Archie in the Crosshairs

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Ah, Mr. Goodwin, at home, I see. And I presume Mr. Wolfe is upstairs with his orchids, as is usual at this time of the morning.”

  “Do you wish to speak to Mr. Wolfe?” I asked, keeping my voice cool and businesslike.

  “No, I felt this was a good chance to speak to you, one man to another. You have not been seen outside your dwelling lately.” The statement was followed by a rasping chuckle, or perhaps it was an asthmatic cough.

  “I do get out on occasion.”

  “Really? Such is not what I have been led to understand of late. Also, I am told the unmarked police vehicle that had been parked at one end of your block for several days is no longer there. How do you feel about that?”

  “State your business. Strange as it may seem to you, I have work to do.”

  “Are you this terse and testy with all of the callers to Mr. Wolfe’s office?” Another humorless laugh.

  “Fortunately, most of our callers do not waste my time.”

  “I assure you it is not my intent to waste your time—what you have left of it, Mr. Goodwin.”

  “I repeat, state your business.”

  “All in good time, Mr. Goodwin, all in good time. I have a habit, some might say a bad habit, of wanting to learn more about an individual I am soon to have, shall we say, a close and final association with.”

  “You make it sound like you’re a hit man.”

  “A crude phrase, Mr. Goodwin, and not one to my liking.”

  “Oh, dear. Sorry to upset you, Mr. …?”

  “If you are trying to keep me on the line so you can trace this call, don’t bother. It won’t get you anywhere.”

  “I have more important business than figuring out where you are at the moment. Good-bye,” I told him, cradling the phone and checking my watch. I went out through the kitchen to the rear door and down the passageway, stationing myself in front of the auto repair operation on Thirty-Fourth. I had waited no more than five minutes when a Yellow Cab pulled up to the curb and Cordelia Hutchinson stepped out gingerly.

  I could not quarrel with Lily’s description of the young lady as “prissy.” She wore a navy blue suit over a frilly white blouse and was shod in matching blue pumps. A pillbox hat that covered most of her blond hair and white gloves completed the “straight-from-Miss-Millicent’s-Finishing-School” look. Her turned-up nose could be termed cute, but was too short for my taste, and her chin showed signs of receding in later years. Her wide-eyed expression suggested a total lack of guile, although I had had enough experience with women not to be taken in by facial appearances.

  “Good morning,” I said, flashing a grin. “You are Miss Hutchinson.”

  “And you must be Mr. Goodwin,” she replied with an exaggerated flutter of lashes and a batting of light blue eyes as she held out a gloved hand. If this was flirting, she was not good at it.

  “Guilty as charged. Please follow me.” I led her along the passageway to our door.

  “I never realized private detectives operated this way,” she said as we entered the kitchen, “although I appreciate your concern about my privacy.”

  “This is not unusual. Welcome to our world,” I said as I ushered her past Fritz, who ignored us pointedly as he prepared lunch. I led her down the hall to the office and directed her to the red leather chair. “Mr. Wolfe will be in soon,” I said, walking out and closing the door behind me.

  I was in the hall when I heard the noise of the descending elevator. “Miss Hutchinson is planted in the office awaiting your arrival,” I told Wolfe when he stepped out of the car.

  He made a face, as he often does at the prospect of having to work. “I had a call this morning from our new friend,” I said, “but I will tell you about it later.” I returned to the office, followed seconds later by Wolfe, who detoured around the desk and deposited himself in his favorite chair, placing a raceme of orchids in a vase on the blotter and ringing for beer.

  If our guest was surprised by Wolfe’s dimensions, she did not show it.

  “Miss Hutchinson,” he said, dipping his chin. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, perhaps?” he asked as I slipped in behind my desk.

  “No, thank you, sir,” she replied, gloved hands clasped in her lap and ankles pressed tightly together. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me. It has taken me a long time to get up the courage to call you, or rather, Mr. Goodwin here.”

  Wolfe considered her as he opened the first of two beers Fritz brought in. “You are being blackmailed.” It was not a question.

