Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 33

That night after dinner and coffee in the office, I told Wolfe it was time to drive to the Lower East Side precinct. He sighed in recognition as I got up, walked through the kitchen to the back door of the brownstone, and left by the rear gate. A gangway between buildings led me to Thirty-Fourth Street and Curran Motors, where we had garaged our cars for years.

The night man, who I had not met before, gave me the keys to the Heron sedan and offered to pull the car out for me, but I told him I would handle it. Once, years ago, another Curran employee had dented a fender backing one of our cars out, and since then, no one but me has ever taken the car out of Curran’s.

By the time I pulled around in front of the brownstone, Wolfe was already standing at the top of the stairs, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and carrying his bentwood walking stick. He carefully descended a step at a time, wearing the grim expression he always does when he is about to subject himself to a ride in an automobile, even one driven by as cautious a driver as I am. Like a dutiful chauffeur, I held the back door open for him, and he climbed inside with a grunt.

“The trip will take us about fifteen minutes at this time of night,” I told him, “and I will make every effort to avoid potholes and pedestrians, although the latter, New Yorkers on foot, are a very unpredictable lot, dashing into traffic and risking life and limb. I promise I will do my very best to keep from hitting anyone.”

“Archie, shut up!”

“Yes, sir. I was just making conversation.” There was no more talk as I steered the Heron east and south, finally pulling up in front of the precinct station on Elizabeth Street, an unimpressive and narrow four-story structure jammed into a block with other buildings of similar height.

“This is the place,” I told Wolfe. “Not much to look at, but then, police stations rarely are.”

He made a snorting sound as I opened his door and gave him a hand as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Pfui, a disgusting edifice,” he said as he glared up at the building. “Very well, we shall go in.”

The husky desk sergeant looked up as we entered and blinked, perhaps reaction to Wolfe’s dimensions. “Can I help you gentleman?”

“I believe Inspector Cramer is having a meeting here,” I told him.

“Oh yes, I should have realized that’s why you are here — it’s Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin, right?” Before we could answer, he added, “Third door on the right.”

Wolfe led the way down the bare hall, past two shabbily dressed men sitting on a bench and clearly waiting for someone. When we reached the door, I rapped on the pebbled glass and it swung open. The one who did the swinging was none other than Sergeant Purley Stebbins, Cramer’s longtime sidekick and my longtime nemesis. We nodded to each other unsmiling, and Purley stepped aside so we could enter.

The room, typical of those you’ll find in most police stations, was spartan, with bare walls, unwashed windows, and austere furnishings. The furnishings in this case were a long, gun-metal table and wooden chairs lined up on either side of it. The only people present, other than Stebbins, were Cramer and a uniformed officer.

“Okay, Wolfe, this is where we will be meeting,” the inspector said curtly. “We’ll bring the others in shortly, but I wanted you to meet Captain Kevin Ryan, who commands this precinct and is graciously letting us use this space tonight. Captain, this is Nero Wolfe and his assistant, Archie Goodwin, who are assisting us in a case.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” the square-jawed, youthful cop said, holding out a hand. “I have heard and read a lot about you.”

Wolfe, who is averse to shaking hands, had little choice in this case. After the ritual had been completed, including a shake between the captain and me, Wolfe thanked Ryan and looked around at the setup. The captain then left the room, leaving it to us.

“I know what’s worrying you,” Cramer said. “Purley, get that item from next door.” Stebbins went into a connecting room and came out pushing a wheeled and padded desk chair with arms that looked like it could accommodate Wolfe.

“Put it right there,” the inspector told his sergeant, who looked like he wanted to chew nails. Stebbins dislikes Wolfe as much as he does me, but he followed orders and slid the chair up to the table.

“Here is how this is going to work,” Cramer told Wolfe. “You and I will sit on one side of the table, facing our ‘guests,’ and Purley will stand well behind them with his back against the wall. There are glasses of water for everyone at the table. Goodwin, you can take a chair and move it well back from the table. You are to be an onlooker here, and nothing more.”

I could tell that Wolfe was seething, used as he was to controlling these sessions. But he remained silent, squeezing himself into the chair.

“All right, Purley,” Cramer said, “it’s time to bring the others in.” Stebbins went out and was gone for several minutes. When he came back in, he held the door open and stepped aside. In trekked bar owner Liam McCready, Elmont building superintendent Erwin Bauer, the National Export pier boss, Doug Halliwell, and the closed-mouthed William Hartz, whose partner had dented my skull. None of them wore a smile.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Cramer said. “Please take seats on that side of the table. As I have told each of you, the police department is investigating a series of events, perhaps related, more likely not, that have taken place in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood recently. These include a murder, a fatal shooting in a bar — your bar, Mr. McCready — and two beatings. Now I have—”

“I still want to know what in God’s name is going on!” interrupted Halliwell. “My pier has got nothing to do with whatever the hell has been happening in that neighborhood. And I want to know what these two guys are doing here.” He pointed at Wolfe and me.

