Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 25

The good news was that Vollmer declared me concussion free after putting me through several tests. The bad news: Caroline was on vacation, replaced by a dour woman of a certain age who kept looking at me and shaking her head as if I were somehow beyond hope.

I asked the doc if my recovery was unusually fast, and his reply: “I’ve seen all sorts of concussions over the years, some of them — like Theodore Horstmann’s — extremely serious. Yours, it seems, was remarkably mild, which is your good fortune. I just hope that you take this as an omen and try not to place yourself in such risky situations. But then, I’m afraid I know you all too well.”

I thanked him and walked the half-block home to find that Wolfe was not in the office, which meant he probably was in the kitchen with Fritz, consulting on — or arguing over — upcoming meals. I had just gotten seated at my desk when Saul Panzer called. “I didn’t want you to think I had forgotten my assignments. One of them was to talk to Charlie King over at the Cabot and Sons pier. This I have done.”

“And...?”

“And he still suspects that his along-the-river neighbors at the National Export Lines have been smuggling DPs into New York on their ships. He told me that since you alerted him, he’s seen too many strange faces coming from that pier, faces — and physiques — that definitely are not those of longshoremen. ‘I know just about everybody who works over at National,’ Charlie told me, ‘and these are definitely not dockworkers. Hell, most of them aren’t beefy enough to qualify for that kind of work. Some of them look undernourished.’

“When I asked him who he was suspicious of over at National Export, he singled out one man, Doug Halliwell, who has been the crew boss there for years. Actually, according to Charlie, Halliwell is really a lot more than crew boss. He practically runs the show because the general manager and principal owner, an old guy named Chambers, spends most of the year in Palm Beach and by choice has nothing to do with the day-to-day operations on the dock. As long as the revenues are good, Chambers leaves Halliwell alone.”

“What makes Charlie suspicious of Halliwell?”

“He says it’s just a feeling he has about the man, nothing concrete.”

“Do you know Halliwell?”

“I’ve met him, that’s about all,” Saul said. “He’s tall, has a crew cut, and throws his weight around. From what Charlie has told me, his dockworkers don’t care much for him, maybe because he keeps them in line like he’s a Marine drill sergeant. And because a lot of these longshoremen served during the war, the last person they want to report to is somebody like that.”

“Other than what he’s observed, has King heard any rumors about DPs coming in on those freighters?”

“Only speculation, including among his own men, one of whom goes into McCready’s on occasion and says he has seen a couple of what he refers to as ‘those weird characters’ in the bar who were seen getting off National Export Line ships.”

“Not a lot to go on,” I said.

“True, other than it would seem to confirm that the export company is a conduit for smuggling displaced persons into the United States.”

“Can you think of any way we can learn more about this Halliwell character?”

“You know Del Bascom, of course.”

“Of course. He was my first boss when I moved to New York, and he’s worked with Wolfe and me a number of times over the years. A solid detective — and a pretty fair poker player as well.”

“Well, he’s had more experience on the North River docks than any other P.I. that I can think of. At least two shipping companies have used him and his agency to track down thefts off their ships, an all-too-common event. He may be able to do some sleuthing for you.”

“Now that you mention it, I recall that Del has had several cases involving the docks. I will talk to my boss about it, thanks.”

When Wolfe got to the office after whatever he was doing in the kitchen, I filled him in on my visit to Vollmer, Charlie King’s suspicions about Doug Halliwell of National Export, and Saul’s suggestion involving Del Bascom. After uncapping one of the beers Fritz had brought in, he leaned back as if in thought, presumably digesting both the beer and what I had told him.

“I am happy you appear to have recovered,” he said after a two-minute silence. “As far as the suggestion that Mr. Bascom do some investigating of the National Export dock activities, are you concerned with his safety?”

“Should I be? Del knows how to take care of himself.”

“Really, Archie! After what has befallen Theodore, you, and Chester Miller, caution is in order. Besides, Mr. Bascom has his own agency to run. Why should he be willing to work for me?”

“Ah, of course, what was I thinking? We don’t have a client, and we would have to pay Del out of our own funds.”

“Our own funds are more than adequate. That is not what troubles me, it is Mr. Bascom’s well-being. You said yourself just last week that we are in better financial shape than we have been in years.”

“That is true; after the fat payments we got from the Curtis blackmailing case and that Zellman insurance fraud, our bank account is healthier than this year’s Kentucky Derby winning horse.”

“As far as not having a client, that does not concern me in the least. In a sense, Theodore is our client, along with his sister, of course. We will do whatever it takes to discover the cause of the attack upon him and among others, yourself. Not to mention, what and who is behind the activities at the tavern, that apartment building, and the National Export dock.”

“But you are against asking Bascom for help?”

Wolfe drew in a bushel of air and exhaled slowly. “Not necessarily. Telephone him.”

