Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 10

Nothing of further interest transpired that night, either at McCready’s or in the apartment building. The next morning, I got up at the usual time and after my ablutions, I walked a block north on Tenth Avenue to a coffee shop I had patronized in previous trips through the neighborhood. I sat at the crowded counter and had a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash browns, along with orange juice and coffee. It was so-so grub, but then, I have been spoiled by years of eating Fritz Brenner’s superb breakfasts. When this enforced absence from the brownstone ended, I made myself a promise to tell Fritz how much I appreciate him.

Returning to the Elmont, I failed to meet a single neighbor, not that I had learned anything from those I had previously run into. Glad for the chance to stretch my legs on a pleasant morning, I walked south to Thirty-Fifth Street and entered the brownstone almost a half-hour before Theodore’s sister was due.

“Would you like coffee, Archie?” Fritz asked as I settled in at my desk and paged through the stack of mail that he had put on my blotter.

“I would, yes. And Fritz, I might as tell you now instead of waiting until I move back here: You are a true gem.”

I thought he was going to tear up, but his Swiss reserve took hold, and he smiled, bowed slightly, and did a crisp about-face, heading back to the kitchen to get my coffee. While waiting for Wolfe’s descent from the plant rooms, I opened the morning mail and wrote checks for the gas, telephone, electric, grocery, and beer bills.

My watch read ten fifty-six when the doorbell rang. Through the one-way glass in the front door, I saw the impassive face of a woman I recognized from our one meeting several years ago — Theodore Horstmann’s sister.

“Good morning, Mrs. Mueller,” I said, holding open the door for her. She wore a lightweight black coat and a no-nonsense hat, also black, and clutched a purse tightly with both hands as if fearing someone was about to snatch it.

“You are... Mr. Goodwin, aren’t you?” she asked in a hesitant tone.

“I am. It has been a long time since we saw each other.” I helped her off with her coat, hung it on the hall tree, and steered her down the hall to the office. “Can I get you coffee?” I asked as I gestured her to the red leather chair.

“No, thank you, Mr. Goodwin. I already had—” She stopped talking as Wolfe entered the office and gave her a brief nod. “Mrs. Mueller, thank you so much for coming. Would you like something to drink, coffee perhaps?”

“I had breakfast and coffee at the hospital this morning,” she told him.

“Before we go any further, how is Theodore today?”

“No improvement.” Like her brother, Frieda Mueller used words sparingly, and her lack of facial expression was similar to his as well. She seemed to betray no emotion whatever.

“Had you talked to Theodore in the days before he was attacked?” Wolfe asked as he rang for beer.

“We usually spoke by telephone two or three times a week,” she replied. “Yes, I do believe that we talked the day before... before what happened to him.”

“Did he say anything that might suggest he had particular concerns?”

She waited several seconds before responding. “Theodore said where he was living was comfortable, but he had told me that before. He had also said in an earlier call that the people in his new building were not friendly. They barely answered when he said anything to them in the hallways.”

“Does your brother speak German?”

“We both do,” Frieda said. “Our parents were born over there and spoke German at home when we were growing up in New Jersey.”

“Did Theodore describe any other impressions he had of his neighbors at the Elmont, or any traits they had?” Wolfe asked.

“He had said once that he thought many of them seemed to be foreign, and I remember telling him that did not sound surprising to me. There are also a large number of foreign-born people in my building over in Hoboken. Many displaced persons — they are often called ‘DPs’ but I don’t like that word — have come here from Europe since the end of the war.”

“Three years ago,” Wolfe said, “President Truman signed an act that allowed thousands of persons who had lost their homes during the war to immigrate to the United States, and great numbers of them have come to New York, in many cases because they have relatives here. Did your brother think that was the case with those around him?”

“He didn’t say, but he felt uneasy, as though he were an outsider there.”

“Perhaps because he was still new to the building,” Wolfe posed.

