Archie Meets Nero Wolfe (12 page)

Orrie Cather broke the silence. “I sure woulda liked to hear Wolfe’s end of that conversation,” he said, grinning.

“I can guess at least some of what got said,” Del Bascom put in.

“Instead of speculating, let’s get out of here before the lieutenant changes his mind,” Saul said. “Mr. Wolfe wants to see us at eleven a.m. tomorrow.”

“These morning meetings at the brownstone are getting to be standard procedure,” I observed. “The Williamson boy is back at home safe. What needs to be talked about now?”

Saul shot me a look. “Archie, you don’t know Nero Wolfe very well yet. Even though he’s earned his money from Williamson, he’s not going to be happy as long as the kidnappers are on the loose. It’s a matter of pride. As far as he’s concerned, the job is only half done.”

“Then there’s that little matter of Inspector Cramer,” Durkin pointed out as we filed out of the precinct. “He still thinks we had something to do with that murder last night, and he’d like nothing better than to nail Wolfe—and us—with it. He figures the killing ties in somehow to the kidnapping.”

Cather cut loose with a horse laugh. “For my money, Cramer’s got the last part figured out right. That wasn’t no coincidence.”

“I think we all agree, Orrie,” Panzer said as he fired up the rented Model A and we rumbled away from Precinct Fifty-Two, happy to be saying our good-byes to the Bronx and Lieutenant Knapp with a
K
.

Little did we know that before long, we all would be back in that borough.

W
e five already were sipping coffee in Wolfe’s office the next morning when he came down from the plant rooms and got settled in the custom-made chair behind his desk. He nodded to each of us and rang for beer.

“That cretin lieutenant in the Bronx tried to bedevil me, but, of course, you all know that. I trust you were able to leave the police station immediately after my telephone conversation with him,” Wolfe said.

“Very quickly,” Saul Panzer said. “Something you told him seemed to upset the officer.”

“No doubt,” Wolfe replied, the folds of his cheeks pulling away from the corners of his mouth in what I later learned was his version of a smile. “Mr. Williamson telephoned me minutes after his son had been freed. I told Lieutenant Knapp that the hotel executive contemplated writing a letter to one or more daily newspapers praising our efforts in getting his son released and questioning whether the New York Police Department could have done as well.”

“Think Williamson really will go ahead with that letter?” I asked.

“I confess the suggestion for such an epistle was mine, although when I broached the possibility, Mr. Williamson said he would consider it, so I was not indulging in total fabrication with the lieutenant,” Wolfe said. “Now to business. First, something for each of you.” He picked up a stack of envelopes and passed them to Panzer, who distributed them. I opened mine and pulled out a check, drawn on Wolfe’s account, for $500. Delighted, and figuring mine was rightly the smallest amount of the five, I was hardly surprised to see wide grins on the faces of the others.

“Mr. Williamson will be here later to dine with me, at which time I plan to press him to let us continue the investigation,” Wolfe said, interlacing his hands over his middle mound. “As I had feared, he seems content to close the books on the matter, now that his son is safely home. I will not, of course, expect any further remuneration from him, as he already has been most generous. But I am going to request continued access to his household staff because I feel the solution both to the kidnapping and the Bronx murder lies close to the Williamson home. Here is my question to all of you: Considering the sums you just received, would you be willing to consider those amounts payment in advance for additional work on the case? If not, I fully understand.”

“I can’t speak for the others,” Saul Panzer said, waving his envelope, “but this is more dough than I’ve made in the last eight months combined. Mark me down as still being on board.”

“Me, too,” Del Bascom seconded. “I hate to see a job left unfinished.”

Fred Durkin nodded his agreement. “Count me in. Like with Saul, this check is a godsend. It’s going to make me a hero to my wife, and that’s hard to do.”

“I’m game,” Orrie Cather said. “What the hell, I got nothing else cooking.”

“I’ll make it unanimous,” I chimed in. “Besides, I work for Del, and if he’s all tied up here, there’s nothing else for me back at the office. And on top of that, I want to see how all this plays out.”

“Satisfactory,” Wolfe said. “I will inform Saul as to our next step, and he will relay that information to each of you. Two more things: Point number one, I was mildly disturbed to learn from Mr. Williamson that gunfire had broken out last night. Did you initiate that, Orrie?”

