Archie, the bullet has been removed from your left shoulder. It was .38-caliber. It hit your teres minor, a muscle that controls rotation. Fortunately, you are right-handed, so it will cause you less inconvenience than it would for a lefty. The damage is not permanent, and the muscle will heal, albeit slowly. I gave you painkillers last night and left more of them with Fritz, along with instructions on how often they should be ingested. In the next few days, you should begin to do exercises to strengthen the muscle, gently at first, and gradually with more vigor. Later today, I will be dropping off a pamphlet outlining those exercises. By now, you will have noticed that your shoulder is tightly wrapped. The dressing will need to be changed in the next few days, probably several times, and I will be sending Miss Francis over to undertake that task. I hardly think you will find her presence to be in any way an inconvenience, but rather the contrary.
Your Neighbor and Friend,
Edwin A. Vollmer, MD
So our grim-faced old sawbones had a sense of humor after all, I thought as I folded the note and returned it to the envelope. I touched my shoulder and found it had indeed been tightly wrapped, and that if I were to take a shower, I would have to cover the dressing with something that was more or less waterproof. Fritz helped there, coming up with a plastic raincoat that we cut up so a sleeve would cover my arm. I then managed to shower, shave, and get myself dressed.
I made my way down to the office at ten forty, which meant Wolfe was still up in the plant rooms, playing with his posies. On my desk, I found a bullet and a note:
A.G.
If you are reading this in the office, I am pleased. It means you are ambulatory, which does not surprise me given your recuperative powers. We will discuss last night’s events at eleven if you are able. Also, Doctor Vollmer left the shell that was removed from your shoulder. I trust you are indeed on the mend.
N.W.
The man is all heart, I thought. Fritz came into the office and seemed surprised to see me at my desk. “Archie, should you be up? Is this wise?”
“Our good doctor does not seem to feel I am on death’s doorstep, so I might as well behave like someone who has a future. The breakfast you served me was wonderful, as was the coffee, of course. May I have another cup?”
He nodded and left the office as I perused the day’s copy of the Times, which was on Wolfe’s desk along with the morning mail. The pages held no mention of last night’s episode in Central Park—probably because it occurred too late to make the home-delivered edition.
I was working on a steaming cup of Fritz’s java when Wolfe walked in, placed a raceme of yellow orchids in the vase on his desk, sat, and rang for beer. He dipped his chin in my direction, his version of a greeting, although, unlike his behavior most mornings, he looked long and hard at me, which I took as an expression of concern.
“If you are about to ask me if I slept well, as you usually do, I will answer with a resounding yes, although that may well be because I apparently ingested—to use Doc Vollmer’s word—something that sent me straight to dreamland.”
“Drugs,” Wolfe said, pronouncing the word as if it were odious.
“Yeah, I agree. I don’t like to take anything I can’t spell or pronounce unless it’s prepared by Fritz. But at least I’m not hurting like I must have last night, although my memory of recent events is, shall we say, less than reliable.”
“Has Miss Hutchinson telephoned this morning?” Wolfe asked.
“No. Fritz would have mentioned it.”
He was silent for several seconds, then reached for the Times. “Nothing in there about last night,” I said. “I already looked.”
Wolfe opened the first of two beers Fritz brought in, pouring it into a glass. “Call Mr. Cohen.”
“Just what I was thinking.” I got Lon on the first ring as Wolfe picked up his receiver.
“What now, Archie? Or are you just lonesome for my voice?”
“I always like to hear your mellifluous voice, oh great scribe and chronicler of Gotham.”
“Of course you like to hear me—who wouldn’t? I’m one helluvan interesting guy. Now what’s on your mind? We have a paper to deliver to our news-hungry readers, as you may recall.”
“I am interested in learning about a little episode that transpired in Central Park last night.”
“Is that right, Mister Private Detective? Now, just how in Hades do you know about that?”
“Believe it or not, you are not my only pipeline into the goings-on in the City That Never Sleeps.”
“If that’s the case, why not ask one of your other pipelines about last night?” Lon snapped.
“Oh, come on. After all we’ve been through together.”
“Being in this business, Archie, I am curious by nature—but then, I think you know that.”
“Let’s say that I do, for purposes of moving the conversation along.”
“Good. And just why would I be curious about your interest in what you refer to as ‘a little episode’ in Central Park?”
“Chalk it up to my also being curious by nature.”
“Nice try, Archie,” Lon said, “but it won’t wash. Does this by chance have anything to do with Cordelia Hutchinson?” I looked at Wolfe, who dipped his chin. Another of his nods.
“It might,” I said.
“So! Now we are getting somewhere. Do I sense a scoop?”
“I have no idea—at least not yet. You still haven’t told me anything about what happened in the park.”
“Why do I have this feeling that you already know at least something about what I am going to say? Well, here goes: Last night about ten or so, shots were fired in the park near the intersection of Central Park West and Seventy-Seventh Street. A passerby who was walking his dog on the sidewalk along Seventy-Seventh told police—and later our reporter—that he had heard what he thought was a gunshot, and then a second one, just to his north in the park. He was pretty rattled, and he said he couldn’t see into park that well, given the lighting, but he thought there had been several people moving around, and he could make out at least two figures who were on the ground.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it? The police reported that by the time patrol cars got to the scene—three of them, in fact, along with an ambulance—there was only one guy lying there, and he was quite dead. Shot in the back, and the bullet ruptured his pump. Death was instantaneous.”
