Archie Goes Home

Chapter 15

“So you and this Katie of yours are going off to Charleston on what may be a wild goose chase,” my mother said at breakfast the next day in a less-than-enthusiastic tone.

“First off, Mom, she’s not ‘this Katie of mine’ by any stretch. But you may be right that we are off on a fool’s errand.”

“Well, I would be a liar if I told you I wasn’t interested in learning just what the Yeager woman may be up to. I’m afraid I am getting to be like my sister.”

“You don’t have to worry about that happening, Mom. You and Aunt Edna are poles apart, I’m happy to say.”

At 8:30, I swung by the building where Katie Padgett lived, and she was standing at the curb wearing a summery yellow dress, sandals, and a smile.

“Right on time, Archie!” she chirped, stepping gracefully into the convertible. “I came downstairs less than a minute ago.”

“That’s the window that got broken by a gunshot, right?” I asked, pointing up at the second floor over Mason’s hardware store.

“That’s the one, and the scary thing is, I had been standing by that window just a minute or so earlier.”

“Lucky timing on your part,” I said as we pulled away and began our jaunt southeast toward Charleston.

“I’ve wanted to get you alone for some time,” Katie said.

“Uh-oh.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that, silly,” she said, punching my right shoulder playfully. “I want to hear about some of the cases you and Nero Wolfe have worked on. It must be such an exciting life.”

“On occasion that’s true, but much of the time, it’s me hunting down people or clues in my dogged and plodding fashion and delivering what — or who — I find to Mr. Wolfe, the brains of the operation, and he invariably figures the whole thing out.” I proceeded to tell her about the gun battle in our office with Wolfe getting shot in the arm while sitting at his desk and me then plugging the shooter.{The Rubber Band by Rex Stout, 1936} And also my narrow escape from that angry bull in the Upstate New York meadow.

“I love your story about the bull. It sounds like you’ve had some pretty wild times.”

“Not really. I just gave you a couple of exceptions to what is a generally unexciting life. And gunplay rarely enters into the picture. Now it’s time for you to tell me what you plan to do once we locate our Miss Yeager.”

Katie laid out her scheme, and I was impressed with its structure, if not its integrity. But then, I’ve been known to play fast and loose with facts myself when interviewing suspects and cajoling them into making a visit to Nero Wolfe in the brownstone. After further discussion of the approach to be taken with Carrie Yeager, we crossed the Ohio River into West Virginia and were greeted by a welcome center with a pole that was flying what I assumed to be the state flag.

“Why are we stopping here?” Katie asked as I pulled into the center’s parking lot.

“To get a map of Charleston,” I told her. “I don’t relish the idea of driving aimlessly around town looking for an address.”

“Of course, I should have thought of that,” my passenger said in an abashed tone as she gave me Carrie Yeager’s address.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find her,” I said after I brought a map back to the car and studied it. “I see that her street is just a few blocks from the capitol.”

“Which happens to be the tallest building in West Virginia,” Katie put in.

“Interesting bit of trivia; where did you come up with that?”

“I studied an almanac in the office.”

“Ever the reporter,” I told her as we pulled away and began driving toward the heart of the city. “There’s the capitol dome,” I said. “Looks a lot like the one in Washington.”

Within ten minutes, we found the street we were looking for and spotted the address, which turned out to be a three-story brick apartment building that had been built well before the war. I eased up to the curb.

“Time to go in and find out if she’s at home. Oh, and here’s your prop,” Katie said, pulling a Leica camera from her big purse. We stepped into a dark, high-ceilinged lobby that badly needed a fresh coat of paint and some brighter lightbulbs in its dusty ceiling globes.

Carrie Yeager was among more than a dozen tenants listed on a board that had a button next to each name. Katie pushed hers, and after several seconds came a static-filled squawk that sounded like “yes?”

“Miss Yeager, the Trumpet back in Ohio is doing a major feature on the life of Logan Mulgrew,” Katie spoke into the mouthpiece, “and two of us from the paper are down in the lobby. We would like to get your thoughts on the life of this outstanding citizen.”

