Archie Goes Home

Chapter 34

As Wolfe surveyed the gathering, I was surprised at how attentive everyone appeared to be. When he staged these kinds of evenings back home, members of the audience would often behave like fans at a hockey game in Madison Square Garden when the Rangers were getting shellacked. But tonight, there was no overt grumbling or groans after Wolfe’s entry. It must have something to do with the makeup of midwesterners.

“If you all will kindly bear with me, I wish to proceed in an orderly fashion, which will mean beginning by stating the obvious,” Wolfe said. “Logan Mulgrew was not well liked from what I have ascertained, although I never met the man.”

“Count your blessings on that score!” Harold Mapes said, to the accompaniment of laughter and an “amen” from Kiefer.

“Indeed,” Wolfe replied with the hint of a smile. “Many of you here had reason to feel rancor toward Mr. Mulgrew, and for a variety of reasons. Let us begin with you, Mr. Purcell. A number of years ago, you started a bank in this community to compete with the well-entrenched Mulgrew financial institution, Farmer’s State Bank. Mr. Mulgrew did not take kindly to what he viewed as unwelcome competition, and he used questionable means to subvert your intentions.”

“Questionable, hah — he was an out-and-out liar!” Purcell roared. “And you are damned right that he subverted my intentions. He spread — and very effectively, I might add — the rumor that we were undercapitalized. The result: potential depositors shied away from banking with us, and those who had already put money with us closed their accounts out of fear. That man was an evil force, make no mistake about it. When I learned of his death, I cheered, inwardly at least.” Apparently exhausted by the tirade, Purcell slumped in his chair.

“Just so,” Wolfe said. “You, sir, had every reason to want Logan Mulgrew punished, perhaps even killed. Is that not so?”

“Now, wait a minute,” Purcell said, holding up a palm. “I never laid a hand on that miserable bastard, although don’t think that it hadn’t occurred to me.” As Purcell talked, my glance went to Carrie Yeager, whose expression indicated she was appalled by what she was hearing.

Wolfe turned his attention to Harold Mapes, who was staring at his lap. “Mr. Mapes, you also had reason to dislike Mr. Mulgrew.”

“Dislike isn’t a strong enough word,” the farmer said, shaking his head. “He foreclosed on me a lot faster than he needed to. I’d had one bad season and just could not meet the payments to his damned bank.”

“Had he foreclosed on other farms in the area?”

“At least one or two that I knew of,” Mapes said, turning to Purcell. “Charles, I know that if you had still been running your bank, you wouldn’t have wiped me out.”

“You’re right about that, Harold.”

“Anyway,” Mapes continued, “I suppose I could be seen as a suspect in Mulgrew’s death — that is, if he really was killed. The police” — he turned and looked at Blankenship — “are saying that it was suicide.”

“So they are,” Wolfe replied, finishing his first bottle of beer and dabbing his lips with a handkerchief. “Perhaps Mr. Blankenship would like to address his position.”

“Yes, I would,” the town’s top cop said. “Logan Mulgrew was shot with his own firearm, which had only his fingerprints on it. Some of those who worked for him at the bank said he had seemed depressed lately, very likely because of the relatively recent loss of his wife. This young woman,” he said, pointing at Katie Padgett, “stirred everything up with her writing in the Trumpet by strongly suggesting that Mr. Mulgrew was murdered.

“Now I am in favor of a free press as much as the next person,” Blankenship continued, “but I am also in favor of a responsible press, and I believe the local newspaper coverage of Logan Mulgrew’s death happens to be far from what I would term responsible.”

“We disagree there, Chief Blankenship,” Katie Padgett said. “And if any more evidence is needed as to the veracity of my reporting, how do you explain the gunshot fired into my apartment soon after my first article about Logan Mulgrew’s death appeared in the Trumpet?”

“I plan to discuss that gunshot in the fullness of time,” Wolfe put in before Blankenship could respond. “Now I want to ask Mr. Newman about his feelings toward the dead man.”

Lester Newman jerked upright when his name was called, as if he had been nodding off, which I knew was not the case because I had been watching him. “My... feelings... toward Mulgrew?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He killed my sister, just as if he had stuck a knife in her. Does that answer your fool question, Mr. New York Detective? And he had help, a woman who is sitting right here in this room,” Newman said, pointing a shaky finger at Carrie Yeager.

“I don’t have to stay here and take this!” the object of Newman’s scorn said as she stood and took a step toward the front door.