  She nodded. “Yes, sir. I guess you could say that I am now paying for my sins.”

  “As we all do eventually, in one form or another. Continue.”

  “You probably know that my family is well known and … successful. I have been given every advantage in life.” She turned to me. “May I have a glass of water, please?”

  I went to the kitchen, and when I returned with the water, Cordelia was in mid-sentence.

  “… and during my time in Italy—Florence, it was—I met a man who, well, who I became friendly with.” She actually blushed.

  “How long did this friendship last?” Wolfe asked.

  “From March until early May of this year, I am sorry to say. This man, he comes from a Florentine family that has been in the fine leather business for centuries. They have an elegant old villa in the hills above the city. He is more than ten years older than I am, and very charming, as so many Italians are, and …” She lifted her narrow shoulders and let them fall in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Is this man married?”

  Cordelia shook her head. “But that is not the real issue, Mr. Wolfe. Before I went to Europe, I reached an understanding with a wonderful boy right here in New York. His name is Lanny Mercer, from the family that builds those expensive airplanes for private companies. You probably have heard of the family.”

  “What is the extent of this understanding with Mr. Mercer?”

  “That we were to announce our engagement in the autumn, about two months from now. But that was before everything happened.” She drank water and dabbed her lips with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Wolfe waited for her to continue.

  “The first letter came a week ago,” she went on. “It shocked me so much that I became … sort of paralyzed. I told Lanny that I wanted to delay announcing our engagement formally for a while, although I didn’t give him a reason.”

  “How did he react?”

  “Oh, he was wonderful about it, Mr. Wolfe, absolutely wonderful, as I would have expected. He told me that if I needed more time, I should take it, marriage being such a big step.”

  Wolfe drew in air and exhaled. “You mentioned to Mr. Goodwin that you had letters. Do you have them with you?”

  She nodded, reached into her purse, and pulled out two sheets, the first of which she handed to Wolfe. He scanned it and set it on the corner of his desk so that I could read it as well. The paper was ordinary white stock, the type sold in drug and stationery stores. The message was neatly printed in black ink, block letters capitalized.

  DEAR MISS HUTCHINSON

  YOU COME ACROSS TO MOST PEOPLE AS A VERY PROPER YOUNG LADY BUT SOME OF US KNOW BETTER. ONE WONDERS HOW MR LANCE MERCER AND HIS FAMILY WOULD REACT IF THEY KNEW ABOUT YOUR ACTIVITIES WITH A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN IN A CERTAIN HISTORIC ITALIAN CITY? IT IS FULLY IN YOUR POWER TO AVOID THEIR LEARNING OF YOUR ADVENTURE. KEEP WATCHING YOUR MAILBOX.

  “I don’t know why the foul person who wrote this did not just come right out and ask for money in that letter,” Cordelia said, pouting.

  “Blackmailers often like to make their victims sweat,” I told her. “It’s a way to soften them up before making specific demands. When did you hear next?”

  “Three days later, but this time there was a phone call. It was a man’s muffled voice that I didn’t recognize. He told me I would be getting another lett
er shortly. I tried to ask questions, but he hung up before I could get a word out.”

  Wolfe finished his first beer, setting the glass down. “The voice was muffled because the caller was disguising it. And the second piece of mail?”

  “It arrived yesterday.” Cordelia laid another sheet and a photograph on the desk, sliding them toward Wolfe. This time I got up and went around behind him, looking over his shoulder. The block printing was similar to that in the earlier note.

