“I guess I haven’t been too hard on my suits lately. How’s business?”
“Good enough to keep me going, but not so good that I can retire to Florida, which, as I’ve told you, is my dream.”
“You don’t belong in Florida, you are a New Yorker through-and-through,” I told her. “Besides, I would miss seeing your welcoming face behind the counter here if you were off at some beach wearing sunglasses and gazing out on blue waters.”
“You say the nicest things to a girl,” Anna said, batting dark eyes and letting a dimpled smile crease her broad Slavic face.
I left the shop with my spirits lifted, and although I hadn’t consciously realized it when I set out, that was the real reason I took the suits in. They had not needed cleaning. That brief encounter was enough to see me through the rest of the day.
Chapter 33
That night after dinner and coffee in the office, I told Wolfe it was time to drive to the Lower East Side precinct. He sighed in recognition as I got up, walked through the kitchen to the back door of the brownstone, and left by the rear gate. A gangway between buildings led me to Thirty-Fourth Street and Curran Motors, where we had garaged our cars for years.
The night man, who I had not met before, gave me the keys to the Heron sedan and offered to pull the car out for me, but I told him I would handle it. Once, years ago, another Curran employee had dented a fender backing one of our cars out, and since then, no one but me has ever taken the car out of Curran’s.
By the time I pulled around in front of the brownstone, Wolfe was already standing at the top of the stairs, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and carrying his bentwood walking stick. He carefully descended a step at a time, wearing the grim expression he always does when he is about to subject himself to a ride in an automobile, even one driven by as cautious a driver as I am. Like a dutiful chauffeur, I held the back door open for him, and he climbed inside with a grunt.
“The trip will take us about fifteen minutes at this time of night,” I told him, “and I will make every effort to avoid potholes and pedestrians, although the latter, New Yorkers on foot, are a very unpredictable lot, dashing into traffic and risking life and limb. I promise I will do my very best to keep from hitting anyone.”
“Archie, shut up!”
“Yes, sir. I was just making conversation.” There was no more talk as I steered the Heron east and south, finally pulling up in front of the precinct station on Elizabeth Street, an unimpressive and narrow four-story structure jammed into a block with other buildings of similar height.
“This is the place,” I told Wolfe. “Not much to look at, but then, police stations rarely are.”
He made a snorting sound as I opened his door and gave him a hand as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Pfui, a disgusting edifice,” he said as he glared up at the building. “Very well, we shall go in.”
The husky desk sergeant looked up as we entered and blinked, perhaps reaction to Wolfe’s dimensions. “Can I help you gentleman?”
“I believe Inspector Cramer is having a meeting here,” I told him.
“Oh yes, I should have realized that’s why you are here — it’s Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin, right?” Before we could answer, he added, “Third door on the right.”
Wolfe led the way down the bare hall, past two shabbily dressed men sitting on a bench and clearly waiting for someone. When we reached the door, I rapped on the pebbled glass and it swung open. The one who did the swinging was none other than Sergeant Purley Stebbins, Cramer’s longtime sidekick and my longtime nemesis. We nodded to each other unsmiling, and Purley stepped aside so we could enter.
The room, typical of those you’ll find in most police stations, was spartan, with bare walls, unwashed windows, and austere furnishings. The furnishings in this case were a long, gun-metal table and wooden chairs lined up on either side of it. The only people present, other than Stebbins, were Cramer and a uniformed officer.
“Okay, Wolfe, this is where we will be meeting,” the inspector said curtly. “We’ll bring the others in shortly, but I wanted you to meet Captain Kevin Ryan, who commands this precinct and is graciously letting us use this space tonight. Captain, this is Nero Wolfe and his assistant, Archie Goodwin, who are assisting us in a case.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” the square-jawed, youthful cop said, holding out a hand. “I have heard and read a lot about you.”
Wolfe, who is averse to shaking hands, had little choice in this case. After the ritual had been completed, including a shake between the captain and me, Wolfe thanked Ryan and looked around at the setup. The captain then left the room, leaving it to us.
“I know what’s worrying you,” Cramer said. “Purley, get that item from next door.” Stebbins went into a connecting room and came out pushing a wheeled and padded desk chair with arms that looked like it could accommodate Wolfe.
“Put it right there,” the inspector told his sergeant, who looked like he wanted to chew nails. Stebbins dislikes Wolfe as much as he does me, but he followed orders and slid the chair up to the table.
“Here is how this is going to work,” Cramer told Wolfe. “You and I will sit on one side of the table, facing our ‘guests,’ and Purley will stand well behind them with his back against the wall. There are glasses of water for everyone at the table. Goodwin, you can take a chair and move it well back from the table. You are to be an onlooker here, and nothing more.”
I could tell that Wolfe was seething, used as he was to controlling these sessions. But he remained silent, squeezing himself into the chair.
“All right, Purley,” Cramer said, “it’s time to bring the others in.” Stebbins went out and was gone for several minutes. When he came back in, he held the door open and stepped aside. In trekked bar owner Liam McCready, Elmont building superintendent Erwin Bauer, the National Export pier boss, Doug Halliwell, and the closed-mouthed William Hartz, whose partner had dented my skull. None of them wore a smile.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Cramer said. “Please take seats on that side of the table. As I have told each of you, the police department is investigating a series of events, perhaps related, more likely not, that have taken place in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood recently. These include a murder, a fatal shooting in a bar — your bar, Mr. McCready — and two beatings. Now I have—”
“I still want to know what in God’s name is going on!” interrupted Halliwell. “My pier has got nothing to do with whatever the hell has been happening in that neighborhood. And I want to know what these two guys are doing here.” He pointed at Wolfe and me.
“If you let me finish, we can move on,” Cramer said. “This gentleman is Nero Wolfe, a private detective, who has offered to help with our investigation. And the man over there is Archie Goodwin, a detective who works with Mr. Wolfe.”
“A detective, hah!” Halliwell said. “He said he was a magazine writer when he interviewed me the other day. What kind of people are the police department using these days to help them? This Goodwin guy is either a phony writer or a phony private eye. Or maybe both.”
“We can discuss Mr. Goodwin later,” said a red-faced Cramer. “At this point, I am going to turn the proceedings over to Mr. Wolfe.”
Wolfe readjusted himself in the chair and looked in turn at the four faces on the opposite side of the table. “I was drawn into the consecution of events listed by Mr. Cramer because of the vicious attack upon an employee of mine, Theodore Horstmann. And to take issue with the inspector, I believe all of the events he referred to are indeed related.
“Let us begin with Mr. Horstmann’s beating: He had been one of a group of bridge players at your establishment, Mr. McCready. Others have told me he became suspicious of the behavior of some of the other patrons of the McCready establishment.”