Most began with a cryptic, "Thanks to St. John Nepomuk for favors received," and a date, followed by two or three vaguely religious and completely uninformative lines.
Nepomuk? Wasn't that a Czech saint? Cash asked himself. There was a Czech Catholic church at Twelfth and Lafayette dedicated to him. Why would a German, especially one who showed no religious inclinations in her home, be invoking a Czech saint?
Wait. Parts of Czechoslovakia… the Sudetenland, Bohernia. That had been Hitler's excuse for invading Czechoslovakia-to liberate the German minority. People who spoke German, anyway. In fact, Czechoslovakia as a country only went back to the First World War, didn't it?
What was it before that? Part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. But the part called Bohemia had been an independent kingdom once. Prague was the capital. Hadn't there been a Mad King Ludwig once? No, he had been king of Bavaria. Hadn't he? Or was that Leopold? No, that was in Belgium…
There were times when he wished he knew more. About everything.
"The dates are important," John whispered.
Teri had gone to the bother of typing up a catalog list. Most of the dates, the earlier ones, were at regular six month intervals. But since March there had been four, at erratic intervals. Cash reread those ads. He couldn't see where they varied significantly from the others, but their publication seemed timed to his encounters with Miss Groloch.
"How'd she put them in?"
John grinned. "Through her accountants. I did a little number on them this morning. Had to stretch the truth a little and hint that we were on a narcotics case. The boss finally admitted that he got his instructions by phone."
"But she doesn't have one."
"There's an outside pay phone at the service station at Russell and Thurman. Only two blocks. She called the man at home, late at night."
Cash laid a hand on John's arm. Both prosecutor and judge were eying them in irritation. "Later."
He began browsing through Mrs. Caldwell's report, which told him almost nothing he really wanted to know. It was thick because the woman had reproduced the entirety of dozens of letters or diary entries which mentioned the Grolochs only in passing.
During the first few decades, when there had been few neighbors, there seemed to have been a great deal of traffic to and from the Groloch house, mainly the coming and going of tradesmen. Letters of the period remarked on the odd bent of the Grolochs' interests. They were believed to be inventors, working with telegraphy, telephonies, or electricity. But Miss Groloch also seemed immensely interested in things medical.
She received dozens of journals, many from Europe.
Was invention the source of their fortune? Cash wondered. Was he going to have to undertake a stalk through patent records?
There had also been the air of mystery still felt today. Perhaps it had been even stronger then. More than one letter mentioned an irrational dread of the foreigners, who were universally admitted to be perfect neighbors.
Only the Fenian, O'Driscol, seemed to have been comfortable in their presence.
Of the Irishman there was little mention. The man seemed to have maintained a low profile, which fit his hypothetical revolutionary and draft-dodger background. His disappearance had caused so little comment that Mrs. Caldwell hadn't been able to pin down the exact year, let alone a specific date. Sometime in the eighties, probably late.
His departure loomed important only in retrospect, in the minds of a handful of people who had still been around at the time of the O'Brien incident.
Cash penned a marginal note: What was happening in Ireland? The man might have gone home to take part in one of the periodic uprisings.
Then he noted, How has Fial been responding to ads? And, Miss Groloch to take lie detector? Ask Hank about her lawyer.
The departure of Fian, also, had slipped by with little notice, though it was better documented. June 14, 1889, aboard an eastbound train from Union Station. Explanation, a death in the old country, an estate that had to be settled.
Cash made another note: Passport issued? Then, U.S. citizenship?
Suppose the Grolochs were illegals?… No, no leverage there. Every ten years or so Congress passed laws exculpating long-term illegals.
There seemed to have been no animosity toward Miss Groloch during the Great War, either because no one knew of her origins or because St. Louis's vast German community had remained completely, demonstratively loyal despite countless family ties in Europe. There had been little trouble.
Cash closed the folder little wiser. Just with more questions. Always there were more questions.
And don't lose the forest for the trees, he cautioned himself.
Jack O'Brien had a crafty way about him. He kept trying to disappear among the distractions. And he, or whomever the dead man might be, was what this case was all about.
He opened Mrs. Caldwell’s report to the page where he had made notes and added, Any other mysterious corpses on record?
Digging into that ought to keep John busy for a while.
Harald poked him. Everyone was rising. Court was recessing without their having been called to testify.
"Damn," John complained as they departed. "There's tomorrow shot all to hell. Christ, it's hot out here. Hope Carrie bought some beer."
Cash told him of his evening plans.
John was furious. But he didn't say a thing.
Cash brought him up to date on the morning's work. John began to get that hungry hunter look again.
"Maybe it is starting to go. Maybe. You'd better let Gardner know about those four hoods. If we could just jam her into the damned lie detector…"
Cash had a sudden thought. "John. That mailman… let's find out if her mail has changed since we've been pushing her. Also, you might ask your friend if there's any chance of tracking down classifieds from the time when she was having trouble with Carstairs."
The look of the hunter faded. "Norm, this's getting to be a pain in the ass."
"You don't like it, get out and drum up some alternate business. Me, I'm determined to nail this one shut."
"That's what Carstairs was going to do, remember? For eight years."
"Yeah. I remember." And he thought about it all the way back to the office.
XVIII. On the Z Axis;