“You can still leave,” I told her. “Otherwise, you’ll be having some conversations with the police.”
“I don’t mind,” she said in a strong but wooden voice, keeping her eyes averted from the body.
“Fair enough. Here we go.” The receiver at the other end got picked up on the first ring. “Is Sergeant Stebbins there?” I asked the hoarse-voiced detective. It was a long shot given the time of night.
“Purley? Uh—yeah, come to think of it, he still is. Who’s calling?”
“Archie Goodwin.”
That brought a snort before the guy cupped his receiver and bellowed Purley’s name. I’ve never been terribly popular with the Homicide crowd. For that matter, neither has Wolfe.
“Yeah?”
This was Purley Stebbins’s usual salutation. A word here about the good sergeant: He has been employed by the New York Police Department since the days when LaGuardia was a mayor, not an airport, and he has served as Inspector Cramer’s right-hand man in Homicide for most of that time. Charm and diplomacy have never been among Purley’s high cards, but he got dealt aces in honesty and bravery.
“I’m calling from an apartment in the Village,” I told him. “With me is a young woman who was supposed to meet a guy tonight for drinks. The guy, by the name of Andrew Swartz, didn’t show, and now we know why: He’s lying on the floor here, which is to say his apartment, and he’s not taking a nap. And don’t waste the taxpayers’ money by sending the paramedics; this one’s been gone for some time.”
Purley muttered something best not repeated, then took a deep breath. “And I suppose you just happened along?” he posed sarcastically.
“It’s a complicated story,” I answered, giving him the address.
“I’ll find time for it,” he growled, hanging up harder than was necessary.
“The police will be here within ten minutes,” I said to Annie, replacing the receiver and putting the handkerchief back in my pocket. “And we’re fortunate in one respect: A sergeant named Stebbins will be talking to you; he’s a long way from smooth, but he’s a decent man, and he won’t waste your time unnecessarily.” I could have told her about mopes like Lieutenant Rowcliff and how they handle investigations, but I figured she had enough on her mind right now.
We both walked out to the front stoop and waited for Purley, who didn’t make a liar out of me, pulling up eight minutes after he’d banged down the phone. He got out of the front passenger seat of a squad car that was blinking like a pinball machine and plodded up the sidewalk toward us with his uniformed driver three paces behind him. Everything about Purley Stebbins seems to shout cop. He’s fairly tall and wide without being fat, with a bony face bracketed by big ears. His overcoat, open despite the thirty-degree weather, revealed a baggy brown suit and a tie of indeterminate color. He gave me one of those are-you-ever-going-to-get-out-of-my-life? looks and uttered a single word: “Where?”
“Rear of this floor,” I told him, and Annie and I fell into step behind him and the uniformed cop, whose nameplate read “J. Marshall.” We all shouldered our way into the living room, where Purley surveyed the remains of Andrew Swartz for several seconds.
“Howd’ja get in?” he asked me.
“I could tell you that the door was unlocked or ajar, but my mother taught me never to lie.”
“Breaking and entering,” he muttered, although at the moment he obviously wasn’t concerned about that particular breach of the law. “He’s where you found him?”
“Hasn’t moved a muscle. By the way, this is Annie Burkett, the one Swartz was supposed to meet for drinks.”
Purley nodded her way, which for him is the equivalent of a bow, then he knelt next to the body.
“The M.E.’s on the way,” he said, turning to me. “I suppose you’ve given the place a good going over.”
“You won’t find my fingerprints anywhere, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve had my gloves on except to check Swartz’s carotid.”
“What time did you get here?” He directed the question at both of us as he slowly got to his feet. I looked at Annie, whose frown made it clear that she expected me to be spokesperson here.
“Just before I phoned you, Purley. Annie had been waiting for Swartz at a bar called Toohey’s, which is a five-minute walk from here.”
Stebbins grimaced and turned his face into a question mark as he studied us, his eyes moving from me to Annie and back. “You two … know each other, right?”
“As of today we do,” I said, dodging a lie.
