Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 26

Del phoned the next morning as I sat in the office with coffee after devouring Fritz’s breakfast in the kitchen. “Just checking in, nothing substantial to report,” he said. “I am in the process of renewing some old acquaintances among the longshoremen and their bosses at various North River piers.”

“Seen any people you would call suspicious?”

“Not so far, although I haven’t ventured over to the National Export dock yet.”

“Well, be careful. As the lump on my head and the stitches can attest to, someone, or some group, is playing for keeps.”

“Aye, aye, sir. And in answer to a question you probably were about to ask, I am armed.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to your next call.”

Just after I hung up, the phone jangled again. It was Lon Cohen.

“I haven’t heard from you lately,” he said. “Got anything for me?”

“Sorry, nothing that you would deem printable. Have you heard anything from Cramer regarding either the zipped-lip suspect or the tavern owner?”

“Not a word. The inspector has been even more uncooperative than usual. As you of all people can appreciate, our Mr. Cramer has never been easy to deal with, but this time he has set a new record for his lack of candor with those of us whose job it is to report the news to our hundreds of thousands of readers.”

“You got any idea why?”

“This is only my speculation based on what I’ve heard, so don’t attach too much importance to it. But with all that has been going on in Hell’s Kitchen, I believe Cramer is dealing with something he’s never handled before.”

“The inspector, stymied?”

“Maybe. One of my reporters ran into him on the sidewalk outside Centre Street a couple of days ago and said he seemed not just out-of-sorts, which is common, but also more than a little depressed.”

“It’s possible that his job is in jeopardy. He must be constantly under pressure from his higher-ups,” I said.

“I don’t think that’s it, Archie. From what I hear from my pipelines into the department, which are pretty solid, the inspector is in no danger whatever of losing his job.”

“Good to hear. You know damned well that Wolfe and I have had our share of disagreements with him, to say the least, but we would rather deal with him than any of the other alternatives we can think of.”

“Would one of those ‘alternatives’ happen to be one Lieutenant George Rowcliff?”

“Bingo!”

“That wasn’t just a lucky guess, of course,” Lon said. “You have made it clear over the years just how you and Wolfe feel about old ‘pop-eyes.’ And as I’ve told you, everybody in the press in this town has the same opinion you both have about him.

“And it’s obvious Cramer would rather that Rowcliff found employment in another department, as well, even though he has been cited for bravery on more than one occasion. Enough about him. Tell me what Wolfe thinks concerning everything that’s been transpiring on the docks and along Tenth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“It might surprise you to learn that the man who signs my checks keeps most of his opinions to himself. I am mainly a water boy and spear carrier.”

“So you say. Just don’t forget who your friends are.”

“How could I? You won’t let me.” So endeth our conversation.

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven, I gave him Bascom’s report and also reported on Lon Cohen’s observations about Inspector Cramer.

“Mr. Cramer has good reason to be concerned,” he said.

“Care to elucidate upon that?” I posed. He always makes a face when I use words that are part of his vocabulary, even when I use them correctly.

“I do not,” he replied.

“Look, the noble medico down the block has pronounced me fit for action, and I could use some action. I would like to—” I was interrupted by the doorbell. “Who do you suppose has come to see us?” I said, returning to the office after a glance through the one-way glass on the front door.

“Admit him,” Wolfe muttered with a sigh.

“Nice weather we’re having,” I said as I swung the door open to let in Cramer. He normally replies to my greeting with a scowl and a grunt. This time, I got only silence as he lumbered by me and headed for the office at a slower-than-usual pace.

Wolfe considered the inspector, who had dropped into the red leather chair, and without pulling a cigar from the breast pocket of his suit coat, which was unusual.

“Will you have something to drink, sir? I am about to signal Fritz to bring me beer.”

“Have him bring in one more,” Cramer said. “I need it.”

“Indeed? Are your office walls closing in on you?”

“It sure as hell feels like it.”

“Have you made any progress either with Mr. Hartz or the shooting in the McCready establishment?” Wolfe asked.

