The Missing Heiress

Chapter 5

We dined that evening on Rusterman’s superb squabs à la muscovite and did not further discuss Maureen Carr’s situation, other than to wonder about her brother.

“It’s worth trying to find him,” I said as we tackled desserts of raspberries in sherry cream (Lily) and blueberry pie à la mode (me).

“I agree, but I have absolutely no idea where to start. Now that my own foray into the world of detecting has proven to be less than satisfactory, I’m willing to let you have a go at the shadowy Everett Carr.”

“You gave it a good try, my dear, and sometimes the things you don’t learn can be as valuable is the ones you do. Can you recall anything Maureen ever said that might be of help regarding her brother?”

“I can’t at the moment, but I will ask the other women in our group, although I’m not optimistic about getting any results.”

“Give it a try, tomorrow if possible, and get back to me.”

Lily wasted no time the next day, although she called me in frustration at 9:00 a.m., as I was in the office opening the just-delivered mail.

“The good news is that I have reached all seven of what I refer to as our inner circle, not counting Maureen, of course. The bad news is that not a single one of them has any idea where Everett Carr lives — or anything else of substance about him, for that matter. The only shred of information is that Ellen Preston recalled Maureen telling her some months ago that she had happened to see her brother at a distance walking along Fifth Avenue, and that he looked like a vagrant. She went out of her way to avoid running into him.”

“So at least we know he is probably in the city, for whatever that’s worth. Consider me to be on the case.”

“I have a feeling that I know where you’re going next,” Lily said. “Does the name Cohen have anything to do with it?”

The woman knows me too well. I picked up the telephone and dialed one of the numbers I know by heart. “Cohen! I’m on deadline!” the voice at the other end barked.

“You don’t have to shout into the phone,” I responded. “My hearing is just fine, thank you.”

“All right, Archie,” Lon Cohen snapped, his voice lowering several decibels. “What is it you need this time?”

“That’s a fine way to respond to a call, especially a call from someone who helped fatten your wallet at poker last Thursday night.”

“I can’t help it, Archie, if you insist on raising with two pairs when it should have been obvious that I clearly had three of a kind.”

“Hope springs eternal. Now, are you really on deadline, or is that just a way to discourage bothersome callers?”

“Obviously, it didn’t work with you. To what do I owe this intrusion, Shamus?”

“I’m looking for information.”

“Of course, you are. What’s in it for me?”

“A bit early to tell. I want to know what you might have in your reference room about a man named Everett Carr.”

“Is this something Nero Wolfe’s working on?”

“Not at the moment, but...”

“Playing cagey, eh?”

“Me, cagey? Never,” I told Lon. “However, if we learn anything you have on Mr. Carr that might be helpful to us, it might also lead to something helpful to you and your esteemed publication.”

A bit of background here on Lon Cohen, for those of you who are new to these narratives. He toils for the New York Gazette and does not have a title I’m aware of, but his office on the twentieth floor of the Gazette building is just down the hall from the publisher, and Lon plays a major role in deciding what stories end up on page one of the fourth-largest newspaper in America. Over the years, he has been a great help to Nero Wolfe and me with information, but we have returned the favor by throwing at least a score of scoops to Lon and the Gazette.

“Okay, I will play along with you — for a while, at least,” Lon said. “I’ll have the boys downstairs pull the clips on this guy Carr, assuming we have any, and you can drop by and look at them. But remember who your friends are if it turns out there’s a story here.”

“I never forget who my friends are,” I said, hanging up before he could mount a retort.

A half hour later, I hoofed it north to the Gazette’s offices near the Chrysler Building, going straight to the reference room, or the “morgue” in newspaper terminology, which adjoins the city room, the paper’s nerve center. “Hi, Mr. Goodwin, I have been expecting you. Haven’t seen you in quite a while.”

“It has been a long time, Bernie. Lon Cohen must have told you I was coming.”

“That he did, Mr. G., and I’ve got the file that he told me you wanted to look at. ’Fraid there isn’t a whole lot in it, though,” he said, handing me a small manila envelope and steering me to a small desk. The Gazette does not allow its clippings to leave the building, no exceptions.

The Everett Carr file was indeed thin, with only two entries, each of them between three and five years old.

