“We’ll settle it, all right,” Nolan said.
“Thank you so much.”
August Sternmueller raised his hat in a formal little gesture to Nolan, then clapped it on his head and marched through the door. Nolan stood at the counter staring at the name and address on the pad. August Sternmueller. 216 Crab Street.
“What’d little Fritzie want?” It was Lindfors’ voice.
Nolan turned, saw the detective standing by the windows. His hands were in his pockets, and a cigarette hung from his lips.
“Nothing,” he said. He crumpled the paper and put it casually in his pocket. “Somebody stole a blanket from his car.”
“Car locked?”
“No. Somebody just helped himself.”
“These characters. They never learn.”
Nolan sat down and picked up an evening paper. His heart was pumping harder than usual, and his cigar tasted bitter. What a break! What a lousy, dirty break! Anger brought a red flush to his face. Everything going fine, and then this kick in the face. He knew Sternmueller’s type. A methodical stubborn Kraut who’d stick to his story like a bulldog, and who’d keep pestering people until he found someone who would take him seriously. The talk would spread, the rumors would thicken, and pretty soon everyone would be watching Nolan out of the corners of their eyes, all because a damn Kraut wouldn’t mind his own business. Nolan marveled at the fantastic luck that had permitted him to intercept the man.
Thinking about that angle made him feel slightly better. Things were still breaking his way, apparently still making sense. He tossed his paper aside, thinking that at least he had the chance to take care of August Sternmueller before he talked to the wrong people.
The card game broke up half an hour later.
Darkness came and the business of the Division went on as usual. There was a shooting in South Philly and Smitty took it. Ramussen came in, nodded to Odell and went into his office. Three or four people came in to register various complaints or losses. Finally the phone rang and Sergeant Odell picked it up and began making notes on the pad at his elbow. Occasionally he said, “Yeah, yeah,” and then put the phone down.
“Take this one, Nolan,” he said. “Some guy at 43 °Crab Street had his room busted open and a few hundred bucks lifted. The name is Dawes. Fred Dawes.”
“Okay,” Nolan said. That address was not far from where August Sternmueller lived. There was a musing smile on his lips as he took the slip of paper from Odell and walked out of the Division.
15
The man whose room had been broken into was about twenty-five, with thinning blond hair and a habit of smiling nervously as he talked.
Nolan glanced around the bedroom, then took out his notebook and asked a few questions. Fred Dawes worked as a short-order cook, and his money had been hidden away in the bottom of the bureau drawer.
“Okay, Fred,” Nolan said. “Where do you do your drinking?”
Fred Dawes smiled, rubbed his cheek. “I don’t do much of that, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, somebody knew about the money. This wasn’t a lucky hit. Somebody heard you talking about it, probably. If it wasn’t a taproom, how about at work?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do stop by a taproom at Maple and Eleventh. A fellow by the name of Joe tends bar there. I play darts and have a few beers there payday.” Fred Dawes smiled as he talked, as if ready to say it was all a joke if anyone questioned his story.
“We’ll check Joe’s place then,” Nolan said.
Fred Dawes rubbed his cheek and smiled at the floor. “Well, I wouldn’t like you to tell the boys there about it, as a matter of fact. They’re a nice bunch, friends of mine, you see, and it’s about the only spot I’ve got to kill time in, if you know what I mean.” The smile widened. “You know how a guy gets attached to the place he hangs at, I suppose.”
“You’re afraid the boys at Joe’s won’t love you any more if you point out one of them as a thief, eh?”
“Well, no. Not exactly.”
“Damn it, do you want your money back or not?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Okay. Next time you get some, put it in a bank.”
Nolan glanced sourly at the ripped wood near the knob of the door, and then walked down the street toward the intersection of Crab Street and Ellens Lane.
August Sternmueller opened the door to his gentle knock.
“Ah, come in,” August said. “I hardly expected you so soon.”
“Well, this is a pretty serious matter.”
He glanced about the neat, comfortably furnished living room and tossed his hat into a chair. “Supposing you tell me all about it, now.”
“Certainly.” August’s manner was solemn. He knew he was doing his duty and that assurance gave him a solid dignity. “Come here, please. To the windows.”
Nolan walked across the room and August pulled aside the curtains and pointed into the street.
“You see? I had a perfect view of what really happened that night.”
“Yeah, a box seat,” Nolan said quietly.
He moved slowly to the windows and stared into Ellens Lane. He could see the spot where Dave Fiest had hit the ground, all right. Frowning, he let the curtain fall back in place. He had wanted to check this one point to make sure the old Kraut wasn’t imagining things. Obviously he wasn’t; and that more or less made up Nolan’s mind.
The other fact that helped him reach a decision was the arrangement of the rooming house. August’s front room opened on an enclosed stairway which led directly to the small foyer. A person could leave this apartment and go down to the street with little chance of being observed.
“I don’t know how the newspapers could have gotten their story so mixed up,” August said, looking solemnly at Nolan. “I saw what really happened so I know. Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think that murderer was no policeman at all. I think he impersonated a policeman to commit the murder.”
“That could be it,” Nolan said thoughtfully. “Tell me this: Could you identify the man who did the shooting?”
“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t,” August said, with an apologetic smile.
“Well, that doesn’t matter too much.”
August’s smile was in a more relaxed manner. He felt better now that he had done his duty and transferred his information to the capable hands of this detective.
“You got a nice place here,” Nolan said, glancing around.
“Thank you.”
“Do your own cooking?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. And my own marketing. I put in enough on Mondays to last me the whole week.” He chuckled. “You might be surprised at some of the things I make. Sauerbraten, Wiener Schnitzel and apple dumplings even. I take good care of my stomach.”
“Yeah?” Nolan smiled. “That’s a smart idea.”
He walked into the adjoining room which was lined with wooden filing cabinets. August was at his heels, a pleased little smile on his lips.
“This is where I keep my time-tables,” he said.
“Time-tables?”
“Yes, I collect them,” August said, somewhat defensively. So few people understood the pleasure he took in his hobby. “I have been collecting them for years. I have the schedules of every major line in the world, and from hundreds of tiny spur fines I dare say you’ve never heard of.”
“Well, well,” Nolan said.
“Would you like to look at some of my very early ones?” August said, eagerly.
“Some other time. The kitchen’s right through here, eh?”
“Yes.” August pushed open a swinging door and preceded Nolan into a small immaculate kitchen. Nolan glanced about, noting the gas stove and its capacious oven.