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“He’s been bugging me, and I haven’t had time to get back to him. I’ve been on the horn constantly for the last hour. You caught me between calls.”

“Such is my good fortune. What can you tell Mr. Goodwin and me about what transpired in the bar?”

I could hear Cramer drawing in air and clearing his throat. “We got a report from a patrol car at... two forty-five this morning that a passerby walking a dog on Tenth Avenue heard a gunshot coming from inside the saloon. When our men arrived, Liam McCready was waiting for them. He said he had closed the place and turned out the lights at the usual time — they’ve got a two a.m. license — and he was as usual doing paperwork and counting the day’s take in his small office in the back.

“He said he heard noises out in the bar area and went to investigate, taking a revolver that he keeps in his desk. He said the intruder, identified as Emil Krueger, was silhouetted against the light coming through the front window and raised his own gun as if to fire. McCready says that he shot in self-defense.”

“Is Mr. McCready being held?’

“We’ve got him in for questioning right now, although no charges have been filed.”

“What has been learned about the dead man?” Wolfe asked.

“Named Emil Krueger, last address Munich, Germany, and age forty-two, according to what few papers he was carrying. He apparently was a DP, and the chances are strong that he got over here illegally, like so many others from Europe. He wasn’t carrying a visa or anything else to indicate he had passed through immigration.

“A key was found in his pocket,” Cramer continued, “and it was traced — no surprise — to that Elmont building. Bauer, the super, confirmed that Krueger had been living there for about six months and was quiet, kept to himself, was well behaved, and apparently unemployed.

“Two of our men searched Krueger’s quarters at the Elmont, but found nothing else of interest.”

“What does the bar owner have to say for himself?”

“Rowcliff and Stebbins are questioning him right now. He doesn’t have a record, and his saloon hasn’t been a problem spot for the police. Do you have any thoughts?”

“None that would be of help here,” Wolfe said. “What about the other man you are holding, William Hartz?”

“He is still as mute as that speak-no-evil monkey. I’ve told Rowcliff to see if our tavern keeper might have some thoughts on Hartz and his enforced silence. It seems like everybody knows everybody else along that block of Tenth Avenue. Anyway, you now know pretty much everything I do. I’m going to sit and pull my hair out for a while.”

“The life of an inspector is not a happy one,” I said to Wolfe after the call had ended.

“He is not to be envied,” Wolfe agreed as I took my leave and walked down the block to Doc Vollmer’s office to have my head examined — literally.

Chapter 25

The good news was that Vollmer declared me concussion free after putting me through several tests. The bad news: Caroline was on vacation, replaced by a dour woman of a certain age who kept looking at me and shaking her head as if I were somehow beyond hope.

I asked the doc if my recovery was unusually fast, and his reply: “I’ve seen all sorts of concussions over the years, some of them — like Theodore Horstmann’s — extremely serious. Yours, it seems, was remarkably mild, which is your good fortune. I just hope that you take this as an omen and try not to place yourself in such risky situations. But then, I’m afraid I know you all too well.”

I thanked him and walked the half-block home to find that Wolfe was not in the office, which meant he probably was in the kitchen with Fritz, consulting on — or arguing over — upcoming meals. I had just gotten seated at my desk when Saul Panzer called. “I didn’t want you to think I had forgotten my assignments. One of them was to talk to Charlie King over at the Cabot and Sons pier. This I have done.”

“And...?”

“And he still suspects that his along-the-river neighbors at the National Export Lines have been smuggling DPs into New York on their ships. He told me that since you alerted him, he’s seen too many strange faces coming from that pier, faces — and physiques — that definitely are not those of longshoremen. ‘I know just about everybody who works over at National,’ Charlie told me, ‘and these are definitely not dockworkers. Hell, most of them aren’t beefy enough to qualify for that kind of work. Some of them look undernourished.’

“When I asked him who he was suspicious of over at National Export, he singled out one man, Doug Halliwell, who has been the crew boss there for years. Actually, according to Charlie, Halliwell is really a lot more than crew boss. He practically runs the show because the general manager and principal owner, an old guy named Chambers, spends most of the year in Palm Beach and by choice has nothing to do with the day-to-day operations on the dock. As long as the revenues are good, Chambers leaves Halliwell alone.”

“What makes Charlie suspicious of Halliwell?”

“He says it’s just a feeling he has about the man, nothing concrete.”

“Do you know Halliwell?”

“I’ve met him, that’s about all,” Saul said. “He’s tall, has a crew cut, and throws his weight around. From what Charlie has told me, his dockworkers don’t care much for him, maybe because he keeps them in line like he’s a Marine drill sergeant. And because a lot of these longshoremen served during the war, the last person they want to report to is somebody like that.”

“Other than what he’s observed, has King heard any rumors about DPs coming in on those freighters?”

“Only speculation, including among his own men, one of whom goes into McCready’s on occasion and says he has seen a couple of what he refers to as ‘those weird characters’ in the bar who were seen getting off National Export Line ships.”

“Not a lot to go on,” I said.

“True, other than it would seem to confirm that the export company is a conduit for smuggling displaced persons into the United States.”

“Can you think of any way we can learn more about this Halliwell character?”

“You know Del Bascom, of course.”

“Of course. He was my first boss when I moved to New York, and he’s worked with Wolfe and me a number of times over the years. A solid detective — and a pretty fair poker player as well.”

“Well, he’s had more experience on the North River docks than any other P.I. that I can think of. At least two shipping companies have used him and his agency to track down thefts off their ships, an all-too-common event. He may be able to do some sleuthing for you.”

“Now that you mention it, I recall that Del has had several cases involving the docks. I will talk to my boss about it, thanks.”

When Wolfe got to the office after whatever he was doing in the kitchen, I filled him in on my visit to Vollmer, Charlie King’s suspicions about Doug Halliwell of National Export, and Saul’s suggestion involving Del Bascom. After uncapping one of the beers Fritz had brought in, he leaned back as if in thought, presumably digesting both the beer and what I had told him.

“I am happy you appear to have recovered,” he said after a two-minute silence. “As far as the suggestion that Mr. Bascom do some investigating of the National Export dock activities, are you concerned with his safety?”

“Should I be? Del knows how to take care of himself.”

“Really, Archie! After what has befallen Theodore, you, and Chester Miller, caution is in order. Besides, Mr. Bascom has his own agency to run. Why should he be willing to work for me?”

“Ah, of course, what was I thinking? We don’t have a client, and we would have to pay Del out of our own funds.”

“Our own funds are more than adequate. That is not what troubles me, it is Mr. Bascom’s well-being. You said yourself just last week that we are in better financial shape than we have been in years.”