Archie Meets Nero Wolfe (23 page)

Cather laughed. “Well, why not? Those boys sure weren’t lacking for cash, were they?”

“Seems to me once the wounded brother got himself patched up, they’d get out of town,” Gore said. “Make a new life someplace else.”

“I don’t think so, Bill,” Panzer said. “They probably figure nobody’s on to them. After all, both Haskell and Bell are dead, maybe the only two guys who could have fingered them. And they figure we didn’t get all that good a gander at them during the gunfight. No, I believe that they’ve stayed in New York, where they know their way around.”

“So what do we do now?” Durkin posed.

Nobody said anything for a half minute. Finally, I broke the silence.

“I know that I’m the new kid in this group, but I can’t believe that the five of you, all veteran operatives, act like you’re stumped. How tough can it really be to find these two?”

“Damned tough, Archie,” Bascom argued. “It’s easy to lose yourself in this town. Remember that camera salesman you nailed? He almost pulled it off.”

“But he didn’t,” I retorted.

“Del’s right, though,” Panzer said. “There’s any number of places the Bagleys can lie low, and for a long time.”

“What about us offering a reward?” I asked. “All of you must know your share of grifters, and some of them gotta have some inkling of the Bagleys’ whereabouts. Or do all these con men stick together in a code of silence?”

As I talked, Bill Gore’s face grew red. “Okay,” he said, “it’s confession time. Years back, I did some grifting myself, petty stuff, before I went straight—if you call this business we’re in straight. Anyway, Goodwin here has a point. Almost all these bunco boys would sell any other one of them out for the price of a decent meal or a bottle of bathtub gin. You know that old phrase, ‘there’s no honor among thieves’? It’s really true.”

“Yeah, but then where in the hell are we gonna get the money to dole out?” Cather growled.

“Wolfe should be rolling in it from what Williamson paid him for getting his kid back,” Durkin said.

“Hold on,” Panzer cut in. “I think Archie might be on to something. I’ll talk to Wolfe today and see if he’ll go along with the idea and fork over some dough that we can spread around. I agree with Bill that it won’t take much to get someone to sing to us about the Bagley boys.”

T
hat afternoon, I was sitting with Bascom in his office chewing the fat when he got a telephone call from Panzer. “That’s great, Saul!” Del said into the mouthpiece. “Yeah, Archie and I will see you then. Wolfe came up with some jack that we can use,” he told me after hanging up. “We’re to meet at Panzer’s place on Thirty-Eighth Street between Lex and Third Avenue tonight and map out what comes next.”

A
t seven thirty, the six of us sat in the big living room of Panzer’s spacious quarters on the top floor of a remodeled house. He clearly had done well for himself as a freelance operative, as indicated by the grand piano in a far corner and floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and relics that included chunks of minerals and walrus tusks. I know absolutely nothing about art, but the landscape and portrait paintings on the walls looked to me like they belonged in a museum.

Like Wolfe, Panzer ignored the existence of Prohibition, offering drinks ranging from beer and wine to scotch, rye, and gin. We all took him up, me with scotch and water. “Okay, as I told you all on the telephone, Mr. Wolfe liked the idea of using cash to loosen lips. I thought we’d split up and all go solo, except Archie, who’s so new that he can team with Del. I’ve got a stack of fins for each of you. Give them out sparingly.”

“Whose gonna tell us anything for a measly five bucks?” Cather whined.

“Are you kidding, Orrie?” Durkin asked. “The con business ain’t what it used to be in this town. Bill was right when he said that just about any one of these guys would sell a fellow bunco artist out for the price of a decent dinner or a bottle of damn near anything, let alone a whole finif.”

“Hell, I may even break a few of those bills into singles,” Bascom said. “Some of these boys will turn handstands for even a picture of Washington.”

Panzer looked around at us in turn. “Everybody here, other than Archie, either knows plenty of grifters or at least knows where they hang out. You can’t be in this business for long without practically tripping over them on every corner. So each of you take a small stack of these greenbacks and hit the streets. We’ll meet back here tomorrow morning at eleven, maybe with some results.”

“That’s not very long to dig something up,” Cather complained.

“Except that Archie’s right when he says we’ve all been around awhile and shouldn’t let this stump us. Let’s all do some digging,” Panzer urged.

“Do we start right now?” I asked Del when we were out on the street.

