Archie Meets Nero Wolfe (17 page)

“Do you and Miss Stratton get along well?”

“Uh-huh, she’s okay I guess, but kinda bossy. She orders Mary around a lot, and I think she would try to order Mrs. Price around, too, if she thought she could get away with it,” Tommie said with a chuckle.

“Do you like Mrs. Price?”

“I do. She’s always making really good desserts, and for my last birthday, you should have seen the cake she baked. It was at least this high”—he held his hands about six inches apart—“and she made a picture of a train on top out of different-colored frosting. She knows that I like trains.”

“And she also knows you like cake?”

“And pies, and cookies.”

“How about Mary—is she nice?”

He nodded. “She plays games with me when Miss Moore is away, like now. Last night, we played a card game she taught me called ‘old maid.’ It was a lot of fun, except I think she let me win.”

“It could be that you’re just a good card player.”

“Maybe, except I still think she could have beaten me last night. Funny thing, when we were playing up in my room, Mr. Waverly came up about four different times to see how we were doing.”

“Perhaps he wanted to play the game with you, too.”

“I don’t think that Mr. Waverly plays games. He seems too serious. He doesn’t smile very much.”

“Does he get cross?”

“No, he has a very soft voice, and he talks different because he’s English, but I think it sounds nice. He always calls me Master Tommie.”

“I think English people tend to be very formal,” I told him as we pulled into the well-manicured grounds of the MeadesGate Academy, and Tommie hopped out of the car to join his classmates who were filing into the building.

W
hen I got back to the Williamson estate, I eased the Pierce-Arrow into the garage and had just started up the steps to my quarters when I heard my name being spoken in a voice just above a whisper. It was Mary Trent, who slipped in through the open overhead door and looked around as if she were being followed.

“Mr. Goodwin, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to you. Can we go up to your rooms?”

“I really don’t think that’s a very good idea, Miss Trent.”

“I’m not a child, you know. I am probably just about your age.”

“I was not suggesting you are a child. But we can talk down here, with the automobiles for company. I’ve got a small desk over in the corner, and a guest chair, too.”

“I would rather be somewhere more private,” she said as if afraid she would be overheard.

“Let’s make this more private then,” I told her, lowering the garage door. “Now, sit down and tell me what it is you want to talk about.”

She parked herself uneasily on the edge of the straight-backed chair and fixed large brown eyes on me. She was not at all hard to look at. “I am sorry you were spoken to so rudely at the breakfast table, Mr. Goodwin.”

“That didn’t bother me. And please call me Archie.”

“I will, if you call me Mary.”

“It’s a deal. Anything else you’d like to say?”

“Are you really a detective?”

“Yes, I am.”

“There are things you and your colleagues should be aware of,” she said, clasping her small hands in her lap.

“Go on.”

“For one thing, Miss Stratton and Mr. Carstens are really very good friends.”

“It certainly did not seem that way at breakfast.”

“They were putting on an act, Mr.—Archie. I believe it has something to do with Tommie’s kidnapping.”

“Really?”

She nodded primly. “I try not to eavesdrop, but sometimes I hear things because I go about my work quietly. The day after Tommie came home, I heard part of a conversation between the two of them. I was dusting in the dining room, and Mr. Carstens had come into the parlor. He almost never enters the house, but it was clear to me that he was looking for Miss Stratton.

“‘What are you doing here?’ she said to him in a sharp voice, and he answered ‘We have to be careful, really careful now. I’m worried about Charles having—’ At that point, Archie, Mr. Carstens quit talking and came through the doorway into the dining room. I ducked behind a tall Chinese screen that shields the serving staff from the diners. I know he did not see me, and I heard him say to Miss Stratton, ‘I just wanted to be sure that no one was around.’ Then they went off to somewhere else, I suppose to finish their conversation.”

“Uh-huh. And what do you think that conversation was about?”

“Well, I know this is a terrible thing to say about the people I work with, but I think they might have, well ...

“Might have what?”

“Might have ... had something to do with the kidnapping,” she murmured.

