect and admire those who are. How, I ask you, could someone so devout behave in such a way?”
“Outward piety is hardly a guarantee of inward virtues,” Wolfe said. “Jesus of Nazareth made that clear to his followers with these words: ‘When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing on the street corners to be seen by men… . When you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.’”
“I am impressed by your biblical knowledge,” Dunagan said with a nod.
“Do not be; the Bible is literature,” Wolfe replied, “and several of its translations warrant a place in any good library.”
“I still find it very difficult to believe that Lester would have broken his wedding vows.”
“There has been speculation to the contrary,” Wolfe said. “I do not make it a habit to trade in gossip, but you should know that Mr. Pierce apparently had a liaison with another member of the organization’s staff.”
“Which would be Laura Cordwell!” Dunagan barked, jerking upright. “Dammit, when she got hired, I had to wonder if her good looks might have had something to do with her getting the position—and whether her presence would become a distraction.”
“From what I have been told, however, she has been most capable at her job,” Wolfe remarked.
“That’s what Lester always told me, but if she … if he …” Dunagan drew in air and seemed to run down like an alarm clock whose jangling was ignored.
“As I said, sir, we are in the realm of speculation regarding Miss Cordwell, and we shall move on,” Wolfe said. “To your knowledge, had Mr. Pierce ever been threatened by anyone?”
“If he had, I never knew about it,” Dunagan said, shaking his head vigorously. “I cannot think of a soul. He was an extremely likable man, gregarious, friendly, and generous.”
“Would you say he was universally liked within the Good Government Group?”
“It always seemed that way to me. I often sat in on the staff meetings that Lester chaired, and it was clear that he was admired by all of them.”
“Admiration is not necessarily synonymous with likability.”
“You sure are a stickler with words, aren’t you? All right then, it seemed to me he was both admired and liked.”
“Might the fact you were present have affected the way members of the group acted toward Mr. Pierce?”
“I really don’t think so. I attended these sessions often enough that everyone was used to my presence in the room. And I rarely spoke up. My method of operation is to hire good people and then leave them alone to do their jobs.”
“A good policy,” Wolfe said. “How would you describe Mr. Pierce’s management style?”
“It was similar to my own, which may explain why we got along so well. He too tried to find good people and let them do their work without interference from above. Like me with my company, he did not micromanage, which seems to be a hot new business term.”
“Did you approve of all those he hired?”
“Well … I mentioned earlier my reservation about Laura, but then she turned out to be energetic and full of ideas about how to make Three-G more relevant and more effective. Now, after what you have told me about her, I really don’t know what to think.
“Lester also hired Roland Marchbank,” Dunagan continued. “In fact, that was his very first hire, even before Laura. He jumped into his job as assistant executive director with great enthusiasm. My reservation about Roland is that he tends toward being overly confrontational, and he does not take criticism from other staffers well. However, I still believe that he will be a fine executive director.
“As to other hires, most of them have been eager recent college graduates who have a burning desire to change the world. One local newspaper referred to these young men and women as ‘Pierce’s Pride of Lions’ for their tenacity and their high-minded crusading against governmental corruption. Because of the work of some of these young people, two members of the city council were removed from their seats for bribery and graft, and one building department head was indicted for pocketing city funds. Now I don’t mean to say these kids did all the work in these cases, not at all, but they really dug into records and files, real bulldogs they were, and tireless.”
“I have read about these young people in newspaper articles,” Wolfe said. “Will they work as well with Mr. Marchbank as they did with his predecessor?”
“I honestly believe so, despite how worshipful they were toward Lester. Some of them thought of him as almost godlike.”
“You already have stated you don’t believe anyone within the Good Government Group was responsible for Mr. Pierce’s death. Surely, however, it is possible that he made enemies elsewhere because of the investigative nature of the organization’s work.”
“Of course he—and Three-G—did make their share of enemies; that comes with the territory,” Dunagan said. “We stepped on a lot of toes over the years and got a few people tossed out of their jobs, and deservedly so. But having said that, I cannot think of anyone angry enough, or desperate enough, to want to kill Lester.”
“Very well. If upon reflection an individual occurs to you, please inform Mr. Goodwin. Now if you will excuse me, I bid you a good evening,” Wolfe said, rising and walking out of the office.
“That was certainly an abrupt exit,” Dunagan said, turning to me with a puzzled expression.
