“Outspoken is an understatement, given the names he called us—particularly Wolfe—at the time. How well I remember,” I said. “Mr. Marx must have had other enemies, though.”
“So it would now seem,” Lon said. “However, I felt I should let you know that Inspector Cramer may just stop by the brownstone. You know how he likes to connect the dots, whether or not they make any sense.”
“I will alert Mr. Wolfe. Any other information?”
“That’s all we’ve got here at the moment.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Always happy to be of help. And who knows, before this is over, maybe you will have something of interest for yours truly.”
“You mean our ‘old pal’?”
“That’s me. We’re going to play this big, given that Marx had a lot of visibility around town—fine art collector, patron of the opera, the symphony, the ballet, etcetera, etcetera.”
“I won’t forget those etceteras, old pal,” I said. “Now get back to putting out the paper. Aren’t you on a deadline? That’s how you usually brush me off.”
“Thanks for reminding me. Gotta go.”
When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven, I told him we might be getting a visit from Cramer.
He glowered. “Why?”
I told him about Lon’s call, and he glowered some more, then sighed. “Confound it. If he comes, tell him I am not here.”
“But he knows you are always here,” I argued. “And if you were to hide in the kitchen, or the plant rooms, or your bedroom, then I would have to deal with him alone. I am not paid well enough to perform that kind of service, although this might be a good time to discuss a raise.”
That warranted yet another glower. “Relate everything Mr. Cohen said.”
“It’s pretty skimpy,” I said, repeating our conversation word for word.
“Skimpy indeed,” Wolfe remarked. “You should have questioned him more thoroughly.”
“Just a minute. Bear in mind that when we talked, the discovery of Marx’s body had occurred just two hours earlier. I think I got everything that Lon and the Gazette had at the time.”
He grunted, which can mean any number of things, from dissatisfaction with my performance to his unhappiness over having to go to work. As I have often said, Nero Wolfe is lazy—brilliant but lazy. He knows this, which is one of the reasons he keeps me around. Among my functions is the task to be a burr under his saddle, a prod to get him going.
Wolfe barely had time to sample the first of his two pre-luncheon beers when the doorbell chimed. I looked at my watch, which read eleven-twenty. “That will be Cramer. Do I let the man enter or make him keep pushing the button until he gets a blister on his finger?”
His answer was a frown and a shrug, so I headed down the hall. “Good morning, Inspector,” I said, throwing open the door. “Is this a social call?”
“Just when has it ever been a social call?” Cramer grumped, handing me his battered fedora and marching by me. By the time I got to the office, he was already planted in the red leather chair like he owned it, his eyes fixed on Wolfe, who looked up from his book.
“Sorry to interrupt your reading,” the inspector said.
“It is not the first time,” Wolfe said, “and it likely will not be the last.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. As I know you are aware, the heat is on, and at least one very large and self-important local newspaper has suggested in an editorial that it is time for me to seriously consider retiring. To be precise, they wrote that ‘Cramer’s time is long past.’”
“All because of the Central Park murder?”
“That’s for starters, and now we’ve got another killing, which is why I am here. Of all people, you of course remember Alan Marx.”
“He is hard to forget,” Wolfe replied.
“Marx was found murdered in his pricey Upper East Side abode last night, but maybe you already know that.” Wolfe made no response.
“Somebody had bashed in his skull, apparently with a heavy poker from the fireplace,” Cramer continued. “It happened sometime before midnight, or so we’ve been told. His wife was out of town visiting relatives in Pennsylvania, and none of the neighbors heard anything—not surprising given that the walls in that building are unusually thick. And the doorman said he didn’t see anybody come in asking for Marx. The rub here is that according to residents of the building, the doorman has a reputation for dozing at his desk in the entrance hall. So almost anyone could have walked through that entrance hall, ridden up in the self-service elevator, and gotten as far as Marx’s door.”
“Mr. Marx must have let the individual in,” Wolfe observed.
“Precisely. The man knew his killer. I find that most interesting.”
“What is your point, Mr. Cramer?”
“Bear with me. I am getting to it, in my own slow and simple way. Here is something else that I find interesting: Goodwin here is shot at as he’s about to enter the brownstone. Then soon afterward, your building itself gets fired on. And now, a man who has for years made public his hatred of Nero Wolfe is found murdered. I am not a big believer in coincidences, maybe because all these years on the job have made a skeptic of me.”
“Continue.”
As is his practice when in Wolfe’s office, Cramer took a cigar from his breast pocket and jammed it into his mouth, unlit. “Had you heard from Alan Marx recently?” he asked.
“I have not,” Wolfe said. “Archie?”
“No, sir, not a word.”
Cramer turned to me. “And you have not had occasion to visit Marx’s residence?”
“I wasn’t even aware of where he lived, Inspector. Honest.”
“Do you feel okay?” the inspector posed.
“Sure, why?”
“You seemed to be a little bit stiff, the way you walked when I came in, kind of lopsided.”
“I did something to my shoulder when I was exercising the other day, nothing major, but thanks for asking.”
“Are you quite finished?” Wolfe asked our guest.