“I don’t think so,” Frieda Mueller said. “Others had arrived there since Theodore had moved in, and he said they seemed to be accepted.”

“Did he say what languages were spoken in the Elmont?” I asked.

She shook her head. “That was something that puzzled him. He told me it was as though no one in the building wanted to speak. At least three times when he tried to greet a neighbor, he got nothing more than a shake of the head. No words.”

“It is possible some of these newcomers are embarrassed about their lack of English,” I said.

Frieda pursed her lips but said nothing, which may have been her way of disagreeing with me. She was every bit as tight-lipped as her brother. Words apparently were not thrown around casually in the Horstmann household when she and Theodore were young.

Wolfe, sensing the conversation had reached a stalemate, changed course. “I understand Theodore had taken up bridge,” he said. “Did he talk to you about that?”

She sniffed. “Yes, he mentioned it. It sounded like a waste of time to me, but I did not tell him what I thought. It’s his life.”

“I understand he played in a bar called McCready’s near where he lived. Did he say anything about the type of people in there?”

Another sniff. “He did not have to say anything, it was obvious. What kind of people could possibly be spending time in a saloon? I am just glad that our parents are not alive to see what has happened.”

“Do you believe what befell Theodore had anything to do with the people in McCready’s?”

“I do not know what to believe. He did mention that he thought there was some sort of funny business going on in that... that place, but he did not get specific. Mr. Wolfe, I am not a rich woman — far from it. And I know from what Theodore has told me that you charge very high fees to your clients. I do have some money put away, though, and I would like to hire you to find out who did this terrible thing to my brother.”

“If you please, madam,” Wolfe said, holding up a palm. “What has happened to Theodore is a personal affront to me. I plan to investigate what has occurred, and I expect no remuneration whatever.”

“Now it is my turn to say please,” Frieda replied, leaning forward in her chair. “I want to have an involvement in what you are doing. I must insist that you accept some payment from me.”

Wolfe dipped his chin. “Very well. Give me a check for one-hundred dollars, which will make you a full partner in this effort.”

She frowned. “That seems like very little.”

“Are you familiar with the widow’s mite?”

Frieda looked as if she had been slapped. “Of course, I am! It appears in both Mark and in Luke. I happen to know my Bible, and probably better than you do.”

“Perhaps, madam. Then you are of course aware that true value is not measured by the size of the offering, but rather by the commitment and the earnestness behind that gift.”

That seemed to stymie the woman, who unclasped the purse in her lap and drew out a checkbook. “Whom should I make this to?”

“To Nero Wolfe. On the memo line, the words ‘for professional services,’ will suffice.”

She wrote out the check and handed it to Wolfe, who said, “Your contribution amounts to one hundred percent of the cash investment in this case. Mr. Goodwin and I, with the aid of others in our employ, will endeavor to see that your money is well spent. Do you have anything else to tell us about your thoughts regarding what happened to your brother?”

“I do not. As you know, Theodore has never been a rash or an impulsive man, far from it. And he certainly is not an aggressive person by nature. I cannot imagine who would wish to harm my brother.”

“I am in agreement with your assessment,” Wolfe said, standing. “Mr. Goodwin will keep you apprised of any developments.”

Frieda Mueller realized she had been dismissed and rose as Wolfe walked out of the office. I led her down the hall and helped her on with her coat. “Can I get you a taxi?” I asked.

“No, thank you, Mr. Goodwin. I will go to the end of the block, and I should have no trouble flagging one down. I am going back to the hospital.”

“You have been doing a lot of traveling between Hoboken and Manhattan,” I observed.

“One does what is needed,” was her curt reply as she walked down the front steps and headed for Tenth Avenue. When I returned to the office, Wolfe was back at his desk. “The coast is clear,” I told him. “Our grim-faced lady has departed.”

“She displays many of the characteristics her brother possesses, including brevity, reticence, and the total lack of a sense of humor.”