“Do they know who he was?”
“Yeah, an old friend of the police, so to speak. Noah McManus, a minor-league thug with a record as long as a loan shark’s memory. Over the years, he’s gotten nailed for armed robbery, burglary, petty larceny, assault with a deadly weapon, and a number of short cons, including—believe it or not—the old shell game, which I thought had become obsolete long ago. One cop who our reporter talked to said McManus was the most inept lawbreaker he had ever seen.”
“Well, some old enemy must have finally caught up with him, whatever the reason,” I said.
“Could be. McManus seems to have gotten a shot off himself. A Smith & Wesson .38 Special was found beside his body, with one chamber empty. His prints were on the revolver, which the cops said had been fired recently.”
“And you said he was plugged in the back. Odd,” I pointed out.
“That’s got New York’s Finest puzzled, too,” Lon said. “If it had been some sort of two-man shootout, wouldn’t McManus have caught the bullet in his chest?”
“My point exactly. Anything else?”
“I’m itching to know why you’re so curious about this, Archie. Not to mention how you even knew about it in the first place.”
I looked over at Wolfe and grinned. “Some day, perhaps, that itch can get itself scratched. Are you going to be playing this big?”
“Are you kidding? Damned right we are. If you recall, some months back, two joggers were
mugged in Central Park on separate occasions, and a middle-aged couple from Michigan got held up and robbed here—all three occurrences during the same week. Then the mayor blew a gasket, called a press conference, and ordered the police to step up patrols in the park. ‘This is our great city’s crown jewel, and we will not have it tarnished as long as I am privileged to hold this office,’ he said.”
“Which means for you …?”
“Which means we’re throwing everything we’ve got at this. For one thing, the timing is perfect for us as an afternoon paper. The story broke too late for the Times, the Daily News, and those other morning rags. The Gazette that lands on your doorstep shortly will have an eight-column banner reading VIOLENCE AND DEATH IN OUR ‘CROWN JEWEL’! We’ve got the eyewitness account of the dog walker, an interview with our distraught mayor who promises ‘immediate action,’ and a history of assaults in the park. Oh, and an editorial headlined ‘Violence runs amok in a great city.’”
“Mark me down as impressed,” I told Lon.
“As well you should be. And by the way, your old pal Inspector Cramer and his thickheaded boss, Commissioner Humbert, were not available for comment.”
“You are stretching the definition of pal, but I am not at all surprised that both of them are holed up. This will make news across the country.”
“And we’re there with the first report, which will get picked up by the wire services and distributed before they’re able to do their own stories. Now, do you have anything to tell me, anything at all?”
“Sorry, I am of no help.”
“Why do I have this feeling that you’re holding out on me?”
“Chalk it up to what I call your ‘newshound’s complex,’” I said. “You guys are so suspicious by nature that you wouldn’t believe your dear old grandmother if she told you she loved you.”
“My dear old grandmother is long in her grave. Anyway, Archie old pal, being around guys like you for so long has made me leery of taking anything, or anyone, at face value.”
“I am truly cut to the quick,” I said, trying to sound hurt. “After all we’ve done for you over these many years, it’s enough to make me cry.”
“That’ll be the day,” Lon shot back. “Now if you will excuse me, or even if you won’t, we have a paper to put out.”
Chapter 13
All right, now what?” I asked Wolfe as we cradled our receivers and I continued to pretend the pain in my shoulder was a figment of my imagination.
“Now you call Miss Hutchinson, of course, and inform her briefly of last night’s activities. One would think she must be wondering what transpired.”
Wolfe picked up his phone again while I dialed her number. She answered after several rings. “Oh, Archie, how … how is everything?” She sounded breathless. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. What happened with … you know?”
“Do you read any newspapers?” I asked. “Or listen to the radio?”
“No, no, I don’t do much of either, I never have. Why do you ask?”
“For one, we still have your money. The individual who was sent to pick it up is dead.”
“Dead! How? Who was it?”
“Miss Hutchinson, this is Nero Wolfe. I would like you to visit us at tonight at six o’clock. Would you find that to be an imposition?”
“No … but can’t you tell me now what has happened?”
“I would much prefer that we converse face-to-face. Also, as Mr. Goodwin just said, we have your money and wish to return it.”
“But what do you mean, what has—”
“I have other business at the moment, but Mr. Goodwin will remain on the line and tell you as much as he deems necessary before your arrival here.”
So once again, Wolfe had left me holding the bag, so to speak. I cupped the mouthpiece as I asked, in a near-whisper, “Do you want her to come via the back route again?”
He shook his head and mouthed the words front door.