“Why not? It’s just a little after nine, for Pete’s sake. The night is young, particularly in the world of the lowlife. We’re going to start out in a speakeasy over on Second Avenue and Twenty-First, where a lot of these blacklegs and sharps drop in for a quick nip or two during their breaks from running short cons out on the street.”

We walked up to a dark, shuttered storefront. “Looks like it’s closed up,” I said.

“That’s just what it’s supposed to look like,” Del responded, rapping hard on the windowless wooden door. It opened a crack. “Bascom, I’ll be damned!” a voice rasped. The door swung open, revealing a figure who made Nero Wolfe look slender by comparison. “I haven’t laid eyes on you since Hector was a pup,” the fat man boomed. “C’mon in.”

“Good to see you again, Tiny,” Del said. “It’s been a while all right. Meet my trusted sidekick, Archie.”

“Pleased to meetcha, Archie. Any friend of Del’s ... et cetera, et cetera.”

The high-ceilinged room was dimly lit, crudely furnished, and noisy, but the joint must have had thick walls, because nothing could be heard from the street. We found two stools at the rough-hewn wooden bar, and a tall, angular, bearded guy with long gray hair ambled over to take our orders.

“Well, if it isn’t ol’ Del,” he drawled. “Thought you must have found a better place to drink these days.”

“I been busy lately,” Bascom replied. “Archie, say hi to Whiskey Dick, who runs this so-called establishment.”

“What do you mean, ‘so-called’?” Whiskey fired back, trying without success to look offended. “We serve only the finest clientele.”

“Right,” Bascom said, “that is if you count winos, con men, card sharps, and bunco boys.”

“All part of the warp and woof of life’s grand tapestry,” the owner observed, serving us two beers.

“Spoken like the true publican you are. What have you been hearing out on the street lately?”

“Aha, here to pump me now, are you? I might have known, you being a shamus and all. I hear all sorts of things, some of them maybe even true.”

“Give me some samples,” Bascom said, sliding a five-dollar bill across the bar. “This picture of Abe is over and above our drink tab.”

“Not sure I have anything that will live up to that fin, Del. I can tell you this, though: poor Barney Haskell got gunned down in the Bronx a few days back,” he said, smoothly pocketing the five-spot.

“Old news, Whiskey. But while we’re on the subject, you have any idea why Barney got erased? I always saw him as a harmless old two-bit operator.”

“That he was indeed, Del,” the bartender said, nodding and leaning bony elbows on the bar. “I hear tell he got himself involved in something that goes way beyond simple cons.”

“Is that so? Like what?”

Whiskey Dick leaned across the bar and lowered his voice, which was unnecessary given the din. “Kidnapping,” he mouthed.

Bascom looked shocked. “Barney Haskell involved in a kidnapping? I find that hard to swallow.”

“I know, me too. Apparently he got hooked up with a couple of brothers who planned the grab of some nabob’s kid, at least that’s the talk I been hearing. What’s it to you, anyway?”

“Nothing, probably. Interesting story, though, and I always like a good story. Any idea who these brothers are?”

Whiskey Dick’s bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits. “Del, you
are
interested, you old rascal, or you wouldn’t be parting with lettuce. Does that fin happen to have a cousin by any chance?”

“It just might, depending on the answers I get. Now ... what can you tell me about those brothers?”

“They go by several names, or so I hear. Cunningham, Schmidt, Jasper, Bagley, maybe more. Far as I know, they’ve never been in here, I’m glad to say. Story I get is that they work up north, mostly in the Bronx, and that they’re a surly pair. Do I get that other fiver now? You know that I have cops that I’ve gotta be nice to if I expect to keep this operation going.”

“Not so fast,” Bascom said, slapping a palm on the bar. “Archie and I were hoping you could tell us where these brothers are holed up now.”

“Are you kidding, Del? How would I know that? I don’t keep tabs on every second-rate shark working the long cons or even the short ones for that matter.”

“Maybe not, but you hear talk. For instance, you knew who the kidnappers were. Now I would just love to give you that second Lincoln, but I simply can’t without some more help. Sorry, but that’s how it is.”

“What’s your angle, Del?” Whiskey Dick asked. “And how does the kid fit in?” He jerked a thumb in my direction.