“On top of that, she seems almost as concerned about Theodore’s moral condition as his medical one.”

“Theodore has rarely discussed any details of his personal life,” Wolfe said, “and I have never encouraged his doing so. But on one occasion several years ago, he mentioned his family was religiously conservative, to the point that they eschewed alcohol, card games, dancing, attending the cinema, and many other so-called worldly activities. His father had hoped to become a fundamentalist minister, but financial considerations prevented him from attending a seminary, so he — Theodore’s father, that is — became a factory worker. But he remained active in a church, serving in various roles and imposing his rigid moral code upon his family.”

“That way of life seems to have stuck with Theodore’s sister,” I said.

“Indeed, and she clearly disapproves of at least one of her brother’s activities.”

“Playing bridge.”

“Yes. Enough of the lady. You have yet to report on your recent activities on Tenth Avenue.”

“My experience so far corroborates what Theodore told his sister about the other roomers at the Elmont, and also what Orrie found in his visit there,” I replied. “The residents are private to the point of obsession. They rarely if ever speak to an outsider, i.e., me.” I related my experience with the man who feigned to me that he was unable to speak, yet he was seen talking minutes later to the owner of McCready’s in what seemed to be a confidential conversation. I also told Wolfe about the mutterer, who finally spit out a few words so that he could get by me. “I realize New Yorkers can be a damned private lot, but the behavior I’ve seen on more than one occasion borders on the bizarre. Hell, it is bizarre,” I said.

I started to expand on my comment when the phone rang. It was Saul Panzer; I mouthed his name to Wolfe, who picked up his instrument. “The only time last night that I took a peek at you in the back room,” I told Saul, “you looked like you were doing well.”

He chuckled. “I got some good cards and even made a slam. I noticed you, too, holding down one end of the bar. Find out anything interesting?”

“Not a lot. How about you?”

“My bridge partner, who happened to be Harvey last night, made a comment I found interesting. He said that ‘there seems to be a shift in the patronage of this place. Oh, the pool players still seem to be longshoremen, all right, but over in the bar, there are men who appear foreign, which doesn’t bother me at all. That’s just an observation, for what it’s worth.’

“‘Come to think of it, I’ve noticed that, too,’ Sid chimed in. ‘And it seems like several of them spend time talking to the owner, McCready, or Mac, as everybody calls him.’”

“Maybe these newcomers to the bar are Irish,” I suggested.

“I didn’t get that impression from the card players,” Saul said. “Their impression was that these new customers were not all that familiar with English.”

“Did they suggest possible nationalities?” Wolfe posed.

“I asked them that, sir, and they weren’t sure, but they guessed maybe German or Polish. The truth is, none of them, the card players, that is, ever got close enough to these men to hear their conversations, either with one another or with the bar owner.”

“It would seem there is a connection between the bar and the residential building across the street,” Wolfe said. “Do you concur?”

“If the men McCready always seems to be huddling with happen to live in the Elmont, yeah, there does seem to be a connection, all right. Maybe he sponsors them when they come over from Europe, if indeed they are recent immigrants.”

“That would be most benevolent of Mr. McCready,” Wolfe pronounced. “Do you think such to be the case?”

“I withhold my vote until more is known about the man who runs the bar,” Saul said.

“I would expect such a stance from you,” Wolfe said. “It is prudent to be suspicious of the unknown. Do you have any other thoughts, Archie?”

“I’m also curious about the bar’s owner, Liam McCready, by name. Saul, as I have already told Mr. Wolfe, all that Lon Cohen was able to learn about him is that he came over here in 1939, after the war had started in Europe but before we entered the fray. He inherited the bar from an uncle who had died. He apparently had no trouble becoming a U.S. citizen.”

“Unless you have any objections, I am going to nose around to see what I can learn about Mr. McCready,” Saul said.

“Archie and I have no objections whatever,” Wolfe said.

That’s just like him, casting not only his vote, but mine as well.