He sucked in almost as much air as Wolfe does and let it out slowly, hitching up his belt. “Tell me why it is that I’m positive there’s more to your being here than just random chance?”
“Because you’re the suspicious type by nature,” I replied. “And I—”
I was interrupted by the sound of a siren. Another car had arrived, and within seconds, Swartz’s apartment was overrun. New York’s Finest quickly took over. The guy from the medical examiner’s office huffed in, along with two more uniforms and a police photographer. Purley eased Annie and me out the door and into the corridor, where tenants of the building were beginning to gather and buzz.
“Miss … Burkett, isn’t it?” he asked. “We’ll need to talk to you. And you too,” he said, addressing me in a tone several degrees colder than he used on Annie. “Let’s go out to the car.”
We elbowed our way through the growing knots of buzzing tenants and out to the car Purley had arrived in. He had us both sit in the back seat and he plumped down up front, turning on the engine and the heater and the dome light and swiveling to face us. “I’d like to start with you,” he said to Annie. “This Swartz, was he a good friend of yours?”
“I knew him,” she said, clearing her throat, “but not terribly well.”
“How did you happen to know him, Miss Burkett?”
She looked questioningly at me, and I gave her a nod, realizing its implications.
“We both work for advertising agencies, and, well … he called me, he wanted to talk to me.”
“What about?”
She eyed me again and got another nod, which wasn’t lost on Purley. What the hell, I thought, it was going to come out soon enough anyway—might as well be right here and now. And that’s what happened. Looking at me every thirty seconds for approval, Annie spilled it all: her job at Mills/Lake/Ryman, the apparent commercial idea thefts by Colmar & Conn, the hiring of Wolfe by the agency, Swartz’s call to Annie, my trip to the M/L/R office, our rendezvous at Toohey’s, and the visit to Swartz’s apartment. Purley asked a few questions, but mainly Annie talked, and when she was through, he threw a look my way.
“Got anything to add?”
“Nope. She said it better than I could.”
“Uh-huh. What does Wolfe think?”
“Beats me. I’ve been trying to figure that out for years.”
“Don’t get cute. You know damn well what I mean—what does he think about this Swartz thing?”
“Hell, Purley, he’s not up to date on what’s happened.”
The dome bulb in the squad car was dim, but it gave off more than enough light to show the cynicism on his face. “I’ve known you too long,” he muttered. “If you didn’t call Wolfe before you phoned me, then I’m a parish priest.”
“Don’t bother going out to buy a collar,” I said. “Okay, so I rang Wolfe; after all, I am employed by the man, and I was on a job. But as to what he thinks about Swartz buying the farm, he didn’t share it with me. In fact, I don’t think he was terribly glad to hear from me.”
“I can believe that.” Purley said it with feeling. “Okay, I gotta stay here, but I’ll have Marshall drive you both to headquarters to make statements.”
“Where’s Cramer?” I asked.
“Vacation. Gets back tomorrow.”
“Does that mean we draw Rowcliff?”
Purley came as close to smiling as he ever does, then shook his head. “Sorry, he’s off today. You’ll probably get
Phelps—a real softie.”
In fact, Lieutenant Phelps of Homicide, whom I had never met before, was hardly a softie. When we got to headquarters, Annie and I were of course split up. I assumed that Phelps talked to her first, because I sat in a gray room alone for two hours, counting the places on the ceiling where the paint had peeled. I was up to ninety-two when Phelps breezed in.
“So … you’re Archie Goodwin,” he said, rubbing his hands together and grinning tightly. He was tall and thin, with blond hair beginning to go white. Somebody most have told him once that he was good-looking, because he had that pleased-with-himself look usually worn on the faces of second-rate film actors. “I know all about you. The word around is you think you’re quite the smart guy.”
I looked up at Phelps, expressionless. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, still holding the Jack Palance smile and squinting with his light blue eyes as he sat on the corner of the table in the typical cop-in-the-movie pose. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Lieutenant Rowcliff, who you know.”
“That name sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Listen Goodwin, Stebbins radioed ahead, so I know all about tonight. Plus the nice little chat I just had with Miss Burkett. You’re already in the soup on illegal entry, so don’t make it any worse on yourself. Now exactly what were you doing at Swartz’s place?”
