Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 18

I dictated the text over the telephone and learned I was early enough that it would make it into the biggest editions of the Gazette, an afternoon paper. That made it possible we could get responses as early as tomorrow, although I had to wonder whether anyone had heard my gunshot on that deserted street near the Hudson.

I still felt the effects of my adventures the night before. My shoulders ached from the dragging I got, and I had a headache, although at least a part of that was likely from Doc Vollmer’s stitches. But overall, I felt better than I had any right to.

After lunch, I went up to my room and lay down, trying to follow doctor’s orders. To my surprise, I fell asleep, something I never do during the day. When I awoke and went down to my office, I found a note from Fritz on my desk: Mr. Cohen called. He seemed agitated. No surprise there.

I dialed Lon’s number at the paper and got him on the second ring. “Cohen here.”

“And Goodwin at this end. I understand you called.”

“And just why do you suppose that would be?” he growled.

“I’m all ears,” I said.

“I just bet you are. What ever happened to the spirit of cooperation?”

“Heck, I’m about as cooperative a guy as you’re ever likely to find. I’m known as ‘Mr. Cooperation.’”

“I don’t think so,” Lon replied, spacing his words for emphasis. “Let’s talk about a certain item that was placed in today’s editions. And don’t try playing dumb with me. I know damned well that when I see a box like this in our pages, Nero Wolfe is almost always behind it.”

“I do not have a comment at the present time.”

“You sound like a Mafia boss on trial.”

“I am cut to the quick, newshawk.”

“Yeah, right. Was there some gunplay over in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“That is what Mr. Wolfe and I have reason to believe.”

“Uh-huh. Interesting that you have so much interest in that particular area, including that Tenth Avenue apartment building, the nearby saloon, and the North River docks, all places that you have asked us to look into. By the way, we have done some poking around and have come up empty.”

“I appreciate the effort.”

“Well thanks at least for that,” Lon said. “You know of course that because of the item Wolfe is running in tonight’s paper, we have no choice but to follow up on it. I’ve got a man over in Hell’s Kitchen right now, poking around.”

“I would expect nothing less from America’s fifth-largest newspaper.”

“Don’t try buttering me up — it’s too late for that. By the way, since this all started with your man Horstmann getting mugged, how is he doing?”

“Stable condition, still in a coma.”

“Anything else you would like to tell me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“All right then, what about some information sharing? As in: I’ll tell you what our man over on the West Side learns about that shooting and you tell us about what kind of response your ad has gotten?”

“I will discuss that with Mr. Wolfe.”

“Of course, you will. You’re holding your cards pretty close to the vest, aren’t you? A shame you don’t play poker as well as you talk.”

“Hey, I was the big winner last week, wasn’t I?”

“For a change. But how could you possibly have lost with the cards that came your way? Even an orangutan could have taken home money with the hands you got dealt. Hell, three aces right off the bat. And then you drew a pair of fours giving you a full boat. The fates were smiling on you.”

“Do I detect just the tiniest bit of jealousy emerging?”

“Nah, because next time I will win everything I lost to you, count on it. Get back to me after you’ve talked to Wolfe. So far, the Gazette has gotten shortchanged on this business.”

“You know what my boss always tells you. When we get something, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Talk is cheap. Gotta run, we’re up against a deadline, something you never have to worry about.” I started to respond, but the line had gone dead. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six, I told him about Lon’s call.

“His reaction was to be expected, of course,” he said as he rang for beer. “It is possible his people may learn something that may be of assistance to us.”

“Yeah, but right now our Mr. Cohen is not in a mood to share anything with us. He thinks—” I was interrupted by the doorbell. I walked down the hall and saw the solid silhouette of Inspector Cramer through the one-way glass. When I told Wolfe, he said, “Get Fritz to answer the door. You can watch from the peephole.”

“But I—”

“Go. I don’t for the moment want him to see you in your condition. It gives rise to questions we are not now prepared to answer.”

Regarding the “peephole” that Wolfe referred to, in the hall between the office and the kitchen, there is a small alcove inside of which one can secretly observe the office. It works like this: On the wall to the left of Wolfe and also to my left as I sit — there is a painting on glass of the Washington Monument. The painting is actually transparent and well-camouflaged, and it allows someone in the alcove to both view the office and hear any conversation. As Wolfe and I are within a half-inch of the same height, the peephole is designed to be at our eye level. We each have used it numerous times over the years.

I got to the peephole in time to see Cramer storm into the office carrying a rolled-up newspaper and an unlit cigar. He dropped into the red leather chair as is his habit and started using his cigar as a pointer, jabbing it at Wolfe. “Okay, just what gives with this ad?” he growled as he thrust the Gazette in Wolfe’s direction.

“I beg your pardon,” Wolfe responded, doing his best to appear puzzled.

“Don’t get cute with me. You have run stuff like this before. It’s become almost a trademark of yours.”

“I did not realize I had become so predictable, Inspector.”

“Hah! I can read you like a book, don’t think I can’t,” he said, looking around the room and frowning. “By the way, where’s Goodwin?”

“Archie is out at the moment. It may surprise you, but he does not always keep me apprised of his activities.”

“Back to the ad. What’s the story here? Is it somehow tied to what happened to Horstmann?”

Wolfe drew in air and exhaled slowly. “You cannot be positive I placed the advertisement to which you refer.”

“So, you deny it?”

“I neither confirm nor deny it, sir. I was not aware I was being compelled to refute or admit to an action.”

