Out front of Walter’s building, Dash rang the buzzer, hoping he wasn’t too late. He heard someone coming down the stairs, but instead of Walter, it was Mother. She wore a severe black dress with sleeves, the skirt stopping well past the knee. Her long, white pearls were draped low across her neck.
She looked at him with confusion. “Who are you?”
“Good evening, ma’am, I’m a friend of Walter’s. I’m supposed to meet him here.”
She regarded him with suspicion. “Walter doesn’t invite people over.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it’s important. Another update on the project from last week.”
“So many urgent meetings. He is not here at the moment. He stepped out.”
“I see. May I come in? It’s really coming down out here.”
She pursed her lips, but surprisingly, she acquiesced. He followed her upstairs to their apartment. He hung up his raincoat to drip in the short hall and walked into the parlor.
Mother gestured to a room off to the left of the parlor. “Would you like some tea to warm up?”
“That would be lovely.”
She nodded once and set off to the kitchen. When she was gone, Dash realized what a golden opportunity he had been given. He looked around to see if Mother was anywhere in sight. She wasn’t. Making an educated guess, he went down the other hall and found the bedrooms. There were only two, which meant the brothers had shared a room. Mother’s was easy to identify. It was the master bedroom at the end of the hall. The brothers slept to the right of it.
Dash stepped inside and turned on the lamp. Two small beds were positioned on opposite sides of the room, each having their own nightstand. Two knitting needles and a pile of dark navy yarn laid on the bed to Dash’s right. Mother’s knitting projecting, the one she mentioned the last time Dash was here. A small writing desk was in front of the one window in the space. Dash could picture Walter sitting there, writing his evil blackmail letters. Anger once again filled his frame.
What a horrible, horrible man. Such evil hiding behind such pious morality.
And if that didn’t perfectly define these Prohibition days, Dash didn’t know what would.
The floorboards creaked behind him. Dash turned to see Mother in the doorway holding a cup and saucer. “I see you found his room.”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I get wanderlust if I’m stationary for too long.”
He took the cup and saucer from her hands. A quick sip. It was only hot water. Mother had apparently forgotten to put in the tea bag.
He smiled, murmuring compliments about the tea. He looked around the bedroom, seeing the paintings of the German countryside on each wall in heavy wooden frames. He nodded towards them, saying they were lovely.
Mother didn’t seem to hear what he said. Instead, she said, “That forgetful boy. He left his timepiece here.”
Dash was startled at the non sequitur. “Pardon me?”
“The timepiece. Walter just got it last week, and he sometimes forgets to wear it. You wrap it around your wrist. Look.”
She pointed to the nightstand on the right side of the room. Dash assumed this was Walter’s side. There on the nightstand was a wristwatch.
Dash slowly looked from the nightstand to Mother and back again. “You say Walter got this last week?”
“Why, yes.”
Dash went over to the nightstand and picked it up. He wasn’t well versed in these new inventions, but he could’ve sworn it was the same one Karl had on his wrist. But both Walter and McElroy had said the boy’s pockets were picked clean. Why take all the contents out of his pockets but leave his watch? And if Walter was brandishing this since last week, after Karl was found dead in Central Park, then . . .
Dash slowly turned the timepiece over. There, on the back of the face, were the letters “k m.” Karl Müller’s initials. This was the wristwatch Tyler Smith had engraved.
Dash looked back at Mother. “Mrs. Müller, the Sunday before last, did Karl come home?”
Karl was contemplating a new life. He overhead Leslie Charles promising to turn him over to someone else. He had to run. He must’ve come home to pack.
Mother belatedly answered his question. “Karl?” She thought to herself. “I believe so.”
Dash’s pulse started to climb. “He came back here to this apartment the Sunday before last? You’re absolutely certain?”
She nodded as she stepped forward, the motion causing her to lose a bit of her balance. She steadied herself with a hand on the bedroom doorframe. It was apparent she was not sober. Dash wondered if she ever was.
She said, “He was packing when I found him. Told me he was leaving and said goodbye.”
Dash set the wristwatch back onto the nightstand. “You spoke with him? That night?”
She entered the room and sat on the bed next to the pile of knitting. Her eyes were glassy and wet. They gazed off into the distance. “He said he couldn’t live this way anymore. His heart was broken and there was nothing left for him here. I told him he had his family, but that did not console him. I told him he was being silly for behaving such in a way over a girl. The city is full of them. He’d forget her in time.”
She wrapped her arms around herself in a tight hug.
“Then he said it wasn’t a girl. He said a man’s name. And he cried. My son cried like a weakling. He said he missed his lover.”
Her mouth shook.
“Lover. He used the word lover to describe a man. I was so—so—disgusted.”
Her hands reached for the pile of knitting. She placed it in her lap, where she began to pull at the thick woolen threads.
Realization hit Dash just as another crash of thunder pounded outside. “Mrs. Müller, what
