Bloodied Ivy by Robert Goldsborough Page A

around.”
    “Me? Try to jerk someone around? That’s not my style—I’m a straight man, Sergeant. Have been since my Boy Scout days.”
    “You could have fooled me, Ace. All right, then, let’s have it straight, without baloney.” Amundsen’s blood pressure clearly was headed north.
    “I’m here on business for my employer, Nero Wolfe, of New York City, same address as mine. No baloney.”
    Amundsen raised a bushy eyebrow and looked at young Nevins. “The famous fat man?” He turned back to me. He didn’t look impressed. “So what’s this business ?” Wolfe would have said the word “Republican” in the same tone.
    I shook my head. “Sorry, you’ll have to ask our client, Mr. Walter Cortland.”
    “A smart guy, huh?” Amundsen sneered. I’d obviously touched a sore spot. “You know, you remind me of a grown-up version of some of those wise-ass fraternity guys over at the university. How did you get in the house?”
    “The door was unlocked,” I said, holding my smile.
    Amundsen used a word that clearly indicated he didn’t believe me. “I repeat, what’s your business here?” Young Nevins looked at him in awe.
    “Mr. Cortland will be back in his office at Prescott University or at his home sometime around one,” I told him.
    Amundsen looked disgusted. “Charlie, check him to see whether he’s taken anything from the house. I’m going to look around.”
    Nevins patted me down right there on the stoop, found I had no weapon, and told me to empty my pockets with an enthusiasm that indicated I was the first ultradangerous criminal he’d ever frisked. I took everything out—wallet, card case, car keys, handkerchief, a small penknife, some change, and, of course, the batch of skeleton keys. Nevins looked at the keys as I held them in the palm of one hand. “What are these?” he asked. “Or can I guess?”
    I held my noncommittal grin but said nothing. “Ed, better come here,” Nevins called into the house. “We got us a problem.”
    “I knew we had a problem when I laid eyes on this one,” Amundsen grumbled as he came back to the stoop. “Now what?”
    “These.” Triumphantly, Nevins held out the key ring.
    Amundsen again mouthed what apparently was his favorite word, then looked at me with an expression I took to be somewhere between frustration and downright dislike. “Now, look, Godwin, why not save everybody a lot of trouble and tell us what’s going on?”
    “Goodwin,” I corrected in an even tone. It was all right for me to alter my name, but I wasn’t tickled to have others do it. “Sergeant, I have taken nothing from the house, so there’s no burglary—and by the way, you’re free to check the car, too. And I’ve done no damage, as you’ve just seen, so there’s no vandalism.”
    Amundsen glowered at me, then raised his head, thrusting his chins out. “Illegal entry, not to mention suspicious behavior. This isn’t New York City, Goodwin, where people can just barge into other people’s houses. We’re taking you down to the station.”
    I shrugged, and after Amundsen slammed the front door shut, making sure it was locked, the three of us walked down the sidewalk. At the sergeant’s direction, I unlocked the car and opened the trunk, and he and Nevins checked it out, finding nothing more incriminating than a spare tire in the back and the owner’s manual in the glove box. They looked disappointed. “Drive, we’ll follow,” Amundsen commanded. “Go three blocks on Clinton, take a left on Hudson, and go two blocks. The station is on the right, in the middle of the block, facing the square. Pull into the parking lot behind it. And don’t try any cute New York tricks. We’re right behind you all the way. On second thought, Patrolman Nevins will ride with you.”
    “I feel like a desperado,” I said to Nevins as we pulled away from the curb. “I’m surprised the sergeant didn’t insist on putting the cuffs on me, although it would have made steering a