Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 29

Before I fell asleep, a plan began to take root in my brain, a plan that would need Wolfe’s approval.

When I rose the next morning, the first thing I did was to look myself over in the mirror. I definitely felt I was presentable. The bruises had gradually faded, although my hair was slow in growing back in the area where I’d been sutured. But a visit to my barber, Calvin, could help to camouflage the temporary violence that had been done to my scalp.

I showered, shaved, and dressed, but instead of going straight to the kitchen for breakfast as usual, I went down one flight and knocked on Wolfe’s bedroom door.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Archie. I need to see you.”

The response was a grunt. “You know very well I am eating.”

“This can’t wait.”

Another grunt. “Enter!”

Wolfe had nearly polished off the food on his tray, so I didn’t feel as though I had interrupted his breakfast, although his expression made it clear he was not happy to see me. “Well?” he demanded.

“I have an idea of how to move things along, and I felt I should get your approval.” I then went on to lay out my plan as Wolfe drained the last of his cup of hot chocolate. When I was done, his face was stony. “I don’t like it,” he said.

“Why not?”

“You have been through a great deal already. This could place you in further peril without substantially aiding our cause.”

“With respect, I believe what I have proposed might break the logjam we seem to find ourselves stuck in.”

Wolfe seemed unmoved, but I continued to press him. I often have called him stubborn over the years, but he is well aware that I can be just as mulish as he. We continued to spar for several more minutes, and I could sense that I was wearing him down. Finally, he said, “All right, confound it, begin your preparations, and we will talk later today.”

This was a victory of sorts. After my own breakfast, I called Calvin the barber and was able to get a nine-thirty appointment. “I need to play down this spot where I had to get my head shaved because of a cut,” I told him when I entered his two-man shop on Lexington. “What do you think?”

“One way is to give you a closer overall cut than usual, Archie. Do you see that as a problem?”

“Just don’t make me look like a buck private in boot camp.”

Calvin laughed. “Give me a little credit. I think I can do this so that no one will notice. It may take a little getting used to, but I’m sure you can handle it.”

“Do your worst — or rather, your best,” I told him. And when he was done, I had to admit that I looked presentable, at least to those who didn’t know me. And my plan was to meet someone who had never seen me before.

After leaving the barbershop, I went to a small-job printing operation on Madison Avenue that we had patronized in the past. The owner, Larry Berg, greeted me as I walked into his shop. “Archie Goodwin, of all people! You haven’t been around for many moons. Let me guess: You want business cards that make you a... what? Stock broker? Used car salesman? Crane operator? Black jack dealer?”

“Nice try, Larry. Over the years, your cards have made me into a number of other people, and in my work, those cards have come in handy. Today, here is what I want...”

I left the print shop less than a half hour later with a batch of handsomely printed and authentic-looking business cards. I was setting out on a new career, if only briefly.

My next stop was in the theater district, specifically “Broadway Costumery & Small Props,” a windowless street-level shop on West Forty-Fourth Street next door to a playhouse that was staging a first-run musical. I stepped in to the sound of a tinkling bell over the door.

“Yes, sir, may I help you?” asked a small and slender man with slicked-down hair and wearing a yellow ascot and a bright blue sports coat. “My name is Will, as in Shakespeare.”

“I’m looking for some eyeglasses,” I told him.

“With plain lenses, of course,” he replied.

“Of course. Is this a popular request?”

“Oh my, yes. Some, shall we say... older performers of my vintage tend to sport faux glasses because they cover what we might describe as facial imperfections.”

“Such as wrinkles or bags under the eyes, you mean?”

“Well, that’s true, although I try to avoid using those words when dealing with my customers. Of course, there are other reasons for wearing glasses while onstage. Perhaps a performer is playing the role of a college professor or a scientist. Or in the case of a woman, a schoolteacher. Glasses can provide what we refer to as ‘gravitas.’”

“Gravitas is important,” I said. “I’m looking for a pair that will make me appear serious.”

“Are you currently performing?”

“No, at least not in the theater.”

“So, I gather you are not a member of Actors’ Equity,” the proprietor said. When I shook my head, he added, “I always ask, because we give Equity members a five percent discount on any purchases. I didn’t think you were an actor in the classical sense. You seem to me more like a private investigator or possibly someone in the repossession business.”

I replied with a smile, nothing more, and after an awkward silence, the shop’s owner, if that’s what he was, turned to shelves behind him and pulled out several trays, which he laid on the counter. “Here is our selection,” he said with pride.

They were all sizes and colors — old-lady glasses, sunglasses of many hues, horned rims, monocles, rimless models, pince-nez that clipped to the nose. “I think this is exactly what I’m looking for,” I told the man, pointing to a pair of the horned rims.

“Good choice,” he said like a good salesman. “Put them on and take a look in the mirror.”

I looked different, neither better or worse than before, just different. “Would you like to try on some others?” Will asked.

“No, these should do nicely.”

He quoted me a price and I handed him the cash. When I turned to go, the man behind the counter said, “Whatever line you are in, be sure to tell your friends and colleagues about us. We are here for everyone, whatever their profession, and we of course have a wide variety of clothes, hats, even shoes.”

I told him that I would spread the word, and as I started to leave, a thirtyish platinum blonde woman, hair stacked high atop her head and with a heavily made-up face and plenty of curves, entered and rewarded me with a wink for holding the door for her. I winked back, wondering who she was playing and what she needed in the way of a costume to enhance her role. I would never know.

When I returned to the brownstone, I put on the glasses and walked into the kitchen. “How do I look?” I asked Fritz.

He looked up from stirring something in a pan and blinked. “I did not realize you need glasses, Archie.”

“I don’t, I’m going undercover.” That brought a frown from Fritz, who already had expressed his concern over what had happened to me earlier.

“What will Mr. Wolfe say when he sees you?”

“We’ll find out at eleven. I have become a new man, Fritz.”

“No, you’re the same old Archie,” he said, turning back to his stirring.

“Thanks a lot,” I said, returning to the office.