“If you talked to Purley and had such a pleasant powwow with Miss Burkett, you already have the answer to that,” I told him.
“I’d like to hear it from you, though—and I’ve got all night.” Maybe his facial muscles were frozen into that sneer.
“Fine, then let’s get someone in here to take it down,” I said in an exasperated tone, “because I’m only going to tell it once.”
“I’ll decide just how many times you tell it, mister,” Phelps hissed, but he did get a young uniformed cop in to take shorthand.
The next forty minutes are best summarized. First off, Phelps possesses all the makings of Homicide’s next Rowcliff—he’s arrogant, oafish, stupid, and rude, although I haven’t seen enough of him to know what his weaknesses are. His neo-Spanish-Inquisition interrogation style wears a little thin after the first twenty seconds or so, but I thought I was the model of patience as I calmly recited the events of the evening, and also confirmed what he already knew: that M/L/R was a client of Nero Wolfe. At various times during the questioning, he threatened to (a) lock me up, (b) get Wolfe downtown immediately, and (c) revoke my private investigator’s license. I could have played games with him to see if, like Rowcliff, he stutters when he gets angry. But he wasn’t worth the effort, and besides, I was tired and hungry, so I rode out his tantrums and his posturing.
“All right, Goodwin,” he said after he’d exhausted his questions and threats, “that’s it for now. You can clear out. But you’d better believe you haven’t heard the last of me.”
I almost drew blood on my lower lip stopping myself from responding to that, but as much as I would have liked to tweak Phelps, I was more interested in getting home. As it was, for some reason I had a devil of a time finding a cab, and when I finally rang the bell on the stoop of the brownstone for Fritz to unbolt the door, it was almost one. Wolfe had gone up to bed, and there were no notes on my desk. Knowing that tomorrow—make that today—was likely to be hectic, I shut off the phone and climbed the stairs to my room. I’m used to eight hours of sleep, but I was ready to settle for six.
NINE
I’VE TALKED—MAKE THAT GRIPED—on more than a few occasions about Wolfe’s inflexibility when it comes to the daily schedule in the brownstone. However, in the interest of fairness, I must report that I’ve got an inflexibility of my own: breakfast. Barring nuclear alert or tidal wave, I take my morning meal at a small table in the kitchen Monday through Saturday. It consists of some combination of coffee, juice, muffins, wheatcakes, eggs, and a breakfast meat, chewed and/or swallowed leisurely and seasoned with healthy dollops of the New York Times.
Fritz knows that during this period, I accept no calls, except from Wolfe, who has his own breakfast on a tray in his bedroom, and who has been known to ask for me at this time about as frequently as a total solar eclipse. Wednesday morning while gnawing on sausage and the Times, I could tell that Fritz was dying to break in, but I wasn’t about to give him the opening—not yet, anyway. Fritz, as you may know, frets when Wolfe isn’t working on a case and thereby earning a fat fee, because he thinks we’re always three days removed from bankruptcy court. I hadn’t told him yet about Mills/Lake/Ryman hiring us, and I doubt if Wolfe had filled him in, either. But it was obvious from the way he hovered over me that he had what he felt was exciting news.
I ate at my usual speed, however, lingering over a Times analysis of the Mets’ chances (“anywhere from first to fifth”) for the coming season. The paper had no mention of young Swartz’s death—they undoubtedly learned about it too late to make the home-delivered edition. Finally, after draining the last coffee from the cup, I wiped my mouth with the napkin and turned to Fritz. “Any calls?” I asked innocently.
“Archie, they started right at six, when I turned the telephone on!” he blurted. “Already, seven people have called, all for you. They are about … something that happened last night.” He made that last sentence sound like a question.
“Something did happen last night—to a man named Swartz,” I told him, neatly refolding my Times. “And in reply to your unasked query, it may or may not result in more business for us. By the way, Mr. Wolfe has a new client, an advertising agency, and it is entirely possible that Mr. Swartz’s murder may somehow be tied to what we’ve just started working on. Who called?”
