The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 29

"Here," said the right hand lawyer, coming around the table and handing a card to Bra.s.s. "The private phone number of Deputy Commissioner Mapes. I'll tell him to expect your call."

McWheeter looked sourly at his minion. "I suppose that's best," he said. "Well, thank you for coming in, Mr Bra.s.s. We have other matters to attend to now." And, with a wave, he dismissed Bra.s.s from his thoughts.

The final big production number of George White's Scandals of 1926 was time stepping its way across the Knickerbocker's wide stage as Bra.s.s pushed his way through one of the closed entrance doors. The house manager, who was standing in the lobby with a brace of ushers, recognized Bra.s.s and trotted over. "Mr Bra.s.s," he said. "You should have told me you were coming. There are some seats in the orchestra. I'll have one of the girls . . ."

"That's okay, Mr Purcell," Bra.s.s told him. "You've got, what, fifteen minutes to run? I'll stand in back. I've just come to see one of the performers after the show."

"Ah!" Purcell said. "One of the chorus girls, Mr Bra.s.s?"

"As it happens, that's right, Mr Purcell."

Purcell arched his eyebrows. "Any particular one, Mr Bra.s.s?" he asked.

"Why, Mr Purcell!" Bra.s.s said, his eyes wide. "Shame on you!"

Bra.s.s tiptoed his way to the back of the auditorium and tried to spot Ellen on the distant stage. He couldn't look for the third girl from the left, as the chorus line was circling around a large man in a dinner jacket and oversized white bow tie, who was singing "Are You The Girl For Me, Or Have I Been Misinformed?" to each of the chorus girls in turn as she pa.s.sed him. They all seemed to be quite willing to be the Girl For Him, and he was having an understandably hard time in picking just the right one. Then the girls straightened out their line, faced the audience, and went into their step-step-kick-step routine, and Bra.s.s was able to focus on the third girl from the left.

Ellen, Bra.s.s was pretty sure it was Ellen, seemed quite beautiful from the back of the auditorium, with long and shapely legs. But then, so did the other 21 girls. At any reasonable distance, all women look beautiful. Men find women in the abstract desirable, as evidenced daily at any maternity hospital.

Bra.s.s felt a tap on his shoulder, and a high-pitched voice murmured, "are you looking for me?"

He turned. "Mittwick," he whispered. "Let's go back into the lobby, where we can talk."

"Nah," said the Toad. "Come off to the side over there; there's a hall leads backstage. We can talk backstage."

"It's going to be kind of noisy," Bra.s.s objected in a whisper.

"There's a room," the Toad said. "Come."

Mittwick led the way down a narrow corridor lit by bare electric bulbs hanging from disused gaslight fixtures, the brick walls plastered with posters from long-defunct shows. When they reached the backstage area, Mittwick crossed to a circular iron staircase toward the back. "Don't stomp," Mittwick whispered to Bra.s.s, "this thing creaks."

"Got it," Bra.s.s agreed. "No stomping."

They went up two flights and entered a room full of oversized trunks and folded draperies. "What's in the trunks?" Bra.s.s asked.

"Who knows?" the Toad explained.

"Ah!"

Mittwick stretched out on the floor with his head outside the door, and peered down the stairs. A large revolver of ancient vintage had suddenly appeared in his hand.

"What on earth are you doing?" Bra.s.s asked.

"Shut up for a minute, will you? I gotta make sure as we weren't followed."

Bra.s.s looked sadly down at the p.r.o.ne Mittwick. "You don't trust me?"

The Toad twisted his head around and looked up at him. "Any reason I should?"

Bra.s.s shrugged. "I guess not. Ellen trusted me."

"Yeah," Mittwick grunted. "That and a nickel will get you on any subway in the city."

"Sammy!" Bra.s.s said. "Your own girl friend!"

Mittwick shook his head. "She's a great girl," he said. "But she ain't got the best judgment in the world. h.e.l.l, she chose me, didn't she?"

Bra.s.s was speechless.

After a couple of minutes Mittwick stood up and brushed himself off. He closed the door. "So, did you talk to this McWheeter guy?"

"I did."

"What did he say?"

"They'd like to believe your 'Mr Big' story, but they're not convinced. He said if you've got something they can use, and you can prove it, they'll help you."

"Prove it? How prove it?"

Bra.s.s shrugged.

