The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 28

Bra.s.s nodded. "Okay, Ellen. Tell your boyfriend the ah Mittwick that I'll see him backstage after the show. But don't bother with the ticket."

"It's a good show," Ellen told him, sounding a little miffed.

"It is," Bra.s.s agreed. "I've seen it. And, come to think of it, I remember you third girl from the left."

"You do?" She brightened.

"Good timing," he said. "Great legs."

"Yeah," she agreed. "That's me."

"Sammy Mittwick's a lucky man," Bra.s.s said.

"Yeah," she agreed. "He is." Then a frown line appeared between her carefully-plucked eyebrows. "Only I hope he gets to stay that way. Lucky, I mean."

"I'll talk to McWheeter this afternoon," Bra.s.s told her. "See what kind of deal I can make for him."

"That's good," she said.

"Of course it'll depend a lot on what he's got to bring to the table."

"Oh, he's got a lot of good stuff," she said enthusiastically. "Why he knows who the Dutchman's getting his protection from that ought to be worth something."

"He does?"

"Oh!" she said. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that, on account of he was holding that back as a bargaining stick."

"Bargaining chip," Bra.s.s said.

"Oh, chip right chip."

"That ought to be worth something," Bra.s.s agreed.

"Three thousand dollars a week," Ellen said, her eyes wide at the idea of that much money. "My Sammy delivers it."

"To whom?"

"They call him 'Mr Big,'" she said.

Bra.s.s laughed. "Mr Big?"

"Say, it ain't my idea," Ellen said defensively. "Sammy don't know his real name, but he knows where his office is, and they should be able to get it from that. That ought to be worth something."

"I'll see what I can do," Bra.s.s said.

Lumps emerged from the back room wearing pants that were a little too plaid, and a black turtle neck sweater. "I guess I'm ready to go," he said. "Only where am I going?"

"You come with me," Bra.s.s said. "You'll be safe in the World building on Fifty Ninth Street, telling your story to a guy named Jake. He'll get everything we need. Then we'll see about getting you out of town.

"It's a two-seater, but if you want to squeeze in," he told Ellen, "I'll drop you."

"I don't mind being squeezed between two good-looking guys," Ellen said. "Just be careful where you put your hand when you're shifting gears."

"My honor as a boy scout," Bra.s.s said, raising his hand in a two-finger salute.

"Say, was you a boy scout?" Lumps asked.

"Nope," Bra.s.s told him.

"Neither was I," Lumps admitted. "I couldn't pa.s.s the test."

The ride downtown was uneventful, although Bra.s.s couldn't refrain from keeping a worried eye on the rear view mirror. He dropped Ellen off at 46th and Sixth Avenue, two blocks from her theater, and circled back to the World building on 59th and Tenth. One of the doormen took the keys from Bra.s.s and drove the Auburn off to that curious half world where doormen find parking s.p.a.ces while Bra.s.s and Madigan went upstairs.

Bra.s.s told the city editor what was happening, pulled Gus Damici off the rewrite desk, and put Gus and Lumps together in the outer room of his office. Damici was well into his eighth decade and had been a reporter for over 50 years. He was expert at pulling the telling details that made a story memorable from witnesses who didn't know they'd seen anything worth talking about.

"You know the kind of stuff we want," Bra.s.s told Gus. "If he gets recalcitrant, remind him that we haven't paid him yet."

"Say," said Lumps. "I ain't re- what you said. I'm here, ain't I?"

"True," said Bra.s.s. "Forgive me." He went into his inner office, picked up the phone, and jiggled the receiver until an operator came on the line. "Faye? Oh, Pearl. Listen, get me the McWheeter Commission; you've got the number there somewhere . . . I'll hold."

He stood there drumming his fingers on the desk and listening to the clicks, hums, and hollow silences while the connection was made. "This is Alexander Bra.s.s of the New York World," he told the secretary who picked up at the Commission. "Is McWheeter in? Can he talk? . . . McWheeter? It's Alexander Bra.s.s of the World. I've got something someone for you. He's Dutch Schultz's bagman . . . That's right. He's ready to talk in return for protection. I'll explain when I see you. I'll be up there in about an hour."

