Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 31

Rather than returning to the brownstone after I left the National Export dock, I called Fritz and told him I wouldn’t be around for lunch. “It’s nothing personal,” I told him, “I just have some things I need to do.” Then, feeling very much like a martyr for missing a wonderful meal, I grabbed a ham sandwich and a glass of milk in a little café on Ninth Avenue that I had frequented in the past. And lest you think I was overly denying myself the good life, I chased my sandwich with a wedge of apple pie — à la mode.

The reason I didn’t go home after talking to Halliwell was that I wanted to process our interview, and the best way for me to do that was to be alone. I continued my processing after the meal by walking at a leisurely pace as far north as Fifty-Ninth Street, where Ninth Avenue changes its name to Columbus. I then hiked back south like a man who was taking his time to enjoy a sunny June afternoon.

When I got back to the brownstone, it was just after four, meaning Wolfe would be upstairs with the orchids. Fritz heard me let myself in the front door and he arrived in the office just as I did. “Archie, Mr. Wolfe has been asking about you and requested that you telephone him in the plant rooms.”

“Disturb him during his playtime? That is serious,” I said, picking up the phone.

“Yes?” came his bark.

“I’m back and can report any time it’s convenient for you.”

“That can wait until before dinner. Call Inspector Cramer and see if he can be there tonight at nine.”

“Do I give him a specific reason?”

“You do not,” he said, hanging up.

Swell. Wolfe knows Cramer’s number at work and is perfectly capable of dialing it himself, but why should he, since he had his very own wage slave handy?

“Cramer!” came the response after three rings. I held the phone away from my head to protect my eardrum.

“Mr. Wolfe wonders if you could pay him a visit tonight at nine p.m.”

“Oh, he does, does he? And I suppose he didn’t share with you his reason?”

“Correct. But as you know from experience, he usually has a good reason for his requests.”

“A request? Is that what you call it? I’ve known Wolfe longer than you have, and he sees what you call a request to be more like a command.”

“If you feel that way, Inspector, you are free to ignore his invitation.”

“And it’s possible I will do just that,” Cramer said, although there was a lack of conviction in his voice. I bet myself that it was three-to-one he would show up at the brownstone that night.

When Wolfe made his descent by elevator from the plant rooms and settled into his office chair with beer, I asked why he wanted to see Cramer, but he ignored the question. “Tell me about your meeting with Mr. Halliwell.”

As I always do, I repeated our conversation verbatim as Wolfe leaned back, eyes closed. When I finished, he said nothing.

“Any thoughts?” I asked.

“No. Did Mr. Cramer complain about my request?”

“Of course he did, which shouldn’t surprise you. But I got the distinct impression that he will be here.”

At 8:55 p.m., the doorbell rang. “Now who do you suppose that is?” I asked Wolfe, who didn’t bother to look up from a magazine he had been frowning at.

I went to the front door and swung it open, admitting for at least the five-hundredth time Inspector Cramer of the Homicide Squad. “And a good evening to you, sir,” I said, getting a grunt in reply as he tromped down the hall to the office, where as usual he dropped into the red leather chair, pulling out a cigar.

“All right, dammit, I’m here, Wolfe. What — if anything — have you got to tell me?”

“Do you know what a ratline is, sir?”

Cramer jammed the unlit stogie into his mouth and frowned. “No, any reason that I should?”

“Not particularly, except the term may well be related to a series of events that have occurred recently in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“By events, I assume you mean Horstmann’s beating, Goodwin’s own beating and his shooting of one of his assailants, the killing of that man found in the river, and the fatal shooting in the bar?” Cramer ticked off each of the events on a finger as he recited them.

“Precisely.”

“Now what the hell is a ratline?”

“The answer to that can wait, sir. I believe I know what has been occurring, and why.”

“Are you in a mood to share your thoughts?” Cramer asked, leaning forward and leading with his jaw.

“Not at the moment. I would like to assemble some individuals in this room.”

The inspector took a deep breath, and his exhale made a whistling sound. “I knew this would eventually come,” he said. “There will be no assembling here.”

“Meaning?” Wolfe replied, eyebrows raised.

“Meaning that the commissioner does not want any more of what I call your ‘séances’ in this house. He says that it’s bad for the department’s reputation to have a private investigator do our work for us.”

“Really? In the past, we — Archie and I — have gone to great lengths to ensure that the department — and by extension, you — receive full credit for the results of an investigation we have undertaken together.”

“I know, I know,” Cramer said, running a hand through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “But as you are only too well aware, word has gotten out about what goes on here.”