I had difficulty getting rid of Cordelia. She wasn’t hysterical, but she was close, repeating the same questions three or four times. I patiently put her off, explaining that some subjects were better discussed in person. That did not persuade her, so I finally had to use a variation on Wolfe’s “I have other business” spiel and politely, but firmly, ended the conversation, promising that her questions would be addressed that evening.
“So, am I to gather that we are no longer under a state of siege?” I asked after hanging up.
Wolfe readjusted his bulk and frowned. “I am operating under the assumption that Mr. McManus was the individual commissioned to end your life. Do you agree?”
“That thought certainly had occurred to me,” I said, “although it is possible that more than one person has it in for yours truly.”
“No doubt given our occupation, others might wish to exact retribution against you. But murder I find to be highly unlikely in more than one situation. However, you are the individual who has been targeted—and wounded—and I would not presume to advise you as to how to protect yourself.”
“I’ve gotten this far in life, and I’m still upright and above ground; I’ll take my chances. Right now, I’m damned tired of sneaking out the back way like some guy hastily dashing out of a woman’s bedroom as her husband comes in the front door. You are the one who has the brains in this operation, as you are so often eager to point out. Do you have any idea who might have commissioned McManus to dispatch me?”
“Not at the moment,” Wolfe said as he picked up his current book.
“Do you have any special instructions regarding Miss Hutchinson’s visit?” I asked.
“None,” he said. “Let us hope she is happy to be reunited with her money.”
At five minutes to six, the doorbell rang. I was pleased that Cordelia, our maybe-client, was on time, although I was not surprised. I swung open the door and gave her an exaggerated bow, just because I felt like it.
She stood on the stoop as if she were riveted to the spot, her eyes unblinking. “Archie, what has happened?”
“We will give you a report. Please come in.”
She gingerly—I don’t what else to call it—stepped across the threshold and into the front hall, clutching her purse as if it might suddenly fly out of her grip. With a gentle hand on her elbow, I steered her toward the office, although she seemed reluctant to move ahead.
“As you can see, Mr. Wolfe is not here yet. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, or maybe a glass of wine? Our selection is very good,” I said as I motioned her toward the red leather chair.
“No, thank you … No.” Cordelia sat and stared up at me as though I didn’t look right to her.
“I did shave this morning, didn’t I?” I asked as I ran a hand across my cheek. “And I hope I washed behind the ears. And I also hope that I remembered to properly knot my tie.”
Cordelia blushed. “I’m sorry, I’m still …” Her unfinished sentence hung in the air.
“Ah, of course. You have to still be stunned about everything that happened last night.”
She opened her mouth to reply but stopped as Wolfe stepped into the room. “Miss Hutchinson,” he said, moving behind his desk, sitting, and ringing for beer. “I trust Mr. Goodwin offered you refreshments.”
“Yes, he did. Nothing for me, thank you.” She still seemed trancelike.
Wolfe considered her. “How much do you know about the events of last night in Central Park?”
“Very little,” she said, shifting in the chair, “except that Archie told me someone was killed and that you still have the money.”
“To say the least, the operation did not go as planned,” Wolfe replied as he opened the first of two beers Fritz placed before him and poured it into a pilsner glass, watching the foam settle. “Mr. Goodwin delivered the valise with the money to the base of a specific tree, per the instructio
ns you received. As he walked away, he was shot in the shoulder and fell.”
“Oh, oh! How awful!”
“Let me continue, please. The man who shot Mr. Goodwin was then shot—fatally, by an unknown gunman. The body has been identified as that of Noah McManus, who had an extensive criminal record. Does that name have any significance to you?”
“No, should it?” Cordelia asked.
Wolfe raised his shoulders and let them drop. “Not necessarily, although it seems apparent that he was sent by the blackmailer to retrieve the money. Unless, of course, he was the blackmailer.”
“His name means absolutely nothing to me,” Cordelia stressed.
“Just so. This brings us to the money, which we will return to you. Archie, please.”
I went to the safe and pulled out the attaché case, laying it on my desk and opening it.
“Miss Hutchinson, I invite you to count the currency and verify that it all is there,” Wolfe said.
She got up and eyed the bundles of dough in the case. “I don’t feel that is necessary,” she said. “I trust you both.”
“I insist,” Wolfe said. “Sit at Mr. Goodwin’s desk. This will take a while.”
Cordelia reluctantly parked in my chair and began the count while I wandered out to the kitchen for a glass of milk and to watch Fritz finish preparations for dinner: lobster in white wine sauce with tarragon, along with a celery and cantaloupe salad.
By the time I sauntered back to the office, our guest had just finished her audit. “It is all here,” she said to Wolfe.
He nodded, if you consider his slight dip of a chin as a nod. “Archie, type out a receipt for Miss Hutchinson to sign. Word it thusly: ‘Received from Nero Wolfe, seventy-five thousand dollars in cash.’”
“Is this really necessary?” she asked as she vacated my chair and moved over to the red leather one. “I said before that I trust you.”
“Nonetheless, we must maintain a businesslike relationship,” Wolfe replied.
“But I feel guilty. I have still never paid you anything, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Would you be more comfortable if I asked for one thousand dollars?”
Archie in the Crosshairs Page 9