A long pause. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I have anything to contribute,” came the scratchy reply.

“Oh, I disagree, Miss Yeager. You were privileged to know him well, and everyone else we have talked to was eager to be quoted. It would seem very strange if I had to put in the article that you refused to comment.”

Another long silence. “Oh, all right, you can come on up. My number is three-oh-seven.”

We rode up in a jerky and shabby automatic elevator that would have terrified Nero Wolfe. In keeping with the overall condition of the building, the third-floor hallway was dimly lit. We peered along its length and saw light coming from the far end, where an apartment door was open. “Down here,” a female voice prompted.

That voice belonged, of course, to Carrie Yeager, who turned out to be pretty, and much as Katie had earlier described her: midthirties, close to my height, dark-haired, and the type that people — particularly men — notice. She wore a skirt and sweater and stood in the doorway eyeing us with a wary expression.

“Thank you so much for seeing my photographer and me,” Katie said with a smile. “My name is Katie Padgett, and this is Archie.” I held up the Leica to verify my role. “May we come in?” she asked.

“Oh yes... of course,” Carrie said, stepping aside as we entered a small living room with worn furnishings and curtains that looked like they could stand a cleaning.

“I am only in this apartment temporarily,” our hostess explained, noticing our dubious looks. “I’ll be staying as a caregiver at the home of a man who is getting out of the hospital in the next week or two. His family very kindly put me up here until then. Please sit down.”

“Thanks,” Katie said, pulling out a reporter’s pad and pencil. “Have you done this type of work for a long time?”

“Almost since I got out of school,” Carrie replied, “although I was married for two years right after graduation, then got divorced. You don’t have to put that in your story, do you?”

“Of course not. The Trumpet is mainly interested in the life of Logan Mulgrew, who I am sure you came to know well when you were his wife’s caregiver.”

Carrie Yeager nodded, lips pursed. “He was a fine gentleman, and he went through a lot because of Mrs. Mulgrew’s long illness.”

“I’m sure that you must have been a great help to him during that period,” Katie prompted.

“I certainly tried to be. Much of the time, his wife was unable to communicate, at least not in what we would term a rational way. I know it was heartbreaking for Log — for Mr. Mulgrew.”

“I know that this is a very sensitive question, but do you think the difficulty Mr. Mulgrew had in watching his wife’s suffering led to his own death?”

“I... suppose that it might have,” Carrie said, studying her fingernails. “I have asked myself that many times, of course. I blame myself for not staying in the house after Sylvia — that’s Mrs. Mulgrew — died. Maybe I could have prevented what... well, what happened.”

“Are you convinced that Mr. Mulgrew killed himself?”

“Why... of course! What else could it have been?” she asked, eyes wide in an expression of surprise.

“Why did you move out of the Mulgrew house?” Katie asked.

The woman paused several seconds before responding. “It seemed somehow improper for me to continue to live in the home after Mrs. Mulgrew’s death. But in retrospect, I wish I had stayed. The truth is, I simply did not realize the full extent of the emotional shape that Mr. Mulgrew was in.”

“But you did remain in town?”

“Yes, really more as a favor to Mr. Mulgrew than any other reason. He had no children or close relatives, and he asked me to help him sort through his wife’s clothing and other possessions.”

“That must have been hard — for both of you.”

“It was, but far more for him than for me. Every time he looked at a dress of hers, he would reminisce about an event where she wore it.”

“How would you say that people in town viewed Logan Mulgrew?”

Carrie shook her head. “I really don’t know. I never got involved in the business part of his life, and at home, he never talked about the bank or anything else he was involved with in the town.”

“Did he have many visitors?”

“Not very often. Oh, a few times one of his assistants from the bank came over with some papers for him to sign. Those were on days that he stayed home from work because the doctor came to examine his wife, and Mr. Mulgrew wanted to be there to talk to him afterward.”

