Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 9

Not five minutes after my call with Lon Cohen had ended, the phone rang. It was Doc Vollmer.

“As of this morning, there is no change in Theodore’s condition, Archie.”

“If you were to give odds on his survival, what would they be?”

“I am not in the business of giving odds,” the doctor said stiffly. “But the positive news is that Theodore’s vital signs are good. I was in his room yesterday when his sister walked in, and I detected a glimmer of recognition from him, although I admit that may have been wishful thinking on my part.”

I thanked Vollmer for the report, and just as I hung up, Wolfe came into the office from his afternoon session with the orchids. I filled him in on my afternoon on Tenth Avenue and Vollmer’s call.

“I would like to see Theodore’s sister,” he said as he rang for beer. “See if she can be here tomorrow at eleven.”

I had only met Horstmann’s widowed sister, Frieda, once, several years ago, when she stopped by the brownstone to pick him up and take him out to dinner on his birthday. It was he who usually visited her.

“I’m not sure I will be able to reach her, but I’ll try,” I told Wolfe, knowing that she would be spending a lot of time shuttling between her home in Hoboken and the Manhattan hospital where Theodore lay in a coma. I dialed the New Jersey phone number we had on file, and, much to my surprise, she answered.

“It’s Archie Goodwin, Mrs. Mueller,” I said, pleased I could remember her married name. “First, we are so sorry about Theodore and what has happened. Second, Nero Wolfe wonders if you could come to his home on West Thirty-Fifth Street tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”

“Oh, Mr. Goodwin... pardon me... I am out-of-breath,” she said, panting. “I just walked in the door from visiting my brother to hear the telephone ringing.”

“Take your time.”

“No, no, I am all right. You say Mr. Wolfe wishes to see me?”

“Yes, if it does not interfere with your trips to the hospital.”

“They are very generous with their visiting hours. I have only been to Mr. Wolfe’s residence once, a few years ago. Can you give me the address?”

I did, telling her that I remembered meeting her on her lone trip to the brownstone. My memory was of a thick-set but not fat woman of middle age who was every bit as unemotional and taciturn as her brother. She had not seemed unfriendly, but rather acted extremely reserved, a trait that clearly ran in the family. I told her that she would be expected in the morning, and we ended the call.

I pivoted to Wolfe, who was just starting popping open one of the beers Fritz had brought in. “Frieda Mueller will be here, as requested. What do you hope to learn from her?”

“I don’t know, perhaps nothing. But we would do well to express our concern for her brother. I believe her to be his only living relative.”

“Yes, she and her husband had no children. You may recall that he died at least ten years ago. You may also remember that Theodore had never liked the man.”

“Yes, I do recall his negative reaction to his brother-in-law. What man ever approves of his sister’s choice in a spouse?”

“You make a good point,” I said. “I have two sisters, and I feel they each could have done better in picking a husband. But then, I don’t recall either of them asking my opinion on the matter, maybe because they knew what my reaction would be. Back to business: After dinner, I’ll be going back to Tenth Avenue. Do you have any instructions?”

“Nothing specific. I expect you will meet more of your neighbors the longer you dwell in that abode. I shall be interested in your observations.”

“Yeah, me, too. Although I’m not excited by your words, ‘the longer you dwell...’ I do not plan to dwell all that long in that five-story pile of bricks-and-mortar up in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“You are making this sacrifice, if it can be so termed, to help us learn why Theodore now lies in a hospital bed fighting for his life,” Wolfe said.

“Okay, okay, you are correct as usual. While I return to my new — and temporary — home, what plans do you have for the members of our team?”

“Telephone Saul, and see if he is available to play bridge once more with the gentlemen in the back room at McCready’s,” Wolfe replied. “For the present, we have no need for the services of Fred or Orrie.”

I reached Saul, who said he would drop in tonight and see if the trio of card players in the saloon needed a fourth for bridge again. Then as planned, following dinner, I walked over to Tenth Avenue and headed north to see what I could learn about my fellow roomers.

Once again, rather than riding the elevator, I used the stairs in the hope that I would run into one or more of my neighbors in the Elmont. At the second-floor landing, I did come upon a hunched-over man of uncertain age with a two-day growth of beard who was shuffling his way down the stairs.

“Hello, my name is Art Horstmann. I haven’t met you,” I said in my friendliest tone as I stuck out a hand. “I am temporarily staying up in 412, which is the apartment of my uncle, Ted Horstmann. Do you happen to know him?” He shook his head and attempted to ease past me on the narrow stairway, but I blocked the way without seeming to be hostile. Finally, realizing he would have to speak to break the stalemate, he said, “No, no, I do not know him.” Hardly a lot of words, but enough to tell that he spoke with an accent, possibly German or Dutch, or maybe Swiss. Wolfe, with his knowledge of languages, would have nailed it right away.

“And what is your name, sir?” I asked to his back as he continued down the stairs without looking back. I received no reply.

In the fourth-floor hallway, I got lucky, if you want to call it that. Another man of middle age, this one lanky and wearing glasses, was just stepping out of his room. I repeated my introduction and added that we were almost next-door neighbors. My answer was a blank stare, followed by hand gestures toward his open-and-closed mouth that seemed to indicate he was unable to speak — or chose not to. A code of silence in more ways than one.

For want of anything else to do, I decided to cross Tenth Avenue to McCready’s for a drink. The bar was crowded, and through the door to the back room, I could see the bridge game, complete with Saul Panzer, who apparently had been the bidder and looked to be raking in tricks. I found a stool near the front door and parked, ordering a scotch.

As I looked along the length of the bar toward the back, I noticed that the lanky, bespectacled character I had just run into at the Elmont appeared to be in an animated conversation with none other than McCready. So much for the man’s inability to speak. There was no question that when Orrie Cather said “something funny’s going on” in the Elmont, he knew of what he spoke.