“Mr. Wolfe is like that,” I said. “Don’t take offense. He wastes no time on small talk, and when his business is concluded, he sometimes behaves in a brusque manner.”
“I’ll say it’s brusque. Oh, well, the evening was not a complete waste,” Dunagan s
aid, eyeing his empty snifter. “That cognac alone was worth the visit. As I said before, it is tragic that so little of it exists.”
Chapter 24
After I watched Weldon Dunagan go down the front steps of the brownstone and ease into the backseat of his chauffeured Rolls-Royce, I returned to the office to find Wolfe behind his desk again, nose in a book.
“Mr. Dunagan was somewhat taken aback by your abrupt departure from the room,” I said, getting a glare in response. “Of course, I was a little fazed myself by what you said to him: ‘We are here to discuss one matter and one matter only, the murder of Lester Pierce.’ You almost had me fooled by that.”
Wolfe set his book down and glared again but said nothing. “The sole purpose of your inviting Dunagan here tonight was to change his attitude toward Inspector Cramer, isn’t that so, Chief?” He hates it when I call him “chief” even more than when I call him “boss.”
“Are you quite through?” Wolfe said icily.
“I am. I do think you were successful, though, regarding the inspector, so I suppose it is fair to say that something got accomplished tonight. But just where do we go from here?”
“I suggest you go to bed, which is what I plan to do after I have finished this chapter. We will discuss the matter in the morning.”
I did not know if he said that just to put me off, or whether he really meant it, but the next morning, when he came down to the office from visiting his “concubines,” as he likes to refer to the orchids, I swiveled to face him. “Well?”
“Well, what?” he demanded as he pressed the buzzer under his desk drawer, signaling Fritz to bring in beer.
“Well, we have something to discuss, or have you forgotten?”
“I never forget anything. I have been thinking about an assignment, and you may not like it.”
“Try me.”
“The syndicate gunman, who was himself shot, Guido Capelli, must have some next of kin. I suggest you find them and learn everything you can about him. Knowing what befell Saul, I do not propose this mission lightly.”
“Assuming Capelli is the one who shot Pierce, which I believe to be true, what you really want to know is who hired him.”
“And I realize that may not be possible,” Wolfe said.
“But we might be able to find out something about him that will help us. It’s a lot better than sitting on our collective hands. I know just where to start.”
If that last bit sounded boastful, it really wasn’t. My starting point was only a few feet from my desk—the shelves where we keep copies of the last two weeks of issues of the Times and Gazette. Knowing the date on which Capelli had been shot, I went first to the Times, which generally has a longer list of death notices. Sure enough, it jumped out at me:
CAPELLI—Guido L.
of Brooklyn, passed away at the age of 37, on November 17, loving son of Maria, cherished brother of Marcantonio and Cecilia.
Services and burial were private.
This was a start. I went to the Brooklyn telephone directory and, wonder of wonders, found two Capellis in the book, Cecilia and Marcantonio. There was no listing for Guido. I then called Lon, who answered as usual with a gruff “Cohen, what is it?”
“You really need to work on your telephone manners,” I said. “I need a favor, a small one.”
“Never mind my telephone manners—I’m a busy man, unlike you. You always refer to your favors as small, no matter how much time and trouble they end up causing,” he said.
“Now you know that simply is not true. Besides, many of those favors eventually come back to you in the form of exclusive stories.”
A grunt for effect came through the wire. “All right, what is it this time? Spit it out.”
“I would like to know what, if anything, you have in your files on one Marcantonio Capelli.”
“Now just why does that surname sound so familiar?” Lon asked. “Might this Marcantonio be a relative of a certain gentleman—and I use that term loosely—who made news recently by getting himself shot, and very possibly by the very same group of people whom he had toiled for?”
“You are most perceptive, which may be why you now hold an exalted position at what has been called the fifth-largest daily newspaper in all of America.”
“What d’ya mean, called? It is the fifth-largest paper in all the land, and not far behind number four, either.”
“Okay, enough of your breast-beating. I bow to the honored position of your publication. Now, can you or one of your many underlings see if you have written anything about this Marcantonio?”
Lon told me that, as busy as the staff was, he would find someone to scour the paper’s morgue. Sure enough, less than half an hour later, he telephoned.
