Archie in the Crosshairs

Chapter 24

Fritz has always been able to read my moods, and it did not take him long the next morning to realize I was on edge. As he served me the next in a series of buttermilk wheat cakes hot off the griddle, he fixed me with a concerned look. “You are having an important meeting tonight?”

“We are. But not to worry, I do not think it will erupt into a brawl. Besides, the police will be represented at this little gathering in the form of Messrs. Cramer and Stebbins.”

He still looked concerned, but then, Fritz is almost always concerned. When Wolfe has a case, he worries that his boss might be working too hard — which is enough to make me laugh. He worries when we don’t have a case because no money is coming in. He worries whenever I leave the brownstone on business because something might happen to me. Imagine how much he has been worrying about me lately, given what has happened to yours truly!

I tried to put him at ease, although without success. After all, I was hardly a model of tranquility myself. I spent the rest of the day puttering and trying to keep my mind off the impending showdown. I entered orchid germination records left on my desk by Theodore Horstmann, typed a half-dozen letters Wolfe had dictated the day before, paid the grocery and beer bills, balanced the checkbook, and took an armful of my shirts to the cleaners over on Eighth Avenue.

As much as I enjoy Fritz’s cooking, I barely remember the details of either lunch or dinner that day, although I would never admit it to him. At eight o’clock, I was setting up chairs in the office when the doorbell rang.

“Lord,” I said to myself, “it must be Cramer, coming early to demand to know what’s going on. But when I looked through the one-way glass, I got a surprise.

I swung open the front door and faced a smiling Saul Panzer, who was not alone. “Evening, Archie,” Saul said, “I would like you to meet Carlo Veronese, of whom you may have heard.” The other man on the stoop was at least ten years younger and six inches taller than Saul. He was also far better clothed, in a silk, pin striped navy-blue suit, and was obviously ill at ease.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking the Italian’s hand.

“Thank you, a pleasure, signore,” he said in heavily accented but understandable English, forcing a smile.

“Mr. Wolfe thought Mr. Veronese and I should wait in the front room until such time as he calls us into the meeting. I can get us both something to drink.” He turned to Veronese, asking what he would like. The young man, a square-shouldered, handsome specimen with wavy black hair and chiseled features, shyly asked for red wine. Saul gestured him to the front room and closed the door behind him.

“All right, fill me in,” I said to Saul as we walked down the hall to the office. “What gives?”

“I’m sorry about canceling the poker game, but Mr. Wolfe sent me to Italy — Florence, to be specific — to get young Mr. Veronese and bring him here.”

“Interesting. I should have figured that out. Did you have a tough sell getting him to agree?”

Saul gave me a crooked smile. “Yes, at first, but I can be quite persuasive. I pointed out to him that he might well be an accessory to a crime — specifically blackmail — and that if he came to the States, he could plead his case and have a far better chance of getting cleared, rather than having to face a courtroom in Florence, where the Tuscan authorities have recently been handing down longer jail sentences to Italian men who beguile and often debauch young female tourists, mainly from the US, Canada, England, Holland, and Germany — many of them blondes. I told him Mr. Wolfe would cast him in a sympathetic light.”

“When did you fly in?”

“Around noon. We are both more than a little bleary-eyed, and young Veronese is extremely nervous, as you could see,” Saul said. “He’s actually been in the States once before, to visit relatives in Philadelphia, and he has traveled to most of the other European countries, too. As you know, there’s lots of money in his family, old money.”

“So I’ve heard tell. Well, as long as he’s here, let’s show him American hospitality. Get him his drink, and have one yourself from the cart. I’m just setting up for tonight’s show, as you can see.”

“Is it safe to assume Cramer will be here?”

“Very safe, and with Stebbins in his shadow.”

“Of course. How are you feeling, Archie?”

“Shoulder’s almost back to normal,” I said, flexing it. “Grab your drinks, and I’ll see you later in the evening. Should be interesting.”

Tom Hutchinson was the first one to arrive, at ten till nine. “Archie, good to see you again,” he said, pumping my hand. “I really did enjoy that lunch we had. I would be glad to reciprocate some time.