“Hartz still has an advanced case of lockjaw,” Cramer said. “We can’t get a damn word out of him.”

“Has he been charged?”

“Yes, assault with intent to kill for his attack on Goodwin. He’s being assigned a public defender, although I don’t know what that poor mouthpiece can do if Hartz refuses to talk.”

“Have you discovered the identity of Mr. Hartz’s accomplice in the assault on Archie?”

Cramer shook his head in disgust. “We have not, since, as I said, Hartz has totally clammed up. And as for what happened in the bar, Liam McCready continues to insist that he shot that DP, Krueger, in self-defense. He says the guy had become something of a regular in the bar and was often there at closing time, which meant — according to the owner — that Krueger knew McCready kept the day’s take in the office until the next morning, when he took it to the bank.”

“I am under the impression most major financial institutions have an overnight depository slot on the exterior of their building,” Wolfe said.

“They do, but for some reason, McCready says he prefers to deal with bank employees in person. Dates back to his years in Ireland, he says, where almost all business was transacted face-to-face.

“Anyway, he claims that somehow Krueger was able to get into the joint after closing time — or maybe hid someplace inside, maybe the men’s john, before McCready shuttered the place. Whatever the case, the barkeep said he heard noises while in his office, took a revolver from his desk, and went out into the darkened bar area. He said a man — whom he didn’t yet realize was Krueger — was silhouetted against a background of light coming in from the street.

“McCready told us the intruder pointed a gun at him and said, ‘Don’t move or I’ll shoot,’ and he says that in self-defense he shot first, killing Krueger with a bullet to the heart.”

“Are you satisfied with the bar owner’s story?” Wolfe asked.

Cramer scowled. “Hard to dispute his account. When a squad car got there, they found McCready sitting on a bar stool, with Krueger sprawled on the barroom floor with a .32 caliber S and W revolver near his body. Medics came in a couple of minutes later, and they pronounced Krueger dead. Prints were taken off the pistol, and they matched those of the dead man.”

“Had there been break-ins at the bar before?”

“McCready tells us that his place is pretty peaceful, and that the neighborhood overall is quiet. I would agree, at least based on the lack of police action along that stretch of Tenth Avenue. Gunplay in the area is very rare — or at least it was until recently.”

“What have you been able to learn about Mr. Krueger, other than that he is forty-two years old and comes from Munich?”

“Very little,” Cramer said. “My men searched his apartment at the Elmont and found almost nothing, no identification other than his name and the address of the Elmont, no photographs or other personal papers. It’s almost as if he never existed.”

“How was he able to get an apartment?”

“Rowcliff asked the building superintendent, Erwin Bauer, that very question and was told that ‘He seemed like a very polite young man, and he had money to pay the first two months’ rent.’”

“Do they not ask to see identification in that building?” Wolfe asked.

“Seems to me they should, but in the years since the war, a lot of places in town, particularly the, shall we say, less-desirable buildings, are just happy to have their apartments filled.”

For another twenty minutes, Wolfe and Cramer talked, and it was one of the stranger conversations I could recall between the two. They shared their recollections of how the city had changed since the war’s end, not necessarily for the better, and how they each felt that a malaise (Wolfe’s word) had set in. Neither of them seemed the least bit optimistic, and as they went on, I began to feel they were talking in some sort of code that I was unable to break.

Finally, Cramer rose slowly and moved toward the office door. If he was not a beaten man, he certainly was one who was on the ropes. I walked him to the front door and tried to make small talk but was met with the same lack of success as when he had entered the brownstone.

“You two certainly managed to take the sun out of what is a very bright day,” I said when I was back in the office. “If Cramer had been any lower, his chin would have bounced off the steps on his way out.”

I got no response from Wolfe, and I was not about to press him regarding his mood or that of the sullen inspector. My job description includes many duties, but in-house morale officer is not among them. Wolfe retreated behind his latest book, and I typed up dictation from yesterday, banging as hard as I could on the keys of the solid, old Underwood.