“Here is what we’ve got on your not-so-good boy: Six years ago, Marcantonio Capelli was arrested for armed robbery. He held up a deli in Brooklyn, and the owner called the police seconds after he had left the store. He was nabbed three blocks away with the cash in his pocket. He got two years but was paroled after serving half the time. Four years ago, Capelli was caught again, in the act of holding up a Queens filling station when its owner triggered an alarm tied to a police station while our Mr. C. was still in the place. He got only a year because when he was caught, he didn’t have a weapon.”
“Hardly a high-wattage lightbulb, is he? Anything else?”
“That’s it,” Lon said.
“What’s his age?”
“Let’s see, he was twenty-eight six years ago. My high school math tells me that would make him thirty-four now.”
“You got any idea what he does for a living?”
“No, but I hope robbery isn’t full-time work, because he sure as hell hasn’t been very good at that. I assume you want to talk to him about his brother.”
“Now there’s a good assumption.”
“Well, be careful. He may not take kindly to being quizzed.”
“Believe it or not, that has occurred to me.”
“Just remember where you got the information and what a good friend I am.”
“I will be sure to file that away for future reference.”
After hanging up, I turned to Wolfe. “I am going to pay a visit to the late Guido Capelli’s brother, Marcantonio, in Brooklyn, assuming I can find him at home, and see what, if anything, I can learn about the recently deceased. The younger sibling seems to have gone astray as well, according to the Gazette’s files.”
“I trust you will be armed.”
“I will,” I told him, opening the safe and pulling out the shoulder holster, strapping it on, slipping my trusty Marley .32 into it, and sliding a silencer, which I call a “tongue loosener,” into my coat pocket.
“Do not do anything reckless,” Wolfe said as I rose to leave.
“Reckless, me? I have grown too fond of myself over the years to place yours truly in harm’s way.”
Wolfe scowled, returning to his book, and I left, walking over to Curran Motors and picking up the Heron sedan. Traffic was light, so I got over to Brooklyn in twenty minutes. I had no trouble finding the address on a modest, tree-lined street in Bushwick. The two-story brick building that butted up to the sidewalk looked like a smaller and more tired version of Wolfe’s brownstone.
Apparently, this was a single-family residence, because the only buzzer next to the front door had a card with CAPELLI on it. I pushed and waited. Nothing. I pushed again, several times.
“Yeah, what is it?” a voice squawked.
“Marcantonio?” I spoke into the intercom.
“Yeah, what?”
“I need to see you about your brother.”
He answered with an obscenity. I leaned into the buzzer again and held it down.
“Awright, awright, dammit, I’m coming down. Don’t have a conniption.”
I stood on the stoop for a ful
l minute. Finally, the door opened, and a short, dark guy with a ducktail hairstyle and wearing a black, zippered jacket came out and peered at me, blinking his eyes as if they were unused to sunlight. “Whaddya want?” he demanded.
“I’d like to talk to you about your brother.”
“Why?”
“We’re looking into why he got shot.”
“Who’s we?” he said, giving me what I’m sure he thought was a tough-guy sneer. He looked like he was central casting’s idea of one of the gang members in West Side Story.
“Private cops,” I said.
“Let’s go where we can talk privatelike,” he said. “My mama, she’s upstairs sleeping. I don’t wanna disturb her. Follow me.”
We walked down the block until we came to an alley, something you don’t see in Manhattan. “Let’s go in here and talk,” Capelli said. “I don’t wanna to be seen with no cop, private or otherwise.” We stepped into the alley that had a dogleg, which meant part of it was hidden from the street.
I did not like being in an enclosed area, remembering what happened to Saul recently in a gangway, and my instincts were a couple of seconds slow. Capelli’s fist caught me on the left cheekbone, and I staggered back as he got ready to throw a second punch.
But now he was the one to be slow. I was ready for him and drove my own fist into his gut, which was flabbier than I thought, given his lean build. He doubled over with a moan and started to retch as I drove a left to his chin, which felled him. When he tried to get up, I whipped out the Marley.
“Stay right there, Hotspur,” I barked. It turned out he wasn’t any better as a fighter than as a robber. “Now that really wasn’t very nice. And here I thought we were going to have a friendly chat.”
“You son of a bitch,” he muttered, still lying on his back.
“Not a very smart way to talk to someone who’s looking down a gun barrel at you,” I said. “Who killed your brother?”
“Who do you think, wise guy?”
The Battered Badge Page 16
