The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits (Mammoth Books)

by Ashley, Mike;

  Brass nodded.

  Lumps disappeared through a doorway for a moment, and returned clutching a bottle with no label and two glasses. “Have a slug, Mr Brass,” he said, pouring a generous double shot into each glass. “It’s the real stuff. Canadian. Right off the truck.”

  Brass took the proffered glass and sniffed suspiciously.

  “Say, didn’t I tell you?” Lumps said, looking offended. “It’s Canadian.”

  “Your word’s good enough for me,” Brass agreed, and took a swig. “Well, how nice,” he said. “It’s been pre-watered for my convenience.”

  Lumps frowned at this for a second, and then decided to ignore the remark. “Somebody told the Dutchman that I’m planning to sing to the McWheeter Commission,” he told Brass. “Which is not so; and besides I got nothing to sing about even should I choose to warble. But Flegenheimer, the no-good shit – that’s Dutch Schultz’s real name, you know: Arthur Flegenheimer, the no-good shit – don’t bother asking me or nothing, he just puts the spot on me.”

  “You have my sympathies,” Brass said. “But what can I do about it?”

  Lumps dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs and waved Brass over to the couch. “I figure I got two choices,” he said. “First I gotta tell you that I ain’t never squealed on nobody; it ain’t in my nature.”

  The music stopped, and the massive mechanical device lifted the arm from the record, hiccoughed twice, and turned itself off. “I’ll take your word for it,” Brass said into the silence. “It doesn’t much matter to me one way or the other.”

  Lumps looked at him as though he’d just said he didn’t care whether or not the Yankees won the series. “It matters,” he said. “If a guy ain’t got his integrity, what has he got?”

  Brass raised his glass in a silent toast to Lumps’s integrity. “Good point,” he agreed.

  A girl in a fuzzy pink peignoir that almost reached to her knees appeared in the inner doorway. Her overly-blonde hair hung in ringlets framing her oval face, and her overly-large brown eyes were set in rings of kohl. She leaned against the doorframe and peered blearily into the room. “It’s too light,” she complained. “Turn some of it off, for the love of mike.”

  “It’s the sun, Ellen,” Lumps told her. “You can’t turn it off.”

  “Yeah? Well, who asked for it? What’s it doing up this early?”

  “It’s almost noon,” he told her.

  “Yeah? Well, like I said. Say, who’s this?” She leaned forward to try to get a better look at Brass.

  “This is Mr Brass,” Lumps told her. “He’s a reporter for the World.”

  Brass only winced the slightest wince, and decided not to try to explain the difference between a reporter and a columnist.

  “Fancy that,” Ellen said, “a reporter for the whole world. Ain’t that something.” She advanced across the room one foot in front of the other, hips swaying, like a tipsy cat, holding her peignoir not quite as closed as possible with her left fist, and extended her right hand to Brass. “Ellen Benchman, your reportership,” she said, curtseying and not quite falling over as Brass took her hand. “Want to do a story on an up and coming young actress?”

  “She’s in the Scandals,” Lumps volunteered.

  “Third girl from the left in the chorus,” she said. “But I’m understudying the second girl from the left.”

  “Is that a step up?” Brass asked, smiling.

  “It’s two steps to the left,” she told him. “’Scuse me now, I’ve got to shower and like that. I’ll be back shortly.” And with the slightest hint of a moue and a subtle wiggle of her peignoir, she exited the room.

  “Quite a, ah, young lady,” Brass commented. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Lumps stared after the retreating pink vision. “And what if she is?” he demanded.

  “Then this is the first place the Dutchman and his boys will come looking for you,” Brass told him. “The fair Ellen could get hurt.”

  Lumps thought it over for a second. “Nice of you not to mention what would happen to me,” he said. “But as it happens, Miss Benchman is my sister-in-law, which is not generally known on account of my wife don’t associate with my professional acquaintances. She is the lady friend of Sammy the Toad Mittwick, who is keeping her in this apartment what he fixed up himself. Ellen, that is. Not my wife.”

  Brass looked more closely at the room’s furnishings and pursed his lips. “Good taste, Sammy has,” he said. “Does Sammy know you’re here?”

  Lumps managed to look insulted. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Sammy the Toad is a bagman for the Dutchman,” Brass said.

  “You ain’t telling me anything what I don’t already know.”

  “He might sell you out,” Brass said gently. “The notion of honor among thieves is greatly overrated.”

  “Yeah, well, I know something what you don’t,” Lumps said. “Namely that Sammy ain’t feeling too congenial toward the Dutchman himself. He’s got something worth selling to the Commission, which I don’t, and he’s thinking of going to talk to McWheeter himself. Only the Dutchman don’t know it.”

  “What’s he got?” Brass asked.

  “Ask him,” Lumps said. “If I knew, then I’d have it too – which I don’t.”

  Brass nodded. “Makes sense,” he said. “So, what help can I be to your efforts to disentangle yourself from this situation?”

  Lumps thought that over for a minute. “Like I said, I figure I got two choices,” he said. “First I can convince the Dutchman that I ain’t going to squeal, no way, or second I can go to the McWheeter Commission myself and get protection in return for what I got to tell them.”

  “Two choices,” Brass agreed. “Either swear that you’d never squeal, or squeal.”

