The dachshunds plodded to their beds and collapsed in total contentment.
“The other night,” I said. “Hans asked Willie to go to some meeting. Do you know anything about it?”
Edna paused. “I remember him asking,” she said evasively. She bent over the dogs and began detaching the leashes from their collars.
“Do you know where it was?”
“I’m not supposed to know.”
“But you do, don’t you?”
She finished unhooking the leashes and straightened up. After a long pause, she nodded reluctantly.
If she was ever to be interrogated by the police, I pitied the officer who’d have to question her. “Well, where was it? Tell me.”
“First Trinity Lutheran. It’s off Division Street, near Humbolt Park. Not far from the movie theater.”
“The” movie theater being the one showing Tarzan. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m going to find out—” I almost said “who killed your brother.” But I wasn’t doing it for her or for Mrs. Chapman. I wanted to know who killed my friend.
“I’m going to find out who killed Willie,” I said.
Chapter Six
I don’t know exactly what I expected to find at the church. Perhaps I’d absorbed enough newspaper propaganda that I thought I’d see men in spiked helmets devising plots to poison the nation’s water supply or blow up the Palmer House hotel.
That’s not what I found.
First Trinity Lutheran was a down-to-earth edifice, squat and solid, with a modest steeple that had no pretensions of reaching to heaven. The granite structure, impressive in its simple, clean construction, spread over half a block east of Humbolt Park.
I stood across the street from the church, talking with a barefoot newsboy while I kept an eye on the building.
Small red brick homes lined most of the quiet street, with a few churches, shops, and restaurants interspersed between them. The neighborhood was mixed: largely German, especially to the north, as well as a number of Poles and some recent Ukrainian immigrants.
Most of the shops had closed and daylight was waning. I pulled my watch from my vest pocket: twenty past eight. Last week, Fohl had told Willie the meeting would start at nine. I assumed it would be the same today. If there was a meeting, that is.
From my vantage point, I could see nothing sinister developing at the church. A stream of people trickled into the front entrance, sometimes dawdling to greet acquaintances, with no sign of furtiveness. There were young families with small children in tow, older couples walking slowly together, groups of chatting women, and sullen-faced adolescent boys who would have preferred to be elsewhere. Everyone was dressed in what my uncle used to call Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes (he rarely wore such clothes and never attended such meetings). It could have been Sunday church in any town in America. Except that it was Saturday night in Chicago, the church was German, and America and Germany were enemies.
I was in church clothes, too: a stiff black serge suit that I’d worn for the first time to Willie’s funeral this afternoon. A somber dark gray fedora, also new, took the place of the straw boater I usually wore. It was heavy attire for a warm summer night, and the cloth seemed to absorb moisture from the humid air, making it all the more cumbersome. The clothing didn’t weigh me down nearly as much, though, as the memory of Willie lying in his casket.
Of course, with the funeral, Edna and I weren’t going to be attending the movies this night. Instead, I was going to church to pay a surprise visit to Hans Fohl. After another twenty minutes of watching, I decided it was time to try getting in.
A family of five, a young husband and wife with two daughters skipping in front of them and a baby in the woman’s arms, turned from Western Avenue toward First Trinity. I put a dime in the newsboy’s palm and trotted across the street to join them.
A few quick steps drew me even with the tall young man.
“The other night,” I said. “Hans asked Willie to go to some meeting. Do you know anything about it?”
Edna paused. “I remember him asking,” she said evasively. She bent over the dogs and began detaching the leashes from their collars.
“Do you know where it was?”
“I’m not supposed to know.”
“But you do, don’t you?”
She finished unhooking the leashes and straightened up. After a long pause, she nodded reluctantly.
If she was ever to be interrogated by the police, I pitied the officer who’d have to question her. “Well, where was it? Tell me.”
“First Trinity Lutheran. It’s off Division Street, near Humbolt Park. Not far from the movie theater.”
“The” movie theater being the one showing Tarzan. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m going to find out—” I almost said “who killed your brother.” But I wasn’t doing it for her or for Mrs. Chapman. I wanted to know who killed my friend.
“I’m going to find out who killed Willie,” I said.
Chapter Six
I don’t know exactly what I expected to find at the church. Perhaps I’d absorbed enough newspaper propaganda that I thought I’d see men in spiked helmets devising plots to poison the nation’s water supply or blow up the Palmer House hotel.
That’s not what I found.
First Trinity Lutheran was a down-to-earth edifice, squat and solid, with a modest steeple that had no pretensions of reaching to heaven. The granite structure, impressive in its simple, clean construction, spread over half a block east of Humbolt Park.
I stood across the street from the church, talking with a barefoot newsboy while I kept an eye on the building.
Small red brick homes lined most of the quiet street, with a few churches, shops, and restaurants interspersed between them. The neighborhood was mixed: largely German, especially to the north, as well as a number of Poles and some recent Ukrainian immigrants.
Most of the shops had closed and daylight was waning. I pulled my watch from my vest pocket: twenty past eight. Last week, Fohl had told Willie the meeting would start at nine. I assumed it would be the same today. If there was a meeting, that is.
From my vantage point, I could see nothing sinister developing at the church. A stream of people trickled into the front entrance, sometimes dawdling to greet acquaintances, with no sign of furtiveness. There were young families with small children in tow, older couples walking slowly together, groups of chatting women, and sullen-faced adolescent boys who would have preferred to be elsewhere. Everyone was dressed in what my uncle used to call Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes (he rarely wore such clothes and never attended such meetings). It could have been Sunday church in any town in America. Except that it was Saturday night in Chicago, the church was German, and America and Germany were enemies.
I was in church clothes, too: a stiff black serge suit that I’d worn for the first time to Willie’s funeral this afternoon. A somber dark gray fedora, also new, took the place of the straw boater I usually wore. It was heavy attire for a warm summer night, and the cloth seemed to absorb moisture from the humid air, making it all the more cumbersome. The clothing didn’t weigh me down nearly as much, though, as the memory of Willie lying in his casket.
Of course, with the funeral, Edna and I weren’t going to be attending the movies this night. Instead, I was going to church to pay a surprise visit to Hans Fohl. After another twenty minutes of watching, I decided it was time to try getting in.
A family of five, a young husband and wife with two daughters skipping in front of them and a baby in the woman’s arms, turned from Western Avenue toward First Trinity. I put a dime in the newsboy’s palm and trotted across the street to join them.
A few quick steps drew me even with the tall young man.
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