"I can show them where his office is," the Toad said. "I can even tell them what he looks like." He chuckled. "He used to do this thing, like out of the dime novels. He'd wear like a black bag over his head with these two eye holes cut out, you know?"

Bra.s.s nodded to show that he knew.

"So I got curious. One day I sat in the barber shop downstairs with a hot towel wrapped around my phiz so's he wouldn't spot me, and waited. Sure enough, about ten minutes later he came out. No bag. So I got a good glom at him."

"You didn't follow him to see who he was?"

"I thought of that, but this big limo pulls up and he hops in and splits. So I didn't get the chance. After that I guess I was too nervous to try it again. But I think I got enough to find him. Besides I got the names of all the sports I've been collecting from. Probably half the speaks, gambling dens, and wh.o.r.e houses in Manhattan, and a couple in Jersey."

"It sounds like you've got something saleable," Bra.s.s agreed.

"You know it," said the Toad.

"So when do you want to do this?" Bra.s.s asked.

"No time like the present," Mittwick said. "They got to come and get me. I got a bag packed downstairs."

"You think you're in trouble already?"

"Listen," Mittwick said. "The Dutchman has this guy working for him; Havasack, they call him. His real name's Berman. Abbadabba Berman. He's a math wizard of some kind."

"This guy's name is Abbadabba, and he has a nickname?" Bra.s.s asked.

"Everybody's got a nickname," the Toad said. "Everybody in the rackets, anyway. It's a thing."

"I guess so," Bra.s.s said.

"Anyway, this Havasack, he's been working the track. Something to do with changing the odds or something. But he just came back to the city and, to have something to do, he decided to go over the Dutchman's books. That was two days ago. The Dutchman, he was laughing about it. He said anybody that was stealing from him, they'd better watch out. But you may think he was kidding, but believe me, he wasn't kidding."

"So you've been skimming, and you figure that this Havasack is going to find you out?"

"I been taking a little off the top," the Toad agreed. "I figure there's a good chance he's already found out. Like I said, he's some kind of math wizard."

"You're a brave man, stealing from the Dutchman," Bra.s.s said.

"h.e.l.l, I didn't figure on getting caught," said the Toad.

Bra.s.s spiraled down the iron staircase and crossed to the payphone by the stage door. When the operator came on, he dropped in his nickel and looked on the little card for Deputy Commissioner Mapes's phone number. "Ca.n.a.l three-four-three-six," he told the operator.

"That is a local exchange," she told him, each word carefully enunciated, each syllable rounded. "You may dial that yourself."

Bra.s.s sighed. "I would, but this payphone has no dial."

"All our payphones without dials are being replaced," she informed him.

"Perhaps," Bra.s.s said, "but this one hasn't been yet."

"I will get that number for you," she said in her rolling tones, "but in the future please remember that you can dial numbers on local exchanges yourself."

"Oh, I will, I will," he a.s.sured her.

An a.s.sistant picked up the phone, but the deputy commissioner came on immediately. "Bra.s.s," he said, his gravelly voice booming into the phone. "I've been waiting for your call. What's the story?"

"Sammy's going to sing to the Committee," Bra.s.s told him. He filled Mapes in on those parts of the story that concerned him and suggested that he get a few plainclothes men in an unmarked car over to the Knickerbocker Theater as soon as possible.

"I'll issue a subpoena for him," Mapes said. "That way we can hold him in protective custody."

"The more protective the better," Bra.s.s agreed. "Pull around to the stage door. Mittwick is edgy, and may have good cause."

Sammy the Toad came slowly down the spiral staircase, Ellen, still in her Misinformed costume, hanging on to his arm, her feathered headdress brus.h.i.+ng along the underside of the spiral. "You're going to be okay, baby," she said, trying womanfully not to cry. "Let me know where they take you, and I'll come see you right away, I promise."

"That might not be such a good idea, kid," he told her bravely. "When they get me out of here, I'll find a way to send for you. But it'll be a couple of months."

"I don't know if I can wait that long without you, my darling," she sobbed.

A few minutes later a large, unmarked touring car pulled up to the stage entrance and three large men in dark blue double-breasted suits got out, a tommy gun cradled in each of their arms. Sammy spun up the spiral staircase and was in the upstairs room with the door bolted before you could say "subpoena". It took Bra.s.s and Ellen together to lure him out.

"Come with us," the officer in charge said. "We'll take care of you."

"Where are we going?" Mittwick asked. "Where are you going to take me?"