  “Only both of them are no good,” Lumps continued. “I got a Chinaman’s chance in Hell of making it home alive if I try to see Flegenheimer, the shit, to tell him anything. And McWheeter’s going to want something in return for protection, and I ain’t got nothing to give him.”

  “So, what can I do?” Brass asked.

  Lumps turned and thumped Brass on the arm with his index finger. “You’re my third choice,” he said.

  Brass looked at him dubiously. “And just what must I do to receive this honor?” he asked.

  “There’s a little town in Nebraska where the Dutchman would never think of looking for me at. I need for you to help me get there.”

  “Help how?”

  “Maybe to the extent of springing for a couple of G’s, ’cause what I ain’t got is cash. And in return, I’m going to tell you things that you can write down and use in your newspaper.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything,” Brass said.

  “I don’t know anything for the McWheeter Commission; they want names and dates and amounts of money and like that. Which I ain’t got. But if you want to know how bootlegging works from the inside, how the stuff is shipped in from Canada or England or Cuba, how it’s distributed, and that, then I’m your man. And I’ll throw in with some great stories about moving the stuff around the city and hijacking and leg breaking and like that. The kind of stories that read good, like that Damon Runyon stuff, but don’t get nobody specific arrested.”

  Brass thought it over. “It might be good for a couple of C-notes,” he allowed. “I’ll get you to a rewrite man to take down your story, and if it’s at all of interest, I’ll spring for train fare and a little over.”

  “Say!”

  Ellen was standing in the doorway, wearing a blue skirt that showed just as much leg as a good girl ought to show, but only if she had great legs, and a light blue sweater that was just too tight enough, and white stockings, and it was her “say” that had just stopped the conversation.

  “What’s that?” Lumps asked.

  “If Mr Brass here is going to help you, why then he should help my man. Sammy’s in a bind, and he’s got a lot more to tell than you, if words is what’s gonna help get him outta this
mess.”

  “Sammy’s not on the spot,” Lumps said. “Nobody’s on the look for him carrying a Thompson in a violin case.”

  “Not yet,” Ellen said, “but they’re gonna be if he don’t figure a way out pretty fast.” she turned to Brass. “He’s worried, Mr Brass, he’s worried for his life.”

  “He didn’t tell me nothing about this,” Lumps objected.

  “He don’t go around advertising it,” Ellen said. ‘He don’t want word getting back to Mr Schultz – that being what he’s worried about.”

  “It ain’t likely I’m going to be speaking to Mr Schultz anytime soon,” Lumps told her.

  “What does Mittwick want,” Brass asked, “money to get out of town?”

  “Money ain’t his problem,” Ellen told him. “Or, let me say, money is his problem, but not because of the lack of it.”

  Lumps stood up, and then dropped back down again. “Don’t tell me he’s been skimming,” he demanded, his voice tight.

  “Not exactly,” Ellen said.

  “Not exactly? Say, I better get outta here. If the Dutchman sends some of his boys after the Toad, they’ll find me instead. And that won’t be good.”

  “Hey, listen,” Ellen said. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Mr Schultz don’t know about Sammy yet – and don’t call him ‘the Toad,’ it ain’t respectful.”

  Brass stood up. “I could listen to this for hours and hours,” he said, “but maybe we all have better things to do.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Ellen agreed. “I got to get to work. You going to help the Toad, Mr Brass?”

  “Hey, that ain’t respectful,” Lumps mocked her. She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “I’ll have to know what he wants before I can tell whether or not I can help him,” Brass told her.

  “Yeah,” Ellen agreed, wrapping a fur boa around her neck. “Well, he wants to talk to the Commission, that’s what he wants. And then he wants he and I should go away somewhere.”

  “Yeah,” Lumps said. “Like maybe Mars?” He stood up. “I better get dressed so’s I can get outta here.” And he lumped out of the room.

  “Why does Mittwick want to talk to the Commission?” Brass asked Ellen. “And what has he got to tell them?”

  “He’d better tell you that. He’s meeting me after the show. Come around backstage at around ten thirty, and I’ll introduce you. Or if you like, I can leave a ticket for you at the box office.”

  Brass 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,” Brass 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,” Brass 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,” Brass 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,” Brass said.

  “Oh, chip – right – chip.”

  “That ought to be worth something,” Brass 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.

  Brass 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,” Brass 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,” Brass 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,” Brass said, raising his hand in a two-finger salute.

  “Say, was you a boy scout?” Lumps asked.

  “Nope,” Brass told him.

  “Neither was I,” Lumps admitted. “I couldn’t pass the test.”

  The ride downtown was uneventful, although Brass 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 Brass and drove the Auburn off to that curious half world where doormen find parking spaces while Brass and Madigan went upstairs.

  Brass 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,” Brass 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 Brass. “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 Brass 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 Brass 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 (pronounced Sky-Perk) Commission or the McWheeter Commission, depending on the time of day, the phase of the Moon, and the latitude of the speaker, or some such.

  Brass 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 Brass 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. Brass 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 Brass trotted down the three steps and ducked inside. The back exit let out on an alley, and Brass 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.

  “Hello, there,” Brass 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. Brass took a step back and raised his arms in the air.

  “Why, Mr Brass,” 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”

  Brass 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 Brass, to see where you’re going.”

  “And why is that?”

  The Kid chuckled. “Listen, Mr Brass, you’ve got your secrets and I’ve got mine. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

  Brass 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,” Brass 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.”