Too Soon Dead by Michael Kurland

from behind him. “The New York police aren’t that bad.”
    He wheeled and jumped back, as though I had just prodded him with a hot needle.
    “I’m with him,” I said, indicating Brass. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
    He relaxed a little. “I am not speaking of the New York police,” he said. “I am speaking of the
Geheime Staatspolizei
—the Gestapo. Heinrich Himmler’s own revenge apparatus.” He lowered his voice. “You are United States of America citizens, yes? Also you are New York City newspapermen, yes?”
    Brass took the leather case holding his press pass from his pocket and showed it to the red-faced man. “Yes,” he said. “We are.”
    I pulled out mine for emphasis and held it before his face. He seemed duly impressed. Considering that the passes were made up in the
World
’s composing room, and had no official status, they had served us well over the years.
    “Ah, truly,” the man said, peering closely at Brass’s card. “You are the renowned Alexander Brass. I, myself, was a writer for a monthly journal of political opinion in München—Munich—until the day last July when our editor was removed to a concentration camp for his health. He was suffering from that contagious disease known as socialism. For my health—although I am not, you understand, a socialist—I was on the next train to Geneva, leaving behind my job, my dachshund, and my mistress; all of whom, I’m sure, were goddamn better off without me.” He bowed slightly from the neck. “Willi Grosfeder at your service.”
    “What’s happening?” Brass asked, indicating the fracas before us with a wave of his hand.
    Grosfeder filled us in on the
Verein
, and then explained, “They are trying to decide whether they should hire a lawyer for Max or deny any connection with him. Some of them say one, some the other; some say neither, some say both; several are arguing over what Karl Marx would have done; Gumple, over there, is explaining something about Martin Buber, and Hollberger—that tall man in the doorway—is going to burst into tears at any minute and tell anyone who will listen that this is all pointless, and we are all ineffectual intellectuals, a phrase he is overly fond of. He’s right, of course, but it changes nothing to say so.”
    “Who is Max, and why does he need a lawyer?” Brass asked.
    “Ah! I assumed you knew. Max von Pilath is the head of our little group. That is his apartment across from where the body was found. About an hour ago he was arrested for the murder of that poor reporter.”
    “Is this Max von Pilath a very large man?” Brass asked, spreading his arms out from his waist to indicate in which dimension he meant this largeness. “And not very kempt?”
    “Not very…
Ach
, so—I see! What you Americans do to your language; it is to be admired. On the contrary, Max is slender, ascetic-looking, and unnaturally well groomed. Also he speaks with a pronounced stutter except when he is standing on a podium addressing an audience, which fact I have always found of the utmost fascination.”
    “Why did they arrest him? Why do they think he murdered Fox?” Brass asked.
    “They didn’t say,” Grosfeder said.
    “Well, perhaps we should go find out,” Brass said. “Thank you, Mr. Grosfeder. Come, DeWitt.”
    We shouldered our way through the nattering crowd and out onto Eighty-second Street. It was nine-thirty in the evening, but the street had not retired for the night. There were people on the stoops and in doorways and standing in little groups in shadowed areas along the sidewalk. No one ventured out into the pools of yellow light cast by the streetlamps except a few passersby like us, who had business elsewhere.
    We caught a cab on First Avenue, and Brass directed it to Seventy-seventh and Lexington and sat impassively, staring, as far as I could tell, at the back of the driver’s head for the five minutes it took us to make the trip.
    There are two homicide squads in