Shield for Murder

14

August Sternmueller was in an unusually reflective mood as he prepared his simple but hearty breakfast. Normally August was a cheerful person, not given to moods, and for that reason his present concern was additionally disturbing.

The thing that was bothering August was this: Three days before he had seen a murder committed, and he didn’t know quite what to do about it. Oh, he knew he should go directly to the police, but the fear of getting involved in the matter was strong enough to suspend him in a state of guilty inaction.

August was sixty-three, a native-born German, who, after thirty years in the U.S. Postal Department, had been retired on a pension that was more than ample for his needs. He lived in a two-room flat whose front windows overlooked the intersection of Crab Street and Ellens Lane. Three nights ago August had been sitting at those windows, smoking a goodnight pipe and idly watching the dark and shining street. He had been thinking of an interesting addition to his timetable collection that had arrived that morning from Johannesburg, Africa. It was from the chap he’d sent the early Reading schedule to; and the prize that had come by return mail practically was a perfectly preserved timetable of a spur line that Kimberly interests had operated fifty years ago.

August’s entire day had been brightened by the gift, which he had immediately and with maternal care added to his collection of more than four thousand railway schedules he had gathered from all over the world.

But while he had been sitting there at the windows, smoking his pipe and thinking of that prize from Africa, he had noticed two men walking along the darkened street.

They had stopped at Ellens Lane and, after a bit of conversation, one of the men had walked into the Lane, slowly and to judge from his backward glances, reluctantly. The other man, the larger of the two, had drawn a gun from beneath his armpit, and when the walking man stopped, he had fired two shots into his body.

August had leaped to his feet in the darkened room, an involuntary “No!” bursting from his lips. People had rushed into the street, and a bit later police cars arrived with their sirens screaming.

August had watched breathlessly, waiting for the police to arrest the man who had done the shooting. But nothing of the sort happened. The dead man was taken away in a wagon, and the police went off, leaving only a few of the curious on the scene.

The next morning he had scanned the papers eagerly to find out what happened. And that was when he learned that something was very decidedly wrong. The papers said a detective had shot an escaping prisoner. August knew that was a lie. The man hadn’t been trying to escape. It was ridiculous.

August was not a particularly clever man but he was able to perceive that he might get in trouble by volunteering information to the police. They were apparently satisfied to do nothing about this murder; and they might resent a lowly civilian interfering with their affairs. On the other hand, August thought, it was his plain duty to bring this matter to their attention. This was one of the obligations implicit in his allegiance to the United States: to do his duty, to report the truth to the authorities.

But it was a hard decision. August led a full and contented life. He ate well, he slept well, he enjoyed simple pleasures. His time-tables were his one mild passion. He might jeopardize all this by getting involved with Officialdom and Authority, which, to August’s Teutonic soul, were the twin horns of a dangerous, unpredictable monster.

August took his customary walk to Rittenhouse Square that morning. He fed peanuts to the squirrels and played grave games with the children who were brought there by nurses. The children all knew him and ran to him with accounts of what had happened since their last meeting, which had been on the previous morning. At noon he left the park and strolled to the Suburban station of the Pennsylvania Railroad where he glanced with a connoisseur’s eye at the timetables. There was a new Philadelphia-Paoli schedule, he saw, so he pocketed it with a small feeling of triumph. It wasn’t an important one, like the Kimberly, for instance, but it was a pleasant little catch.

August had a late lunch at the Farmer’s Market in Reading Terminal, surrounded by the aromas of sausages, cheeses and briny soaked fish. A bowl of snapper soup, a plate of vegetables with sour cream, a few jokes with the old counter man, and he was off for home, comfortably tired and ready for his afternoon nap.

When he stretched out on his couch with a cup of tea beside him and a well-drawing pipe in his hands, he reflected that he must not evade his responsibility. This country had given him everything, friends, security, comforts for his old age. And so, he decided, as he put his pipe aside, he would do his duty. He would go to the police this afternoon. Right after his nap when he would be rested and alert.

Mark Brewster called Linda that same afternoon at three o’clock. He asked if he could see her and she said, of course.

She was wearing a beige sports dress with brown-and-white spectator pumps when she met him at the door. Her hair was brushed and shining, and her make-up was fresh, but she seemed tired.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked him, as they sat down.

“No, nothing, thanks.”

They were silent a moment. Mark looked down at the latticed pattern of the sun on the carpet and felt the stillness of the room. Finally, he said: “I felt like hell after leaving you last night. That’s about all I came here to say. I want to understand how you feel about Nolan and I guess I do.”

