The Missing Chapter (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries), page 14
After putting away life-sustaining portions of apricot omelet and hotcakes with bacon and honey, I carried a cup of coffee into the office and, settling in at my desk, punched the buttons on the phone. Horace Vinson’s secretary answered crisply and, hearing my name, she put me through immediately to the editor.
“Ah, I was hoping you’d call this morning. Got anything yet?” Vinson asked anxiously.
I gave my standard response to that standard client question. “Nothing concrete. Did Childress ever mention a cousin of his to you? Her name is Clarice Wingfield.”
“No, I can’t say that he did,” Vinson responded after a slight pause. “But Charles rarely discussed his pre-New York years, at least with me. Why?”
“Just a long shot.” I thanked him and said he’d be hearing from us as soon as something was worth hearing. He wanted to string out the conversation, but I insisted that I had pressing duties related to the case, which was more or less true.
It was a splendid morning, spring in Manhattan at its absolute blue-skies-and-soft-breezes best, and I would have liked nothing more than to take a long, leisurely stroll Downtown. But I reminded myself that the faster I could keep events moving, the more likely that Wolfe wouldn’t lose interest in the proceedings and begin feeling sorry for himself by dwelling on such mundane matters as his nonfunctioning elevator. So I walked only as far as Ninth Avenue, where I flagged a southbound cab. “One Police Plaza,” I told the driver, giving him the immodest address of the blocky, brick headquarters building, which sits behind the Municipal Building on Centre Street near the approach ramps to the Brooklyn Bridge.
I’m not complaining when I say that I don’t have a lot of friends inside the New York Police Department. Oh, I’ve got a couple of dozen acquaintances on the force, which is impossible to avoid, given my line of work. There’s Inspector Cramer, of course, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins, both of Homicide, and both of whom I respect for their honesty and their devotion to duty. But I can’t call them friends any more than they would refer to me that way; there simply is too much adversarial baggage in our longtime relationship. Let’s not forget the earlier-mentioned Lieutenant Rowcliff, also of Homicide, whom I neither like nor respect—and the feeling is mutual. And there are others Wolfe and I have crossed paths with through the years, men—and a couple of women—I know by name. But friends? No—with one exception.
He is LeMaster Gilliam, and I have known him for at least fifteen years, maybe a few. more. Gilliam is as honest as Cramer, as dedicated as Stebbins, and infinitely more civil than Rowcliff. He battled his way up and out of one of the poorest and roughest ghettos in the Bronx and into college, CCNY, from which he got a degree. I first met him when he was an energetic young patrolman and I was working with Wolfe investigating the apparently accidental death of a dockworkers’ union official.
Gilliam had found the guy’s body floating just off a Hudson River pier and was the only member of the NYPD who thought he’d been murdered. Wolfe, who had been hired by the union, listened with interest to this rookie cop’s theory as to why the accident explanation didn’t wash, if you’ll pardon the expression. Anyway, after weeks of digging, and with Gilliam’s unofficial help, Wolfe nailed the murderer, making sure Cramer knew that one member of the force had been of invaluable help.
LeMaster Gilliam still swears that was the beginning of his rise through the ranks. Maybe, but with his smarts, he was going to rise regardless. Our paths have crossed periodically since then, and once he mentioned with pride that he had a high school daughter who played the violin “like an angel.” I passed her name along to Lon Cohen. After some nosing around, Lon ordered up a feature story on Sharelle Gilliam, who was described in a Sunday Gazette piece as “a brilliant prodigy with a great future.”
The article, so Gilliam says, was a major factor in Sharelle’s getting a university scholarship, and she has gone on to play with a number of big-time symphony orchestras. Her father was so grateful that he told me if I ever needed a favor, I should but ask. Attempting to take advantage of that gratitude, I invited him to sit in on our Thursday poker games, where he joined Saul and Lon in helping to lighten my pockets until he got switched back to a night watch.
