Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 23

That evening just before dinner, I did hear from Saul. “Barkis is willin’,” he said into my receiver, to which I responded, “huh?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never read David Copperfield by Dickens,” he said.

“If I ever did read any of Dickens, it must have been back in school in Ohio,” I told him.

“Oh, Archie, I’m not sure there is any hope for you. Is Mr. Wolfe in the room?”

“Yep, just polishing off a beer.”

“Tell you what: Repeat that phrase to him and see his reaction.”

“Is this going to make me look stupid?”

“Just say it to him.”

I sighed and turned to Wolfe, who was reading a book. “Saul says to tell you that ‘Barkis is willin’.’”

“Excellent!” Wolfe said, picking up his instrument. “When can Mr. Paolucci be here, Saul?”

“He closes up his store at nine p.m. Would nine thirty be too late?”

“Not at all. We shall expect the two of you then. Satisfactory.”

I was damned if I was going to ask Wolfe the meaning of those three words, which both he and Saul were familiar with. I decided to go about finding out myself, even if it involved reading a whole damned book.

The bell rang at 9:18 p.m., and I went to the front door, swinging it open to reveal Saul Panzer and a stocky, full-faced man in his fifties with dark center-parted hair who wore a checked sport coat and a shy expression.

“Mr. Paolucci, this is Archie Goodwin, who works with Nero Wolfe, the man you are about to meet.”

Paolucci held out a right hand tentatively, and I shook it. “Very nice to see you, and thanks very much for coming.” He muttered a “You’re welcome” as the three of us walked down the hall to the office, where Wolfe sat at his desk, closing his book.

Saul did the introductions, gesturing Paolucci to the red leather chair, which he eased into, looking at Wolfe.

“Mr. Paolucci, we appreciate you taking the time to come here tonight. Can we get you something to drink? As you see, I am having beer.”

Paolucci looked at Saul, as if getting permission to speak. Saul nodded, and the grocer asked, “Would it be possible to have chianti?”

“It would,” Wolfe replied, looking at me. There was no chianti on the bar cart against one wall of the office, but there were bottles of it in the extensive wine cellar in our basement. I excused myself and left. When I returned with a glass of the wine, Wolfe was saying “...and so you decided to come to the United States.”

“Yes, sir,” Paolucci said in slightly accented English. “It was 1931, and Il Duce had been in charge for almost ten years. I never liked his methods, and as time went by, life in Italy had become increasingly intolerable unless you were part of the fascismo italiano, which ran the country and made life miserable for anyone who opposed them.”

“What type of work did you do?”

“Like here, I was a grocer then, in Lucca, which is in Toscana, or Tuscany, as you call it.”

“I was there many years ago,” Wolfe said, “but I remember it clearly. A picturesque setting.”

“Yes, it was, but I came to hate Mussolini and his fascists more with each day. I finally told my wife that we had to leave Italy, and she agreed.”

“That was a bold move, sir. Did you have children?”

“Not at the time. We were young, and I had inherited the store from my father, who had died in 1928. I sold it to a cousin, and with what money we got from that sale, we booked passage and came here.”

“You hardly picked a good time to start anew in New York,” Wolfe observed.

Paolucci nodded. “The Depression, yes, although it was every bit as bad in Europe, too. We probably would not have survived here except for family members who had come to the city from Italy years before us. They gave us a room in their flat in Brooklyn, and my brother-in-law, Ricco, got a job for me in the Fulton Fish Market downtown. It was hard work, long days. But I saved and my wife, who is a very fine seamstress, sewed clothes for women in the neighborhood. Again, long hours, hard work.

“But still, life was good here, and six years ago, when Mussolini was killed by some of his own countrymen, I celebrated by drinking a half bottle of this,” Paolucci said, pointing to his glass of chianti.

“I am sure you were not alone in celebrating that event,” Wolfe said. I could see exactly what my boss was doing, putting our guest at ease by getting him to reminisce before beginning any interrogation. It also probably didn’t hurt Mr. Paolucci’s mood that he presumably had a hundred bucks in his pocket. “Along the way, I gather you had children?” Wolfe asked.

That finally brought a smile to Paolucci’s broad, Mediterranean face. “Yes, two sons, one in high school, the other two years younger.”

“How were you able to get your grocery store?”

“Luck was a part of that, Mr. Wolfe. Again, my brother-in-law was a great help. He works in the wholesale vegetable and fruit business, and he knew of a man who owned a grocery store on Tenth Avenue — the one that now is my own. This man was old, he had become very ill, and he could not work any longer. He was willing to sell to me at a very good price. The purchase also included the flat above the store, where we now live.”

“You have had good fortune,” Wolfe said. “And your English is excellent, only slightly accented.”