“Sit down,” Wolfe told the young woman, his tone not loud, but with a cutting edge. In all the years I have worked for him, I’ve never figured out how he does that. He doesn’t scream or yell, but his voice commands. And that voice commanded Carrie Yeager, who slipped back into her chair like one who had been slapped across the face.

“Now, Mr. Newman, please continue,” Wolfe said. “You clearly had little if any use for the man who was your brother-in-law.”

“In Sylvia’s last few months, he wouldn’t even let me near her, so I have no idea what kind of care she was getting — or should I say not getting. He and that woman” — he gestured toward Carrie Yeager — “were the only people who could get close to my sister, as far as I could tell.”

“Did you complain to Mr. Mulgrew about your inability to see your sister?”

“For all the good it did. He told me that my visits upset Sylvia, which was total hogwash. Hell, months had gone by since I had been with her, and she didn’t seem the least bit upset at that time.”

“Why do you think Logan Mulgrew kept you away from her?”

“Because he was afraid that I would find out what was going on.”

“You are suggesting Mr. Mulgrew and Miss Yeager were involved in a relationship?”

“You are damned right that I’m suggesting it. Word of their carryings-on was all over this town, and it got down to the little burg where I live, too. The gossipers were having themselves a field day, and it made me sick.” As Newman went on, Carrie Yeager covered her face. She may have been crying, but I couldn’t tell because she made no sound.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Mulgrew?” Wolfe asked.

“I drove up here to his house, even though I don’t drive much anymore, and rarely beyond the limits of my little town. No one answered the doorbell, so I went to his bank and demanded to meet him. After I cooled my heels for a half hour, he finally sat down with me in his office and told me that if I didn’t stop bothering him, he would report me to the police. He called me a senile old man even though he was years older than me.”

“Did Mr. Mulgrew ever complain to you about Mr. Newman?” Wolfe asked the chief.

“He did not,” Blankenship said.

“How long before his death was your meeting with Mr. Mulgrew?” Wolfe posed to Newman.

“I don’t know, maybe six weeks, or maybe even two months.”

“Do you believe he killed himself?”

“Maybe, maybe not, but from what I’ve been hearing here tonight, it seems like he had plenty of enemies other than me. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting that any of the gentlemen here tonight shot him, but there probably were plenty of others in these parts who hated him as well.”

Wolfe turned to Donna Newman. “You were related to the Mulgrews. How did you feel about your great-uncle and his relationship with his wife?”

She stirred in her chair. “I was directly related to Sylvia, my great-aunt, so Uncle Logan was not technically a blood relative, but I know that he was highly respected in the community.”

“Despite what you have heard tonight?”

“Uncle Logan had a lot of responsibilities as the head of a local bank. I am sorry for what has happened to some people, but I know my uncle for what he was — a kind and loving man.”

“Do you believe he killed himself?”

“Either that, or... well, I would rather not say anything else.”

“Indeed? Has anyone threatened you?”

“No, not at all. Anything I might say would be my own thoughts, nothing more.”

Wolfe made a face and directed his attention to Eldon Kiefer. “Would you count yourself among those who held animus toward Logan Mulgrew, sir?”

“I assume animus is a synonym for hate, which is a strong word, but in this case, hate isn’t even strong enough for what I feel,” Kiefer spat, sticking out his chin.

“Was your hatred, or whatever you choose to call it, toward Mr. Mulgrew such that it drove you to kill him?”

“You can’t ask a question like that,” Blankenship interrupted.

“We are not in a court of law, sir,” Wolfe responded. “I am able to ask anything I like, although of course I cannot force a response. Mr. Kiefer, I repeat my query.”

“I’m not sayin’ another word,” Kiefer said, folding beefy tattooed arms across his chest.

“What’s this all about, Wolfe? Are you trying to force a confession out of somebody?” Blankenship demanded. “And just how did Mulgrew harm this man?”

“I will leave it to Mr. Kiefer to respond both to my questions and to yours, if he so chooses.”

Kiefer sneered and turned around to look over his shoulder at the police chief. “Logan Mulgrew was an evil man, far more evil than any of you are aware.”

“Does your excoriation of him have to do with his treatment of women?” Wolfe asked.

“I repeat that I have said all I’m going to say. You or these cops here can try to beat it out of me, but I am all done talking.”

“Nobody is going to beat anything out of you, Mr. Kiefer; we don’t operate that way and never will, at least as long as I am in charge of this department.”

“Well said, Mr. Blankenship,” Wolfe remarked. “Now, Miss Yeager, I have some questions for you.”