Archie in the Crosshairs

by Robert Goldsborough

  “So that’s how it is,” she said.

  “That’s precisely how it is. Mr. Wolfe values his privacy.”

  Annie took a pen and a sheet of paper from her purse and scribbled something on the sheet, sliding it across the table to me. “How much would he value that?”

  She had printed numbers on the sheet, a dollar sign followed by a figure that had several zeros. “What’s the play?” I asked.

  “The play, Archie, is this: We at A&B want Nero Wolfe to be the prime endorser of Remmers. Color magazine photos of him at his desk with a bottle; TV and radio spots; the works. Even billboards along all the major roads leading into the city.”

  “Now it is my turn to use the word preposterous, Annie—that is, if I may call you Annie?”

  She nodded.

  “Nero Wolfe will never, I repeat never, sit still for something like this. He would rather take a cab ride to Newark, and he detests taxis and all other wheeled vehicles, with the possible exception of his own automobile with me at the wheel, and then only on special occasions.”

  “But the money …”

  “Forget the money. He likes the green stuff, yes, as we all do. But sometimes, the cost of obtaining it is simply too great. That would be the case here.”

  “But from his standpoint, wouldn’t it be good for business?”

  “Maybe marginally, but bear in mind that Nero Wolfe has never advertised, not once. Yet word-of-mouth has kept him busy for years. And there’s one more thing, Annie. I understand you and the others in your agency are experts on what sells a product, but do you really think that you want a spokesman for your beer who weighs a seventh of a ton?”

  That stopped her cold. She looked at me, and then down at her half-empty glass and back at me again. “For some reason, I think I like you. Care to stay right where we are and have dinner?”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” I told her.

  “But only on the condition that I also pay for the meal,” Annie said, holding up a hand. “You may not like the food, so you shouldn’t have to foot the bill for it.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I told her.

  “The pub grub in here is pretty darn good, I can attest to that,” Annie said as we were handed menus. “Of course, I know from that newspaper article I read about Nero Wolfe that he has a live-in chef who prepares world-class meals for him. Do you get to eat those meals as well?”

  I said I did, but assured her that I was by no means a food snob. I had fish and chips while she went with the shepherd’s pie. “This is all right stuff,” I told her. “Do you eat here often?”

  “Maybe once a week. It’s less than two blocks from the agency. I’m not a bad cook, if I do say so myself, so most nights I whip up something for dinner at my place over in Brooklyn Heights. My specialty is beef bourguignon, but I also make a damned fine chicken cacciatore.”

  “Mark me down as impressed,” I told her as we continued to tackle our meals. I knew she was leading up to an invitation to her place, and I wanted to head that off. I asked a few more questions about Cordelia and her other siblings, but nothing of interest surfaced. The longer we talked, the more it became clear that Annie really didn’t see other members of her family very often, apparently by choice. We finished our dinner and lingered over a cup of coffee.

  “Please let me hail a cab for you,” I said as we were leaving the pub. “That is the very least I can do, given that you popped for both drinks and dinner, for which I give my thanks.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Annie said, “even though you shot down my idea about having your boss be a spokesman for Remmers.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I will pass the offer along to him, if only to get his reaction.”

  “Why not? Maybe he will surprise you.”

  I had no trouble flagging down a taxi. Opening the door for Annie, I leaned over to say goodnight.

  “Keep in touch, Archie,” she said, smiling up at me as she slipped in. “I want to know how this business with Cordelia turns out. And despite what I said about her, I really do love my baby sister. I know that I tend to be sarcastic and caustic sometimes, but for what it’s worth, I’m trying to overcome that tendency.”

  Chapter 19

  After Annie’s cab pulled away, I grabbed a taxi of my own and went straight to the brownstone. I bypassed the office and went to the kitchen, where Fritz was puttering around. “Save me any of that planked porterhouse?”

  He shook his head. “I am sorry, Archie, but Mr. Wolfe invited a guest for dinner, so there is none left.”

  “A guest, eh? Who was it?”

  “Mr. Panzer.”

  “Interesting. Did he stay long?”

  “They talked for quite a while in the office after they finished eating,” Fritz said.

  I wasn’t sure what Wolfe was up to, but more than once over the years, he has given Saul assignments without telling me about them. When I complained, I was told, “I don’t want to distract you from what you are currently working on. I have another assignment for Saul.”

  I was damned if I was going to ask Wolfe why he needed Saul this time, so instead of going into the office, I went upstairs to my room. He would get my reports on Tom and Annie Hutchinson when I was ready to give them, not before.

  The next morning, after finishing breakfast, I put in a call to Doug, the Greenwich Village member of the Hutchinson family. He answered on the sixth or seventh ring, his voice fuzzy. I introduced myself, although my name didn’t seem to register with him.

  “I think your father told you I would be calling,” I said.

  “Uh … maybe so. I … Can I call you back?”

  “If you are free today, how about lunch? Name the place. I’ll buy.”

  “Tell me what this is about … I forget.” His voice was slightly clearer now.

  “Your sister Cordelia is having some problems, and your father has hired Nero Wolfe, the private investigator, to help her. Mr. Wolfe is my boss.”

