Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 19

Saul Panzer, who knew the rigid schedule on which the brownstone operates, waited until just before nine o’clock to telephone, which meant that Wolfe and I were in the office with our post-prandial coffee.

“The Gazette ad drew a half-dozen responses,” he told me. “Should I bring them over?” I relayed the question to Wolfe, who nodded. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang, and I admitted Saul, clad as usual in a well-worn gray suit and a more-or-less matching flat cap.

He looked me over and shook his head. “It looks like you’ve got quite a story to tell,” he said. “Do I want to hear it?”

“You will eventually, but not right now,” I told him as we went into the office and Saul planted himself in the red leather chair.

Wolfe, who is always glad to see Saul, asked, “Can Archie get you something to drink?”

“A scotch on the rocks would suit me fine,” our colleague said, grinning at me. I fulfilled my role as bartender and Saul took a sip and nodded his approval. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper.

“Not exactly what I would call a bumper crop,” he said to Wolfe. “Want to read them?”

“Why don’t you do the reading?” was the response. “Archie and I are good listeners.”

Saul unfolded one of the sheets. “This guy writes, ‘I was walking with my girlfriend down along the riverfront when we heard what sounded like a gunshot coming from a block or so to the east on Fifth-Sixth Street. And then we saw a man running east. We did not want to get close to him, so we hurried away to the south.’

“That’s all there is,” Saul said.

“Fifty-Sixth Street was of course mentioned in the ad,” I said.

“There was nothing substantive in that report,” Wolfe stated. “What is next?”

“Three of the others are similar,” Saul went on, “although I can read them if you like.”

Wolfe shook his head, and Saul continued. “The gist of each is that the writer — only men responded to the ad — said he heard what he thought was a gunshot, and none of them added any helpful details.

“Here’s one, though, that might be of interest:

“‘I had just come out of a bar on Fifty-Sixth, half a block west of Eleventh Avenue, but I was sober, having had only one drink. I started to walk toward Eleventh when two men on the other side of the street seemed to be staggering and groaning. At first, I figured they both were drunk, but then I realized one of them apparently had been hurt and was limping. He yelled something that sounded like “aaugh! mein bein, mein bein,” while the other man was propping him up and trying to help him walk.

“‘I crossed over and asked if I could help them, but they wouldn’t even speak to me. They just growled and kept on walking, or I should say staggering, while the one who was hurt kept groaning and dragging one leg as he was pulled along. A couple of other pedestrians heard them and stared, but that was all. The two got to Tenth and turned north. I followed them at a distance, and they kept going north, eventually going into an apartment building. Maybe I should have done something, but I couldn’t figure out what to do, so I went home to my flat, and later I saw the item in the Gazette. I am not sure what I witnessed is part of the same event that was referred to.’”

“I suppose that the writer signed his name?” I asked.

“He did, along with an address and phone number,” Saul said, holding up the sheet. “He is one Jason Knowles,” Saul said, holding up the sheet that also gave his phone number and an address on Eighth Avenue.

“Call Mr. Knowles,” Wolfe ordered me. “I would like to meet the gentleman, tomorrow at eleven a.m., if possible.”

Being ever helpful, I dialed the number, and a deep male voice answered, “Knowles.”

“You are the one who responded to an advertisement in the Gazette?”

“Yes, that’s me,” he answered in an eager voice.

“The ad was placed by a private investigator, Nero Wolfe, and he—”

“Oh yes, I have certainly read about him, in several articles over the years,” Knowles said, sounding impressed.

“He would like to see you and hear your story. Would tomorrow morning at eleven be convenient?”

Knowles paused before responding. “Uh, well... I have a sales job on the floor at Macy’s Herald Square in the men’s department, but... yes, I could take an early lunch. They give me some flexibility. Where should we meet?”

I explained that Nero Wolfe rarely leaves home and gave the address of the brownstone, which I pointed out was not far from Herald Square.

“All right, yes, I can be there,” Knowles said. “Can I assume there is a reward, as was mentioned in the ad?”

“That will be determined by Nero Wolfe,” I said.

“And you are...?”

“Archie Goodwin, an associate of Mr. Wolfe’s.”

“Oh yes, of course. I believe I have seen your name in the newspapers, too.”

I let that comment pass, maybe out of modesty, although I’ve never thought of myself as being particularly modest. I told Knowles that we would expect him tomorrow.

The next morning the bell rang at 11 a.m. sharp, a point in our alleged witness’s favor. I swung open the front door to reveal a well dressed man of about forty whose short stature belied his deep voice. When I say well-dressed, I mean he looks like what you would expect from someone who sold menswear at Macy’s: He sported a three-piece, charcoal pin-striped suit along with a silk red-and-gray striped tie and red handkerchief sprouting from his breast pocket.

“Please come in, Mr. Knowles,” I said. “I’m Archie Goodwin.” If he was startled by my appearance, he didn’t show it, thanking me and stepping inside.

