Archie in the Crosshairs

Chapter 26

After that recitation, a hush fell over the room for several seconds. Once more, to my discomfort, I became the center of attention, as everyone stared at me, several of them agape, perhaps in surprise because I was alive. Finally, Tom Hutchinson broke the silence. “I’m sure glad you’re okay, Archie, but I’ve got a question which might seem unimportant after all that happened in Central Park. What became of the money?”

“Your youngest sister could answer that for you,” Wolfe said. “It has been returned to her. In the ensuing chaos after the melee in the park, another one of my agents, Fred Durkin, scooped up the satchel before either X or Y could retrieve it. It was returned to Miss Hutchinson intact.”

“And just how did Goodwin get patched up?” Cramer demanded. “Gunshot wounds have to be reported.”

“You and I can discuss this later, Mr. Cramer. There’s more to tell about X and Y. Needless to say, neither of them was happy about the debacle in Central Park that made so many headlines, upset our civic leaders, and gave fodder to newspaper editorial writers.”

“One more thing,” Cramer said. “How do we know that either Panzer here or Durkin didn’t fire the shot that killed McManus?”

“It is true that both were armed, but neither of them ever fired his weapon,” Wolfe said. “You can put them on the witness stand or give them lie-detector tests.”

Cramer looked unconvinced. “You claim McManus told no one else about the plan to kill Goodwin. What about the one you insist on calling Y?”

“Y did not know that killing Mr. Goodwin was part of the plan and was angered by everything that happened in the park. Y later confronted X and a struggle broke out in which X was killed.”

“Okay, it’s time to put names with these letters,” Cramer said. “Or do you even know the names?”

“I do, sir. X, as you may have surmised, was Alan Marx, the man who was found dead recently in his Upper East Side residence, having been bludgeoned with a fireplace poker.”

Cramer nodded. “The brother of Simeon Marx, who strangled that dancer and who you helped send to the chair.”

“The selfsame. He detested me, and by extension, Mr. Goodwin. I am sure, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Alan Marx was the voice at the other end of the doomsaying telephone calls we received, and was responsible for the shots fired at Mr. Goodwin out on Thirty-Fifth Street and into our front-room windows. I also think it likely that Mr. McManus was the gunman in both of those cases. Of course, now we will never know.”

“So that leaves the one you call ‘Y.’”

“Yes, Inspector. He is in this room,” Wolfe said, fixing his gaze on Douglas Hutchinson as Purley Stebbins moved behind him.

Doug spun around, feeling Stebbins’s strong hand once again on his shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about, fat man?” he blurted. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Of all the Hutchinsons, you are the one most in need of money,” Wolfe said, “and your youngest sister presently has the most readily available capital of any of your siblings. She looked to be easy pickings for you and your longtime friend Miss Peters here.”

“My God, this is preposterous!” Parkhurst Hutchinson barked, bounding to his feet and turning toward his son. “Tell me that Nero Wolfe is out of his mind, dammit. Tell me!”

Stone-faced, Doug looked up at his father, saying nothing. Sweat broke out on his brow, and any resistance seemed to have left him.

“Douglas Hutchinson, appalled by the violence in Central Park and irate because of his failure to get the seventy-five thousand dollars, went to Marx’s home in a rage,” Wolfe said, oblivious to the emotions that roiled all around him. “A struggle ensued in the otherwise empty residence, and Alan Marx fell dead from an injury to his skull. Only young Mr. Hutchinson knows precisely what occurred and who initiated the fracas. I leave it to others to make that determination.”

The room had become an emotional shambles. Various Hutchinsons embraced one another, and several were in tears. Kathleen hugged Cordelia, and Tom wrapped his arms around his mother, who sobbed into his chest.

All the bluster had gone out of Parkhurst, who sat slumped in his chair, staring at the floor. Marlene Peters had apparently become a pariah, as she was ignored.

Purley Stebbins led Doug out of the room while Cramer paused at the big desk, looking down at Wolfe. “We still have things to discuss,” he said. “But they can wait — at least until tomorrow.” As he walked out, I followed him down the hall in my sometime role as butler. I held the front door open for him, but got neither a look nor any thanks — not that I expected either.

When I got back to the office, Parkhurst Hutchinson sat in the red leather chair recently occupied by Cordelia and leaned forward, speaking in a low voice. “I can pay you the balance right now if you like,” he said.

“That is not necessary. Mr. Goodwin will send you a bill.”

“Mr. Wolfe, you warned me when I hired you that you might find things that were distasteful, unpleasant, and embarrassing to me and my family. I remember your precise wording. You were certainly correct about that.”

“It gives me no satisfaction to be proven right,” Wolfe said.

“I have been too hard on Doug these last few years,” Hutchinson said, still keeping his voice low. “I blame myself for all that has happened, and I will spend whatever it takes to get the finest legal minds in this city to defend my son.”

“Your son must shoulder some of the blame himself,” Wolfe observed. “He is an intelligent adult and is possessed, as we all are, of free will.”

Those words offered no solace to Parkhurst Hutchinson, who turned toward his wife. She was standing, surrounded by her three daughters and her eldest son, who together formed a protective cocoon around her. They made an opening in that cocoon for their father, who joined them in encircling and consoling a grieving woman.

I looked around for Marlene Peters, but she must have slipped out when I was eavesdropping on the conversation between Wolfe and Parkhurst Hutchinson. She was now probably walking along Thirty-Fifth Street, alone with her thoughts of what might have been.