“You understand that I had to go through the motions,” Cramer said in a tone that, for him, was conciliatory. “Sooner or later, you can bet that Commissioner Humbert would have asked me if I had brought up the subject with you.”
“And now you can tell him you have,” Wolfe said. “Is there anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I’m up to my eyeballs fighting a two-front battle, with the shooting of a thug in our city’s showcase park on the one hand and the murder of a prominent patron of the arts on the other. If I don’t see the two of you again, I am sure you will not miss my visits.” He rose, put the cigar back in his pocket, and ambled off without another word.
“Not the same old Cramer,” I said when I had returned to the office after seeing him out. “When I handed him his hat, he actually said, ‘Thanks, Archie.’ I almost keeled over from the shock.”
“Mr. Cramer feels very sorry for himself at the moment,” Wolfe said. “And not without some justification. The inspector finds himself waging war on two fronts, as he said, and either of the incidents alone would be a large headache for the police department, given the circumstances. Together, they constitute a migraine of epic proportions.”
“Okay, so much for the mess Cramer finds himself in, but after all, that comes with the job,” I said. “That’s what he gets paid for. What are your thoughts about Marx’s murder?”
“I have none at the moment. It is possible his acerbic nature—with which we are all too familiar—has inflamed someone in the arts community to the point where violence ensued. Based on what I have seen, the artistic temperament manifests itself in unpredictable and occasionally violent ways.”
“That is not very helpful,” I told him. “Do you think Marx was our phantom telephone man? Neither of us ever hea
rd him speak, so we wouldn’t have recognized his voice. We have had no calls for several days now. I almost miss getting them—but not quite.”
“It is possible,” Wolfe said, “although I am not yet ready to state with certainty that we have gotten the last of those calls.”
Chapter 16
Two days passed in which we did not hear either from our phantom caller or from Cordelia. But on the third morning, a surprising call came. I was in the office alone, entering orchid germination records, when I answered the phone.
“Mr. Goodwin, this is Parkhurst Hutchinson.” Based on the voice alone, it was hard to believe this was the same bullying, blustering man who had stormed in and stormed out of the office so recently. He spoke in a voice only a couple of levels above a whisper.
“What can I do for you?” I asked in my we-don’t-need-any-of-whatever-you’re-selling tone.
“I don’t blame you for wanting to hang up on me. I behaved poorly the other day, and for that I am sorry. I want to make an appointment to see Mr. Wolfe—along with my daughter.”
“And for what purpose?” I snapped, still angry about having been called a dogsbody, a word I now knew the meaning of. I now also understood his Jeeves reference.
Parkhurst continued: “She and I wish to hire Mr. Wolfe to get to the bottom of this ugly blackmailing business.”
“I cannot speak for Mr. Wolfe, but I will discuss the matter with him later this morning.”
“I—we—are willing to pay whatever he charges,” Hutchinson said, still sounding like a chagrined schoolboy.
“I will pass that information along to Mr. Wolfe.”
“Will you call me when he has made a decision? We can come to see him whenever it is convenient for him.”
I asked for the best number to reach him and said it was likely, but by no means definite, that we would get back to him later in the day.
When Wolfe came down at eleven and got himself firmly planted in the only chair in which he is truly comfortable, I swiveled to face him. “Well, you have done it again,” I said.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed is right. As you predicted, we got a call this morning from his eminence Parkhurst Hutchinson.”
“He was chagrined about his earlier behavior and now desires to hire us,” Wolfe stated as he rang for beer.
“Correct again, oh great reader of minds, although he seeks to become a client in tandem with his daughter. They want to see you together, at any time you specify. It could be a nice payday.”
“You are now singing a far different song than you were after Mr. Hutchinson left here. When I asked how you would feel about having him as a client, you said ‘lousy.’”
“We may have on our hands the ‘new and improved’ version of the man, to use words normally associated with products that are being advertised.”
“Perhaps. Call Mr. Hutchinson and tell him and his daughter to be here at nine tonight.”
As my boss sampled his first beer of the day, I dialed Hutchinson, who picked up before the first ring had ended. “Mr. Wolfe will see you and Cordelia here at nine. Be prompt. Mr. Wolfe has an extremely busy schedule.”
“Oh, we will, Mr. Goodwin, you can be sure of it. Thank you, and please thank Mr. Wolfe.”
After I hung up, Wolfe paused between sips of beer and said, “You seem to have abandoned your usual cordiality.”
“Okay, so I hereby admit that Hutchinson brings out the worst in me. ‘Dogsbody’ my foot.”
“I agree the gentleman is not always tactful. But you already have sensed a change in his demeanor. We will see tonight whether that change can survive our discussion.”
At eight fifty-five, the bell rang. I opened the door to Mr. Hutchinson and his daughter, both of whom smiled and stepped in. He seemed meek and she seemed meeker as I walked them down the hall to the office, where I gave him the red leather chair and her one of the yellow ones. “Mr. Wolfe will be with you shortly,” I said. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, motioning to the bar cart against one wall. “As you already know,” I said to Hutchinson, “we have everything from scotch and rye to beer and wine.”
