“Have you ever been in the bar called McCready’s?” Wolfe asked.
He shook his head. “No, never. From what I have heard, it is not such a pleasant place. Besides, whatever drinking I do is in my home. Except right now, of course,” he added with a smile, indicating the glass of chianti in his hand.
“Has the bar’s owner, Liam McCready, ever shopped in your store?”
“No, Mr. Wolfe. I would have recognized him, because I have seen him out on the street. He talks loudly.”
“Sir, thank you for your time,” Wolfe said, then turned to me. “Archie, please give Mr. Paolucci one hundred dollars from the cash drawer.” I started to tell him that the grocer already had received that same amount from Saul but then realized Wolfe was aware of that and had decided to double the payment. I did as instructed, handing the money to Paolucci, whose expression was a tacit thank-you.
As Saul and I walked the one-time Italian resident down the hall, he said, “I hope that what I said was of help to Mr. Wolfe. He seems very interested in what is happening in our neighborhood — and so am I.”
“I am sure he appreciates what you have told him, Mr. Paolucci,” Saul put in.
“I have of course noticed that you appear to have been wounded recently, Mr. Goodwin. Does that have anything to do with Mr. Wolfe’s involvement in the Elmont and its residents?”
“You are most perceptive,” I told Paolucci. “If you happen to learn any more about the people you are suspicious of, I hope you telephone us.” I handed him my business card and watched as he and Saul walked down the front steps of the brownstone and went off, likely in search of a taxi.
Back in the office, I dropped into my desk chair and swiveled to face Wolfe. “Well, what do you think of our immigrant shopkeeper?”
“I am impressed with his fortitude and his persistence,” he said. “No doubt Mr. Paolucci has overcome numerous obstacles since his arrival in this country that he did not bother mentioning to us. Those coming here from abroad face difficulties that we who take our citizenship for granted cannot begin to imagine, including harassment, bigotry, and discrimination in the job and housing markets.”
“A handsome speech. Do you feel that group in the Elmont find themselves facing the same struggles Enzo Paolucci did?”
Wolfe drank beer and set his glass down, licking his lips. “These men seem to present an altogether different set of circumstances.”
“Do you care to go into detail?”
“Not at present,” he said, burying himself in a book of color photographs of exotic animals. I had been dismissed.
Chapter 24
The next morning, as I sat in the office with coffee after breakfast, the phone rang. It was Doc Vollmer.
“Just calling to tell you and Nero Wolfe once again that there has been no change in Theodore Horstmann’s condition.”
“Are you optimistic or pessimistic?”
“I’m leaning toward optimism. I believe there’s an excellent chance he will have a complete recovery. All of his vital signs remain positive.”
“Is his sister still visiting him regularly?’
“I can’t say how regularly, but almost every time I have stopped by to see him, she’s been there at his bedside, looking mournful. How are you feeling, Archie?”
“Antsy, in a word. I would like to know when I can resume what I like to think of as my normal routine. I feel like the walls here are closing in around me.”
“Normal for you, of course, is dashing around the city and finding trouble at every corner. You are lucky to have lived this long.”
“You make my life sound more exciting than it is.”
Vollmer snorted. “Why don’t you stop by later this morning, say at eleven thirty, and I’ll take a look at you. The concussion’s effects may have worn off by now.”
“It’s a deal; I’ll stop by.” As soon as I had hung up, the phone rang again. I answered in the usual way and heard the breathless tones of the Gazette’s Lon Cohen: “Well, there has been more trouble in Hell’s Kitchen, and I’m wondering how you fit in,” he said.
“It seems that you have the advantage of me.”
“It’s always nice to tell you something you don’t know, meaning you owe me one, and which I will of course collect on at some point. Here is what we’re getting off the police wire: Sometime in the early hours of this morning, Liam McCready, proprietor of the Tenth Avenue saloon bearing his name, shot and killed an intruder, who has been identified as Emil Krueger, an apparent immigrant from Germany who is here without a visa.”
“Interesting. What are the cops saying?”
“Your old pal Cramer has not chosen to return our calls so far. I thought perchance you had heard from him.”
“We usually hear from the inspector only when he is mad at us or thinks we have information he needs, neither of which apparently is the case here.
“For what it’s worth, and probably not a lot, I chatted with McCready briefly on one of my visits to his saloon when I was trying without success to learn why Theodore Horstmann got himself beaten up and nearly killed. As I observed at the time, he fits the classic Irish mode of one filled with camaraderie and back-slapping good nature, which likely is superficial. I’m sure that you have run into the type.”
“Run into the type? Hey, we’ve got several of them right here on our staff,” Lon said. “They make damned good reporters because among other things they can charm the coins out of a Scotsman’s kilt.”
“Come to think of it, I have run into a few of your reporters who’ve got Irish roots. One of them, named Corrigan, tried to get me to sit in on a poker session with him and some of his fellow reporters from your Gazette. I took a pass.”
“Smart move on your part. I will not say that Corrigan’s game is in any way rigged, but I happen to know a few ‘guests’ invited to sit in who left the table with lighter wallets and vows to never return.”
“Not at all like our friendly game.”
“But part of the reason it’s friendly is that we don’t play for the kind of stakes Corrigan and his lads do,” Lon put in. “Can I assume you will let me know if you happen to learn anything about that saloon shooting?”
“You know me, always ready to help.”
“As you are invariably quick to say. Sometimes I think that you forget your friends, however. By the way, one of my reporters hears from a friend on the force that you were in some sort of fight in — where else — Hell’s Kitchen. Care to tell me about it?”
“Not at present.”
“Some friend you are. When there’s news, you seem to forget me.”
“Forget you — never. We will be in touch,” I promised without specifying a time. When Wolfe came down at eleven, I gave him the status report on Theodore and told him about what had happened overnight at McCready’s bar.
“You know nothing more than what Mr. Cohen told you?”
“No, sir, and he would like more details himself. But so far, Inspector Cramer has not responded to his calls. Want me to try Cramer?”
Wolfe’s curt nod signaled me to dial a number I know well as he picked up his receiver. “Yeah?” Cramer rumbled.
“Sir, I understand there has been a fatal shooting at the McCready establishment on Tenth Avenue,” Wolfe said.
“I wondered when I’d be hearing from you,” the inspector said in a tired voice. “I suppose your pal from the Gazette filled you in.”
“All we have is the bare bones, which also is all Mr. Cohen appears to possess as well.”