  DEAR MISS HUTCHINSON

  THE ENCLOSED PICTURE—WE HAVE OTHERS ALMOST IDENTICAL TO IT—INDICATES HOW SERIOUS WE ARE. WE WILL TURN ALL OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS OVER TO YOU AFTER RECEIVING PAYMENT OF SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS IN USED CURRENCY, FIFTY AND ONE-HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS. WE KNOW YOU HAVE ACCESS TO FUNDS OF THIS SIZE—AND MORE. WE ARE BEING LENIENT WITH YOU. YOU WILL RECEIVE INSTRUCTIONS BY TELEPHONE IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS AS TO WHERE THE MONEY IS TO BE DELIVERED. IF YOU CHOOSE NOT TO COOPERATE, ONE OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS WILL BE DELIVERED TO THE MERCER FAMILY, ANOTHER TO YOUR PARENTS, AND OTHERS TO THE VARIOUS NEW YORK NEWSPAPERS. AS YOU CAN SEE FROM THE PHOTO, YOU ARE MOST RECOGNIZABLE.

  Cordelia certainly was recognizable. The black-and-white print showed her in profile, in the arms of a dark-haired man in what seemed to be a park-like setting. The embrace was not typical of those between casual friends. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open, and her companion was nuzzling her neck, while his hand was in what might be termed an inappropriate place. Although both were fully clothed, it was no stretch to imagine that this dalliance was a prelude to something more intimate.

  “It does not appear that this photograph has been doctored,” Wolfe said, continuing to study it.

  “No, sir, I am afraid it was not,” Cordelia said.

  “Where was this taken?”

  “The Boboli Gardens in Florence. A beautiful place.”

  “I was there once, many years ago,” Wolfe said. “Do you have any idea who the photographer was?”

  She shook her head. “None whatever. I did not dream that we were being spied on. We thought we were completely alone in a corner of the gardens.”

  “Clearly,” I said. “Whoever shot the pictures probably was some distance away using a special lens. The image is quite sharp.”

  “Too sharp,” she said ruefully.

  “I trust you have the envelopes these missives arrived in,” Wolfe said.

  She shook her head. “No, I threw them in the wastebasket.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Do you, as the letter states, have access to the kind of money being demanded?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I came into a large inheritance, more than five million dollars, when I turned twenty-one, which was just over three years ago.”

  “Is that fact widely known?”

  “It is no secret, at least within our family and their circle of friends, which probably means others know about it as well. As I am sure you are aware, people can be such awful gossips.”

  “You have not received the second telephone call?” Wolfe asked.

  “Not yet. I keep expecting it.”

  “Have you decided how you will respond?”

  “No, sir. That is partly why I am here—for your advice. And I will pay whatever you ask if you can stop these threats.”

  “Why have you not talked to the police? They are well equipped to deal with situations like the one you are facing, and they are armed with far more resources than I.”

  “No! I do not want them involved in any way,” Cordelia snapped. “This is a private matter, and I want it kept that way.”

  “I regret to say that may not be possible, Miss Hutchinson. You tell me you came here for my advice, and I am strongly counseling you to discuss the matter with the police.”

  She crossed her arms and chewed on her lower lip. “So, I cannot hire you, is that what you are saying?”

  “No, it is not. What I am doing is laying out your options,” Wolfe said.

  “My option is to have you stop this blackmailer. Can you tell me what it will cost me?”

  “We may discuss fees later. How did you happen to have an extended stay in Florence?”

  “I was an English major in college and spent one semester studying in Britain, but I never had the opportunity to get to Italy during that time. I had minored in Renaissance art, and there is no better place to appreciate it than Florence. Spending time there was something I had wanted to do for a long while, and Lanny encouraged me to go. Actually, I had planned to visit several other Italian cities as well, but when I met … him, I changed my plans and decided to remain in Florence. I canceled trips to Rome, Siena, and Venice.”

  “During your stay, did you at any time sense you were being watched?”

  “No, and I really was not out in public—certainly not in crowds—all that often with … with the man in the photograph—although we did drive in his car out into the countryside a few times. But I do not believe anyone was following us—not that I was suspicious.”

  Wolfe opened his second beer and poured it, frowning as he watched the foam settle. “Did any of your acquaintances from back home visit you in Florence during your time there?”

  “A roommate from my college days—her name is Marlene Peters—had decided at the last minute to come to Europe, and she ended up staying in Florence for a week while I was there. We ended up taking day trips to some of the beautiful old Tuscan hill towns. It was so nice to have her there.”