I didn’t mean to go on so long, but the man needed an introduction, especially because it was him I was going to see at One Police Plaza; Lieutenant LeMaster Gilliam now is head of Missing Persons for the department. “Archie Goodwin!” he roared when he’d been told I was waiting in the anteroom. “How the hell are you?” He pumped my hand with a meaty paw and steered me into his spartan office, which at least had a view of the small park in front of the building where flowering trees were showing off their blossoms.
“No complaints,” I told him. “What’s Sharelle doing these days?”
The smile got almost as wide as his broad chest. “Living in Chicago, and for a musician, that’s the best of the best,” he boomed. “Their ball teams may not always be so hot, but they’ve got the world’s finest damn orchestra, and she’s in it. Joined just last year. They’re coming to Carnegie for a concert next month, and guess whose proud parents are going to be fifth-row center? But I don’t think you ventured all the way Downtown just to ask about the world’s most-talented young violinist, did you?”
I allowed as to how I did have some business and pulled out the photo of Clarice, giving him what few particulars I had and conceding it wasn’t much to go on. Gilliam studied the picture, making a clucking noise with his tongue. “You say she hasn’t been reported as missing, huh? Well, the chances are that if she is in Manhattan and has disappeared, she doesn’t want to be located—probably for one, of two reasons.”
“Drugs or prostitution, right?”
Gilliam nodded. “Or more likely, both. But let me run a check to see if there’s another explanation.”
“Such as, an unidentified corpse that you now can put a name to?”
“You said it, Archie, I didn’t.” He narrowed his eyes. “By any chance are we looking for this woman, too?”
I grinned. “No, and it’s because you guys in authority don’t think a crime has been committed. But Nero Wolfe does.”
He returned the smile. “Why does that particular scenario sound familiar to me? And why does it take me back a whole bunch of years?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ve got to get back to work. We’re in the middle of something big right now. Then I’ll run a check on your Ms. Wingfield, or whatever she’s calling herself. Mind if I get back to you later today?”
What could I say to that? How many cops apologize for not being able to help instantly when you’ve barged in on them unannounced? But that’s LeMaster Gilliam for you.
I left one of the photos of Clarice with him and grabbed a northbound taxi on Centre Street. Eleven minutes later I was at Childress’s building in the West Village. In the entrance hall, I pushed the buzzer above CARLUCCI—SUPER, and I got a muffled “Yeah?”
“I’m here about Charles Childress,” I said into the speaker, getting an answer that, assuming I heard it right, I’m not going to share with you. I waited for close to a minute and was about to lean on the buzzer again when a scowling Carlucci burst into the foyer.
“You know, I’ve got a lot of work to do,” the super snarled. I don’t think he’d changed his clothes since I’d last seen him. “People all the time comin’ around and—hey, you been here before, right? Insurance investigation, right?”
I gave him my facts-and-figures nod. “Sorry to bother you again, but this won’t take long. We’re looking for some of Mr. Childress’s relatives, one of whom may have visited him here. Do you recognize this woman?” I pulled out a picture of Clarice and held it toward him.
He frowned, then squinted at the likeness. “Like I told you before, I don’t pay a lot of attention to comings and goings—I got plenty else to do. But she does look familiar, yeah. If I had to bet, I’d say she’s been here before. In fact …”
“Yes?”
He ran a thick paw over the off-white stubble on his jaw and took another look at the snapshot. “Now I can’t say for sure, because it was dark, but a few weeks back—more’n a month now—I was out in front of the building here, tapping down some of the bricks. A couple years ago, the guy who owns this place put a lot of dough into fixing it up—new windows, tuck-pointing, new iron railings, fancy coach lights, and a bunch of other stuff. Well, he also got the bright idea that it would look fancier to brick over the little patch of grass, which was mostly weeds and dirt anyway. Well and good, except the bricks were laid without mortar, and in the winter, the ground freezes and heaves ’em up so they’re uneven. So what happens? I end up trying to level ’em up again. And that’s what I was doing one night in March when a woman—coulda been the one in that picture, although the hair’s a little different now, shorter I think, she comes out the front door, and she’s screaming over her shoulder to Mr. Childress, who’s standing in the foyer.”
