Archie Meets Nero Wolfe (16 page)

“The inspector, amid his sputtering, suggested I was somehow involved in this death, especially because it occurred not far from the shooting of Mr. Haskell, another event he suspects I was a party to.”

“What makes you think the body was Bell’s?”

“I surmised it but needed verification, which I have now received.”

“How?”

Wolfe looked smug. “Saul Panzer asked an acquaintance of his, a man who is not known to the police, to go to the morgue and say a good friend from the Bronx was missing, never having appeared for an important meeting. He was shown the body.”

“Which I suppose he then said was not his friend.”

“Correct. But he made note of facial features including a cleft chin, a mole on his right cheek, and a short but visible scar above his left eye, all of which Saul had noted when he met Bell on his first visit to the Williamson home.”

“So I assume Cramer still doesn’t know the body is Bell.”

“Correct again. And the inspector has kept the incident out of the press until the body can be identified and the next of kin informed.”

“But he told you about the murder.”

“Yes, futilely hoping to pry from me some sort of admission that I was involved. It was only a hunting expedition on his part. He knew he wouldn’t get anywhere with it, which is why he telephoned rather than making the effort to come here and badger me. The latter tactic often ends with him storming out.”

“Yes, I have now seen that myself. Do you have any idea how long Cramer’s going to sit on the story?”

“No, although I strongly suspect he will release details of the shooting in the next day or two, hoping that someone comes forth to identify the body. He cannot wait indefinitely.”

“This could have something to do with the kidnapping, but it also may have been a simple armed robbery gone wrong,” I said. “After all, you say Bell’s pockets were empty, no wallet, no money. He could have resisted a holdup man and gotten plugged for his efforts.”

“I have never been a great believer in coincidence,” Wolfe remarked. “More likely, Mr. Bell was killed because of some connection he had with the Williamson kidnapping. His wallet was then taken to make it appear to be a robbery—and perhaps also to hamper attempts at identification.”

“That’s a definite possibility,” I conceded. “Do you plan to tell Inspector Cramer Bell’s identity?”

“Not at present. Have you unearthed anything at the Williamson home since the last time we talked?”

I gave him a complete report on all my conversations since the last time we had spoken on the telephone.

“Did you embellish anything?” he asked after I finished.

“Embellish? I don’t know that word.”

“In this context, it means ‘to enhance a narrative with fictitious additions.’”

“There was nothing fictitious about what I just told you. Every bit of it was, well, word for word.”

Wolfe raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yes, Mr. Bascom did tell me you have the ability to recite long passages of dialogue verbatim. Do you concur?”

“Yes, sir. I have been able to do that for as long as I can remember.”

“Would you indulge me by repeating all of it?”

I didn’t see the sense in it, but I fed every word back to him again. He sat with his eyes closed and his hands interlaced over his middle mound. When I finished, he opened his eyes wide. “Most interesting.”

“I’m glad you think so. I haven’t found anything of particular value regarding the kidnapping in my time at that Williamson palace. And it really is a palace. Even the chauffeur’s quarters are first-class, four rooms plus a bathroom. Do you have any specific instructions for me?”

“Just continue to be alert and observant, and continue to telephone me each evening at nine. Your stay there may not last a great deal longer, although from what you have said, the assignment hardly constitutes onerous duty.”

“No, it doesn’t, not at all. Oh, I admit that I miss being in the city, but don’t get me wrong—I’m not crying. The food is decent, the autos I drive are top-notch, and the surroundings are fit for royalty, which I guess the Williamsons are, in a sense. ”

“You made no mention of remuneration.”

“No, sir.”

“I believe that will be resolved.”

I figured “remuneration” meant something to do with payment, but I already had shown my ignorance about one word Wolfe used, and I was damned if I was going to give him the satisfaction a second time. Besides, I knew how to use a dictionary, and if I was going to be spending time around Wolfe, I would have to buy one.