“Did you know that Mr. Mulgrew had a gun at home?”

“Yes, I did,” Carrie said. “He kept it in a desk drawer in the living room. He showed it to me once early on and said, ‘You are here alone with my wife a lot, and this house is fairly isolated. I really believe any kind of break-in is unlikely, but if something were to happen, you need to know how to protect yourself — and the house.’”

“Did he show you how to use the gun?”

“Sort of. He took all the bullets out and had me pull the trigger a couple of times just to get the feel of it, and then he put the bullets back in.”

“And you never fired it?”

Carrie laughed nervously. “Of course not. Why would I?”

“No reason, just asking. Do you mind if my photographer takes a couple of pictures of you?”

“I guess not, although it seems like I really don’t have much to add to your story about Mr. Mulgrew.”

“This will be a major piece about Logan Mulgrew, and we’ll need photos of anyone who had a major role in his life.”

“I would hardly call mine a major role,” Carrie protested, but she did let me take some shots, with her wearing both a smile and a serious expression, as I had suggested.

“One last question, Miss Yeager,” Katie said. “How would you describe your relationship to Mr. Mulgrew.”

“He was my employer, of course.”

“Is that all he was?”

“What do you mean by that?” Carrie demanded, jerking upright and frowning.

“It seemed a natural thing to ask, given how often the two of you were seen together in public.”

“I do not like your insinuation, and I would like you both to leave right now!” she said in a quavering voice as she stood. We got up and walked out as the door was slammed behind us.

“Let’s look for a spot to grab a late lunch,” I said to Katie when we were back in the car. After a two-block drive, we found a restaurant that advertised “Steaks. Chops. Burgers. Voted the Best in Town!”

After we had settled into a booth and ordered — corned beef on rye for me, a ham and cheese sandwich for Katie — I said, “You saved the best for last.”

“A good reporter’s strategy — ask the toughest question at the end of the interview. If you ask that earlier, you’re likely to be tossed out.”

“We were tossed out.”

“But not until after we got a reaction from her. I am absolutely positive she and Mulgrew were having an affair.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I thought she seemed awfully nervous, or maybe edgy is a better word.”

“Being interviewed for a newspaper article can make a lot of people nervous, even when it’s a small paper like the Trumpet — no offense meant.”

“None taken. Well, maybe you’re right. But I still have a feeling that Carrie Yeager is somehow off-center.”

“Maybe. Now be honest with me, Katie,” I said, leaning forward. “There isn’t going to be an article by you about Logan Mulgrew in the Trumpet, is there?”

The color rose in her face. “Well... probably not just about him. But I thought it was important to try to smoke out the Yeager woman. I still feel she had something to do with Mulgrew’s death. She may have actually pulled the trigger. After all, she told us that she did know about the gun.”

“True. I had to wonder, though, whether she is aware enough about newspaper photographers to realize that most of them use a press camera like a Speed Graphic and not a little Leica.”

“Aha, Archie Goodwin. Your big-city bias is showing through. Maybe they use those kinds of cameras on the large dailies like the ones you’re familiar with, but here a Leica is common. I’ve even used that very one to take pictures to go with my articles. We don’t have a staff photographer, just a freelancer. All the reporters take their own pictures most of the time. Anything to save our almighty bosses’ money.”

“Okay, I’ll concede you that point. What do you plan to do about Miss Yeager now?”

“I haven’t decided yet. And what are you going to do yourself? You told me you’ve spent time with Charles Purcell and Harold Mapes. What’s your opinion of them as prospective killers?”

“To use your own phrase, I haven’t decided yet.”

“Do you have anyone else in mind?” Katie asked. I told her about my plans to meet with Lester Newman and Eldon Kiefer.

“So it’s clear that you don’t think that I’ve already identified the killer,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice.

“I am just keeping an open mind, as Nero Wolfe has taught me to do over the years. Now let’s eat. All this talk has made me hungry.”