He hung up, adjusted his tie, and skipped down the narrow back stairs, reserved for those who knew it existed. After a quick dish of scrambled eggs, home fries, rye toast, and a piece of apple pie at Mollie's across the street, he headed across town to the offices being occupied by the New York State Commission for the Investigation of Prohibition Enforcement Related Crimes, which was called either the SCIPERC (p.r.o.nounced Sky-Perk) Commission or the McWheeter Commission, depending on the time of day, the phase of the Moon, and the lat.i.tude of the speaker, or some such.

Bra.s.s moved fast, it was his nature. Walking relaxed him and helped him think, and the faster he walked the more relaxed he got. He never actually broke out into a run, but I've known those who just about had to trot to keep up with him. Somewhere around Central Park south and Sixth Avenue, he noticed that a short, skinny guy in an oversized grey fedora had been staying about half a block behind him since he left Mollie's. Now it wasn't all that far, but as I say Bra.s.s moved fast, and it was pushing coincidence for the same person to stay just half a block behind him for more than, say, half a block. Bra.s.s turned right on Sixth, went down a couple of blocks, and then headed east again. Sure enough, the skinny guy was still there when he checked.

Morris and Daughters' Delicatessen was just off Fifth, and Bra.s.s trotted down the three steps and ducked inside. The back exit let out on an alley, and Bra.s.s scooted through it, past a couple of smoking busboys, and doubled around the block, coming up on his tail from behind while the tail was lurking in a doorway two down from Morris's establishment.

"h.e.l.lo, there," Bra.s.s said softly.

The skinny guy tensed up for a second, and then whirled around, pulling a Colt .45 Army model automatic from under his jacket with mongoose-like speed. Bra.s.s took a step back and raised his arms in the air.

"Why, Mr Bra.s.s," the skinny guy said. "You startled me." The automatic disappeared like a stage magician's dove, and he brushed his palms together. "That's not always a wise thing to do"

Bra.s.s dropped his hands. "Mr Finter," he said. "Why are you two-stepping your way into my life?"

The Two Step Kid looked thoughtful for a second. "Why am I following you, you mean?"

"That's it."

"Why, to see where you're going, Mr Bra.s.s, to see where you're going."

"And why is that?"

The Kid chuckled. "Listen, Mr Bra.s.s, you've got your secrets and I've got mine. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

Bra.s.s sighed and shook his head sadly. "I'm heading for the Feldmar Building," he said. "You want to walk with me, and we'll talk about this and that?"

"No, that's okay," the Kid said. "I'll leave you be for now. Maybe I'll just stop in here for a plate of matzo brei. Sadie Morris's younger daughter, is well worth looking at over a plate of matzo brei."

"Fifty bucks if you'll tell me who put you on to me," Bra.s.s said, reaching into his pocket.

"Take it easy going into your pockets around me," the Kid said, putting his two hands in front of him like he was trying to stop a streetcar. "I get nervous at the gesture."

"Sorry," Bra.s.s said. "But, like I said . . ."

"Mr Bra.s.s, you should know better than that. I got my professional pride."

"Just thought I'd ask."

"No hard feelings," the Kid a.s.sured him. "See you around, hey?" he tipped his fedora at Bra.s.s and descended the three steps into the deli.

Harlan McWheeter had been a judge in the Supreme Court of New York county system for 12 years. He was now a partner in DaSilva Brown Henderson & McWheeter, and had been recommended to Governor Roosevelt by our honorable Mayor Jimmy Walker to head the SCIPERC Commission. He was a tall, bony man with a prominent nose, deep set brown eyes, and a black toupee that looked as though each hair had been carefully glued into place. That day he was wearing his usual dark blue double-breasted suit; the starched collar of his underlying white shirt jutted up so high that it looked as if it was a structural support for his narrow chin. There was a story that a junior a.s.sociate had once walked into his office and seen the judge with the two top b.u.t.tons of his jacket unb.u.t.toned. The a.s.sociate was promptly fired.

Bra.s.s was frisked quickly and efficiently before he was shown into the inner sanctum of McWheeter's suite of offices, where five people awaited him, grouped at the far end of the long mahogany table that took up most of the room. The judge, looking stern and magisterial in the center, was flanked by a pair of Commission attorneys in blue suits, a stocky bodyguard in brown, and an elderly male secretary with a steno pad.

"Sit," McWheeter said, indicating the chair in front of Bra.s.s, which put him the whole table length away from McWheeter and his cl.u.s.ter.

