“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.
Chapter 10
Nothing of further interest transpired that night, either at McCready’s or in the apartment building. The next morning, I got up at the usual time and after my ablutions, I walked a block north on Tenth Avenue to a coffee shop I had patronized in previous trips through the neighborhood. I sat at the crowded counter and had a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash browns, along with orange juice and coffee. It was so-so grub, but then, I have been spoiled by years of eating Fritz Brenner’s superb breakfasts. When this enforced absence from the brownstone ended, I made myself a promise to tell Fritz how much I appreciate him.
Returning to the Elmont, I failed to meet a single neighbor, not that I had learned anything from those I had previously run into. Glad for the chance to stretch my legs on a pleasant morning, I walked south to Thirty-Fifth Street and entered the brownstone almost a half-hour before Theodore’s sister was due.
“Would you like coffee, Archie?” Fritz asked as I settled in at my desk and paged through the stack of mail that he had put on my blotter.
“I would, yes. And Fritz, I might as tell you now instead of waiting until I move back here: You are a true gem.”
I thought he was going to tear up, but his Swiss reserve took hold, and he smiled, bowed slightly, and did a crisp about-face, heading back to the kitchen to get my coffee. While waiting for Wolfe’s descent from the plant rooms, I opened the morning mail and wrote checks for the gas, telephone, electric, grocery, and beer bills.
My watch read ten fifty-six when the doorbell rang. Through the one-way glass in the front door, I saw the impassive face of a woman I recognized from our one meeting several years ago — Theodore Horstmann’s sister.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mueller,” I said, holding open the door for her. She wore a lightweight black coat and a no-nonsense hat, also black, and clutched a purse tightly with both hands as if fearing someone was about to snatch it.
“You are... Mr. Goodwin, aren’t you?” she asked in a hesitant tone.
“I am. It has been a long time since we saw each other.” I helped her off with her coat, hung it on the hall tree, and steered her down the hall to the office. “Can I get you coffee?” I asked as I gestured her to the red leather chair.
“No, thank you, Mr. Goodwin. I already had—” She stopped talking as Wolfe entered the office and gave her a brief nod. “Mrs. Mueller, thank you so much for coming. Would you like something to drink, coffee perhaps?”
“I had breakfast and coffee at the hospital this morning,” she told him.
“Before we go any further, how is Theodore today?”
“No improvement.” Like her brother, Frieda Mueller used words sparingly, and her lack of facial expression was similar to his as well. She seemed to betray no emotion whatever.
“Had you talked to Theodore in the days before he was attacked?” Wolfe asked as he rang for beer.
“We usually spoke by telephone two or three times a week,” she replied. “Yes, I do believe that we talked the day before... before what happened to him.”
“Did he say anything that might suggest he had particular concerns?”
She waited several seconds before responding. “Theodore said where he was living was comfortable, but he had told me that before. He had also said in an earlier call that the people in his new building were not friendly. They barely answered when he said anything to them in the hallways.”
“Does your brother speak German?”
“We both do,” Frieda said. “Our parents were born over there and spoke German at home when we were growing up in New Jersey.”
“Did Theodore describe any other impressions he had of his neighbors at the Elmont, or any traits they had?” Wolfe asked.
“He had said once that he thought many of them seemed to be foreign, and I remember telling him that did not sound surprising to me. There are also a large number of foreign-born people in my building over in Hoboken. Many displaced persons — they are often called ‘DPs’ but I don’t like that word — have come here from Europe since the end of the war.”
“Three years ago,” Wolfe said, “President Truman signed an act that allowed thousands of persons who had lost their homes during the war to immigrate to the United States, and great numbers of them have come to New York, in many cases because they have relatives here. Did your brother think that was the case with those around him?”
“He didn’t say, but he felt uneasy, as though he were an outsider there.”
“Perhaps because he was still new to the building,” Wolfe posed.
“I don’t think so,” Frieda Mueller said. “Others had arrived there since Theodore had moved in, and he said they seemed to be accepted.”
“Did he say what languages were spoken in the Elmont?” I asked.
She shook her head. “That was something that puzzled him. He told me it was as though no one in the building wanted to speak. At least three times when he tried to greet a neighbor, he got nothing more than a shake of the head. No words.”