S
unday morning, I was up and dressed even before the early-rising Mrs. Price. The newspapers got delivered at the front door of the house before daybreak, and I scooped them up at a few minutes after six. I sat on the brick steps and went through the
Times
first, page by page. There wasn’t a word about Bell’s death. Next I tackled the
Herald-Tribune
with the same result. That left the
Daily News
, which the Williamsons got for the household staff and which did a better job of covering crime news than the two silk-stocking newspapers. On page 22, down at the bottom, I spotted a brief piece with a one-column headline reading
MAN SLAIN IN BRONX GANGWAY.

The details were sparse, describing “the body of an unidentified man who appeared to be in his thirties” having been found in the Bronx gangway by a passerby late Friday night. The article went on to say that he had been shot three times according to police and that “neighbors did not report hearing gunshots, suggesting that a silencer may have been used in the killing.” The item ended, as so many of this sort did, with “police are conducting a thorough search for the perpetrator and also are seeking the identity of the dead man.”

I placed the
Times
and the
Herald-Tribune
on the table in the entry hall and took the
Daily News
down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Price had now started breakfast. “My goodness, you’re up early again today,” she said, turning from the stove, where she was scrambling eggs.

“The early bird ... you know.”

“I know, ‘gets the worm.’ Well, instead of a worm, how about bacon and eggs? And the coffee’s ready.”

“My, but you are cheerful this morning,” I told her.

“And why not? The sun is shining, the birds are singing, Master Tommie is back with us, and the meat purveyor is coming with a shipment of beef today, including filets, the kind of steaks that Mr. W. loves, medium rare. The Depression hasn’t hit this house, at least not yet.”

“Is any of that beef for us, or does it all get consumed upstairs?”

“Well, some of it is for us, Mr. Archie Goodwin,” she said, shaking a finger at me in mock scolding. “The mister and missus have always wanted the staff to be well fed, and Lord knows, I try my humble best to make sure that happens.”

“And based on these last few days, you certainly succeed, Mrs. Price.”

“Well, I am so glad to hear you say that,” she responded. “Not everyone is as gracious—or as grateful—as you are. Now you start eating, mind you, while the bacon and eggs are still hot.”

“Oh, and before I begin, here’s today’s
Daily News
,” I said, putting the tabloid newspaper on the table.

“Ah, doing my work now, are you?” she said with a chuckle. “I usually bring in the morning papers. What did you do with the other two?”

“Put them on the round table upstairs in the foyer.”

She clapped her hands in approval. “That is exactly what I do. The mister, he likes to read his
Times
and his
Tribune
with breakfast in the dining room before he takes the train to work.”

The others began filing into the kitchen. First Waverly, then Emily Stratton and Mary Trent, and finally, Carstens and Simons. The latter two, although they lived off the estate, took breakfast at the Williamsons’ on weekdays because, as Mrs. Price had proudly confided in me, “they get better meals here than at home. They probably would prefer to have dinner here, too, but they would have to explain the reason why to their wives.”

Lloyd Carstens sat down and picked up the
Daily News
, paging through it as he drank coffee. “Hmm, guy got shot in the Bronx, no identification on the body. Police guessed he was in his thirties. Maybe that’s our vanishing Mr. Charles Bell,” he said with a sour chuckle.

“There is nothing in any way humorous about that,” Emily Stratton huffed, glaring at him.

“Aw, you wouldn’t know humor if it hit you over the head,” Carstens said, tossing the paper aside and beginning to eat.

“Sadly, neither would you,” the housekeeper fired back.

“That’s giving it to him, Emily!” Simons roared, clapping his hands. “He is just an old—”

“Nobody asked you to chime in, Mr. Horse Breath,” Carstens jeered. “Stick to your manure-filled stables, that’s where you belong—knee-deep in dung.”

“Please, gentlemen, please! Let us all show a modicum of civility at this table,” Waverly implored. “Everyone has been on edge ever since little Tommie got taken away from us, but he is home safe now. We should be giving thanks for that, not snapping at one another.”

“That’s not why we’re on edge,” Carstens whined. “It’s him.” The gardener pointed a gnarled index finger at me. “He is a spy in our midst. He doesn’t know any more about being a chauffeur than I do. And I’d like to know what his credentials are as a bodyguard. He’s just a second-rate private detective.”

