Free Dead Man's Tale by Ellery Queen

is corroborated by such other evidence as tends to connect the defendant with the commission of the crime.”
    The boys who were left in the garbage-hauling business paid Barney Street his price. Joey Imparato’s two towns were taken over. They were well satisfied.
    But a week before Joey Imparato died with six bullets from Chicken Little’s revolver in his body, Estelle Street had overheard a conversation between her husband and her one-time lover. While she was quietly making herself a drink in the living room, she had heard it all from the adjoining dining room.
    Estelle knew she shouldn’t have overheard that conversation, so she put her coat on, slammed the door and came in a second time with a loud, cheerful greeting.
    Estelle waited six months before she told Steve. Now, in Lucerne, with the dream bringing it all back, Steve broke out in a cold sweat as he paced the floor.
    Would he kill Milo Hacha? Could he?
    The door opened and Andy came in. His face was flushed; he looked happy. He had been sobered by the events in Holland, but most of the time Andy had seemed to regard their European trip as a jaunt. That was all right with Steve. All Andy knew was that they had to find a man named Hacha because of Barney Street’s will. As for the real purpose of the trip, to kill Hacha if he was alive …
    â€œWhat are you doing up?” Andy asked.
    â€œOne of those nights. I couldn’t sleep. How’d it go, kid?”
    â€œHow’d what go?”
    â€œYou know, with the Ohlendorf broad. You saw her, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes,” Andy said. “I saw her.”
    â€œWell, is she going to talk or isn’t she? Does she know where Hacha went?” Steve licked his dry lips. “We been in Lucerne eight days now. You like it here? You want to settle down or something?”
    â€œHey, take it easy.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to yell at you.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œDon’t tell me,” Steve said suddenly, “you’ve made time with her already.”
    â€œDid I say that?” Andy tried not to sound belligerent.
    â€œYou look it. What is it, love? What are you so close-mouthed about, Andy?”
    â€œLet’s say there are some things I don’t like to kick around,” Andy said shortly. “Even with my brother. Now how about hitting it, Steve? We’re both bushed.”
    â€œYou know when I get like this I can’t sleep,” Steve said. “Anyway, this works out great. You oughtn’t to have any trouble pumping the broad now.”
    â€œShe’s not a broad!” Andy heard himself yelling.
    â€œOkay, okay.”
    Andy sat down on the edge of his bed and began to undress. “Steve. Suppose I find out about Milo Hacha—say, tomorrow. What’s on the programme when I do?”
    Andy looked up. Steve had turned away and gone over to the window, staring out as if the street lights on Haldenstrasse, the absolute blackness of the lake, the thrusting bulk of the mountains beyond against the lightening sky were irresistibly attractive.
    Andy felt a sudden chill. He began to say more. But then he swallowed the question.
    â€œI’m turning in, Steve. Good night.”
    â€œGood night, kid,” Steve said.
    Andy saw him shiver.

PART IV
    MUELLER
    11
    Europe lay gasping under the hottest summer in years.
    The heavy rains fell early that year, and the heat followed them. From Cape Passero in Sicily to the German Baltic ports, from Brest to the Elbe River, the Continent lay smothering.
    The great cross-country buses, an institution in German-speaking countries, a week before had been floundering and slipping hub-deep in mud on the secondary roads. Now they were leaving clouds of thick, yellow dust from Schleswig to Carinthia. Their gleaming glass roofs parboiled the American tourists who staggered out to view the ruins of the Schloss at Heidelberg and the baroque splendour of the brand-new, rebuilt State