“Do you remember what she said?”
Carlucci looked sheepish. “I was mainly embarrassed to be in the middle of something, you know? She was carrying on and I just wanted to get out of there. I don’t like scenes. But the woman didn’t seem to notice me anyway. She was crying, that I know for sure, and she said something like ‘Money is not why I’m here.’ And then she really lit into the poor guy. She called him a bastard and a few other things that were even worse. She stood on the bottom step, right there”—Carlucci pointed a stubby finger out through the glass doors—”and yelled at him. Really yelled. You’d have heard her a block away, maybe even two.”
“Then what?”
He hunched his shoulders. “Then she left. Stormed past me like I was invisible—which truth to tell was what I wanted to be. After she tore out of here, Mr. Childress just looked down at me from the front door and shook his head. Didn’t say a word. But then, what could he say? I dunno who felt worse, him or me. I still get embarrassed just talking about it. It was a real scene. Hey, mind if I ask you a question?”
“Why not? I’ve just asked you a few.”
He crossed beefy arms over his chest and coughed nervously. “You think that woman might have been the reason Mr. Childress bumped himself off?”
“It’s certainly worth considering,” I told him. “Did you see her on any other occasions?”
“Not that I remember for sure,” Carlucci said, shaking his head slowly and looking like he was straining to probe the dimmest recesses of his mind. “Mr. Childress had, well … he seemed to know quite a few women. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean anything bad by that. There was one lady, he told me about her, who came sometimes to use his computer. I think he said she was a writer, like him. Named Rice I think, or something like that. Said he wanted me to know about her because he’d given her a key to his place. Then there was the beautiful one who came to see him sometimes. I think maybe they was engaged or something. She was a real looker, dark hair, face like a movie star. Do you happen to know if she’s somebody famous?”
“Sorry, I don’t. And you don’t remember seeing any of them here the day Mr. Childress killed himself?” I asked, purposely repeating a question I had posed to him six days earlier.
“No. See, I was away part of that day, including when he shot himself. Went to the hardware store and then to visit my sister. She’s been sick, had a stroke.”
He passed the consistency test. “You remember seeing anybody visit him in the day or two before he died?”
A shrug. “Nah, like I said, I don’t pay much attention to who comes and goes around here. None of my business, you know?”
I said I knew and thanked him for his time.
FIFTEEN
A CAB PILOTED BY A gabby, neatly bearded Bulgarian who claimed to speak six languages fluently dropped me back at the brownstone at ten-fifty. I had my key poised at the lock when Fritz pulled the front door open.
“Archie, it’s good that you’re back before he comes down from the plants,” he said over the cacophony of hammering, drilling, and yelling that came from the elevator shaft. “A woman is in there.” He jerked a thumb toward the front room door. “She arrived at ten-thirty-five and demands to see you or Mr. Wolfe. She is a peri—the best-looking woman who has come here in years—except for Miss Rowan, of course.”
“Ever the diplomat,” I responded, making a note to look up peri in the dictionary. “Does our guest happen to be named Debra Mitchell?”
Fritz beamed. His faith in me had been confirmed. “I should have known you had met her before. You attract beautiful women like the flame draws the moth. You need to learn to share.”
“In all honesty, I don’t really think you’d enjoy being with this one,” I told him. “I concede her beauty, but from what I have observed of the lady so far, that beauty is, to use the old cliché, only skin-deep.”
Fritz nodded soberly. “Perhaps. But sometimes that is enough.”
“So you say, and you might be right. Actually, the two of you might just find happiness together at that. You could admire her creamy complexion and raven hair and she would doubtless admire your shad roe with Creole sauce. She seems like the type who enjoys the finer things of life, and your cuisine certainly falls into that category. But all of that remains for the two of you to work out. Right now, though, I had better see her before the lord of the manor makes his perilous descent. How’s his mood this morning?”
