Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 2

The next morning just after eleven, Wolfe came down from his two-hour session with the orchids up on the roof, got settled behind his desk, rang for beer, and said to me, “Get Mr. Hewitt on the telephone.”

For those of you who are new to these narratives, Lewis Hewitt is a wealthy man-about-town and also an orchid fancier whose collection rivals Wolfe’s. The two have engaged in an essentially civil but spirited competition over the years and dine at each other’s home once a year. I dialed the number of Hewitt’s estate on Long Island and got a frosty, British-sounding male voice that informed me I had reached “the Hewitt residence.”

“Lewis Hewitt, please, Nero Wolfe is calling.”

“Just one moment, please,” Frosty sniffed as I nodded to Wolfe to pick up his instrument. I stayed on the line, which is standard procedure unless I am told otherwise.

“Ah, Mr. Wolfe, it is so nice to hear from you,” said the baritone Lewis Hewitt. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Theodore Horstmann is indisposed at present, a condition likely to continue. I am seeking a replacement for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh, dear, I do hope his situation is not serious.”

“As do I, sir. But for now, I need an assistant in the plant rooms, one whom, if not as skilled as Mr. Horstmann, is competent to work with me on a regular basis, at least four hours a day.”

“Of course. Off hand, I can think of two or maybe three possibilities. Would you care to interview them or have me send you their references?”

“I would prefer to meet each of them, unless you have a candidate you see as clearly superior to the others.”

“Actually, I do,” Hewitt said. “It is a man about Mr. Horstmann’s age named Carl Willis. He has served well as an adequate replacement when my regular gardener was on vacation, and he also has worked on occasion for several of my neighbors out here on the island. They all have told me they found him satisfactory and would be happy to have him fill in for them again when the need arises.”

“Does he have some form of regular employment?”

“Yes and no,” Hewitt replied. “That is, he works part-time at a large garden center near where I live, but his hours there are extremely flexible, and the center is happy to have him whenever he is available. Would you like to meet him?”

“I would,” Wolfe said. “Please have him call Mr. Goodwin to set up an appointment. Three o’clock would be an ideal time.” Hewitt said he would follow through, and the call was ended.

I swiveled to face Wolfe and started to say something when the doorbell rang. I went down the hall and saw a thick and familiar silhouette through the one-way glass. “Well, it has been a long time,” I said to Inspector Lionel T. Cramer, head of the Homicide Squad. “Have you been avoiding us?”

“As much as possible,” Cramer growled. “Wolfe should be down from playing with his posies, right?” Before I could respond, he barreled down the hall to the office and made a beeline to his usual landing place, the red leather chair.

Wolfe considered him with raised eyebrows. “Mr. Cramer?”

“Don’t tell me you’re wondering why I’m here,” the burly cop said, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and jamming it unlit into his mouth.

“We don’t have any cases at the moment that would interest you,” Wolfe said.

“Yeah? Where’s your orchid guy, what’s his name... Horstmann?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I ask because, goddammit, I happen to know where he is — in intensive care at Roosevelt Hospital.”

“You have answered your own question, sir.”

“You don’t deny it?”

“I do not.”

“I understand Horstmann got beat up, and pretty badly. How is it that you never got in touch with us about this?”

“Unless there has been a departmental restructuring I have not been made aware of, you are in charge of investigating homicides in New York, and there has been no homicide involving Mr. Horstmann.”

“We also happen to investigate attempted homicides,” Cramer said, “and from what I have learned about Horstmann’s condition and the circumstances for his admission to the hospital, someone tried very hard to make him a homicide the other day.”

“You seem to have good sources, which should not surprise me,” Wolfe remarked.

Cramer gnawed on his stogie and leaned forward, jabbing a beefy index finger at Wolfe. “Look, whenever anyone gets brought into a hospital in this town — whether by ambulance, family, friend, or doctor — and has been shot or beaten the way we’ve learned Horstmann was — we hear about it. Now I know you would be the first to tell me that I am not Einstein, but when I hear the name Theodore Horstmann, I am smart enough to remember that he works for you. And when someone who works for you is in trouble, I get suspicious. It’s probably an occupational hazard.”

“Probably,” Wolfe replied.

“What I don’t understand — or maybe I do — is why you failed to mention what happened to Horstmann to the police. Could it be that you want to solve this mystery yourself, without outside help? Or maybe this isn’t a mystery at all to you.”