I walked our visitor down the hall to the office, directing him to the red leather chair. “Mr. Wolfe should be in shortly,” I told him.

“Shortly” turned out to be less than a half-minute. Wolfe strode in, placed a raceme of orchids in the vase on his desk, sat, and considered our guest. “Mr. Knowles, would you like something to drink? I am having beer.”

“Nothing for me, thanks, I have to be at work later,” Knowles said. As had been the case when he saw me, the man did not seem in the least surprised by Wolfe’s appearance.

“We found your report to be interesting,” Wolfe said as Fritz brought in two bottles of chilled beer and a stein. “Are you often out on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen in the evening?”

“I live alone, I’m a bachelor, since my divorce, Mr. Wolfe. And I have gotten into the habit of going out after dinner for a drink in any one of a number of bars within walking distance of my co-op on Eighth Avenue. I’m by no means a heavy drinker — I usually find that one rye is enough, or on occasions, two. They help me get to sleep. And I also like the exercise.”

“When you encountered those two men, do I assume you were taking a post-drink walk before returning home?”

“That is correct,” Knowles said. “I love the street life in the city, and I usually take a different route each night.”

“You do not fear danger on the streets after dark?”

“By no means. I have been walking around that area at night for several years, and nothing out-of-the-ordinary has ever happened.”

“Back to those two men you encountered,” Wolfe said after taking a drink of beer. “Had you seen them before?”

“Never,” Knowles said.

“How would you describe them?”

“I really didn’t get a good look at either one. I guess they were of about medium build. As far as their ages, I couldn’t hazard a guess in the dark.”

“Do you speak German?”

“I don’t,” Knowles replied, wearing a puzzled expression. “I do know enough French to get by in Paris, which I like to visit, but that is my only foreign language.”

“I believe that in your response to my advertisement, you wrote that one of the men used the words mein bein.”

“As least that’s what they sounded like to me,” Knowles said. “I may not have been pronouncing the words right.”

“Your pronunciation was correct. Those words, spoken in German, mean ‘my leg.’”

“I am not surprised to hear that, because the one who cried out was limping, as though something had happened to his leg. Was that because of the gunshot referred to in your ad?”

“That is very possible,” Wolfe said. “Before you saw those men, did you hear a gunshot?”

“Honesty compels me to say no,” Knowles said, “even though I realize that may jeopardize my chance of getting any reward.”

“You mentioned that on occasion you have stopped in several bars in the Hell’s Kitchen area. Is one of those establishments McCready’s on Tenth Avenue?”

“It is. I was there once, oh, probably close to a year ago now.”

“What was your impression of the establishment?”

“Frankly, I did not like it,” Knowles said. “Overall, the crowd in there seemed to be pretty rough and loud. Not nearly as friendly as other places I’ve frequented. From some of the conversation I overheard, I gathered that a lot of the patrons are longshoremen. I suppose that’s not surprising, given the tavern’s proximity to all those piers that line the Hudson.”

“Did anything else strike you about McCready’s?” Wolfe asked.

“I... don’t think so. Oh, come to think of it, I do remember hearing some foreign language spoken in there.”

“There are many displaced persons in New York now,” Wolfe said. “Have you noticed any of them in your neighborhood?”

Knowles wrinkled a brow. “Well, yes, I suppose I actually might have, perhaps without realizing it. On the streets and in some of the shops and restaurants, I’ve heard other languages being spoken with increased frequency, languages I of course don’t know and would not try to guess at, except maybe German. And judging by the appearance of the speakers, they are dressed in a way that indicates their lives probably have not have been easy ones. We’ve all read about the terrible problems of the displaced persons and how they have struggled to get to the United States.”

“Two more questions, Mr. Knowles: You mentioned following those two men as they went north on Tenth Avenue and entered an apartment building. Where was that building and what did it look like?”

“It was... let’s see... just north of Fifty-Eighth Street, and it wasn’t a very tall building, maybe five or six stories. Not what I would call luxurious by any means. And now that I think of it, the place was just across the street from that bar you had asked me about, McCready’s.”

“Indeed. Archie, please give Mr. Knowles one hundred dollars from petty cash and make a note of it. Thank you for coming, sir,” Wolfe said, rising and walking out, almost surely headed for the kitchen.

His host’s abrupt departure seemed surprising to Jason Knowles, but any unease he might have felt was more than offset by the money I handed to him.

“I was afraid that what I told Mr. Wolfe might not have seemed useful to him,” he said.

“I do not always understand my boss’s thinking, but then, he is a genius and I most definitely am not. If nothing else, you may have confirmed some of his suspicions or surmises.”

“Well, what happened that night was a most unsettling experience for me,” Knowles said. “I wish I could somehow have been of help.”

“You may have been of more help than you think,” I told him as I saw him to the front door of the brownstone.