Cramer’s face had reddened, which often happens when he visits the brownstone. “The department has no reports of gunshots having been fired last night in the vicinity referred to right here,” Cramer said, still brandishing the newspaper.

“Then perhaps the advertisement was written by someone who was ill-advised,” Wolfe said.

“You don’t own up to being the ad’s author?”

Wolfe sighed. “All right. Let us for the present stipulate that I did indeed create the advertisement. What would you assume from that action?”

“That there is funny business going on in that neighborhood. First there was the Horstmann episode, second, a man was found dead of a gunshot wound and was wedged under a North River pier, and third there are claims of shots having been fired in the same general area, all within days of one another.”

“Have your men been canvassing the neighborhood?”

“Only in a cursory way,” Cramer admitted, having calmed down. “So far there have been no leads whatever in the death of the man found under that pier, an individual without a police record and who appeared to have no enemies. The same could be said of Horstmann — a man with no record and without apparent enemies. Look, why don’t you tell me what you know? I feel as if I’m groping in the dark and have no flashlight.”

Wolfe paused to drink beer and asked if Cramer wanted something. The inspector shook his head. From years of working with my boss, I knew he was at a dead end, and I could tell that he was about to open up to the inspector.

“All right, sir, we both are groping in the dark, to use your phrase. First, it appears Theodore was suspicious of some of the individuals in a bar on Tenth Avenue across the street where he had taken up residence recently. He never shared those suspicions with me, but those with whom he had played cards in the bar’s back room said Theodore felt they were plotting something. If he had specifics, he kept them to himself.”

“That sounds awfully vague,” Cramer remarked.

“I would normally agree, except that the man whose body was found under the pier also was part of Theodore’s bridge group, and he shared Theodore’s suspicions about the activities of some of those in the bar, at least a number of whom are longshoremen.”

I could tell by Cramer’s expression that this piece of news jolted him. “Most of the longshoremen are solid citizens,” Cramer said, recovering. “But as with any other group, they have had some bad apples over the years, too.”

“Has the department run into problems along the docks?” Wolfe asked.

“Not particularly. Oh, there have been the usual fights that are common on the piers, really minor stuff, but Homicide didn’t get involved because there were no murders.”

“And now there is one.”

“Yes. We’ve been investigating the death of the victim, Chester Miller, who I didn’t realize was a friend of Horstmann’s until just now,” Cramer said. “So far, we have gotten no leads in the Miller murder.”

“I believe this situation goes deeper than you are aware,” Wolfe told the inspector. “You should hear from Archie.” As he said that, Wolfe ran a finger along one side of his nose, a signal that it was time for me to appear.

“I thought you told me Goodwin was out.”

“He was, but... oh, come in Archie,” Wolfe said as I entered the office.

“My God you look like hell!” Cramer said.

“I don’t feel any so great, either, but I appreciate your concern, Inspector.” Marshaling as much dignity as I could, I went over and sat at my desk, trying to ignore Cramer gawking at my puss and the top of my head.

“Mr. Goodwin has become yet another victim of the violence in that district known as Hell’s Kitchen,” Wolfe said. “Archie, describe to the inspector the events that caused your injuries.”

It appeared that Wolfe really wanted to show all of our cards to Cramer. That being the case, I unloaded everything, including the behavior of longshoremen in McCready’s, the questionable goings-on at the National Export Lines pier, my being tailed and mugged, and my firing the shot that apparently hit one of my attackers.

“And you can’t identify those men?” Cramer asked.

“No, I cannot. I never got a clear look at either of them, although I did see one up close in a shadowy profile — the guy who clubbed me. They each were of medium build, and neither one did much more than mutter. For all I know, they could have been foreign.”

Cramer turned his attention to Wolfe. “I want to know what kind of reaction you get from this ad in the Gazette,” he demanded, jabbing an index finger at the wrinkled newspaper rolled up in his fist.

“Inspector, you often have accused me of obfuscating. Today, I, along with Mr. Goodwin, have been transparent and have withheld nothing from you. However, there are limits to my cooperation. Assuming we get responses to the advertisement, I will consider them and decide upon a course of action.”

“Balls! It’s the department that should be deciding a course of action, not you!” Cramer fumed. “Look where it has gotten you so far. Your orchid guy in a coma, one man shot dead, and Goodwin here looking like he was used for a punching bag. I can tell you one thing: We’ll be canvassing the hospitals to see if anyone got admitted in the last day with a bullet wound to a lower leg or ankle. And we may or may not share information with you on anything we learn.”

Wolfe considered the inspector, who had stood and was eyeing the wastebasket as a possible target for his cigar. Showing great restraint, he returned the stogie to his breast pocket and stormed out without a word.

“I would call that conversation a mixed bag,” I told Wolfe after I returned from closing the front door behind Cramer. “I’m surprised you opened up to him, and I am not surprised at his reaction when you drew the line.”

“Call our conversation what you will, Archie. As to your surprise at my openness, let us concede that we are stymied,” Wolfe said. “The inspector has resources far greater than our own, and you know as well as I do that it would be folly for us not to utilize them.”

“Point taken. By the way, I don’t think I am in any kind of shape to trot down to the Gazette’s offices and pick up any responses that our ad might have gotten.”

“I already have attended to that,” Wolfe said. “When you were asleep, I telephoned Saul, and he will go to the newspaper office tonight and collect whatever information we have received from the publication’s readers.”

That is just like Wolfe. He often doesn’t bother to fill me in on what he’s doing. I started to react but gave it up; I knew any comment from me would fall upon deaf ears.