I got to the peephole in time to see Cramer storm into the office carrying a rolled-up newspaper and an unlit cigar. He dropped into the red leather chair as is his habit and started using his cigar as a pointer, jabbing it at Wolfe. “Okay, just what gives with this ad?” he growled as he thrust the Gazette in Wolfe’s direction.
“I beg your pardon,” Wolfe responded, doing his best to appear puzzled.
“Don’t get cute with me. You have run stuff like this before. It’s become almost a trademark of yours.”
“I did not realize I had become so predictable, Inspector.”
“Hah! I can read you like a book, don’t think I can’t,” he said, looking around the room and frowning. “By the way, where’s Goodwin?”
“Archie is out at the moment. It may surprise you, but he does not always keep me apprised of his activities.”
“Back to the ad. What’s the story here? Is it somehow tied to what happened to Horstmann?”
Wolfe drew in air and exhaled slowly. “You cannot be positive I placed the advertisement to which you refer.”
“So, you deny it?”
“I neither confirm nor deny it, sir. I was not aware I was being compelled to refute or admit to an action.”
Cramer’s face had reddened, which often happens when he visits the brownstone. “The department has no reports of gunshots having been fired last night in the vicinity referred to right here,” Cramer said, still brandishing the newspaper.
“Then perhaps the advertisement was written by someone who was ill-advised,” Wolfe said.
“You don’t own up to being the ad’s author?”
Wolfe sighed. “All right. Let us for the present stipulate that I did indeed create the advertisement. What would you assume from that action?”
“That there is funny business going on in that neighborhood. First there was the Horstmann episode, second, a man was found dead of a gunshot wound and was wedged under a North River pier, and third there are claims of shots having been fired in the same general area, all within days of one another.”
“Have your men been canvassing the neighborhood?”
“Only in a cursory way,” Cramer admitted, having calmed down. “So far there have been no leads whatever in the death of the man found under that pier, an individual without a police record and who appeared to have no enemies. The same could be said of Horstmann — a man with no record and without apparent enemies. Look, why don’t you tell me what you know? I feel as if I’m groping in the dark and have no flashlight.”
Wolfe paused to drink beer and asked if Cramer wanted something. The inspector shook his head. From years of working with my boss, I knew he was at a dead end, and I could tell that he was about to open up to the inspector.
“All right, sir, we both are groping in the dark, to use your phrase. First, it appears Theodore was suspicious of some of the individuals in a bar on Tenth Avenue across the street where he had taken up residence recently. He never shared those suspicions with me, but those with whom he had played cards in the bar’s back room said Theodore felt they were plotting something. If he had specifics, he kept them to himself.”
“That sounds awfully vague,” Cramer remarked.
“I would normally agree, except that the man whose body was found under the pier also was part of Theodore’s bridge group, and he shared Theodore’s suspicions about the activities of some of those in the bar, at least a number of whom are longshoremen.”
I could tell by Cramer’s expression that this piece of news jolted him. “Most of the longshoremen are solid citizens,” Cramer said, recovering. “But as with any other group, they have had some bad apples over the years, too.”
“Has the department run into problems along the docks?” Wolfe asked.
“Not particularly. Oh, there have been the usual fights that are common on the piers, really minor stuff, but Homicide didn’t get involved because there were no murders.”
“And now there is one.”
“Yes. We’ve been investigating the death of the victim, Chester Miller, who I didn’t realize was a friend of Horstmann’s until just now,” Cramer said. “So far, we have gotten no leads in the Miller murder.”
“I believe this situation goes deeper than you are aware,” Wolfe told the inspector. “You should hear from Archie.” As he said that, Wolfe ran a finger along one side of his nose, a signal that it was time for me to appear.
“I thought you told me Goodwin was out.”
“He was, but... oh, come in Archie,” Wolfe said as I entered the office.
“My God you look like hell!” Cramer said.
“I don’t feel any so great, either, but I appreciate your concern, Inspector.” Marshaling as much dignity as I could, I went over and sat at my desk, trying to ignore Cramer gawking at my puss and the top of my head.
“Mr. Goodwin has become yet another victim of the violence in that district known as Hell’s Kitchen,” Wolfe said. “Archie, describe to the inspector the events that caused your injuries.”
It appeared that Wolfe really wanted to show all of our cards to Cramer. That being the case, I unloaded everything, including the behavior of longshoremen in McCready’s, the questionable goings-on at the National Export Lines pier, my being tailed and mugged, and my firing the shot that apparently hit one of my attackers.
“And you can’t identify those men?” Cramer asked.
“No, I cannot. I never got a clear look at either of them, although I did see one up close in a shadowy profile — the guy who clubbed me. They each were of medium build, and neither one did much more than mutter. For all I know, they could have been foreign.”
Cramer turned his attention to Wolfe. “I want to know what kind of reaction you get from this ad in the Gazette,” he demanded, jabbing an index finger at the wrinkled newspaper rolled up in his fist.
“Inspector, you often have accused me of obfuscating. Today, I, along with Mr. Goodwin, have been transparent and have withheld nothing from you. However, there are limits to my cooperation. Assuming we get responses to the advertisement, I will consider them and decide upon a course of action.”
“Balls! It’s the department that should be deciding a course of action, not you!” Cramer fumed. “Look where it has gotten you so far. Your orchid guy in a coma, one man shot dead, and Goodwin here looking like he was used for a punching bag. I can tell you one thing: We’ll be canvassing the hospitals to see if anyone got admitted in the last day with a bullet wound to a lower leg or ankle. And we may or may not share information with you on anything we learn.”
Wolfe considered the inspector, who had stood and was eyeing the wastebasket as a possible target for his cigar. Showing great restraint, he returned the stogie to his breast pocket and stormed out without a word.
“I would call that conversation a mixed bag,” I told Wolfe after I returned from closing the front door behind Cramer. “I’m surprised you opened up to him, and I am not surprised at his reaction when you drew the line.”
“Call our conversation what you will, Archie. As to your surprise at my openness, let us concede that we are stymied,” Wolfe said. “The inspector has resources far greater than our own, and you know as well as I do that it would be folly for us not to utilize them.”