“It was that damned feature in the Herald Tribune about us several months ago,” I said. “Mr. Wolfe and I wouldn’t talk to the reporter, but he already had got an account from a woman who was one of the people in this room when the murderer of that pawn shop owner confessed. And then she gave the Tribune guy the names of two others who were there at the time, and the paper ended up with quite a story.”

“Goodwin’s right,” the inspector said. “There was hell to pay at headquarters when that piece came out. I was on the carpet with the commissioner for more than an hour.”

“I am sincerely sorry for what befell you, sir,” Wolfe said, meaning it. “I assume you also are under pressure now for what has transpired in the Hell’s Kitchen region in recent days. Many of the city’s newspapers are suggesting that area is the city’s new ‘hot spot’ for violence, which must increase the heat upon you and your subordinates.”

“I can’t quarrel with that,” Cramer said, “but the heat comes naturally with the job. I’m not complaining.”

“Understood. I would like to propose a compromise that may be at least somewhat more palatable to your superiors.”

“Which is?” Cramer posed warily.

“Which is that a ‘séance,’ to use your term, would be held in a police department facility.”

“That could be a problem,” the inspector said.

“Why?” Wolfe demanded.

“Red tape. I can’t simply snap my fingers and commandeer a facility where you can pontificate. Besides, how do I know whom you want to invite and whom you intend to identify as a killer? I know how much you like to put on a show.”

Wolfe sighed. “Very well, here is the list of individuals I would request be present.” He listed them and their locations, which only slightly surprised me. If Cramer also was surprised, he did a good job of hiding it.

“You’ve got one tough sell here,” the inspector said. “I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” Wolfe asked, turning his palms up.

“For one thing, how am I going to spring someone from stir to attend this... this session?”

“Really, Mr. Cramer, I am not requesting a prisoner be released into the outside world, but rather moved temporarily from one governmental facility to another. This is done every day as individuals are transported in a barred vehicle from a jail cell to a courtroom to stand trial.”

The inspector still seemed resistant. “I would not want to hold such a session at Headquarters.”

“I understand your reluctance,” Wolfe said. “What about one of the precincts as a meeting place?”

“That’s risky, too,” Cramer said, although I could sense his reluctance was beginning to weaken.

“Surely you have built a coterie of strong supporters throughout the force — individuals who are indebted to you in one way or another.”

“I do not make a practice of cashing IOUs,” the inspector said stiffly.

“But you are in the business of seeing justice done,” Wolfe countered. “Cashing an IOU, to use your phrase, would seem a small price to pay to discover what has been transpiring in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood.”

Despite the many verbal clashes we have had in the past, I felt sympathy for Cramer, who is without doubt a good cop. I have never envied him his position, and it seemed obvious that all of those years on the hot seat have begun to wear him down.

It also seemed obvious he was conflicted and was struggling to make a decision. Finally, he said, “The commanding officer of a precinct on the Lower East Side is a captain I worked with early in his career. He has told me more than once that I was responsible for him staying on the force when he was going through a rough time with one of his superiors. I’m not sure how much I really did for him, but...” He let it trail off, shrugging.

“For all the harsh words that have passed between us over the years, I have never lost sight of the fact that you are a very modest individual, sir,” Wolfe said. “You prefer to not dwell upon your own accomplishments but rather on those of others, which is an admirable trait. I am sure the individual’s comments are heartfelt.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cramer said, waving the comment away and coloring slightly. “Anyway, this captain, named Ryan, runs a precinct that’s all the way across Manhattan from Hell’s Kitchen.”

“It could serve our purposes,” Wolfe remarked, although I could see that the inspector was still conflicted. “And if you recall, we once held what you refer to as a séance in police headquarters.”[3]

“That was before you finally became persona non grata with the top brass,” Cramer said.

“I can understand your reluctance to have a meeting in a police facility, but this would appear to be the best solution.”

Cramer rose slowly, as if it were an effort. “I will telephone Kevin Ryan,” he said without enthusiasm. “However, the last thing I want to do is put him in any kind of jeopardy with the hierarchy at 24 °Centre Street.”

“I am not familiar with the intricacies of the police department and its internal system of communications, so my question might seem naïve to you,” Wolfe said. “Is it possible to keep word of our proposed gathering from reaching the almighty citadel on Centre Street?”

“Hell, anything’s possible,” the inspector said over his shoulder as he walked out of the office. “But I’ll make sure that Ryan knows the score.”

“Well, you’ve managed to put Cramer on the hot seat,” I told Wolfe when I returned from seeing the inspector out.

“I have no doubt he is capable of taking care of himself, Archie. He would not have lasted this long without a strong sense of self-preservation.”

“I guess. Still, it seems to me we’re skating on thin ice.” That brought another one of the looks I get from Wolfe when he reacts to one of my figures of speech.