Bra.s.s sat. "If there's anything I look forward to," he said. "It's a quiet, intime little tete-a-tete."

"How's that?" asked McWheeter.

Bra.s.s raised his voice. "I said I hate yelling," he yelled.

"Stop that," McWheeter said irritably. "No need to shout." He sat down and, as though they were worked by strings, the others sat with him. "Now, just what sort of information is it you have for us, Mr Bra.s.s?"

"We should first warn you," said one of McWheeter's minions, giving Bra.s.s a steely glare, "that we are not prepared to offer immunity from prosecution unless what you tell us is substantial and can be verified."

Bra.s.s smiled. "Blessings on you, little man," he said. "I don't require immunity. But the gentleman on whose behalf I speak may, and he will definitely require protection."

"What sort of protection?" McWheeter's other minion inquired.

"Dutch Schultz will certainly put the spot on him when he finds out he's talking," Bra.s.s said. "And he would just as soon not be spotted. As I said on the phone, he's the Dutchman's bagman."

"He collects money for Mr, ah, Schultz?" McWheeter asked.

"Collects and pays," Bra.s.s said. "And what he's got to trade, among other things, is the ident.i.ty of the city official I a.s.sume it's a city official whom Dutch is paying off for protection."

"Son of a " the lawyer on the left slapped the table. "Say, that would about put this commission on the map, now wouldn't it?"

"Governor Roosevelt would be very pleased," McWheeter allowed. "Is this man reliable?"

"Well, I'd say he has nothing to gain and a lot to lose if he isn't," Bra.s.s told him.

"Does his information sound, ah, plausible to you?" McWheeter asked.

"I don't know what his information is," Bra.s.s said.

"He hasn't told you?"

"My understanding is that the Dutchman pays three thousand dollars a week to someone they call 'Mr Big'."

McWheeter sat back and glared down the long table. "Mr Big? Surely you jest."

"Perhaps my informant does," Bra.s.s told him. "But I surely do not."

"That has all the plausibility of a Nick Carter dime novel," McWheeter said. "Who is this 'Mr Big'?"

"I don't know," Bra.s.s told him. "I'm not sure that Sammy does either."

"Sammy?"

"Sammy Mittwick, the bagman in question. He's willing to testify, but he will want protection, and possibly immunity; although I don't know whether collecting and delivering money is per se a crime. Bank messengers do it all day long."

McWheeter pondered. When he arrived at the Pearly Gates and the recording angel asked him whether he wanted to enter or take the elevator down below, McWheeter would ponder. "All right," McWheeter said finally. "But he'd better come up with something or someone we can verify. Something better than merely 'Mr Big'."

"He can show you the place where the transaction happened," Bra.s.s said. "And I suppose he could identify 'Mr Big' if you could get him in a line-up."

"It's a start," McWheeter's right-hand minion offered.

McWheeter nodded. "We're putting our witnesses up at the Gotham," he said. "Those who require putting up. I suppose "

"The Gotham's too public," the left hand law minion objected. "Everybody knows about the Gotham. We'll want this testimony to be a surprise until it's delivered."

"Not to mention that if Schultz hears about it first, he'll never live to testify," Bra.s.s added.

"Secret and secure," the right hand lawyer said. "Deputy Commissioner Mapes has a special squad for handling jobs like this. I'll call him. Where is this Mittwick now?"

"I'll have to talk to him first," Bra.s.s said. "I'm just the messenger. I can tell him that you agree to keep him hidden until he testifies?"

McWheeter nodded. "You can tell him that," he agreed.

"And what about after?"

McWheeter pondered. "We'll see that he is taken safely to a location of his choosing," he said finally. "Somewhere in the United States. He is to agree to keep in touch with us in case we require his further testimony."

"Okay," Bra.s.s said. "I'll pa.s.s it on."

"But our responsibility, and our expenses, end there," McWheeter warned. "Don't lead him to expect that we're going to finance his living expenses from then on."

"I think he can take care of himself in that regard," Bra.s.s said. "Or so I understand."

McWheeter looked at him doubtfully. "The fruits of illegal activities " he began.

" Are not our concern at this time," the left hand legal minion cut in smoothly.

McWheeter thought this over, and nodded. "True," he said. "The harvest of Mammon may be put to good uses. Have this man call us, and we'll arrange matters."