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

Sigmund Miawa used public transportation to go to work, and he was grateful when Michael offered him a ride. “I could not tell Old Kurzbic that my brother had died, or he would ask too many questions. I simply took off half a day.”

The store where he worked as a watchmaker was near the center of the city on Calea Grivitei. Michael parked his car down the street and went into the shop with Sigmund. From the name “Old Kurzbic,” he’d expected the store owner to be a man in his seventies, but Kurzbic could not have been more than sixty. He was balding and wore thick glasses, but showed no other sign of aging. His handshake was strong as he greeted Michael. “Welcome to my store. Feel free to look around.”

In addition to jewelry, the small shop sold antique watches and clockwork mechanisms designed to amuse adults as well as children. “Whoever made these things?” Michael marveled, examining the miniature figure of a magician who waved his wand and produced answers to previously prepared questions.

“Such devices were popular in the late eighteenth century,” Kurzbic explained. “Basically they were clockwork automatons, designed to perform any number of wondrous tasks. In a sense it was the golden age of the watchmaker’s art.”

“Do you sell them?”

“Some are worth a small fortune today, but only to collectors.”

“You should guard these with care.”

Kurzbic nodded. The reflection of the overhead lights danced off his thick glasses. “I am careful. Everything is locked up well at night, and I keep a gun behind the counter.”

Michael glanced at the more modern watches and clocks, and then bid farewell to Sigmund and his employer. “One other thing,” he asked Kurzbic. “Did you ever hear of something called the iron angel?”

The older man blinked. “A prize-fighter, wasn’t he? Many years ago?”

“Said to have three eyes?”

“I believe so. One in the back of his head, they claimed, because he was so fast. The memory is vague but I think he was called the Iron Angel.”

“That was the Iron Engine,” Sigmund Miawa corrected from his worktable. “I remember going to see him in my youth. I think Ceausescu’s government had him shot as a traitor because he refused to be part of the Olympic team.”

Kurzbic nodded. “Iron Engine, Iron Angel — you may be right.”

Michael left the shop and drove back to Captain Segar’s office. The court hearing was over and Jennifer Beatty was waiting for him. “They said I can go,” she told him.

He glanced at Segar. “Do you have any leads yet?”

“None. Here are the things from the dead man’s pockets.”

A shabby wallet with a few bills in it, some coins, a stubby pencil, a handkerchief, a key, and a folded piece of paper bearing the number 470. Michael looked them over, and saw little of interest. “What’s the key for?”

“His apartment. It’s in an old building a few blocks from where he was found. The address is in his wallet and we checked on it.”

“He lived alone?”

“So far as we know.”

“Is 470 his apartment number?”

“No. We don’t know what that is.”

Michael noticed the piece of paper was perforated along one edge, as if it had been torn from a notebook. “All right,” he said to Jennifer. “Ready to go?”

“I was ready yesterday.”

He said goodbye to Segar and promised to call him later. Outside, he asked the American girl where she was living. She wiped her palms nervously against the sides of her jeans. “I’ve been staying with Conrad Rynox,” she answered quietly.

“The leader of this little drug group?”

“He’s very good to me,” she answered defensively. “I love him.”

He decided she was not really his responsibility. “All right, where does he live?”

“Furtuna Street. Across from the cellar where I was arrested.”

“Tell me something,” he said as they got into his car. “You knew Jarie Miawa. Did you ever see him with a knife?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“There wasn’t one among his belongings. Most Gypsies carry knives, especially in a city like this. It might indicate he pulled it out to defend himself and dropped it when he was stabbed. Perhaps he wounded the killer with it.”

“I never saw one,” she said, looking away.

As they turned into Furtuna Street, he pulled up to the curb. “Jennifer, I have to ask if you’re doing the right thing going back to this man Rynox. He’s been supplying you with drugs, hasn’t he?”

“Sometimes.” She looked away. “I’m cutting down. Pretty soon I won’t need them any more.”

“I’ve known addicts before who said that. Come on, I want to meet Conrad Rynox.”

She was reluctant at first to introduce them, but when Michael insisted she finally led the way into the apartment building. There was no elevator so they climbed five flights to the rooms she and Rynox shared. Michael hadn’t known what to expect, but he shouldn’t have been surprised to find a bearded man, apparently well into his thirties, asleep on the sofa in his underwear. He woke up when Jennifer shook him, and reached for her.

She danced away and announced, “We have a guest. Try to make yourself presentable, Conrad.”