Archie in the Crosshairs

by Robert Goldsborough

  He was right. The shoulder bothered me when I let myself think about it. I was bandaged up tightly, and I did tend to favor the shoulder, holding my arm close to my side. Tom Hutchinson hadn’t seemed to notice, but then, he had never seen me before, and maybe he figured I always walked that way.

  I dropped by the office, where Wolfe was working on his post-lunch beers and perusing an orchid catalogue that had arrived in the morning mail. I gave him a brief rundown on my session with the elder Hutchinson brother, but what I related was not anywhere near as interesting as the catalogue, apparently, so I spent a few minutes tidying up my desk, which didn’t need much tidying, and then I rose, stretched, yawned loudly, and said I was stepping outside to sweep off the sidewalk in front of the brownstone. When that got no reaction from the man whose nose was buried in pages with color pictures of Cattleya, Brassavola­, Miltonia, Odontoglossum, and who knows what other species, I walked out of the office whistling “The Yankee Doodle Boy.” Wolfe hates it when I whistle.

  I climbed the stairs to my room, where I did a little more tidying up, but similar to the case with my desk, very little neatening was necessary. I then parked in my favorite chair to read a chapter or two from a biography of Winston Churchill that Wolfe had given me for my birthday. The man’s speeches and his broadcasts to the English people in the roughest days of the war were impressive, no doubt about it, but for me, a little history goes a long way, so after an hour I had read enough of Dunkirk and the Blitz and the brave Spitfire pilots of the RAF and decided I needed some exercise.

  I left the brownstone without a word to Wolfe, setting out to experience a sunny, balmy afternoon on the streets of Manhattan. As I walked east and then south, with no particular destination in mind, I realized I was constantly looking back to see if I was being followed. A psychologist would no doubt tell me this was angst because I had been shot at not long ago on a walk through Midtown.

  Whatever the reason, I was definitely on my guard more than ever, and I wished I were as good at spotting a tail as I was at doing the tailing. I finally stopped obsessing and decided to enjoy myself. I bought a strawberry ice cream cone from a sidewalk vendor on Second Avenue, then smiled at a stunning redhead who grinned back, showing her dimples as she exited an office building at First Avenue and Forty-Fourth. A dapper mustached man who might well have served in World War One tipped his Panama hat to me and twirled his cane as he walked his schnauzer near the still-under-construction United Nations Building, which had all the architectural style of a cardboard box laid on end.

  I inhaled air that seemed remarkably fresh for Manhattan and spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the city like a tourist. I felt so good that I forgot to see if anyone was following me, and the pain in my shoulder dissipated. I can’t explain my carefree mood, and I probably went longer than I had in years without so much as a glance at my wristwatch. When I finally did learn the time—from a clock above the entrance to an insurance company building—I realized I had only fifteen minutes to get to Gerald’s Public House for my meeting with Annie Hutchinson. Walking fast, I made it with a full two minutes to spare.

  From the street, Gerald’s presented itself as an English or Irish pub, with its frosted, multi-paned windows and a painted wooden sign hanging out over the sidewalk that proclaimed “Lagers, Ales, and Stouts from the World Over.” I walked in, expecting a deafening blast of jukebox music, and was pleasantly surprised to hear a muted version of Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” being piped in through some sort of sound system.

  A long bar spanned one wall on the left side of the narrow room, with padded booths strung out along the opposite wall. The place was less than half full. I looked around, realizing I never asked Annie Hutchinson how I would recognize her. I needn’t have worried.

  “I suspect you of being Archie Goodwin,” a soft but firm voice from behind me intoned. I turned to see that the voice belonged to a sandy-haired, oval-faced, blue-eyed woman of small-to-medium height whose beige dress subtly hinted at her curves. Her smile, while less than welcoming, was far from hostile. I liked her overall appearance.

  “Guilty as charged, your honor,” I said. “Do I look like an Archie Goodwin?”

  She cocked her head, hands on hips. “Well, you are too well dressed to fit my preconception of a private detective,” she said. “But, one, you also are someone I have never seen in here before; two, it is six o’clock; and three, you look like you are waiting for someone. Is that what is called ‘deductive reasoning’ in your business?”

  I grinned down at her. “I will give you a passing grade in Detection 101. What is your pleasure, bar stool or booth?”

  “Remember, this is on me, so that is the question that I should be asking you.”

  “Okay, then I will cast my vote for a booth. That way, we can face each other.”

  “Face each other, eh? You make it sound like an interrogation. Do you, Mr. Archie Goodwin, plan to interrogate me?”

  “Heaven forbid,” I told her as we slid into one of the booths. “I prefer to call what we are about to have a conversation.”

  “Fine by me, sounds very civilized,” Annie replied as a waiter came over. “What will you have?”

  I looked at her, and she said, “You first. You’re the guest.”

  “Scotch and water.”

  “Any particular brand, sir?”

  “No, so long as it wasn’t distilled in the basement here.”

  The young man, probably either a college student or an aspiring actor—or maybe both—gave me a quizzical look and turned to Annie.

  “An old-fashioned,” she said.