“I didn’t feel very good either last night,” Linda said.

They were both speaking very carefully.

“Well,” Mark said, standing and glancing at his watch, “I’ve got to run along.”

“Please don’t go yet, Mark. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

“Why, of course.”

“Then don’t run off like this. I want you to stay, Mark.”

“Well, fine,” he said. He grinned at her and she smiled back at him; and the curious tension between them dissolved.

“He was here last night, you know,” she said.

“What shape was he in?”

“He was very calm for a change. He talked about himself, about the fights he’d been in, about the breaks he’d had, and so forth.” Linda nodded to an over-stuffed chair. “He sat there with his head back and just talked for two solid hours.”

“He nearly killed Laddy O’Neill earlier last night,” Mark said. “Did he mention that?”

Linda shook her head slowly. “No, he didn’t, Mark.” She rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. “When is it going to stop, Mark? How long can he go on?”

He shrugged. “Nolan’s the law. He committed murder and stole twenty-five thousand dollars. Nothing’s happened about that, you’ll notice.”

She leaned back on the couch and put the back of her hand against her forehead. “It’s all so ghastly.”

Mark went over and sat beside her. He took one of her hands and patted it gently. “You always get a stricken look when we talk about Nolan. So let’s skip him for a while. Okay?”

“All right. But we can’t blame my stricken look altogether on Barny. I’ve got a foul sore throat.”

“That’s a shame. Have you done all the usual things that don’t help?”

“Yes, so maybe it’s just nerves. I’m not sure I can sing tonight.”

“That bad, eh?”

She smiled at him. “Now you’re getting a stricken look. So let’s skip my sore throat, okay?”

“Okay.”

She looked down at their interlocked hands for a moment, and then looked at him smiling. “Okay, what shall we talk about now?”

Nolan walked into the Division at four o’clock. Sergeant Odell nodded to him and said hello. He sat down at an empty desk and lit a cigar, enjoying a rare sense of well-being. Despite his gluttonous drinking the day before, his head was clear and his lunch was settling comfortably on his stomach.

The time he had spent with Linda last night was a memory that he had been examining ever since with a feeling of glowing pleasure. It was the first time he’d ever felt close to her, really close. They had sat in her apartment, the first time he’d ever been there, and he’d talked to her about the important things in his life. They were big moments to him, and it did him good to tell Linda about them. That was how people got close together, he knew now.

Gianfaldo said: “Sarge, I hear Laddy O’Neill and Hymie Solstein got a working over last night.”

Odell grunted. “Where’d you hear that?”

“A porter at Espizito’s lives in my building. He told me about it. O’Neill is over at St. Agnes’s in real bad shape. Hymie just got a busted head.”

“That right? Where’d it happen?”

“At Mama Ragoni’s. Some guy walked in and gave it to ’em good.”

“One guy?”

“Yeah, that’s the story.”

“Well, he must have been a damn good man,” Odell said, going back to his paper.

Nolan smiled behind his paper. That might slow Espizito down a bit. He’d know now that Barny Nolan wasn’t playing for fish cakes.

Smitty and Lindfors sauntered in, five minutes late. Odell glanced pointedly at the clock but said nothing.

“Let’s get the cards out,” Smitty said, skimming his hat onto a desk. He ignored Nolan. “I got a date tonight and I hate to spend my own money on women.”

He walked into the adjoining room with Lindfors and Gianfaldo at his heels. Odell heaved himself to his feet and said to Nolan, “Watch this phone, will you? I want to make sure Smitty doesn’t have too much cash to waste on that dame.”

“Sure,” Nolan said.

Sergeant Odell hesitated a second. “You don’t play cards anyway, do you, Nolan?”

Nolan glanced up and said: “No, I guess I don’t.”

Odell walked in and joined the game and Nolan heard his booming laugh as he won the deal. To hell with them, he thought, knocking a length of cigar ash onto the floor. Nothing could dampen his good spirits, least of all the coolness of a bunch of slobs whose opinion didn’t mean anything to him anyway. Everything in his life was beginning to make sense, he thought, drawing contentedly on his cigar.

The outer door opened a few moments later and an elderly man with white hair and plump rosy cheeks approached the counter. There was an air of diffidence and uncertainty in his manner as he removed his hat and smiled at Nolan.

Nolan hoisted himself from his chair and walked to the counter.

