“No. I’ve gone over what was found on his person, and it is not very revealing. His clothes were shabby, and his driver’s license listed that YMCA you mentioned as his address. According to the license, he was fifty-five, meaning he would have been too old to serve during the war. This doesn’t look like a robbery. In his pocket was a money clip with thirty-four dollars in it, and his wristwatch was a cheapie, the kind you can buy at Woolworth’s. He also carried two keys, one of them probably to his room at the Y, and there was a pack of Lucky Strikes with a couple of smokes left in it.
“Besides the driver’s license,” Cramer continued, “his wallet contained a picture of a somewhat young woman, perhaps a girlfriend or his sister, a couple of horse racing tickets — obviously for horses that had finished out of the money — and three addresses with phone numbers, very possibly of bookies, scribbled on a sheet of paper. We plan to call these numbers to see if whoever answers can tell us anything about Carr.”
“How did you find out about the shooting?” I asked.
“A woman living on the block said she faintly heard a shot and called the local precinct. Turns out the murder took place in a narrow passage between two buildings, which may have muffled the noise to some degree. Whoever plugged Carr was facing him, up close in that tight space, suggesting that he may have known his killer.”
“Is violence common in the neighborhood?” Wolfe asked.
“Not really. I can’t remember the last time there was a murder within blocks of what happened,” Cramer said as he rose to leave. “You will let me know if and when you locate the dead man’s sister, won’t you?”
The inspector got no reply from Wolfe as he walked out of the office and down the hall to the front door, which I locked behind him. “At least he didn’t throw his cigar at the wastebasket this time,” I said to Wolfe, who shook his head in disgust and returned to reading his book.
Chapter 19
The early edition of the Gazette, an evening paper, usually hits our front stoop a little after noon, and this day was no exception. I brought it in and found the item, headlined “Man Shot Dead in the Village,” on page four. The five-paragraph piece added nothing to what we already knew. I handed the paper to Wolfe, who read the item and made a face. “We will be hearing from our clients, of course,” he said.
“Assuming they get this edition, or if there has been something about the killing on the radio, which is a strong possibility, and—” I was interrupted by the phone.
“Goodwin, I just learned about Maureen’s brother,” Eric Mason said sharply. “What do you know about it?”
“Probably not much more than you do,” I replied, neglecting to tell him I had been on the scene.
“I want to know what you and Wolfe are going to do about this. And more important, have you gotten anywhere on finding Maureen? I have this feeling that nothing is going on.”
I cupped my mouthpiece and whispered to Wolfe, “Mason’s on the line, and he’s hot. Want to talk to him?”
“Hello, Mr. Mason, this is Nero Wolfe.”
“I just told Goodwin that it seems like you have gotten nowhere in finding Maureen. And now, with her brother dead, the situation is worse, it’s dire. Good God, she may not even be alive, for all we know.”
“We have no reason whatever to believe Miss Carr is deceased,” Wolfe said. “And we continue to explore new avenues in locating her.”
“You sound like you are stringing me along.”
“I am sorry you feel that way, sir. If you prefer, we can negate our relationship, which would free you to find other means of attempting to locate the woman.”
There was no response on the line for what seemed like a minute but was less than half that. The silence was broken by a loud exhale, and then, “No... sorry, my nerves were already frayed, and now, with what happened in the Village last night... no, go on with your work.” Mason hung up without waiting for a response.
“I had better call Lily and bring her up to date,” I told Wolfe, who nodded his approval.
“I hope I’m not disturbing something important,” I said after she picked up.
“Not at all, my dear. As you are all too aware, I tend to start my day slowly. I am just now finishing breakfast — a very hearty and delicious breakfast, although probably not of the same quality as you receive each morning from Fritz.”
“Still, I do not think you’re being deprived. I would like to start your day — even though it is after noon — on a positive note, but I have some disturbing news: Maureen’s brother, Everett, was shot dead last night in Greenwich Village.”
“Oh, Archie. What... happened. Who... who did it?”
“Sorry to say we don’t have any answers yet, nor do the police. There apparently were no eyewitnesses. And before you ask, we still don’t have any leads regarding Maureen.”
“I should call Sofia. I haven’t talked to her for a few days, and I’m sure that if she had heard anything, she would have let me know.”
“Good idea to check in with her,” I said. “Let us know what, if anything, you are able to learn.”
We heard from Saul Panzer two days later. He called and identified himself as I was in the office after breakfast. “This sounds like a local call, which means you are not sunning yourself on some Riviera beach that looks like a travel agency poster advertising France.”
“No such luck, although it was tempting to stay at least another day,” Saul said. “The hotel was top-notch, and the service was something I could easily get used to. I can stop by and report when Mr. Wolfe comes down from the roof, assuming there are no objections.”
None whatever, I told him. And sure enough, he already was settled in the red leather chair with coffee when Wolfe strode into the office at just after eleven, settled into his reinforced chair, and rang for beer. “I trust your flights were without incident,” he asked Saul.
“Everything went smoothly, thanks. And as I told Archie, the living is good down there in the South of France. But then, you don’t want to hear me spout a travelogue.”
“Perhaps not, but I am comforted to learn that this assignment did not prove to be a trial. Before we continue, are you aware that Everett Carr was shot dead in Greenwich Village three nights ago?”
Saul took in air and shook his head. “No, what are the details?”
“We will supply them later. What did you learn on your trip?”
“First, that Elaine Musgrove is a peach, and I don’t toss that word around recklessly. She welcomed me to her villa as if I were an old friend. When I told her the current situation, she was genuinely concerned about her classmate,” Saul said, consulting his notebook. “‘Just after I had left New York and got down here for a two-month stay,’ she said, ‘Maureen cabled and asked me if she could stay at my house in the Village for a while.’
“‘I was puzzled by her request, since her own place on Park Avenue is every bit as nice as what I’ve got downtown. But she seemed agitated over the telephone, which is unlike her, and it was quickly clear to me she did not want to talk about whatever her problem is. I knew she wouldn’t make a request like this without a very good reason, so I told the caretaker to make sure that she got a key.’
“We talked a lot more and even had dinner together one night,” Saul said, “and it was easy to see how close these two have been, going way back to their college years. Miss Musgrove said she had no idea what might have driven her longtime friend to go into hiding. At that point, I asked about the brother and she looked uncomfortable.
“‘Maureen almost never talks about him,’ she said. ‘It’s not as though she’s ashamed of him, exactly, more like she’s disappointed. Everett never married, not that it’s such a bad thing, but he doesn’t seem to need or want companionship of any kind. His behavior makes him the classic example of a loner.’