  “Oh … okay, yeah, I think I remember. Who are you again?”

  I told him, spelling my last name. I felt like I was having a conversation with a fifth-grader who was not near the top of his class.

  “Uh, lunch, right? What … what do you want to know?”

  “Let’s discuss that when we are together. I can meet you whenever and wherever you say.”

  “Um, let’s see, it’s now … What time have you got?”

  “Nine-twenty.”

  A muffled groan came through the wire. “What about, oh … one o’clock?”

  “One is just fine with me, Mr. Hutchinson. Where would you like to eat? Make it easy on yourself.”

  “You, um, you know where the Village is?”

  I told him I did.

  “Okay, yeah, well, there’s this deli on Bleecker, a couple of doors down from Christopher,” he said between yawns. “This place, it doesn’t have a name that I know of, just a red wooden sign over the door that says ‘Deli.’”

  “A deli called ‘Deli,’ huh? Okay, I’ll meet you out in front at one. How will I recognize you?”

  “Big sunglasses,” he muttered. “Yeah, big sunglasses.”

  I rang off and hoped that within the next three-plus hours, Doug Hutchinson would manage to pull himself together and become more alert than he had been on the telephone. Last night must have been a doozy—unless, of course, he awoke in a similar state every morning.

  I took a taxi downtown and jumped off a block from the intersection of Bleecker and Christopher. The weather was as nice as it had been the day before, and the neighborhood was crowded with pedestrians, as is usually the case in the Village, good weather or bad. I spotted the deli with its big red sign before I had gotten within a half block. I parked myself outside the front door and waited. And waited.

  At one fifteen, a short, slim, sandy-hai
red man of indeter­minate age wearing oversized sunglasses walked up to me. “Would you be Mr. Goodwin?” His voice possessed more strength than earlier in the day.

  “That’s me. And I take it you are Doug Hutchinson.”

  “You take it right,” he said. “How ya doin’?”

  “Just fine. By the way, you didn’t sound so good on the phone earlier. Are you okay?” I asked as we entered the deli.

  That brought a chuckle. “Yeah, I had sort of a late night. There was an opening at one of the galleries near here, and the party went on longer than any of us figured it would.”

  “That’s right, you’re an artist,” I said as we eased into a booth toward the rear of the noisy joint. “What do you specialize in?”

  “Are you an art lover?” he asked.

  “Not in a sophisticated sense. I’m just one of those who knows what he likes when he sees it.”

  Another chuckle. “Most people are that way, which is fine, I don’t knock it,” Doug said as we each ordered a corned beef sandwich on rye from a waitress who looked to be about fifteen but was probably older. “There are too damn many snobs in the art world. Me, I’m kind of a throwback, you might say. Do you happen to know what cubism is?”

  “I would be lying if I said I did, although I have heard the term.”

  He nodded. “It was a popular movement and a damned important one early in the century. Picasso was a big part of it, along with Braque, Léger, Gris, and a few others. I decided to become a cubist, or really a neo-cubist, which makes me out of step with the times. But I like the style and always have. And if I do say so myself, I’ve gotten some good reviews in the local papers for my oils and charcoals. One critic even called me ‘a worthy successor to Georges Braque.’”

  “That had to make you feel good.”

  “It did, but not as good as when I actually met Braque in Paris a few years back and showed him photos of some of my work. He clapped me on the back, grinned, and gave me a thumbs-up sign.”

  “Do your paintings sell?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I figured that question was coming sooner or later. No, I haven’t done all that well, although there are a handful of collectors—a very small handful—who like cubism but can’t find the early works on the market, so they settle for me and my much cheaper prices.”

  “Interesting. But I’m really here to talk about your youngest sister and her problems.”

  Doug took off his sunglasses, exposing tired red eyes. “My dear old father, who I almost never hear from anymore, phoned and told me Cordelia was in some sort of trouble, and that you would be calling me. That’s all he said—he didn’t go into any detail—so I have no idea what is going on or how I can be of any help.”

  “I’m not sure you can help, but I do appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. Cordelia’s problems appear to stem from a trip she took to Italy.”

  “Oh yeah, her famous Italian adventure. So, did she get into some trouble over there?”

  “She is apparently being blackmailed.”

  He frowned. “What on earth for? I assume you’ve met her. She’s as innocent as a newborn babe. What kind of trouble could she possibly get into?”

  “She is being very close-mouthed about the whole business, won’t even give her parents any details. Nero Wolfe and I thought maybe she had confided in one or more of her siblings.”

  “Have you talked to any of them yet?” Doug asked between bites of his sandwich.

  “Yes, both Tom and Annie, and neither of them has any clue as to what the problem is.”

  “I’m not surprised. Cordelia’s almost half a generation younger than the rest of us. I am the next youngest, and I’m ten years older than she is—almost eleven, really. I never had all that much to do with her growing up. Hell, I was already out of college—for all the good that did me—just about the time that she was entering high school.”

  “I understand that when Cordelia was in Italy, she met up with a friend of hers, Marlene Peters.”