Cather nodded, wearing a chagrined expression. “Yeah, I did, but by that time the kid was safe with his father over by the fence, and the kidnappers were about to take off. I just hated to see those bastards get away clean. I think I clipped one of ’em, although he didn’t go down and climbed into the car. Archie got off a couple of shots, too. They fired back, and Fred got nicked.”

“It was nothin’, barely a scratch,” Durkin muttered.

“The shots disturbed Mr. Williamson, although they were of little importance to him compared to his getting Tommie back. By the way, the boy appears to be unharmed and in good health,” Wolfe said. “Point number two, because none of you mentioned it, am I correct in assuming that the one kidnapper you saw, however briefly, bore no resemblance to anyone in the Williamsons’ employ?”

“Correct by me,” Panzer said. “This guy was taller—and thinner—than any of the men: the butler; Bell, the chauffeur; Carstens, the gardener; and Simons, the stableman. Anybody else see it differently?”

“Not me,” Durkin said. “The guy was skinny as a rail, seemed like he was underfed.”

“Unlike you,” Cather gibed as we all broke into laughter.

“Gentlemen, we will gather again soon,” Wolfe said, rising. That was our clue to leave, and we did.

B
ascom and I took a taxi back to his office, talking about the case the whole way. “It’s the damnedest business I’ve ever been involved in, Archie,” he said, firing up a cigar and rolling down the cab’s back window. “Williamson’s got his boy back, which is the most important thing by far. But he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by losing all that money.”

“Well, he is said to be one of the richest men in New York, right?” I posed. “The ransom probably just put a small dent in his fat wallet.”

“Maybe, but still, I think he’d want to get all that cabbage back. Pride and all. Plus, it’s possible that whoever took Tommie also plugged that grifter two nights ago on the street, which means that our Mr. Burke Williamson just might have a killer on his payroll.”

“Be interesting to find out what the kid knows.”

“That is, if Williamson will ever allow him to talk to anybody,” Bascom huffed.

“Or if Williamson will even let us talk to his staff again,” I said. “Loyalty is a fine thing, but it can be carried too far.”

Bascom took out a fin and slapped it down on his knee with a flourish. “Five says one of his employees is behind all this.”

“No bet,” I laughed, “unless you give me odds—very long odds.”

T
here was no reason for me to hang around the Bascom Detective Agency office, given that we had no business at present other than the Williamson case, so I left Del there with his paperwork and his cheap stogies and ambled down to my local bank to deposit the bulk of Wolfe’s check, taking out enough to make me feel really flush for the first time since arriving in New York.

My next move, naturally enough, was to celebrate my new prosperity with a real dinner. For weeks, I had been walking by a restaurant in the East Sixties that seemed beyond my reach: starched linens, flowers on every table, polished silverware, crystal glasses, and elegant-looking customers who did not seem to be aware that we were in the midst of a depression.

I pushed in through a glass-and-chromium revolving door and got greeted by a mustachioed swell at a podium wearing a tuxedo, a carnation, and a smirk. “Yes, sir, may I help you?” He cleared his throat, giving me a once-over that suggested I should consider finding a new tailor.

When I told him I was there for dinner and didn’t have a reservation, he cleared his throat again, studied his seating chart, and snapped his fingers, which brought a white-aproned waiter running over. “Show this gentleman to table nineteen,” the maître d’ said, turning away to warmly greet a well-dressed couple, obviously regular patrons, who had just entered.

Table nineteen was tucked into a corner at the back of the mahogany-paneled dining room not far from the swinging doors to the kitchen. The waiter handed me a menu and said he would return shortly for my order. He did, and he was clearly surprised when I ordered the most expensive steak on the menu, along with all the trimmings.

Alone but not lonely at a table for two, I had what was probably the best meal of my life, topped off by apple pie à la mode. The coffee, however, did not rank with the brew served at Mort’s diner a few blocks away, or by Fritz at Wolfe’s house.

“Nice to meet you,” I told the mustache at the front desk on my way out. “Grub’s not bad here. I might even consider coming back again one of these days for another steak.” I didn’t wait to see his expression.