“Mr. Williamson selected him for the position. That should end any discussion whatever of the matter,” the butler stated in clipped tones.

“Hah! He may be almost a kid, but remember that he came here with those other shamuses,” Carstens persisted. “What does that tell you? He’s here giving us all the once-over.”

“Mr. Williamson hired me to be a bodyguard for Tommie, taking him to and from school, at least for the time being,” I said. “And because Mr. Bell was gone, I combined that task with the job as chauffeur, also for the time being.”

“Well, the chauffeuring part just might be permanent now, if that body in the
Daily News
story turns out to be Bell,” Carstens said with a smirk.

“Really!” It was Emily Stratton again. “I find you most offensive.”

“You are not alone in that opinion,” Simons said. “Besides, people get bumped off in New York every day of the week. Why Carstens thinks this particular stiff happens to be Bell is beyond me.”

“Maybe Mr. Carstens is right about one thing, though—that I’m the real reason for the tension here during meals,” I said. “From now on, I will eat at different times from the rest of you.”

“No, you will not!” Mrs. Price snapped, getting to her feet. “Don’t forget that this is my kitchen, and I decide, along with Mr. Waverly, who eats here and who does not. Do you have any objection to Mr. Goodwin dining with the rest of us?” she asked the butler, hands on broad hips and chin jutting out as if daring contradiction.

“None whatever, Mrs. Price,” he said stiffly. “The matter is settled.”

“I think that Mr. Goodwin is very nice,” Mary Trent said softly. Those few words, the only ones she spoke at breakfast, seemed to at least temporarily defuse the situation, and everyone spent the rest of the meal in silence, attacking their food but not each other—or me.

When we left for school that morning, Tommie Williamson immediately hopped in beside me, clearly not caring whether his parents saw him riding up front. “Can we kick the football around after school today?” he asked before we had even left the grounds of the estate.

“What about your homework?”

“I usually don’t have much of it on Mondays,” Tommie said quickly, expecting the question. “Besides, Miss Moore is still away until tomorrow.”

“So you don’t do homework when she is not here, is that it?”

“No, I always do it anyway, but when she’s here, she helps me. I don’t always need her help, but I let her think that I do. It makes her feel good.”

“How much time do you spend on homework every day?”

“About an hour.”

“I’ll tell you what. When you get home this afternoon, do your homework for an hour, and we’ll still have time for the football before dinner. It still will be light enough. But you have to get your mother’s permission, because I don’t want to get into trouble with her. Does that sound okay?”

“Yeah, it does, Archie,” he said with a grin.

“Speaking of Miss Moore, are you looking forward to her coming back?”

“I guess so. She’s pretty nice, except sometimes now she gets real sad, like she’s going to start crying. I feel bad for her, but I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you have any idea what makes her sad?”

“I know her mother has been sick, maybe that’s why.”

“Yes, that could be the answer. Has she always been sad?”

“No, just maybe the last, I don’t know, maybe a month or two.”

“Well, I believe you are the type who can cheer her up,” I said. “I’m sure she was terribly worried when you were gone.”

“She really did cry when I came back, and she hugged me until I thought I couldn’t breathe.”

“That shows how much she cares about you. I’m sure the others on the staff feel just the same way.”

He shrugged, looking out of the window. “I don’t think Mr. Simons likes me very much. I like to go in and look at the horses in the stable sometimes, but he always looks angry when I’m there.”

“It’s possible that he’s just trying to protect you. Horses can be pretty mean sometimes, I know. When I was about ten, I got kicked by a horse at my uncle’s farm in Ohio, and all I was trying to do was pet him.”

“Gee, did you get hurt?”

“My pride did, but I also ended up with a bruised shin that turned black and blue. I walked with a limp for two weeks. Anyway, perhaps Mr. Simons is worried about something of that sort happening to you.”

“I still don’t think he likes me.”

“What about Mr. Carstens?”

“He doesn’t talk much, but I can tell he’s worried whenever I’m outside playing that I’ll step on his flowers. I was flying a kite in the backyard in the spring, and he got angry because the kite fell into a bed of yellow tulips. And it didn’t even hurt a single one of them.”