The officer looked around. "No disrespect," he said to Bra.s.s, with a nod to Ellen, "but it would be better if I didn't say."

"I quite agree," Bra.s.s said. "Mittwick, these gentlemen will keep you safe until after you testify. After that, I'll make sure they don't forget their promise to get you away to someplace safe."

"Yeah, well, okay, Mr Bra.s.s." Sammy shook hands with Bra.s.s, kissed Ellen firmly, grabbed the hefty suitcase he had stashed by the door, and got into the car. "Thanks for what you've done for me, Mr Bra.s.s," he said. "I won't forget it." The car pulled away.

Bra.s.s sighed. "Come on, Ellen," he said. "I've got my car around the corner. Get into something resembling street clothes, and I'll take you home,"

"Say, Mr Bra.s.s," she said. "I'm grateful for what you're doing for Sammy, and all. But I don't know if it would be right, I mean so soon "

"Take you home." Bra.s.s said, smiling a sad smile, "and leave you at the door. Honest."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I guess that's okay, then." And if she sounded slightly wistful, neither of them mentioned it on the drive home.

It was three days later that Deputy Commissioner Mapes called Bra.s.s at his office. "If I give you something," he boomed into the telephone, "can you keep it under your hat?"

"I have a very large hat," Bra.s.s a.s.sured the deputy commissioner.

"And when the time comes," Mapes continued, "you'll remember how to spell my name?"

"My word," Bra.s.s agreed. Which is, after all, largely how a column like Bra.s.s Tacks comes to be written: confidences kept and names spelled right.

"Meet me downstairs in ten minutes," Mapes told him. "There should be a large envelope waiting for me at the city editor's desk. Bring it down with you, if you don't mind."

It was closer to twenty minutes before the large open touring car pulled up in front of the World building. Bra.s.s clambered into the back seat, joining Deputy Commissioner Mapes, a burly man with a round face and a thick black mustache. "Sorry I'm late," Mapes said. "McWheeter kept me with last-second instructions and suggestions. The man can fidget and fuss more than two cats in a kettle." He beamed at Bra.s.s and waved the chauffeur onward. "Ready to fight crime?" he asked with a chortle as the car pulled out into traffic.

"Is that what we're doing?" Bra.s.s pa.s.sed Mapes the bulky manila envelope the city editor had given him.

Mapes held the envelope up with his left hand and tapped it with his right forefinger. "In here," he said, "are the photographs of forty-two members of the city government who might be the mysterious 'Mr Big.' We're going to spread them out before Sammy the Toad and see if he is able to point to one and say, his voice ringing with sincerity, 'That is the man to whom I've been paying three thousand dollars a week!'"

Bra.s.s took his silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket and waved it in Mapes's direction. Mapes shook his head. "I'm a cigar man," he said.

Bra.s.s selected a cigarette from the case with a care that suggested that one was somehow different from the others. He went through the routine of tapping it and lighting it and putting the case away. "McWheeter's not going to be able to put away Dutch Schultz, or Luciano, or Rothstein, or any of the other top, ah, liquor importers; you know that, don't you?"

"Are you suggesting that this is all an exercise in futility?" Mapes grinned. "Then you don't understand its true purpose."

Bra.s.s leaned back in the seat cus.h.i.+on. "Enlighten me," he said.

"Roosevelt's going to be running for president this next election, or the one after," Mapes said. "And Walker might be thinking of moving up himself. And the people who vote even the ones who are in favor of booze aren't fond of the murder and mayhem that's accompanying its delivery these days.

"This investigation is serving the dual purpose of convincing the voters that Roosevelt is a crime-busting governor, and pointing out to the rum runners that we don't give much of a d.a.m.n about bathtub gin or Canadian rye, but we don't approve of the killings that go with it."

"At last," Bra.s.s said, "an honest and cynical explanation that I can understand."

"Don't quote me," said Mapes.

Bra.s.s puffed on his cigarette. "Where have you got the Toad stashed?" he asked.

"Brooklyn," Mapes told him. "Out by Prospect Park. A hotel called the Staunton Arms. We have the whole eighth floor."

"Any problems?"

"Not a hint."

They chatted about this and that as the touring car crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and headed down Flatbush Avenue. As they turned right along Prospect Park Mapes pointed down the block. "There's the hotel," he said, "and d.a.m.n! Steve, pull over!"