I knew the Bascom Detective Agency number, like many others, by heart, and I dialed it. “Archie, how the hell are you?” Del boomed into the receiver. “I heard from the boys at last week’s poker game that you had gotten roughed up, which is an occupational hazard. What’s the story?”

“I’m much better now, and I’ll fill you in on what happened eventually, but first, Nero Wolfe wants to talk to you.”

“Hello, Mr. Bascom, I trust you are well.”

“Not bad. Business is so-so, but it could always be better, of course. I’m not complaining, though.”

“Would you be open to an assignment?”

“I might. What do you have in mind?”

“I understand you have familiarity with the goings-on at various of the Hudson River docks.”

“If you are using ‘goings-on’ to mean theft, deception, double-dealing, and chicanery, yeah, I guess you could say over the years I’ve had some interesting escapades at one pier or another along our good old North River, although nothing of late.”

“‘Chicanery,’ a fine word,” Wolfe said. “Do you have knowledge of the National Export Lines facility?”

“It has been a while,” Bascom said. “Last time I had anything to do with that outfit was about three, maybe four, years ago now, when someone on their crew was suspected of helping himself to diamonds and gold from South Africa that had been shipped over from one of the North Sea ports, Rotterdam. I handled that case myself, and it wasn’t all that difficult to crack. One of the longshoremen had asked to be shifted from the day to the night shift — a rare occurrence.

“I suspected the man from the start, and the second night I was lurking on the docks, I grabbed him in the act. It seemed to me at the time that the National Export straw boss should have figured out what was going on, but I have always wondered if he was in on the deal.”

“The name of that straw boss?” Wolfe asked.

“Halliwell, Doug Halliwell. I’ve never liked the guy — he’s a mean one, and treats his crews like they’re a bunch of slaves. He’s also arrogant and self-centered, from everything I’ve heard. Has a big ego.”

“Mr. Bascom, because of your familiarity with the docks in general, and your experience at the National Export Lines facility in particular, would you be available to do some work for me?”

Del paused before responding. “Things are a little slower than I’d like right now, so yeah, I’d consider it.”

“I would like to conduct this conversation in person, if you have no objection. Are you able to come to my home tonight, say at nine?”

“All right. Is there by any chance a beer in my future?”

“There is indeed, sir.”

At nine on the button, the ruddy and solidly built Del Bascom appeared at our front door, having donned a sport coat and tie, presumably in deference to Wolfe’s sartorial standards.

“Come right in,” I told him. “As requested, a frosty bottle of Remmers awaits you.”

“Thanks, Archie. Geez, you look like you ran into somebody who had a grudge against you.”

“You should have seen the other guy — he caught a slug in the leg for his troubles. You will hear more about that in the office.”

Del parked in the red leather chair, greeted Wolfe, and nodded his thanks to Fritz, who presented him with a bottle of Remmers and a chilled Pilsner glass on a tray.

“I felt the complexity of the situation was better suited to a face-to-face conversation,” Wolfe told our guest before drinking beer from his own glass. “I hope you have no objection.”

“None whatever,” Bascom said, crossing one leg over the other. “You have my full attention.”

Wolfe then proceeded to go into a lengthy discourse on the chain of events that began with Theodore’s beating. He left out nothing of importance.

“A helluva tale,” Del remarked when Wolfe concluded. “I’ve been hearing a good deal of rumors about DPs getting smuggled in one way or another, and your story would seem to confirm that. There are plenty of people in this town making money at the expense of these poor, sad victims of a war they had nothing to do with.”

“Well said, sir. Have you also heard of any violence connected with any of the dealings with the displaced persons?”

“The only ‘violence’ I’ve been told about is of a financial nature,” Del replied. “These new arrivals who come illegally are said to pay through the nose to get smuggled in. The situation you have described is much rougher, but I have to wonder why anyone would kill, or try to kill, people because of the smuggling of DPs. It doesn’t figure.”

“We are in agreement,” Wolfe said. “And because of the violence that has taken place, I hesitate to suggest an assignment for you.”

“What kind of assignment?”

“I want to know whatever you are able to learn about Doug Halliwell’s recent activities.”

Bascom grinned. “By activities, I assume you mean actions of, shall we say, an illicit nature?”

“Nicely put, sir. But as I said, this could very well be perilous work.”

“My life has been filled with perilous work,” the veteran operative said, shrugging it off. “I have been shot at several times and hit just once — fortunately only in the arm. Two thugs in East Flatbush jumped me a bunch of years back, when I was on a stakeout; one of them had a cosh that he swung at me; I took it away from him and knocked him over the head with it. The other ape I hit with a roundhouse right, breaking his jaw.”

“I stipulate you know how to take care of yourself, which I have never doubted,” Wolfe said. “However, I would be remiss without the warning that this is dangerous work.”

“I understand, and I will report back daily, and I may on occasion need to press one of my men into service on the assignment.”

“So noted,” Wolfe replied. “You may keep Archie apprised of developments.”