Another smile from the grocer. “When we came here, I was determined that I would fit in, and I worked very hard on my speaking. I had read that the better the English, the faster you will become accepted. I did not take any classes, but I have a good ear.”

“How would you describe your clientele at the store?”

Nodding, Paolucci seemed ready for the question. “At first, it was mostly people of all kinds from the neighborhood, families, widows, even some children who came in with money and lists of items from their parents. But in more recent times, there have been some new people, almost all of them men, who come in and say almost nothing.”

“Do they make purchases?” Wolfe asked.

“Yes, but it is very strange. They point at items on my shelves that they want to buy, but almost none of them ever speak.”

“Do you feel they are displaced persons? I have been told by Mr. Goodwin and others that there are many such individuals living in the building across the street from your establishment.”

Paolucci frowned. “They are perhaps displaced persons, at least some of them. But I have to feel that many are here without the proper papers. They seem secretive and unfriendly, and they refuse to utter even a single word to me. I get a very bad feeling when many of these people come into the store.”

“And you say they are almost all men?”

“Yes, Mr. Wolfe. I would say their ages are anywhere between perhaps late twenties and possibly fifty or older.”

“How many would you estimate to be in this group of mysterious men?”

“At least a dozen, although it seems like I am seeing new ones every week.”

“I realize these men speak very little, but do you have any idea of the nationalities they represent?”

Paolucci looked at the ceiling as if in thought. “I would say they seem to be northern or eastern European, perhaps Dutch, German, Austrian, Polish, Lithuanian. It is hard for me to tell, because I speak only Italian and English.”

“Any Italians among them?” Wolfe asked.

“No, no, not at all. This of course I would know.”

“Have any of these people ever threatened you?”

“No, never,” Paolucci said. “But they give me an uneasy feeling that I cannot put my, how is it... finger, on. None of them ever smile, even though I welcome them, along with everyone else, with my own smile when they come into the store.”

“Have these men said anything at all to you?” Wolfe asked.

“Almost never. Once a few weeks ago, one of them came in and asked in a very low, slow voice if I had a certain breakfast cereal, which I do not carry on my shelves. I could not tell what kind of accent he had. But otherwise, as I said before, not one of them has spoken to me, although they do whisper to one another very quietly, as though they are telling secrets.”

“Perhaps because they are so new here, they do not know English or are embarrassed by their accents,” I offered.

Paolucci dismissed my comment with the wave of a hand. “If they expect to be accepted here, they should be working hard to learn the language of this country. That is what I did, and I believe that is what all visitors should be doing as well, even the displaced persons.”

“Have you ever been in the bar called McCready’s?” Wolfe asked.

He shook his head. “No, never. From what I have heard, it is not such a pleasant place. Besides, whatever drinking I do is in my home. Except right now, of course,” he added with a smile, indicating the glass of chianti in his hand.

“Has the bar’s owner, Liam McCready, ever shopped in your store?”

“No, Mr. Wolfe. I would have recognized him, because I have seen him out on the street. He talks loudly.”

“Sir, thank you for your time,” Wolfe said, then turned to me. “Archie, please give Mr. Paolucci one hundred dollars from the cash drawer.” I started to tell him that the grocer already had received that same amount from Saul but then realized Wolfe was aware of that and had decided to double the payment. I did as instructed, handing the money to Paolucci, whose expression was a tacit thank-you.

As Saul and I walked the one-time Italian resident down the hall, he said, “I hope that what I said was of help to Mr. Wolfe. He seems very interested in what is happening in our neighborhood — and so am I.”

“I am sure he appreciates what you have told him, Mr. Paolucci,” Saul put in.

“I have of course noticed that you appear to have been wounded recently, Mr. Goodwin. Does that have anything to do with Mr. Wolfe’s involvement in the Elmont and its residents?”

“You are most perceptive,” I told Paolucci. “If you happen to learn any more about the people you are suspicious of, I hope you telephone us.” I handed him my business card and watched as he and Saul walked down the front steps of the brownstone and went off, likely in search of a taxi.

Back in the office, I dropped into my desk chair and swiveled to face Wolfe. “Well, what do you think of our immigrant shopkeeper?”

“I am impressed with his fortitude and his persistence,” he said. “No doubt Mr. Paolucci has overcome numerous obstacles since his arrival in this country that he did not bother mentioning to us. Those coming here from abroad face difficulties that we who take our citizenship for granted cannot begin to imagine, including harassment, bigotry, and discrimination in the job and housing markets.”

“A handsome speech. Do you feel that group in the Elmont find themselves facing the same struggles Enzo Paolucci did?”

Wolfe drank beer and set his glass down, licking his lips. “These men seem to present an altogether different set of circumstances.”

“Do you care to go into detail?”

“Not at present,” he said, burying himself in a book of color photographs of exotic animals. I had been dismissed.