Wolfe set down his beer glass and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. “Mr. Cramer, I am at a loss as to what befell Theodore. I saw no reason to bring you into what may well be an aborted robbery attempt.”

“You say aborted. Did Horstmann have any money on him when, as I understand, he came here before he collapsed?”

“He did,” Wolfe said. “Not a lot of cash, but enough that someone would have taken it had they not been distracted, perhaps by a passerby.”

“Now you’re just speculating,” Cramer snapped. “Did Horstmann tell you anything when he got here?”

“Just the words ‘There were two of them.’ That is all he managed to get out before lapsing into unconsciousness.”

“I take it you have his wallet.”

“We do,” Wolfe said. “We were not about to leave it with him when he was taken to the hospital. Dr. Vollmer went along to identify him to the staff.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you are leveling with me, Wolfe,” the inspector said, rolling the unlit cigar around in his mouth. “Maybe it’s because of our past history that makes me suspicious.”

“Suspicious of what, sir?” Wolfe asked, flipping a palm.

“I don’t know. But you do not seem terribly interested in any help from us in finding out what happened to a man who has been in your employ for Lord knows how many years.”

“I assure you I have no hidden reason to eschew your aid. I feel we, Mr. Goodwin and I, can handle this ourselves. And we mean no disrespect.”

“Suit yourself,” Cramer said, shaking his head. “I’ve got enough on my plate that I don’t need anything else. But somehow, I feel as though I haven’t heard the last of this.” With that, he put the gnawed cigar back in his breast pocket, stood up, and stormed out. I followed him down the hall at a respectful distance and locked the front door as he walked down the steps and climbed into an unmarked black Ford sedan.

“Well, at least he didn’t fling his damned el ropo at the wastebasket today,” I said. “With his lousy aim, it always ends up on the floor for me to pitch.”

Wolfe scowled and said nothing, closing his eyes and leaning back in his reinforced chair. After a minute, I broke the silence. “You’ve always told me the police have one great advantage over us: manpower. While we have me, Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, and Orrie Cather, they have an army. I am wondering why we don’t take advantage of that army and let them delve into what happened to Theodore.”

“Archie, do you deny the police would make a hash of it?”

“Maybe they would,” I conceded. “Well, yeah... probably. But we’re capable of making a hash of it as well.”

“Perhaps. However, I happen to like our chances. As I understand, you are a good bridge player.”

“I don’t recall ever telling you that.”

“You didn’t, but Miss Rowan did.”

A pause here to introduce Lily Rowan. She is a very good friend and has been for years, ever since she saw me outrun an angry bull in an upstate pasture and then leap over a fence to avoid its horns.[1] From that day forth, she has called me “Escamillo,” after a toreador in the opera Carmen. As to the specifics of our relationship, that is nobody’s business but our own.

“I never knew that Lily mentioned my bridge playing to you.”

The creases in Wolfe’s cheeks deepened, his version of a smile. “Once some years ago, she was up in the plant rooms admiring orchids when she happened to mention the two of you would be playing bridge that night. ‘Is Archie skilled at the game?’ I asked, and Miss Rowan quickly replied, ‘Oh yes, he has a killer instinct. I always want him as a partner, because I know our chances of winning are extremely good.’”

“I should probably blush. I think I know where you’re going with this.”

“I am sure you do. It is highly possible the bridge game Theodore was part of is currently in need of a fourth participant.”

“That is where I thought you were going. All right, so you want me to show up at McCready’s and figure out how I can worm my way into that backroom bridge game.”

“Precisely.”

“And what if they have already found themselves a new player to replace Theodore?”

Wolfe drew in a bushel of air and exhaled slowly. “Archie, I have full confidence in your resourcefulness.”

“Thanks a whole heap. I’m guessing that, assuming I do get into the game, you want me gauge the skills of the others at the table and play to their level. The last thing I need is to be seen as a bridge hustler.”

“You have answered a principal concern. Did you learn from Fritz on which nights Theodore played at McCready’s?”

“No, but I will.”

“Also, I think a visit to Theodore’s apartment also is called for. When his pockets were emptied the other night, keys were among the items Fritz retrieved.”

“Which do you want me to do first, search the apartment or worm myself into the bridge game?”

“Act in the light of experience as guided by intelligence.”

That is one of Wolfe’s ways of saying, “You’re on your own.”