“If you let me finish, we can move on,” Cramer said. “This gentleman is Nero Wolfe, a private detective, who has offered to help with our investigation. And the man over there is Archie Goodwin, a detective who works with Mr. Wolfe.”

“A detective, hah!” Halliwell said. “He said he was a magazine writer when he interviewed me the other day. What kind of people are the police department using these days to help them? This Goodwin guy is either a phony writer or a phony private eye. Or maybe both.”

“We can discuss Mr. Goodwin later,” said a red-faced Cramer. “At this point, I am going to turn the proceedings over to Mr. Wolfe.”

Wolfe readjusted himself in the chair and looked in turn at the four faces on the opposite side of the table. “I was drawn into the consecution of events listed by Mr. Cramer because of the vicious attack upon an employee of mine, Theodore Horstmann. And to take issue with the inspector, I believe all of the events he referred to are indeed related.

“Let us begin with Mr. Horstmann’s beating: He had been one of a group of bridge players at your establishment, Mr. McCready. Others have told me he became suspicious of the behavior of some of the other patrons of the McCready establishment.”

“I run a respectable place,” the tavern owner snapped, starting to rise.

“Sit down!” Cramer said. “Everyone is going to get his say before this is over.”

“The beating of an individual who happened to play cards in the back room of a tavern might not seem remarkable in and of itself,” Wolfe continued. “But when a second member of that bridge foursome, Chester Miller, was found dead of a gunshot wound in the waters of the Hudson off Hell’s Kitchen, that occurrence taxed the credulity of even the most naïve and trusting individual. And lest there be any suggestion of a coincidence, it should be noted that, like Theodore Horstmann, the late Mr. Miller also harbored suspicions as to the activities of some of the habitués of the bar, be they longshoremen or others.”

“My men are not the only dockworkers who go to McCready’s,” Halliwell said heatedly. “I don’t know why you should single them out. Hell, I don’t even know why I’m here at all!”

“Your invitation will become clear in the course of the evening,” Wolfe said. “If I were you, I would not be in a hurry to hear an explanation of your presence.”

“I have to agree with Doug Halliwell in wondering why I’ve been asked to come,” Liam McCready put in. “I’m afraid I did not get a very good explanation from the inspector.”

Cramer said, “I would suggest that both of you, and the others as well” — he gestured toward Bauer and Hartz — “be patient and let Mr. Wolfe proceed. I know from experience that he is not a man to be rushed.”

“So,” Wolfe continued, “we have two card players from the public house in Tenth Avenue who appeared to be singled out for violence. But why? It would appear, Mr. McCready, that being a customer in your establishment could be detrimental to one’s health.”

“Hold on there,” the tavern keeper said. “They weren’t what you would call ‘customers,’ I just let them use the space so they could enjoy their card games.”

“But did they not purchase drinks from your establishment?” Wolfe asked.

“Well yes... but...”

“By any definition I am familiar with, that act would make those gentlemen customers of yours, would it not?”

“Well, all right, sort of,” McCready said, his tone subdued. “I’m frightfully sorry for what happened to them.”

“I am sure you are. Can you offer any explanation as to why they were singled out and targeted?”

“My bar has always been a peaceful spot, where people can come to socialize and relax and play pool.”

“And play cards?”

“Yes, and play cards, as well.”

“But your bar isn’t always peaceful, is it, sir?” Wolfe went on. “What about the man you shot recently?”

McCready bristled. “I have told the police all about that.”

Wolfe turned to Cramer with a questioning expression. “We’re still continuing our investigation, but it appears that Mr. McCready acted in self-defense,” the inspector said.

“Was the man you shot, named Emil Krueger, a regular customer of yours?” Wolfe asked.

“I wouldn’t call him a regular, but he did come in on occasion for a beer or two.”

“I realize you already have related to the police the series of events that night, but if you will indulge me, I would like to hear your description of the incident.”

McCready looked at Cramer, hoping for support, but he was to be disappointed. The inspector curtly nodded for him to continue.

“I often stay in my small office in the back after the bar has closed. It seems there is always some paperwork to go over, and I also review the day’s receipts.”

“You do not take money to an overnight depository?”

“I prefer my financial dealings to be face-to-face,” McCready said. “You can call it old-fashioned, but that was always the way people I knew did business back in Ireland.”

“While in your office, you told the police you heard noises out in the public area of your establishment, and you went to investigate.”