  He frowned, as if thinking. “Oh … I guess maybe I had heard something about that.”

  “I also understand you have gone out with Miss Peters.”

  “Oh, that!” he said, waving it away with a hand. “For some reason, Cordelia thought we might hit it off, even though I’m a good ten years older than Marlene, too. She’s a nice girl, a lot of fun. And yeah, we did go out a few times, but it just didn’t click, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I’ve been there myself, more than once. Do you have any idea where Marlene Peters lives?”

  “Last I knew, she was somewhere over east of the Village, close to the river, but it’s been a while.”

  “Do you have any other thoughts about Cordelia? Is she harboring any deep, dark secrets you’re aware of?”

  Doug laughed so loudly that people in nearby booths turned toward us. “Does Miss Oh-So-Proper have any secrets? I couldn’t even begin to guess what they are,” he said. “She really doesn’t seem like the type. She does have a boyfriend, though—do you know about that?”

  “A little. Lance Mercer, right?”

  “That’s the one. I’ve never met him, but I do know that he comes from money, lots of it, airplanes. In that respect, he and Cordelia have something in common. They’ll never have to worry about paying the bills.”

  “She’s got a large inheritance, doesn’t she?”

  “Damn right she does. I did once, too. Maybe you know about that,” Doug said, his tone suddenly defensive.

  “Not much,” I told him. “My main focus in this investigation is your youngest sister.”

  “Well, as long as you’re here and you took the time to grill me, I’ll spell it out. What the hell, who cares? I’ve never been what you would call a favorite of my parents, particularly my father. My older brother, whom you’ve met, decided early on that he wanted to go into accounting, a duller choice I can’t begin to imagine. Anyway, that left me as the last hope in the family to follow the old man into the railroad business. The idea of me going into railroading is about as absurd as Harry Truman becoming a touring golf pro. Even though I loved art as a kid and majored in it in college, my father still thought I might have a change of heart and go to work playing with trains, and not the type that run around a Christmas tree.

  “I made it clear that world wasn’t for me, which was strike one, as far as Dear Old Dad was concerned. Then I moved into a loft down in this neighborhood. That made me a ‘beatnik,’ which ranks somewhere down there with ‘communist’ as far as he is concerned. Strike two. And then I invested big bucks in a trading company with a friend from college. It collapsed like a house of cards, and there went my inheritance, poof! I never knew that so much money could disappear so fast. Strike three. In just a few sentences, that’s my story. Do you think it would make a novel?”

  “I’m afraid you are asking the wrong guy,” I told him, trying to lighten the mood. “I know as much about literature as you say you know about railroading.”

  “Touché!” Doug said, clapping his hands. “I realize that I haven’t been much help to you,” he went on. “Sorry, but what you see before you is the black sheep of the family, an outcast. Sort of like a leper, you know?”

  I could see that Doug Hutchinson was beginning to wallow in self-pity, which is never a pretty sight. It usually manifests when someone has had too much to drink, but his only beverage at lunch was coffee, and not a lot of that. I thanked him for his time and rose, leaving a tip on the table.

  “Thanks for lunch,” he said, waving a hand and staying seated. “’Preciate it.”

  Chapter 20

  That left one more Hutchinson offspring to meet: the divorced Kathleen Willis up in New England, plus Marlene Peters, who, according to Doug, lived east of the Village. I had their telephone numbers, and it would have been far easier to try Miss Peters first, in the hopes I mig
ht find her at home or at her place of work—either of the locations being far closer to my present location than Westport, Connecticut.

  But it was a beautiful day, and I was in the mood to commune with nature. End of internal discussion. I found a phone booth along Bleecker, pumped the necessary coins into it, got Kathleen right away, and identified myself.

  “Oh yes, Daddy told me I would be hearing from you,” she said in a tone somewhere between indifferent and icy. “Something to do with a problem Cordelia is having, I believe.”

  “Yes, and I was hoping to—”

  “There is really nothing I can think of that would help with whatever happens to be going on, Mr. Goodwin. I doubt if I have seen Cordelia more than three times in the last two years or so, and then we exchanged only a few words. It’s not that I don’t like her—after all, she is a sister—but we have next to nothing in common, other than the same parents. When we do see each other, we have almost nothing to say except ‘my, you’re looking good,’ or ‘I just love your new hairstyle.’”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to come up to Westport and talk to you. I promise not to waste your time.”

  “You want to come here today?” She sounded surprised, and definitely not happy.

  “I vow to be brief. Scout’s honor, Mrs. Willis.”

  That brought the hint of a chuckle. “‘Scout’s honor.’ I haven’t heard that term in years. Were you really a Boy Scout, Mr. Goodwin?”

  “For a spell, yes. Then I discovered girls, and all of a sudden, Scouts didn’t seem quite so much fun.”

  “I’ll bet you are a stitch at parties with your snappy patter.”

  “I would be delighted to give you a chance to find out firsthand.”

  This time, the chuckle was full-blown and pleasant to hear. “All right, come ahead. I assume you are driving and will need some directions.”

  “Yes to both,” I told her, and was given the directions to her place in Westport.