“I’ll answer the second question first, you old rumrunner. Archie here is the smartest young operative I’ve seen come along in a dozen years, maybe more. As for my angle, I have a client who—”

“I thought so! And I’ll bet it’s that swell whose kid got snatched, isn’t it?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge any names, but I will say certain people are extremely interested in locating those brothers.”

“I’ll just bet they are, given that those boys probably have a trunk stuffed full of ransom money.”

“Chances are you’re right,” Del said. “Now let’s—”

“I think that maybe we can work out a deal,” Whiskey Dick said, his ruddy, pockmarked face breaking into a snaggle-toothed grin. “Now if I can locate these Schmidt or Bagley or Cunningham brothers for you, or whatever their name is, I get a piece of the—”

“It’s my turn to do the interrupting, you chattering chiseler,” Del barked. “One minute you say you got no idea where to find these guys, and then, when you start to sniff out some big bucks, all of a sudden it seems like you just might be able to locate them. Why does it feel to me like you’ve got your hand on my wallet?”

“Now hold on a second,” the barkeep said, holding up his palms as if surrendering. “I was just trying to help you guys with your problem.”

“Yeah, right,” Del scowled, leaning in toward Whiskey Dick. “It’s just possible you still might be able to earn that second fiver, which I’m sure would nicely grease the palm of a beat cop. After all, we want you to stay in business. Now, how were you planning to find those brothers?”

“I ... uh, wasn’t sure, but I had this idea. It’s kind of a long shot, though,” the barkeep said.

“We like long shots, don’t we, Archie?” I nodded. “Let’s hear it,” Bascom said, pulling a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and smoothing it out on the bar.

“Well, there’s this mouthpiece who seems to represent a lot of the grifters who’ve ever worked a con from Staten Island to Yonkers and everyplace in between. Talk is that in the courtroom, he has gotten a lot of these characters off with just a small fine or a slap on the wrist. It’s just possible he might know of the two that you’re looking for.”

“What’s his name?”

“Harding.”

“Related to our late and unlamented president?”

Whiskey Dick shrugged. “No idea. His handle is Stanley, or maybe Steven. I’ve never met the mouthpiece, just heard his name a bunch of times from guys talking to each other in here.”

“Get any idea where his office is?” I asked. He shook his head and looked longingly at the banknote lying on the bar.

“Go ahead,” Del said, “Take it, it’s yours. And here’s for the beers.” He dropped another dollar on the bar. “Let’s go, Archie. Dick’s got other thirsty customers to serve. We don’t want to monopolize him.”

Out on the sidewalk, I turned to Del. “You know, President Harding came from my home state of Ohio.”

“Whatever you do, don’t brag about it,” he said. “The sooner people forget that crook, the better.”

E
ver heard of this Harding character?” I asked Del as we walked away from the speakeasy.

“Nope, but then I haven’t spent all that much time around con men,” he said. “He sounds like one of your typical shysters, though, particularly given the caliber of his clientele.”

After we walked a block, I reached into a phone booth, finding an alphabetical directory chained to the shelf. “Here it is, Stanley Harding, attorney, at an address on Catherine Street.”

“Lower East Side. Not exactly a high-end location, although I would hardly expect him to have his office in some skyscraper in the Financial District or on Madison Avenue,” Del said.

“Shall we drop in on him first thing tomorrow?”

“No, Archie, we’ve got time. Let’s report in at Saul’s at eleven and see what the others have come up with.”

W
e were the first ones at Panzer’s the next day. He was ready with a pot of steaming coffee and bagels. “Your joe is as good as I remember it,” Del said, savoring his first sip.

“It’s the chicory I put in that makes the difference,” Panzer replied with a smile. “I can’t drink the stuff without it now.”

The others arrived in a cluster, Durkin first, followed quickly by Cather and Gore. Panzer served everyone efficiently and we all sat. “Well, who wants to report?” our host asked.

“Archie and I had an interesting evening,” Del said. “I’ll let him tell you about it.” I related our visit to the bar and the conversation with Whiskey Dick. When I brought up Stanley Harding’s name, both Panzer and Orrie Cather started chuckling. “What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You go first, Orrie,” Saul said.

Cather sipped coffee and shook his head. “Last night, I looked up a short-con specialist I’ve known for years, a seedy little shrimp who usually goes by the name of Mercer, and he told me that the man who knows the most about grifters in the five boroughs is a somewhat shady mouthpiece named Harding. I figured on stopping by to see him later today.”