“I believe I will have a scotch on the rocks,” he said, nodding. “What about you, honey?”
Cordelia looked up at me, down at her lap, then up again. “Would you have a dry sherry, by any chance?”
“I would, and it is a good one,” I told her, going to the bar. After I had served them, Wolfe walked in, nodded, sat, and rang for beer. “Good evening. I see you have refreshments. Let us begin.”
“Before we do,” Hutchinson said, holding up a fleshy hand, “I want to apologize for my behavior here on my previous visit. I can only say, in my defense, that I was terribly worried about Cordelia.” He reached over and squeezed his daughter’s hand. “Since then, she and I have had some long and very meaningful father-daughter talks, and I have come to realize the terrible pressures she has been under.” As he talked, Cordelia said nothing, nodding once or twice and studying her hands in her lap.
“She told me everything,” Hutchinson continued, “including her understanding of that gun battle in Central Park, in which I understand Mr. Goodwin was wounded.” He looked at me with what I took to be a sympathetic expression. “She also opened up to us about her … minor indiscretion in Italy,” Hutchinson continued, “and both her mother and I let her know that we support her one hundred percent. As for whomever it is that’s blackmailing her, we want him stopped.”
“What prevents you from going to the police?” Wolfe asked.
“We desire to avoid the publicity, don’t we, darling?” he said. Cordelia nodded, still silent and looking as if she would rather be almost anywhere but here.
“As you may know, my daughter is engaged to a fine young man, Lance Mercer, and she understandably does not want anything to jeopardize their relationship. Even though she did nothing that I consider in any way sinful in Florence, appearances can be damning, including that photograph she showed to her mother and me yesterday. We are hoping that you can find and stop this evil man, and do so as quietly as possible.”
“If I agree to accept this commission, it must be upon my terms and without reservation,” Wolfe said.
“I understand,” Hutchinson said.
“No, sir, I do not believe you do. My agents and I, including Mr. Goodwin, must be free to meet with anyone remotely connected with your daughter. That includes her siblings and her friends.”
“Oh, no!” Cordelia yelped, suddenly coming alive.
“That is my proviso,” Wolfe said. “Without it, I cannot be expected to conduct an effective investigation.”
“But, you don’t have to talk to Lanny, do you?” Cordelia said, sniffling and beginning to tear up.
“We will try to avoid meeting with him,” Wolfe said, turning to me. “How do you feel about that, Archie?”
“I believe we can work around the young man,” I said.
“And must my brothers and sisters know why I am being blackmailed?”
“Mr. Goodwin is a skilled interviewer,” Wolfe said. “When necessary, he can be the very soul of discretion. He will make every effort to avoid specifics.”
I nodded my assent.
“Before we go any further, you need to understand that there is always the possibility we might uncover information you find distasteful, unpleasant, and embarrassing to you and your family,” Wolfe said.
“I’m not sure I follow you,” Hutchinson replied, frowning.
“I am being candid, and I assume you want candor in anyone you hire. You must be prepared for whatever we uncover.”
The tycoon sighed. “We’ll take our chances, won’t we, honey?”
Cordelia nodded, biting a lip.
“Before we conclude, I need something else from you, sir,” Wolfe added. “Without prior warning, Mr. Goodwin may f
ind it difficult to talk to your offspring. You can pave the way for him by explaining to them that your daughter has been threatened—you need not get more specific than that—and that you have hired an investigator in hopes of unearthing the miscreant, and that the investigator may wish to speak to them.”
“Oh, but they might think they are somehow being accused,” Cordelia said.
“Not necessarily,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Goodwin can say he is interviewing everyone who knows you in hopes that one or more of them may have an idea as to who might seek to harm or intimidate you.”
“I believe that is a legitimate approach,” Hutchinson said to his daughter. “These men have had a lot of experience in a world we know nothing of. I will take it upon myself to call your brothers and sisters.” He turned to Wolfe. “We will pay whatever you charge.”
“That will depend on how the investigation progresses,” Wolfe said, “but I can assure you my fee will be no less than fifty thousand dollars, plus expenses. And based upon what I know and anticipate, some of those expenses may run to a considerable amount.”
Neither father nor daughter flinched at the figure, and why should they? I thought. I felt Wolfe was letting them off easy.
“Would you like a check now?” Hutchinson asked.
“For half the amount,” Wolfe said, “with the other half, plus the expenses due, on completion of the assignment.”
America’s most famous railroad executive smoothly drew an alligator-skin checkbook and a gold fountain pen from his breast pocket and wrote out a check to America’s most famous private investigator, placing it on the corner of Wolfe’s desk. “I assure you the money is in my account,” he said. “Do you need to ask questions of either of us now?”
“I think not,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Goodwin will need to get addresses and numbers of all those we feel it necessary to talk to. That can be done by telephone in the morning.”
“Why wait?” Hutchinson said. “We can do that right now. We are anxious to have you start in.”
“Just so,” Wolfe remarked. “I regret that I have another engagement, but you may stay right here and supply Mr. Goodwin with everything he needs.”
Archie in the Crosshairs Page 11