  After he left, she frowned at me. “You were not very nice to him. He’s just a kid trying to make his way.”

  “Hey, I was just giving you a little taste of private-eye humor.”

  “Very little and not very humorous,” she parried, suppressing a laugh.

  I shook a finger at her and grinned. “Hah, caught you about to giggle.”

  “Enough of this silliness,” she said. “You suggested this meeting to discuss what I know about the woman I think of as my baby sister. Let’s get on with it.”

  “You are all business; I like that,” I replied as the drinks were set in front of us. I smiled at our waiter to show that I was really a nice person, down deep. He walked away, and I turned back to Annie. “Your baby sister, as you call her, is being blackmailed.”

  “Cordelia, really? Whatever for?” Annie seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Your father didn’t tell you?”

  “No. He phoned me and said you would be calling each of us—me, my other sister, and my brothers. All I was told was that Cordelia was in some kind of trouble and that he had hired Nero Wolfe to investigate. Wolfe I have heard of, you I have not. I mean no offense by that.”

  “None taken. I’m just a lackey.”

  “Are you now?” she said, arching an eyebrow and taking a sip of her drink. “I find that hard to believe. You certainly do not seem like someone who I would term a lackey.”

  “Believe what you will. Something apparently happened to Cordelia on her trip to Italy earlier this year, and she is terrified it will come to light if she doesn’t pay someone off—someone whose identity she is not even aware of.”

  “Are you telling me that you don’t know what transpired over there?”

  “Your younger sister is being very circumspect.”

  “Cordelia … circumspect? She wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. You have met her, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have to know that the girl is incapable of subtlety of any kind. As I’m sure you are aware, she came along years later than the rest of us, and she is a perfect example of what I call the ‘Surprise Child Syndrome.’”

  “Meaning what?”

  She pulled out a cigarette and fired it up before I could reach my l
ighter. “Meaning she was spoiled, doted on, from day one. Our parents treated her like some sort of porcelain doll that had to be protected from all manner of dangers out in the big, bad world. It is hardly surprising that she’s turned out to be so damned ingenuous, all wide-eyed and gullible.”

  “Do you think at least some of that behavior is an act on her part?”

  “Not a chance. She’s simply not clever enough to be able to pull something like that off.”

  “You don’t seem fond of Cordelia, to say the least.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to sound so bitchy, pay me no mind,” she said, waving a manicured hand dismissively. “It’s really not her fault that she’s turned out the way she has. Do you have even a clue about this so-called blackmailing business? After all, you’re supposed to be a detective.”

  “I have a feeling it somehow has to do with a man.”

  “Doesn’t everything?” Annie said, bitterness creeping into her voice. “Men are the source of all evil, and I don’t know you well enough to let you off the hook and say ‘present company excepted.’”

  “I’ll see if I can behave in such a way as to free myself from your blanket indictment. Tell me about Cordelia’s love life.”

  “Such as it is. You must know that she has been spending a lot of time with that Mercer boy.”

  “I’m aware of that. What do you think of him?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve only met him, what, twice, no, three times. He seems as bland as Cordelia, so I suppose they’re suited for each other. My parents are all for it. For one thing, they like the idea that Lance Mercer can’t possibly be marrying her for her money because he’s got piles of it himself, or will have some day.”

  “I hear that she has put their engagement on hold, though,” I said.

  “Really? Then you know more than I do, Mr. Goodwin, which isn’t surprising, given how rarely I drop by the posh family abode.”

  “Call me Archie, please. Are you and your parents at odds?”

  “Not exactly … Archie. But whenever I do show up at the Sutton Place palace, as I call it, they start grilling me about my social life, who am I seeing, when am I going to settle down, and on and on.”

  “What do you tell them?”

  Annie grinned. “To mind their own business. Not that directly, of course. I really do love them both, but I make it clear that I’m going to live my own life without anyone telling me how it should be done—or with whom.”

  “Seems a reasonable response,” I said. “Way back when I left Ohio to come here, I essentially told my folks the same thing.”

  “How did they take it?”

  “Not well at first, but there wasn’t a lot they could do to stop me. To please them, I had given college a stab, but it wasn’t to my liking, and I left almost as soon as I had begun. My father is long dead, but my mother and I are on good terms.”

  “As long as we’re asking each other personal questions, I’ll try another one: Are you married?”

  “No, although I have a very good friend, and my mother, who comes here once a year for a week or so, seems comfortable with that. She has met the lady in question and likes her.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” Annie said. “I want to get back to Cordelia, since that’s the reason we are here. Sometimes I am a little slow, but I am just now beginning to put two and two together. She was in Italy, and she is being blackmailed. Why? I ask myself. Because of a man, of course, you suggested as much yourself.

  “Now, I have spent some time in Italy myself, and I know more than a little about the habits of Italian men, particularly as those habits relate to female tourists. Are you following me?”

  “I’m hanging on your every word.”

  “How nice. Anyway, I will lay odds that all of this has to do with some Italian of the male species. When I first heard that Cordelia was going to Italy alone, it occurred to me that, given her innocence, it was like leading a lamb to the slaughter.”