“Then what do you think Carstens was going to say about Charles Bell when he stopped talking in midsentence?”

“I believe he was starting to tell Miss Stratton that he was worried Charles found out about the plot to take Tommie.”

“So you believe this whole business started inside the house?”

“Don’t you?” she answered.

“Well, I seem to remember you telling one of the other detectives that you did not recognize the voice of the man who telephoned Miss Moore, bringing her indoors and away from Tommie.”

“That is correct, I didn’t.”

“Well, if it was an inside job, the caller had to be one of four men—Waverly, Bell, Carstens, or Simons.”

She shook her head. “It did not sound like any of them, Archie.”

“Bear in mind the caller could have disguised his voice—in fact
would
have—if he were on the household staff. It also could have been a woman disguising her voice to sound like a man. Now think about it hard, Mary, and see if you can remember that voice.”

“It’s no good,” she stated with conviction. “I don’t believe it was any of them. I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. All that proves is that one or more of the people here may have worked with someone on the outside, as seems likely.”

“I wish I could have been more helpful,” she said as she got up. “I’d better get back, or they—Miss Stratton, that is—will wonder where I am. Thank you for taking the time to listen to me ... Archie.” She went up on tiptoes and kissed me firmly on the lips. I started to push her away, but then kissed her back, quickly wishing I hadn’t.

“I think we have both been wanting to do that for the last few days,” she said in a husky tone, and before I could answer one way or the other, she turned and went out through the small door next to the big garage doors.

I cursed myself silently and ran a handkerchief across my face to get rid of the lipstick that I was sure she had left as her mark.

T
he rest of the day was uneventful until I picked up Burke Williamson early that evening at the little commuter rail station. When I took this job, one of the things that surprised me was that this man, one of New York’s wealthiest, rode the old Long Island Railroad to and from work most days, alongside the great masses of salesmen, secretaries, stockbrokers, store clerks, and myriad others who toiled in Manhattan’s concrete-and-steel canyons.

As if to answer my unspoken question, he had told me earlier that “thousands of ordinary folks of all types stay in my hotels every week, and I want to spend time around these people, feel their energy, observe them, and talk to them, get to know a little bit about them, at least twice a day on these trains. It makes me feel connected to my clientele.”

Williamson did not seem connected to any of his fellow commuters that evening as he got off the train and stormed over to the waiting car, face frowning and red, with arms churning like pistons at his sides. This appeared to be one angry man.

“Goodwin, we are going to see Nero Wolfe tonight!” he growled as he dropped into the backseat and slammed his briefcase down next to him.

“Yes, sir?”

“After dinner. I would drive myself, but my night vision is not good. It was bad enough going into the Bronx those two nights when Tommie was missing, but then I had no choice. Now I do. I got a telephone call at the office today from Inspector Cramer of the Police Department, who informed me that Charles Bell was found shot to death last Friday night in the Bronx.”

“Bell, dead ... killed?” I said in a shocked tone, doing my best to feign both ignorance and surprise.

“His body was identified at the morgue by his sister, who got worried when he never showed up at her house over in New Jersey. He was supposed to move in with her and her husband temporarily after he bolted from our household. Anyway, this Cramer wants to see me tomorrow about Charles’s death. I telephoned Wolfe to ask his advice, and it turns out that he got a call from the inspector, too, an angry one, he said.”

“The upshot is, you feel that you need to see Wolfe?”

“He wants to see me, says that we’ve got a lot to discuss. I asked if we could meet in my office tomorrow, before Cramer comes to see me, but he said he never leaves home on business. What do you think of that?”

“Mr. Wolfe seems to be—what would you call it—eccentric?”

“Yes, I would call it eccentric, all right,” Williamson snapped. “I told him that you would be driving me, and he said that was all right, and that you could sit in on the discussion.”

“I guess I’m flattered.”

“Huh! Myself, I don’t find it the least bit flattering to be told—ordered is more like it—to show up somewhere. I find that damned high-handed.”

“What time do we leave?”

“Can you get to Wolfe’s place in forty-five minutes?”

“At night, yes. That’s how long it took us to get to Carnegie Hall.”