  “Did she meet your Italian friend?”

  “Yes, the three of us had dinner twice—no, it was three times, I think. And on one occasion, he drove us to some of those hill towns I mentioned.”

  Wolfe turned to me, as he often does when questioning a woman. Years ago, he got it in his mind that I was an expert on what he refers to as the “vagaries of the female sex,” and nothing I have said to the contrary can budge him from that belief. It was clear that he wanted me to take over the probing.

  “Was your friend Marlene aware of the nature of your relationship with this man?” I asked.

  She took a deep breath. “I didn’t … spell it out to her, of course, but it was obvious that he and I had become close. She never asked me directly, though. He was as attentive to me all during the time the three of us were together as he was when we were alone.”

  “Does anyone else know about this friendship, any members of your family, for instance?”

  “No! None of them—at least not that I’m aware of. It would be terrible if they found out.”

  “And you had no other acquaintances in Florence?”

  “None other than Marlene for those few days and … him.”

  “Enough with pronouns. What is his name?”

  Cordelia put her head down. “I would rather not say,” she said in a voice just above a whisper.

  “Come now, Miss Hutchinson, this is hardly a time to become coy,” I said. “You want Mr. Wolfe to find out who is blackmailing you, and presumably to stop this individual. We need to know as much as we can about the principals in this case. You already told us the man you met is part of a wealthy old family in the fine leather business. Why stop there?”

  She took a deep breath. “He is Carlo Veronese. You may have heard of the House of Veronese. Their purses are world famous—and very expensive.”

  “In fact, I do know about them, but only through a woman of my acquaintance who happens to like them,” I said. “Tell us more about him.”

  “He is, well, very good-looking, and as I said before, several years older than me. I now know that I—”

  “You must excuse me,” Wolfe said, getting to his feet. “I have another appointment, Miss Hutchinson. Mr. Goodwin will continue gathering information from you, and he and I will confer later. You will be hearing from us.”

  Chapter 8

  Cordelia watched Wolfe leave the room, then turned to me
in dismay. “Did I say something to upset him?”

  “By no means. That is very normal behavior for Mr. Wolfe. He is brusque by nature and he has many projects going on at the same time,” I improvised. “You don’t mind my asking you some more questions, do you?”

  “Oh no, not at all, Mr. Goodwin, not at all. I did not mean in any way to suggest that.”

  “Good. When Mr. Wolfe left, you had mentioned that Carlo Veronese is very good-looking and quite a bit older than you. You started to say ‘I now know that I’ … and then you were interrupted.”

  She blushed. “Yes, what I was going to say was, I now know I allowed myself to be taken in by his looks and his charm. I could tell you that the beauty of Florence affected my actions, but that would be a feeble excuse. I know myself that well.”

  “We all get carried away at one time or another, Miss Hutchinson,” I said in my most sympathetic tone.

  “Please, call me Cordelia.”

  “Only if you call me Archie. So, what were the circumstances of your meeting this charming man?”

  “Please do not make fun of me, Mr.—Archie.”

  “I assure you, I am not. I make it a point never to make fun of anyone—other than myself, of course.”

  “You are very nice … Archie, like I knew you would be from the way you sounded on the telephone,” she said, placing slender, manicured fingers on my arm. “As to how we met: It was my second or third day in Florence. I was strolling on the Ponte Vecchio, which is a famous old bridge over the Arno River that has beautiful shops lining it. I was looking at a purse in the window of a leather-goods store when he—Carlo—came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder. ‘Do you like that?’ he asked, pointing at the purse.

  “I was startled, but I was aware of the reputation Italian men have for being, well, forward. I told him I thought the purse was very lovely and tasteful.

  “‘I am so very glad you think so, signorina. My mother designed it,’ he said, bowing. ‘Let us go in. You can take a better look at it.’ So we went into the little shop, where the saleswoman called him by name and fussed over him.”