  “Interesting theory,” I said. “Let us assume you are right. If so, who might the blackmailer be?”

  “I have no idea whatsoever. Maybe it’s someone in Italy, threatening her long distance. As you probably know, Cordelia is rich, very rich. Our parents have been extremely good to her.”

  “And to you all as well, I am sure.”

  “Yes, but as the favorite child—and make no mistake, that’s what she is—Cordelia has always been given special treatment.”

  “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

  Annie gave me a tight smile. “Maybe just a hint. Since the day I left college, I have always held a job and worked hard. I don’t know the details of how evenly our parents have spread their money around to us and I haven’t asked, but I do know that my father tends to play favorites.”

  “Meaning Cordelia is one of them?”

  “Yes, maybe the only one. My brother Doug, for instance, made an unwise investment that apparently ate up most, if not all, of his inheritance, and my father has in effect said to him ‘no more from me.’ Have you talked to Doug?”

  “No, so far just Tom.”

  “Ah yes. Then as you probably know, he lost a large portion of his share to that harpy he was married to. My parents are not the least bit sympathetic to his current plight, as they never liked the woman and strongly advised him against marrying her. They could easily have settled more money on Tom, as they could have on Doug, but they chose not to.”

  “That leaves your other sister.”

  “Poor Kathleen. So far, this generation of the Hutchinson clan has not done well in the matrimony department. It is no wonder I’ve stayed single. Kathleen married a Wall Street bond trader, damned handsome fellow named Lawrence who seemed to have everything going for him: old-line Boston family, Ivy League degree, job with a gold-plated firm.”

  “Sounds good so far,” I said.

  “Doesn’t it? But this character turned out to be all façade and no substance. And very little in the way of responsibility. First off, his ‘old-line’ Boston roots were rotten. His family, who once had a townhouse on Louisburg Square, which is the Sutton Place of Boston, had lost almost everything during the Depression, although he hid that fact from my parents, who thought it was wonderful that their daughter was marrying into New England society. Then we learned he had gotten into college on a need-based scholarship and just barely had the grades to graduate.”

  “Now the story doesn’t sound nearly as good.”

  “Wait, Archie, sadly there’s more to come. It turned out that Lawrence wasn’t very skilled at trading bonds and got fired by that well-known Wall Street firm. Then, living on her money while he presumably was looking for another job, he started drinking and playing around. Kathleen finally divorced him—they had two children by this time—and she was so glad to be rid of him that she gave him all the money he asked for, which apparently was plenty.

  “My father was furious with her for caving in so easily and told her she wasn’t getting any more money from him.”

  “So, how is she surviving now?”

  “Well, she’s not broke, if that’s what you mean. She still has the fine house up in Connecticut that she essentially paid for herself. And she still has enough to get by on, but I gather from what she has said to me that things are pretty tight. I didn’t mean to go on so about the trials and tribulations of the younger Hutchinsons. I feel like a society-page gossip columnist.”

  “You have been very helpful,” I said. “Now comes the hardest question of all: Do you think any one of your siblings is behind the blackmailing?”

  Annie jerked upright. “I certainly do not, Archie. That suggestion is simply ludicrous!”

  “But is it? It sounds like several of your siblings are in financial straits of varying degrees, while Cordelia certainly is not. It is by no means unheard-of for one family member to blackmail another, and usually for
financial reasons. I can remember a case—”

  “I still say that it’s preposterous. Like me, none of them is without sin, but I simply refuse to believe any one of them would do such a thing.”

  “All right. Do you happen to know a woman named Marlene Peters?” I asked.

  “No, should I?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Now it is my turn to ask a question,” Annie said. “First, I am sure you have heard of Allard & Brooks Advertising.”

  “I don’t think I have—why?”

  “Are you being petulant now?”

  “What on earth would I have to be petulant about?”

  “You are upset because I did not know who you were, but I did know about your boss.”

  “I told you there was no offense taken about that.”

  “So you say. But consider that A&B is far and away the best-known shop in New York, if not the whole country. And you telephoned me there, so you had to know about the place.”

  “I’m not going to get into an argument with you over this,” I told her, “but the only thing I knew about you was that you worked for an advertising agency, and not its name. Your father gave me a phone number where you could be reached, nothing more. I know very little about the world of advertising.”

  “All right,” Annie said. “I apologize, especially since I am about to ask a favor of you.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said as a second round of drinks arrived. “As for the favor, I withhold judgment for the present.”

  “Hear me out, Archie,” she said. “A&B has just won our biggest account of the year, Remmers Beer, which we took away from its long-time agency. I believe you have heard of the brand.”

  “I have,” I replied with a grin. “Go on.”

  “Your boss drinks Remmers, of course, and has for years. I know that because the brewery has in its files a newspaper profile of Nero Wolfe from some years back that mentions his preference for Remmers.”

  “I recall the article. My boss was never interviewed for the piece, but a former client of ours told the reporter about Mr. Wolfe’s liking for that particular brand, among other things. That man will never be a client again.”