Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 24

The next morning, as I sat in the office with coffee after breakfast, the phone rang. It was Doc Vollmer.

“Just calling to tell you and Nero Wolfe once again that there has been no change in Theodore Horstmann’s condition.”

“Are you optimistic or pessimistic?”

“I’m leaning toward optimism. I believe there’s an excellent chance he will have a complete recovery. All of his vital signs remain positive.”

“Is his sister still visiting him regularly?’

“I can’t say how regularly, but almost every time I have stopped by to see him, she’s been there at his bedside, looking mournful. How are you feeling, Archie?”

“Antsy, in a word. I would like to know when I can resume what I like to think of as my normal routine. I feel like the walls here are closing in around me.”

“Normal for you, of course, is dashing around the city and finding trouble at every corner. You are lucky to have lived this long.”

“You make my life sound more exciting than it is.”

Vollmer snorted. “Why don’t you stop by later this morning, say at eleven thirty, and I’ll take a look at you. The concussion’s effects may have worn off by now.”

“It’s a deal; I’ll stop by.” As soon as I had hung up, the phone rang again. I answered in the usual way and heard the breathless tones of the Gazette’s Lon Cohen: “Well, there has been more trouble in Hell’s Kitchen, and I’m wondering how you fit in,” he said.

“It seems that you have the advantage of me.”

“It’s always nice to tell you something you don’t know, meaning you owe me one, and which I will of course collect on at some point. Here is what we’re getting off the police wire: Sometime in the early hours of this morning, Liam McCready, proprietor of the Tenth Avenue saloon bearing his name, shot and killed an intruder, who has been identified as Emil Krueger, an apparent immigrant from Germany who is here without a visa.”

“Interesting. What are the cops saying?”

“Your old pal Cramer has not chosen to return our calls so far. I thought perchance you had heard from him.”

“We usually hear from the inspector only when he is mad at us or thinks we have information he needs, neither of which apparently is the case here.

“For what it’s worth, and probably not a lot, I chatted with McCready briefly on one of my visits to his saloon when I was trying without success to learn why Theodore Horstmann got himself beaten up and nearly killed. As I observed at the time, he fits the classic Irish mode of one filled with camaraderie and back-slapping good nature, which likely is superficial. I’m sure that you have run into the type.”

“Run into the type? Hey, we’ve got several of them right here on our staff,” Lon said. “They make damned good reporters because among other things they can charm the coins out of a Scotsman’s kilt.”

“Come to think of it, I have run into a few of your reporters who’ve got Irish roots. One of them, named Corrigan, tried to get me to sit in on a poker session with him and some of his fellow reporters from your Gazette. I took a pass.”

“Smart move on your part. I will not say that Corrigan’s game is in any way rigged, but I happen to know a few ‘guests’ invited to sit in who left the table with lighter wallets and vows to never return.”

“Not at all like our friendly game.”

“But part of the reason it’s friendly is that we don’t play for the kind of stakes Corrigan and his lads do,” Lon put in. “Can I assume you will let me know if you happen to learn anything about that saloon shooting?”

“You know me, always ready to help.”

“As you are invariably quick to say. Sometimes I think that you forget your friends, however. By the way, one of my reporters hears from a friend on the force that you were in some sort of fight in — where else — Hell’s Kitchen. Care to tell me about it?”

“Not at present.”

“Some friend you are. When there’s news, you seem to forget me.”

“Forget you — never. We will be in touch,” I promised without specifying a time. When Wolfe came down at eleven, I gave him the status report on Theodore and told him about what had happened overnight at McCready’s bar.

“You know nothing more than what Mr. Cohen told you?”

“No, sir, and he would like more details himself. But so far, Inspector Cramer has not responded to his calls. Want me to try Cramer?”

Wolfe’s curt nod signaled me to dial a number I know well as he picked up his receiver. “Yeah?” Cramer rumbled.

“Sir, I understand there has been a fatal shooting at the McCready establishment on Tenth Avenue,” Wolfe said.

“I wondered when I’d be hearing from you,” the inspector said in a tired voice. “I suppose your pal from the Gazette filled you in.”

“All we have is the bare bones, which also is all Mr. Cohen appears to possess as well.”

“He’s been bugging me, and I haven’t had time to get back to him. I’ve been on the horn constantly for the last hour. You caught me between calls.”

“Such is my good fortune. What can you tell Mr. Goodwin and me about what transpired in the bar?”

I could hear Cramer drawing in air and clearing his throat. “We got a report from a patrol car at... two forty-five this morning that a passerby walking a dog on Tenth Avenue heard a gunshot coming from inside the saloon. When our men arrived, Liam McCready was waiting for them. He said he had closed the place and turned out the lights at the usual time — they’ve got a two a.m. license — and he was as usual doing paperwork and counting the day’s take in his small office in the back.

“He said he heard noises out in the bar area and went to investigate, taking a revolver that he keeps in his desk. He said the intruder, identified as Emil Krueger, was silhouetted against the light coming through the front window and raised his own gun as if to fire. McCready says that he shot in self-defense.”

“Is Mr. McCready being held?’

“We’ve got him in for questioning right now, although no charges have been filed.”

“What has been learned about the dead man?” Wolfe asked.

“Named Emil Krueger, last address Munich, Germany, and age forty-two, according to what few papers he was carrying. He apparently was a DP, and the chances are strong that he got over here illegally, like so many others from Europe. He wasn’t carrying a visa or anything else to indicate he had passed through immigration.

“A key was found in his pocket,” Cramer continued, “and it was traced — no surprise — to that Elmont building. Bauer, the super, confirmed that Krueger had been living there for about six months and was quiet, kept to himself, was well behaved, and apparently unemployed.

“Two of our men searched Krueger’s quarters at the Elmont, but found nothing else of interest.”

“What does the bar owner have to say for himself?”

“Rowcliff and Stebbins are questioning him right now. He doesn’t have a record, and his saloon hasn’t been a problem spot for the police. Do you have any thoughts?”

“None that would be of help here,” Wolfe said. “What about the other man you are holding, William Hartz?”

“He is still as mute as that speak-no-evil monkey. I’ve told Rowcliff to see if our tavern keeper might have some thoughts on Hartz and his enforced silence. It seems like everybody knows everybody else along that block of Tenth Avenue. Anyway, you now know pretty much everything I do. I’m going to sit and pull my hair out for a while.”

“The life of an inspector is not a happy one,” I said to Wolfe after the call had ended.

“He is not to be envied,” Wolfe agreed as I took my leave and walked down the block to Doc Vollmer’s office to have my head examined — literally.