So much for learning about Everett Carr from the Gazette’s clips, but I was ready with a Plan B. “Bernie, do you mind if I page through your telephone directories?”

“Hey, I know what a good friend you are to Mr. Cohen, so, sure, be my guest.”

The Gazette, probably like most other daily papers, keeps a batch of phone directories for the communities in its circulation area and beyond. Bernie led me to the shelves where theirs are stored.

We keep Manhattan and Brooklyn directories at the brownstone, but as long as I was here... I tackled the fat Manhattan book first, and you may or may not be interested to learn that there are 157 Carrs listed, none of whom was an Everett or simply an E. Carr. On to Brooklyn, also a lot of Carrs, but no luck. Ditto with Queens, the Bronx, Staten Island, Yonkers, the New Jersey cities just across the Hudson, and the counties of Westchester and Nassau. I mention this as a response to all those who have said to me, “Being a detective must be so exciting.”

I left the Gazette and went back to the brownstone, where we would be having spareribs in Fritz’s special sauce for lunch. When I got home, it was still fifteen minutes before Wolfe’s descent from the plant rooms, so I called Lily and filled her in.

“No luck on trying to locate Everett Carr, although the sparse information on him in the Gazette’s files, along with Maureen’s sighting of him on Fifth Avenue a while back, tends to suggest that he lives somewhere in this town and has been in a bookie joint.”

“I will telephone Sofia, on the off chance she might know something about him,” Lily said. “The subject did not come up when we were with her.”

“It’s better than anything that I can think of at the moment. You know where to reach me.”

After a lunch at which Wolfe expounded on the reasons third-party candidates are unable to win presidential elections, I went for a walk to stretch my legs. As I passed a drugstore on Ninth Avenue, I had an inspiration, if you could so term it. I went inside, stepped into a pay telephone booth with my nickel, and dialed the number of the aforementioned Saul Panzer, the best freelance operative in North America and maybe beyond.

“Hi, Archie,” he said. “The only time I’ve seen you lately is at our weekly poker games. Things slow these days for you and Nero Wolfe?”

“We haven’t had much business lately, but we frankly haven’t needed it after all the cases last month.”

“Yeah, that was one busy time for you, me, Fred, and Orrie. And, of course, Wolfe.” Saul was speaking about Fred Durkin and Orrie Cather, who with Saul are the freelance detectives Wolfe most often uses.

“I’ve got a question for you, one that won’t bring you any money.”

“Fire away,” Saul said. “I’m not always mercenary, especially with a friend.”

“Here’s the situation: I’m working on something for Lily Rowan, and we’re trying to find someone who may not want to be found.”

“Happens a lot. Tell me about this individual.”

“He’s in his mid-to-late forties, probably single, and said to be careless with money.”

“Alcoholic?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Would you call him poverty-stricken?” Saul asked.

“I really don’t think so, no.”

“That would tend to rule out flophouses. Off the top, I would suggest looking into that big YMCA on Thirty-Fourth near Ninth Avenue. It’s said to be the largest Y in the country. You probably know the building I’m talking about; it must be about fifteen stories high.”

“Yeah, I’ve been by it, but never inside. What kind of men live there?”

“All sorts, Archie. I’ve had occasion to go in a few times on investigations. Oh sure, there are some down-and-outers of various sorts, but it’s quite a mix: young guys just starting out on jobs in the big city; retirees on a slim pension; visitors looking for a fairly cheap room; ex-husbands who’re paying plenty in alimony and child support. The rooms are plain but clean, and it can be a good place for someone who wants to lose himself. Is that the situation with the person you’re looking for?”

“It very well could be,” I said. “Can someone stay there for a long time?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. On the other hand, some joes use it as a hotel. I know of one traveling salesman in kitchen goods on a tight budget who stays there every time he comes to town.”

“Thanks, Saul. Maybe I’ll pop into the Y and see what I can learn.”

“A word of caution: the place is very protective of its guests. For instance, the cops have been known to drop in looking for people, sometimes just casting around for any perps they might find. The management doesn’t like random sweeps, so whoever is manning the front desk may not answer any questions of yours.”

“Knowing that, I will proceed accordingly.”