“That is correct, as I have said Lord knows how many times now.”

“And you had a gun with you?”

“Yes, I keep a revolver in the office, just because... well, you never know.”

“Please continue.”

“It was dark there, of course, but just enough light was coming through the front window from the street that I could see a silhouetted figure, and he was holding a gun.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No, not at all.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything, he just pointed a gun at me like he was going to use it, and I fired my own, just once.”

“But once was enough, wasn’t it?” Wolfe said.

“I was sure that he was going to shoot me!” McCready shouted.

“Did you have reason to fear Mr. Krueger?”

“I didn’t even know it was him when I shot. I didn’t know who it was in the dark.”

“Were you in Ireland when the war broke out?”

“No, I came here in the late 1930s. My uncle, who had run the bar before me, had died, and I was fortunate enough to assume the ownership.”

“Did you see service during the war?”

“No, I was not yet an American citizen.”

“But that should not have mattered,” Wolfe said. “The Second War Powers Act in 1942 exempted noncitizens who joined the armed forces from naturalization requirements. And you certainly were of an age to serve.”

“Well, I... felt that I needed to be here to run the family business that was entrusted to me,” McCready said.

“If you had still been in Ireland during the war, would you have served in the British forces?”

“Perhaps you do not understand, Mr. Wolfe, that Ireland — at least the Free State, not Ulster — remained neutral during the war. How could I have served?”

“Oh, but I do understand, sir. I also am aware that thousands of Irish citizens joined the British military. Those who deserted the Irish army to join with their neighbors were both shamed and shunned after the war.”

“And well they should have been!” McCready said heatedly. “They had no business fighting with the English.”

“I gather you do not like the English.”

“I do not, and why should I, the way they have treated Ireland over the centuries?”

“So, in dealing with what you might have seen as two evils, would you have preferred to see Germany victorious, rather than the Allies?”

“Are you trying to trick me?”

“Trick you?” Wolfe said, his face registering innocence. “Why would I do that, Mr. McCready? I am simply trying to determine where your loyalties lay in that war. As an American now, I would have thought you would prefer to see the Allies prevail.”

“You clearly are not familiar with the misery the Irish have endured at the hands of those cursed people in London.”

“I am familiar with it, although not in a personal way. And I do possess some familiarity with the behavior of the Axis during the war, as I have relatives in Eastern Europe who have experienced that behavior, to their detriment.”

Wolfe turned his attention to the Elmont super. “You, sir, appear to have had the opportunity to meet many recent arrivals from Europe. How have you found their physical condition and their state of mind?”

Erwin Bauer jerked upright as one awakened from a stupor. “What... do you mean?” he said, like a student who hadn’t been listening to his teacher and seemed startled by the question.

“I have been made aware that many of the residents of your building are recent immigrants from Europe, is that not so?” Wolfe posed.

Bauer swallowed hard. “Yes, yes, it is.”

“How are these people drawn to the Elmont?”

Now Bauer was plenty alert all right, but jumpy as well. “They must have heard about it from others who have come. It is a good place to live.”

“Would you say, Mr. Bauer, that many, or even most, of these people residing in the Elmont are displaced persons?”

He nodded.

“Do they possess the proper identification that entitles them to be in this country?”

I almost felt sorry for the skinny man in his ill-fitting clothes, but not quite. He looked at Halliwell on his left and McCready on his right as if expecting help in answering. Neither of them stirred.

“It really is not my job to check the identification of tenants,” Bauer said.

“Whose job is it, sir?”

“That would be the company that manages the building,” Bauer replied as beads of perspiration sprouted on his freckled forehead and he gulped water from his glass.

“Do they indeed do some checking?”

“I don’t know what has been done by them before people who are seeking rooms come to me.”

“What is the name of the company that manages the Elmont?” Wolfe demanded.

“Uh... Merritt and Day Properties, over in... Jersey City,” the super said. Wolfe turned to me with a beckoning look. I got up and bent down next to him as he whispered instructions in my ear. I nodded, left the room, and sought a pay phone.

When I returned after no more than ten minutes, Wolfe was addressing Douglas Halliwell. “...and do you carry passengers on your ship, sir?”

“No, we are strictly a freight operation.”

“It has been reported that persons have been seen debarking from your ships who do not appear to resemble either crew members or longshoremen.”

“Reported by who?” Halliwell demanded.

“That is immaterial, sir.”

“Yeah? Well, I’d like someone try proving that we’re carrying passengers.”

Wolfe ignored the remark, turning to me with a questioning expression. I got up and handed him a note I had written after my phone call. I received a glare from Cramer, as if to remind me that tonight I was an onlooker and nothing more. I glared back.