Archie in the Crosshairs

Chapter 15

The next morning, I had just settled myself in the office when the telephone rang. Not a good sign as of late. I had begun toying with the idea of not answering before at least ten a.m., and telling Fritz to likewise let it ring. Trouble seems to come early. It did again.

“Hello, Archie, old pal.” It was the unmistakable voice of Lon Cohen of the Gazette.

“It’s the ‘old pal’ part of that greeting that makes me nervous,” I said. “Do I owe you money?”

“Don’t I wish! You may recall that you were the big winner at poker the other night. No, this has to do with someone from your past. And by the way, just the other day you called me ‘old pal.’ I was simply returning the friendly salutation.”

“Thanks so much. Now, who is this from my past? Please don’t keep me in suspense — let’s have it.”

“I know you recall Alan Marx, whose brother Wolfe helped send to Sing Sing’s high-voltage chair some years back.”

“Of course I remember him,” I said, my heart pumping furiously. I was not about to tell Lon that Marx had been on Wolfe’s and my mind lately. “What’s he done?”

“It’s what’s been done to him. He was found in his luxury condo in the East Eighties this morning, deader than the Knicks’ playoff chances this season.”

“Huh? Natural causes?”

“Well... no, which makes for a great story, at least for those of us who live for that sort of thing. A maid came in this morning around seven to clean, as she usually does, and she found Mr. Marx sprawled on the living room floor next to the fireplace with one side of his head caved it.

“Seems he apparently was coshed by a poker that was found lying beside him. We just got the police reports, and of course I recalled his connection to you and Wolfe. Alan Marx was outspoken about detesting both of you.”

“Outspoken is an understatement, given the names he called us — particularly Wolfe — at the time. How well I remember,” I said. “Mr. Marx must have had other enemies, though.”

“So it would now seem,” Lon said. “However, I felt I should let you know that Inspector Cramer may just stop by the brownstone. You know how he likes to connect the dots, whether or not they make any sense.”

“I will alert Mr. Wolfe. Any other information?”

“That’s all we’ve got here at the moment.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Always happy to be of help. And who knows, before this is over, maybe you will have something of interest for yours truly.”

“You mean our ‘old pal’?”

“That’s me. We’re going to play this big, given that Marx had a lot of visibility around town — fine art collector, patron of the opera, the symphony, the ballet, etcetera, etcetera.”

“I won’t forget those etceteras, old pal,” I said. “Now get back to putting out the paper. Aren’t you on a deadline? That’s how you usually brush me off.”

“Thanks for reminding me. Gotta go.”

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven, I told him we might be getting a visit from Cramer.

He glowered. “Why?”

I told him about Lon’s call, and he glowered some more, then sighed. “Confound it. If he comes, tell him I am not here.”

“But he knows you are always here,” I argued. “And if you were to hide in the kitchen, or the plant rooms, or your bedroom, then I would have to deal with him alone. I am not paid well enough to perform that kind of service, although this might be a good time to discuss a raise.”

That warranted yet another glower. “Relate everything Mr. Cohen said.”

“It’s pretty skimpy,” I said, repeating our conversation word for word.

“Skimpy indeed,” Wolfe remarked. “You should have questioned him more thoroughly.”

“Just a minute. Bear in mind that when we talked, the discovery of Marx’s body had occurred just two hours earlier. I think I got everything that Lon and the Gazette had at the time.”

He grunted, which can mean any number of things, from dissatisfaction with my performance to his unhappiness over having to go to work. As I have often said, Nero Wolfe is lazy — brilliant but lazy. He knows this, which is one of the reasons he keeps me around. Among my functions is the task to be a burr under his saddle, a prod to get him going.

Wolfe barely had time to sample the first of his two pre-luncheon beers when the doorbell chimed. I looked at my watch, which read eleven-twenty. “That will be Cramer. Do I let the man enter or make him keep pushing the button until he gets a blister on his finger?”

His answer was a frown and a shrug, so I headed down the hall. “Good morning, Inspector,” I said, throwing open the door. “Is this a social call?”

“Just when has it ever been a social call?” Cramer grumped, handing me his battered fedora and marching by me. By the time I got to the office, he was already planted in the red leather chair like he owned it, his eyes fixed on Wolfe, who looked up from his book.