“First the Times, at six-oh-three,” Fritz said, reading off the little pad he keeps next to the kitchen telephone. “A reporter named Lopossa, who said that he’d been trying our line for over an hour. Then Channel Two, at six-nineteen, Mr. Cohen seven minutes later, then a Mr. Mills, then the Daily News at—”
“Enough,” I said, holding up a hand. “Give me your notes, and I’ll start returning these—after I talk to Mr. Wolfe.” Fritz didn’t say a word, but as he turned back to his kitchen chores, I detected a slight off-key humming.
Wolfe’s bedroom is on the second floor of the brownstone, directly beneath mine. I took the stairs two at a time and knocked on his door, getting a gruff “Yes?”
“Me. We need to talk.” The second yes was gruffer than the first, but without the question mark, so I entered. As many times as I’ve seen Wolfe having breakfast in bed, the sight still awes me: Dressed as usual in his bright yellow pajamas and propped up with the tray on his lap, he seems somehow larger than when he’s behind his desk. Maybe it’s because of all that yellow—the coverlet is almost the same color as the pajamas—but he is indeed a sight to behold, and one that only Fritz and I are ever likely to see.
“Well?” he said, glowering at me between bites of eggs au beurre noir.
“I know that you’d prefer my giving you a recap of last night after your visit to the orchids, but this is an exception, partly because first thing this morning we got a slug of phone calls about Swartz—Fritz took them all—and I need some marching orders before returning them.”
Without waiting for a response, I launched into a report on what had happened after I phoned Wolfe from Swartz’s apartment, closing with an observation that the police were probably more than glad to mention my name often in their report, knowing it would sic the newspaper and TV folks on us. He stopped eating during my recitation, pausing only to drink chocolate. After I finished, he sighed as only he can sigh. “One of those calls was of course Mr. Mills,” he said sourly.
“As a matter of fact, you are correct. All the rest are from the media.”
“Get him,” Wolfe snapped, moving his head a sixteenth of an inch in the direction of the telephone on his nightstand. Heaven forbid he should have to push the buttons himself.
I punched up the number, which a
pparently was Mills’s home, and he answered on the first ring. “Mr. Mills, Archie Goodwin returning your call. Nero Wolfe wants to speak to you.” I handed the receiver to Wolfe and stood back. I’m used to listening in on his calls at my desk in the office, and it’s hard hearing only half a conversation; although in this case, it was simple to figure out what was being said on the other end, especially because Wolfe, bless him, was kind enough to repeat or rephrase much of Mills’s talk, presumably for my benefit.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Goodwin has apprised me of last night’s events. Yes, I agree that this complicates matters. Yes, I can appreciate that Miss Burkett is shaken and depressed … No, sir, it is not unusual for the police to question the first person to arrive at a murder scene for over an hour—sometimes rather forcefully … ”
Wolfe then listened for close to a minute, his scowl growing by degrees. When Mills finally wound down, he sighed. “I understand your concern, but since Miss Burkett has shared with the police the reason for our having been hired, it becomes fair game for the press, who no doubt will eagerly pursue this facet. Be prepared for them when you reach your office. Indeed, we already have received numerous calls from the newspapers and television stations, none of which has yet been returned. And as you are undoubtedly aware, Mr. Goodwin and I are popular targets of these people … Yes, I agree that you can terminate our agreement if you so choose, although we already have deposited your check for twenty-five thousand dollars, which is nonrefundable.”
Wolfe was silent again for the better part of a minute, still scowling. He never likes talking on the phone, and it becomes intolerable when this activity interrupts a meal—even breakfast. Finally he cut in on Mills. “Of course this all is extremely uncomfortable for you and your colleagues, especially as the press will surely report that your security has been breached by a rival agency. But think of the discomfort Mr. Swartz endured.”
That must have gotten to Mills, because he said something that Wolfe later told me bordered on an apology for being so flinty. Wolfe closed the conversation by telling him that I would call him later in the morning. So we still had a client.
Fade to Black (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 5) Page 7