“Then we will set off at eight ten from home. He is expecting us at nine,” Williamson growled.

I smiled inwardly. Here was one of New York’s ten richest men dancing to Nero Wolfe’s tune.

I
n fact, we made it door to door in thirty-six minutes according to my watch, which read 8:46 when we pulled up in front of Wolfe’s brownstone on West Thirty-Fifth Street. Williamson had grumbled during the entire trip about having been “summoned by an ego-saturated private detective.”

Clearly, Burke Williamson was not used to being summoned to any location by anyone. I wanted to point out to him that the ego-saturated private detective and his minions were responsible for having his eight-year-old son returned home safely, but I held my tongue in the interests of a good working relationship.

I got a mild surprise when Wolfe’s front door was opened not by Fritz Brenner but by Saul Panzer. “Hi, Archie; hello, Mr. Williamson. Please come right in,” Saul said, stepping aside smartly. Waverly could not have done it any better.

Williamson muttered something that sounded like “thank you,” and we went down the hall to the office, where Wolfe sat reading a book. He set it down as we entered. “Good evening, sir. Thank you for coming. Can I get you something to drink? I am having beer.”

“I did not come here to drink,” Williamson snapped, dropping into the red leather chair.

“Just so. However, I do have an excellent selection of liquors, wines, and cordials. Also, if I may suggest it, a superb brandy, and I use that adjective sparingly.”

“All right then,” the hotelier said, still grumpy. “I’ll have one of those.”

“Mr. Goodwin?” Wolfe asked.

“A glass of milk for me. I’m driving.”

Wolfe gave a slight nod to Panzer, who went to a serving cart against one wall and poured an amber liquid into what I later learned was a snifter. He then placed it on the small table next to Williamson and left the room, presumably to get my milk.

“Is Panzer filling in for Brenner?” I asked to be conversational.

“Even Fritz needs some time away from the kitchen,” Wolfe said as Saul handed me a glass of milk and threw me a wink. “Now, we need to discuss the situation we find ourselves in, Mr. Williamson.”

“All right, now that I have taken the trouble to come, why don’t you lay it all out?”

“I shall, sir. The violent death of Mr. Bell would seem to suggest your son’s kidnapping may well have been facilitated to some degree by one or more members of your household staff, a premise I know from an earlier conversation that you find abhorrent.”

“I still cannot believe Charles had anything to do with what happened.”

“Do you have an explanation for his death?”

“I do not, except that—my Lord, this cognac is beyond compare,” Williamson said, holding the glass up to the light from a lamp. “What in the world do you call this nectar?”

One corner of Wolfe’s mouth moved up slightly, which may have been a smile. “Remisier. There are no more than four-dozen bottles in this country, well over half of them in my cellar. You shall leave here with one of those bottles tonight. You started to say something about Mr. Bell’s death.”

“Yes. All I can surmise is that he somehow learned about the plot and the persons involved in it. He likely threatened to expose them and, well ...

“A possible scenario,” Wolfe conceded, drinking beer. “Do you remain adamant that others in your household employ had no involvement in the kidnapping?”

“Absolutely. All of them have been in service with us for quite some time—except, of course, for Miss Trent, who has been on the staff for a little over a year now.”

“Speaking of Miss Trent,” I cut in, “she confided something to me today that I believe you both will find interesting.”

Williamson jerked his head toward me and started to speak when Wolfe said, “Proceed.”

I fed it to them verbatim. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Burke Williamson’s expression go from shock to anger to disbelief. Wolfe’s face betrayed no emotion.

“This is all rot!” Williamson snorted. “Mary Trent is barely more than a child. And no doubt her active imagination stems from seeing too many of those talking moving picture shows that seem to be on every corner these days.”

“Perhaps,” Wolfe said, “but we would be remiss indeed if we did not at least consider what the young woman reported to Mr. Goodwin.”

“Bah! I dismiss her tale as nothing more than a flight of fancy. I simply refuse to believe that Miss Stratton and Carstens are involved in some sort of plot. The very idea is ludicrous.”