“Sorry to interrupt your reading,” the inspector said.

“It is not the first time,” Wolfe said, “and it likely will not be the last.”

“Don’t be too sure of that. As I know you are aware, the heat is on, and at least one very large and self-important local newspaper has suggested in an editorial that it is time for me to seriously consider retiring. To be precise, they wrote that ‘Cramer’s time is long past.’”

“All because of the Central Park murder?”

“That’s for starters, and now we’ve got another killing, which is why I am here. Of all people, you of course remember Alan Marx.”

“He is hard to forget,” Wolfe replied.

“Marx was found murdered in his pricey Upper East Side abode last night, but maybe you already know that.” Wolfe made no response.

“Somebody had bashed in his skull, apparently with a heavy poker from the fireplace,” Cramer continued. “It happened sometime before midnight, or so we’ve been told. His wife was out of town visiting relatives in Pennsylvania, and none of the neighbors heard anything — not surprising given that the walls in that building are unusually thick. And the doorman said he didn’t see anybody come in asking for Marx. The rub here is that according to residents of the building, the doorman has a reputation for dozing at his desk in the entrance hall. So almost anyone could have walked through that entrance hall, ridden up in the self-service elevator, and gotten as far as Marx’s door.”

“Mr. Marx must have let the individual in,” Wolfe observed.

“Precisely. The man knew his killer. I find that most interesting.”

“What is your point, Mr. Cramer?”

“Bear with me. I am getting to it, in my own slow and simple way. Here is something else that I find interesting: Goodwin here is shot at as he’s about to enter the brownstone. Then soon afterward, your building itself gets fired on. And now, a man who has for years made public his hatred of Nero Wolfe is found murdered. I am not a big believer in coincidences, maybe because all these years on the job have made a skeptic of me.”

“Continue.”

As is his practice when in Wolfe’s office, Cramer took a cigar from his breast pocket and jammed it into his mouth, unlit. “Had you heard from Alan Marx recently?” he asked.

“I have not,” Wolfe said. “Archie?”

“No, sir, not a word.”

Cramer turned to me. “And you have not had occasion to visit Marx’s residence?”

“I wasn’t even aware of where he lived, Inspector. Honest.”

“Do you feel okay?” the inspector posed.

“Sure, why?”

“You seemed to be a little bit stiff, the way you walked when I came in, kind of lopsided.”

“I did something to my shoulder when I was exercising the other day, nothing major, but thanks for asking.”

“Are you quite finished?” Wolfe asked our guest.

“You understand that I had to go through the motions,” Cramer said in a tone that, for him, was conciliatory. “Sooner or later, you can bet that Commissioner Humbert would have asked me if I had brought up the subject with you.”

“And now you can tell him you have,” Wolfe said. “Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment. I’m up to my eyeballs fighting a two-front battle, with the shooting of a thug in our city’s showcase park on the one hand and the murder of a prominent patron of the arts on the other. If I don’t see the two of you again, I am sure you will not miss my visits.” He rose, put the cigar back in his pocket, and ambled off without another word.

“Not the same old Cramer,” I said when I had returned to the office after seeing him out. “When I handed him his hat, he actually said, ‘Thanks, Archie.’ I almost keeled over from the shock.”

“Mr. Cramer feels very sorry for himself at the moment,” Wolfe said. “And not without some justification. The inspector finds himself waging war on two fronts, as he said, and either of the incidents alone would be a large headache for the police department, given the circumstances. Together, they constitute a migraine of epic proportions.”

“Okay, so much for the mess Cramer finds himself in, but after all, that comes with the job,” I said. “That’s what he gets paid for. What are your thoughts about Marx’s murder?”

“I have none at the moment. It is possible his acerbic nature — with which we are all too familiar — has inflamed someone in the arts community to the point where violence ensued. Based on what I have seen, the artistic temperament manifests itself in unpredictable and occasionally violent ways.”

“That is not very helpful,” I told him. “Do you think Marx was our phantom telephone man? Neither of us ever heard him speak, so we wouldn’t have recognized his voice. We have had no calls for several days now. I almost miss getting them — but not quite.”

“It is possible,” Wolfe said, “although I am not yet ready to state with certainty that we have gotten the last of those calls.”