Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

She nodded, drawing on the cigarette. “And before I knew it I was back here. I hooked up with a guy, and when I told him about Romania he wanted to see it. Travel is easier now, and there was no problem driving here from Zurich. We both had American passports.”

“What happened to him?”

“He wanted drugs and he got arrested the first week we were here. I haven’t seen him since. After that I fell in with a German named Conrad Rynox. I like him a lot. His crowd is into snorting heroin, which I’d never done before.”

“Did you know the man who was killed?”

“Jarie. Jaroslaw Miawa. He hung around, liked to gamble. That’s how he got money for the heroin.”

Michael jotted down the name, asking her to spell it. Then, “Tell me what happened last night.”

“We were in this cellar on Furtuna Street. When Jarie came in I could see he was hurt badly. Then we saw the blood. He’d been stabbed, more than once. He said a few words and then he just died there, on the cellar floor.” Segar slipped back in while she talked.

“What did he say?”

“Something about an iron angel. The three eyes on the iron angel.”

Michael glanced at Captain Segar. “Mean anything to you?”

Segar shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Is there someplace in the city that has an iron angel — a park or a church, perhaps?”

“I don’t know of any.”

“You might try contacting the churches. There aren’t that many of them anymore.”

Segar nodded and made a note.

“What does the autopsy say about the dead man’s wounds? How far could he have walked before collapsing?”

“We found no blood on the pavement outside, which is why we’re questioning her further. He couldn’t have gone too far after he was stabbed.”

Michael Vlado nodded. “And you say he was a Gypsy? Did he have a family?”

“A brother here in the city. The rest of the family moved west years ago.”

“Do you really think Jennifer is involved?”

“We found her with the body.”

“The others all ran away,” she explained. “I stayed. He was my friend and I was hoping he was still alive.”

“Will you release her?” Michael asked.

“Not now. Perhaps tomorrow, after the court hearing.”

“She stayed with him, for God’s sake! Would his killer have done that?”

“That argument will weigh in her favor,” Segar conceded, “but the laws and the courts are different now. We must follow regulations to the letter. Here is the name and address of the victim’s brother. If you can learn anything from the Gypsies, it could help her.”

Michael had the unpleasant feeling that Segar had somehow recruited him to act as a detective. Either he was setting up Michael for some sort of trouble, or there was something about the case that Segar couldn’t trust to his own assistants. Michael didn’t like it, but maybe Jennifer Beatty deserved another chance.

The brother’s name was Sigmund Miawa, and Michael found him in the morning at a Gypsy enclave by the edge of the city. He was tall for a Rom, with a fairness of skin that suggested mixed blood and intermarriage. He was a watchmaker, with a caravan that housed his wife Zorica and their child. It was a wonder that he continued to live as a Gypsy.

“It is a sad day for my family,” he told Michael. “Perhaps you can honor us by taking part in the funeral service for my slain brother.”

“Of course,” Michael quickly agreed.

“To have a Gypsy king here, even a king from a neighboring tribe, would honor his memory.”

“The police are trying to find who killed him.”

“It was the drugs that killed him, whatever they say.”

“As he was dying he spoke of the iron angel. What does that mean to you?”

“Nothing. A myth. I have heard men speak of worshiping at the iron angel, but I think it is only a saying.”

“A saying not known in my hills. It is not a Rom saying.”

“Nevertheless—”

“Your brother spoke of the three eyes of the iron angel.”

“The Trinity, perhaps. It would be some sort of Christian symbol.”

Michael Vlado said no more until after the funeral. There was only a small group of mourners, Sigmund’s family and a few others. It was explained that Jarie had not lived among them, that he had chosen the ways of the city. And his city friends, perhaps fearing the police, had not come to the funeral.

Jaroslaw Miawa was buried in an unmarked grave over the hill from the Gypsy enclave. As they walked back together, his brother explained, “Feelings against the Rom are at a high pitch right now. We fear the wild city youths might desecrate the graves if they found them. We know where he is buried, and when times are better I will place a marker there.”

“You should go out into the countryside where the living is better,” Michael suggested.

“I have never been a wanderer. My work is here, and I doubt if old Kurzbic could manage without me.”

“He is your employer?”

Sigmund nodded. “I am not a Rom when I am at work. I do not have the typical features of a Gypsy and it is easy to pass as a Romanian. That is something my brother always resented. His Gypsy heritage was more obvious, and it kept him from the sort of job I have.”