T
he next morning, I got to Bascom’s office a few minutes after nine to find him at his desk, hunched over the
Gazette
crossword puzzle. “These damned things,” he muttered. “They drive me crazy, but I keep coming back to them. Guess I’m just a glutton for punishment—Oh, Nero Wolfe called a few minutes ago. He wants to see us at eleven.”

“Another meeting of the whole crew, eh?”

“Not this time. Just the two of us.”

“Huh! What’s it all about?”

“Beats me, but after the payday we got yesterday, when Wolfe calls, I jump. I hope he treated you okay, too,” Bascom said.

“No complaints here. I spent a small chunk of it on my stomach last night.”

“And why not? Me, I took the wife to dinner myself, at her favorite Italian joint just down the block from where we live. They even slipped us some red wine, called it grape juice. First time we been out to eat in months. It was a treat.”

“Well, since we’ve already been paid for this job, I hope we don’t have to spend too much time working it off.”

“Wolfe has always been a square shooter with me,” Bascom said, taking a puff of his cigar. “He’s not looking to chisel us. If we end up doing a lot more, he’ll make it worth our while, I can tell you that.”

I
n what now seemed to be a daily routine, we sat in Wolfe’s office at eleven with coffee.

He walked in, placed orchids in a vase on the desk, and sat, dipping his chin to each of us. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “As you know, Mr. Williamson dined with me last night. He shared two items of interest. First, he received a telephone call from Inspector Cramer of Homicide, who pressed him on a possible connection between his son’s kidnapping and the death of that man, Barney Haskell, on a Bronx street.

“According to Mr. Williamson, the inspector seemed most anxious to implicate me, and by extension my agents, in the killing. To his credit, Mr. Williamson dismissed the idea and told the inspector that he and he alone went to the Bronx that night, only to find Haskell lying dead on the sidewalk. He apologized for not calling the police, but said he was distraught at failing to get his son back.”

“Didn’t Cramer chew him out for not going to the police in the first place?” Bascom asked.

“Of course,” Wolfe said, “but Mr. Williamson insisted that he had done the right thing by coming to us. And when Cramer pointed out that he should not have paid a ransom, his response was ‘I have my son back safely, don’t I? End of discussion.’”

“You mentioned two items of interest,” I prompted.

Wolfe dipped his head slightly. “Yes. The family chauffeur, Charles Bell, abruptly quit, leaving only a brief note.”

“Pretty suspicious, I’d say,” Bascom observed.

“Mr. Williamson told me Bell had complained that others on the staff suspected him of being involved in the kidnapping.”

“Did somebody come right out and make an accusation?”

“Apparently, it was considerably more subtle than that,” Wolfe said. “Furtive looks, conversations suddenly ceasing when Mr. Bell walked into a room. So the Williamsons are in need of a chauffeur, which is why I asked you here.”

We both must have looked puzzled, because Wolfe quickly went on. “Mr. Bascom, would it be an imposition to spare Mr. Goodwin for a few days, possibly longer?”

Del lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “Archie’s been a breath of fresh air in our little office, a real bulldog, Mr. Wolfe, but I gotta be honest. There’s not a lot of business floating around town these days, so if you’ve got an assignment for him, I’m not about to stand in the way. A dollar’s a dollar.”

Wolfe readjusted his bulk and drank beer. “When Mr. Williamson was here and told me of the unexpected departure of his chauffeur, I suggested he hire Mr. Goodwin, on a temporary basis, of course—as a combination chauffeur and bodyguard for the boy. He had been impressed with Mr. Goodwin’s resourcefulness under pressure that first night in the Bronx, and he was amenable to my suggestion.”

“But nobody thought to ask Mr. Goodwin whether he wanted to take the job,” I growled.

“A salient point,” Wolfe conceded. “However, you appear to relish a challenge, so it seemed natural to suggest you.”

“Don’t patronize me, Mr. Wolfe,” I said. “I may not be able to vote yet, but I am able to detect appeals to my vanity, such as it is.”

“Well said!” Wolfe responded with raised eyebrows. “This is the first time I have been accused of patronizing anyone, and I assure you such was not my intent. If the job does not appeal to you, so be it.”

“I didn’t say that. I might be open to the idea, but I would like to know what you think would be accomplished by my being there as chauffeur and bodyguard.”