“Oh, my,” he said as he stepped into the office, “it looks like you’re all set up for a show.”

“That’s a good way to put it,” I said as the doorbell rang again. “Help yourself to something liquid.” I gestured toward the cart. “I’ve stocked it with everything I could think that people might want.”

I opened the door to Cramer and Stebbins, neither of whom looked happy. No surprise there. “Where’s Wolfe?” the inspector barked, surging by me and heading down the hall.

“He’s not in his office yet,” I called after him. Stebbins followed in his wake after scowling at me, as he has been doing for years. I scowled back, as I have been doing for years also.

I turned toward the still-open door to see that Mr. and Mrs. Parkhurst Hutchinson and Cordelia were climbing the steps. They looked no happier than Cramer and Stebbins. “Who were those men who arrived just ahead of us?” Hutchinson demanded. “I’ve never seen them before. Why are they here? Are they newspapermen?”

“You will know soon enough,” I replied. “Please come this way.” I smiled at Mrs. Hutchinson, whom I had not met, and got a blank stare in return. She was barely five feet, and very thin, with a pinched face and a disapproving expression that appeared to be a permanent condition. I realized I did not even know her first name.

Cordelia looked up at me, smiling weakly but saying nothing. I knew she was going through her own version of hell, but I also knew the worst was yet to come. I got father, mother, and son Tom seated in the first row of chairs in front of Wolfe’s desk before the bell rang once more. The two female siblings arrived together, whether by design or coincidence. Annie gave me a tight smile while Kathleen rolled her eyes and shrugged, as if to say, “Well, you talked me into coming here tonight, now what?”

While I was getting them seated in the back row of chairs, the bell chimed once more. Fritz did the honors this time, and as I stepped out into the hall, I saw that he was welcoming Doug at the door. The younger brother looked even less happy to be here than the others, but I was pleased to see him, figuring that with his attitude, he might well have been a no-show. No sooner did I take over from Fritz and escort the dour artist into the office than our final guest, Marlene Peters, arrived. She said something to Fritz that I didn’t catch, and she gave me an expressionless nod of recognition as she came toward me, but said nothing.

I steered her into the office and observed a variety of reactions to her presence: The elder Hutchinsons each looked surprised; Cordelia fluttered a hand in what I took to be a small wave; Annie pursed her lips in disapproval; and Doug stiffened, making me suspect their parting had not been an amicable one. Marlene herself tensed up when she saw him.

I offered drinks to the assemblage but did not get many takers. Papa Hutchinson asked for his usual scotch on the rocks and Annie requested a white wine. All of the others declined. Everyone was in place now. Cordelia, as the client, at least nominally, had the place of honor in the red leather chair this time, displacing her father. The senior Hutchinsons and Tom occupied the first row as previously noted, and Annie, Doug, Kathleen, and Marlene were in the row behind them. As is usual in these sessions, Cramer and Stebbins stood grim faced, their backs against the wall behind the others.

“Just where is Mr. Wolfe?” Parkhurst Hutchinson demanded, looking around. He was reverting to his earlier curmudgeonly mode.

“He will be here momentarily,” I said, going behind his desk and pushing the buzzer, which sounded in the kitchen. He had been parked there for the last half hour, waiting to make his grand entrance.

“Good evening,” Wolfe said as he entered the room and detoured around his desk, sitting and observing his guests. “I presume you have all been offered refreshments. I am going to have beer.” He then surveyed the audience again, calling each of them by name.

“All right, you got everyone here and you know our names. I fail to be impressed by that,” Parkhurst Hutchinson said. “But I notice you did not identify those two men in the back. I already asked Goodwin who they are, and I did not get a straight answer from him.”

Wolfe dipped his chin as Fritz brought the beer in. “They are Inspector Cramer of the New York Police Department’s Homicide Division and his associate, Sergeant Stebbins. They are here at my invitation.”

“Why, for God’s sake?” Hutchinson barked as his wife put a hand on his arm, trying to quiet him. “Is this going to turn into some sort of kangaroo court?”

“It is not, sir,” Wolfe said calmly. “But as the evening progresses, I assure you, the need for their presence will become apparent.”