“About the same as yesterday,” Fritz responded glumly. He shook his head. “I don’t know what bothers him most, the lack of an elevator or the terrible noise involved in getting a new one. He is more irritable than usual.”
“And having a woman in the house will hardly improve that condition. Well, I’m off to see the peri,” I said, opening the door to the front room. Debra Mitchell, dressed in a pleated, eggshell-colored skirt and a red blazer, was seated on the sofa flipping pages of The New Yorker. She looked up, unsmiling.
“Sorry you had to wait,” I said amiably, getting a whiff of her perfume, which smelled like something Lily likes to wear. “But then, I was not informed you were coming.”
“I didn’t know it myself,” was the cool reply. “It was spur-of-the-moment. I suppose I could have called, but I prefer seeing the people I’m speaking to. I want to know what progress you and Nero Wolfe are making in finding out who murdered Charles.” The last sentence was spoken in the tone of one used to getting her way.
I gave the woman points for directness if not for tact. “Technically, neither Mr. Wolfe nor I have to answer that question, as you are not our client,” I said, still amiable. “However, in this house we try not to get hung up on technicalities. If you’ll excuse me, I will see if Mr. Wolfe is available,” I told her.
“Are you going to just leave me here waiting, like that Frenchman who answered the door did?” she snapped.
“He is Swiss, and, not incidentally, he also happens to be the finest chef in the world, no contest,” I snapped back. I know Wolfe has said more than once that a guest is a jewel resting on a cushion of hospitality; but this particular jewel, glittering as she was, had flaws to the degree where I didn’t feel much like playing the role of the hospitality cushion—or doormat.
“I will be gone no more than two minutes; time me on that beautiful watch of yours,” I told her, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind me. If Fritz ever learned that she had called him a Frenchman, it would be all over between them. I vowed to keep silent.
Instead of using the soundproofed connecting door, I walked the eight paces along the hall to the office, where Wolfe was getting settled behind his desk. “Good morning, Archie. Did you sleep well?” he asked as he arranged his seventh of a ton and rang for beer. It was nice to see that even in time of crisis, he held to certain social niceties.
“I slept the sleep of the innocent,” I assured him. “But enough about my somnolence. At this moment, a person who may be a key figure in our current investigation awaits in the front room. I feel it is important that you see this individual.”
He bristled. “Who is she?”
“I don’t recall using a gender-specific pronoun,” I said, trying to look hurt.
“Archie, you are as transparent as the crystal in a Czechoslovakian chandelier. I repeat my question.”
“As we speak, Debra Mitchell cools her very attractive heels next door. She is eager, very eager, to find out how we—make that you—are progressing in the search for the murderer of her fiancé.”
Wolfe scowled. “She is not a client,” he murmured. “Talk to her; tell her we owe her no information and no explanations.”
“Sorry, but I decline. If I did that, we would be turning our backs on a potential resource. As somebody once said, ‘Waste not, want not.’ ”
“That somebody was named Rowland Howard, and he also penned such memorable phrases as ‘Practice what you preach,’ and ‘You never miss the water till the well runs dry,’ “ Wolfe said, his facial expression making it clear what he thought about the wisdom of Mr. Howard.
“Those phrases make sense to me. Shall I bring Miss Mitchell in?”
He made a growling noise but said nothing, a tacit admission of surrender. I went to that soundproofed door connecting the office with the front room, opening it. “Miss Mitchell, Mr. Wolfe will see you now,” I told her over the sudden banging of the elevator crew and a metallic screech overhead I preferred not to contemplate.
The additional minutes spent waiting hadn’t brightened her disposition any. Debra Mitchell marched into the office with smoke coming out of her pretty ears. I motioned her to the red leather chair and made the introductions before sliding in behind my desk. This figured to be interesting.
