The bar was lightly patronized, with only a few stools occupied, and the back room was free both of card players and pool sharks. I ordered a scotch and water from a young bartender and noticed that the man I had seen crossing the street from Theodore’s building was in an earnest and whispering but facially expressive conversation with the older barkeep, whom I assumed to be McCready. They huddled for several minutes with their foreheads almost touching before the bartender patted the other man on the shoulder in a paternal gesture, and I watched as he walked out wearing a sad expression.
I tried without success to strike up a conversation with a burly man two stools away, but he was more interested in watching the Yankees run up a big score on the Philadelphia Athletics. Figuring that my afternoon had been a waste of time, I walked south to the brownstone.
By the time I got back, Wolfe was upstairs with the orchids. As I got settled at my desk in the office, Fritz entered. “You just missed a call from Mr. Cohen, Archie. He would like you to telephone him.”
Lon picked up on the first ring and barked his name into the mouthpiece. I responded in like manner, but not as loud.
“Well, Mr. Ace Detective, so far it seems like you may be on the proverbial wild goose chase, based on early returns from the provinces,” Cohen said. “First off, we haven’t got much on that Tenth Avenue building, which happens to be called the Elmont. The last time it made any kind of news in our pages was almost six years ago, when a short piece reported that the place was cited for what the building department termed ‘unsanitary conditions.’”
“Meaning rats?”
“Our piece didn’t say, although that’s often the case. Anyway, the management company, which is based over in Jersey City, promised to address the problem. A note in the Elmont morgue file from one of our reporters noted that the building was given a thumbs-up by the department three months later, so either they cleaned things up or bribed somebody, which is always a possibility.
“As for the docks,” Lon went on, “we haven’t had much at all lately. A couple of fights among longshoremen and a stowaway from Austria who was found on a freighter that came in from Rotterdam. That’s the sum of it over the last couple of years.”
“And what about that bar, McCready’s?” I asked.
“Nothing much there, either. The place has had a few minor brawls, of course, but that hardly makes it unique among the saloons in our fair metropolis.”
“I gather a guy named McCready runs the bar.”
“Yeah, Liam McCready, who our reporter said came over from Ireland early on during the war, even before we got into it. He had inherited the place after the death of an uncle, who had operated it since the repeal of Prohibition. The nephew is now an American citizen. McCready was quoted as being the owner in a piece we ran involving a fight in the bar about two years back. He said, ‘I was terribly sorry that a little disagreement got out of hand, and I promise I will prevent anything like this from ever happening in the future.’”
“Sounds like an upstanding gentleman.”
“So it would seem,” Lon said. “In any case, that’s the last time the joint has made it into print in the Gazette. That’s all we have for you. You got anything for me?”
“Nothing, and we still don’t know who attacked Theodore — or why.”
“But once you’ve made a discovery, I am sure that I will be the first to hear, right?”
“You know me, Lon.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, signing off.
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.