“What can I do for you?” The man wore a neat dark suit, a precisely tied tie, and seemed very nervous. Lost his dog, Nolan thought.

“You are a detective?”

“That’s right.” Nolan pulled a pad toward him and took a pencil from his pocket. “What’s your trouble?”

“I have information about a murder,” the man said.

Nolan looked at him sharply, but saw only a rather ludicrous determination in the little man’s round face.

“What’s your name?”

“August Sternmueller.”

“Where do you live, August?”

“I live at 216 Crab Street. That is just at the intersection of Crab Street and Ellens Lane.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nolan said. Something stirred in him warningly. He glanced at the little man, studying him with alert eyes. “Let’s hear about this murder, now.”

“Very well. Three nights ago, as you may perhaps remember, a man was killed in Ellens Lane.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Nolan said. “Go on.”

“I saw this murder from my window,” August said. “The papers said the man was a prisoner who was trying to escape. That was a lie. That man was shot and killed deliberately.” August nodded for emphasis.

“I see,” Nolan said. He was perspiring, the sweat trickling down his ribs. “How is it that you’re just coming around now with this story?”

August leaned closer to Nolan and locked his hands together nervously. “I didn’t wish to get mixed up in any trouble, sir. I was selfish, I admit it. I delayed doing my duty because I was afraid that my life would be upset. But I know I did wrong. Now I am ready to do my duty.”

Nolan scratched his head with the point of the pencil. “You’d go to court and swear to all this, I suppose.”

“Absolutely,” August said firmly. “That man was shot in the back, deliberately. He was standing still when he was shot. It was a terrible thing.”

“Sure,” Nolan said. “Did you see anything else?”

“Yes. The man with the gun ran to the side of the man who was shot and he bent over him and took something from his pocket. After that he ran across the street and out of my sight. He came back in a few minutes and waited for the police.”

Nolan heard a laugh from the adjoining room. Then Lindfors’ voice: “To hell with this game. I’m going to save my money.”

Nolan tapped the man’s arm. “Thanks for your trouble, August. We’ll send someone over to your house to get the whole story.”

“But I—”

“Never mind. We’ll come to see you.”

“You are sure you will come? Now that I have started this I must see it through. My conscience won’t let me sleep until this affair is settled.”

“We’ll settle it, all right,” Nolan said.

“Thank you so much.”

August Sternmueller raised his hat in a formal little gesture to Nolan, then clapped it on his head and marched through the door. Nolan stood at the counter staring at the name and address on the pad. August Sternmueller. 216 Crab Street.

“What’d little Fritzie want?” It was Lindfors’ voice.

Nolan turned, saw the detective standing by the windows. His hands were in his pockets, and a cigarette hung from his lips.

“Nothing,” he said. He crumpled the paper and put it casually in his pocket. “Somebody stole a blanket from his car.”

“Car locked?”

“No. Somebody just helped himself.”

“These characters. They never learn.”

Nolan sat down and picked up an evening paper. His heart was pumping harder than usual, and his cigar tasted bitter. What a break! What a lousy, dirty break! Anger brought a red flush to his face. Everything going fine, and then this kick in the face. He knew Sternmueller’s type. A methodical stubborn Kraut who’d stick to his story like a bulldog, and who’d keep pestering people until he found someone who would take him seriously. The talk would spread, the rumors would thicken, and pretty soon everyone would be watching Nolan out of the corners of their eyes, all because a damn Kraut wouldn’t mind his own business. Nolan marveled at the fantastic luck that had permitted him to intercept the man.

Thinking about that angle made him feel slightly better. Things were still breaking his way, apparently still making sense. He tossed his paper aside, thinking that at least he had the chance to take care of August Sternmueller before he talked to the wrong people.

The card game broke up half an hour later.

Darkness came and the business of the Division went on as usual. There was a shooting in South Philly and Smitty took it. Ramussen came in, nodded to Odell and went into his office. Three or four people came in to register various complaints or losses. Finally the phone rang and Sergeant Odell picked it up and began making notes on the pad at his elbow. Occasionally he said, “Yeah, yeah,” and then put the phone down.

“Take this one, Nolan,” he said. “Some guy at 43 °Crab Street had his room busted open and a few hundred bucks lifted. The name is Dawes. Fred Dawes.”

“Okay,” Nolan said. That address was not far from where August Sternmueller lived. There was a musing smile on his lips as he took the slip of paper from Odell and walked out of the Division.