Juvenile Delinquent Read online

  That didn’t necessarily mean they’d uncover any evidence concerning Bart Meyer’s murder, however. I was reasonably certain that if Buzz Thurmond actually had killed the boy and framed Joe Brighton for it, none of the Purple Pelicans knew anything about it. And unless one of the adults broke under questioning, there didn’t seem much likelihood of freeing young Joe without turning up actual evidence.

  Instead of seeking the safety of El Patio, I decided to stick my neck out a little more. The Bremmer Hotel seemed to me to be the logical place to stick it.

  The Bremmer Hotel was a three-story brick building on Ninth, at the very edge of the slum area. It was old, but it wasn’t a particularly disreputable-looking place. As a matter of fact it looked cleaner than most of the second-class office buildings and stores in the same neighborhood.

  The hotel lobby was a bare but relatively clean room with only the faintest odor of antiseptic about it. A skinny old man in his seventies, who seemed to be in a semi-stupor, slumped in an easy chair behind the desk. When I put both hands on the counter and attracted his attention with a difficult cough, he opened bleary eyes to look at me, struggled out of his chair and breathed stale wine in my face.

  “Single?” he asked.

  “Yes I am,” I admitted.

  For a moment he stared at me, then forced a dutiful chuckle. “Want a single room?” he asked patiently.

  “No thanks. I have a three-room apartment. Buzz Thurmond in?”

  He looked a little startled. “Buzz? He don’t live here.” At least the name was familiar to him, I thought. Which was more interesting than if Thurmond still made the hotel his residence. It seemed to indicate he frequented the place, and since it contained neither a bar nor a restaurant, there could only be three possible reasons for his visits. Either he patronized one of the girls, he had a friend who lived there, or he had business dealings with the hotel’s proprietor. Since it seemed doubtful that he’d use his own name if his visits were solely for the first reason, the odds narrowed to his visits stemming from one of the other two.

  “I know he doesn’t,” I said. “I just wondered if he was around.”

  The old desk clerk shook his head.

  “How about Al Levanthal?”

  This only got me a puzzled look.

  “Limpy Alfred,” I elaborated.

  The man looked startled for a second time. “He don’t live here neither, mister.”

  “Can I help you?” a smooth voice said to my back.

  Swinging around, I looked down at the moon-shaped face of Sherman Bremmer, the hotel’s proprietor.

  19

  I HAD to look down a full eight inches, because Bremmer was only about five feet four. His girth made up for his lack of height, however. He was built like a snowman: round pillars for legs, a round ball for a body, fat arms which hung at an outward angle because the shape of his body wouldn’t let them hang straight down, and a round head with tiny black eyes stuck into its face like bits of coal. A complexion resembling sooty snow helped the illusion.

  He didn’t change his expression when he saw who he had addressed, but his body momentarily grew rigid. Then he relaxed again.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Moon,” he said without enthusiasm. “May I do something for you?”

  “Possibly,” I said. “Got an office here somewhere?”

  Giving me a slight nod, he turned and waddled away toward a door at one corner of the lobby, his fat arms swinging back and forth exaggeratedly as he walked. I followed him through the door into a small and bare office containing little aside from a plain desk, two extra chairs and a safe. With some difficulty Bremmer squeezed his bulk into a chair behind the desk while I took one of the other chairs.

  “Cigar?” he asked, shoving a box toward me.

  I shook my head. As he lighted one himself, I examined the man. Though I had met him on a number of previous occasions, I had never had any dealings with him. However, I knew enough about him not to like him much. In underworld circles he was regarded as a smooth operator, which didn’t mean very much when you considered the general intelligence level of the underworld, where almost anyone who isn’t a complete moron is regarded as smart.

  Actually he wasn’t any more gifted with brains than most of his underworld associates. In place of intelligence he possessed a shrewd cunning sufficient to have kept him out of serious trouble so far, but he’d never be more than a small-time racketeer. In his own small puddle he was a big frog; in a syndicated town he wouldn’t even have been allowed polliwog status.

  Bremmer knew a little about me too, I imagined, and I doubted that he cared any more for me than I did for him. He’d always been polite, though, possibly because he’d heard of my phobia about known hoods like himself. When a mug is impolite to me, I have a tendency to become twice as impolite to him.

  When he had his cigar drawing to his satisfaction, the hotel proprietor blew an appreciative cloud of smoke and asked, “Now what can I do for you, Mr. Moon?”

  “I was looking for one of your employees,” I said. “Buzz Thurmond.”

  He elevated thick eyebrows. “Thurmond? He hasn’t worked here for years.”

  “I didn’t mean he worked at the hotel.”

  For a few moments he regarded me expressionlessly. Then he asked, “How else could he be an employee of mine?”

  I grinned at him. “Don’t be coy, Bremmer. The hotel business doesn’t represent even a fraction of your activities.”

  “No?” he asked politely. “What are my other activities?”

  “Well, to start with you have a squad of procurers for the girls you keep upstairs. Then you wholesale numbers tickets, act as intermediary between fences and retail outlets for stolen goods, have a few boys pushing reefers and H for you, and dabble with a little two-bit extortion. Have I missed anything?”

  When for an answer he only let the two little bits of coal he used for eyes glitter at me, I added, “Oh yes. You have some underlings organizing teenage clubs into juvenile gangs in order to increase the market for your dope peddlers and keep your fences supplied with merchandise. Where do I find Buzz Thurmond?”

  He remained silent for a long time, merely studying me contemplatively. Since he knew everything I had told him about himself, with the possible exception of his interest in teenage-gangs, was common underworld knowledge and was almost as well known to the police, apparently he decided not to bother denying it. I suppose he felt that as the cops had never been able to prove any of their suspicions, he shouldn’t feel too concerned over the suspicions of a mere private cop.

  “What do you want with Buzz?” he asked equably.

  “Nothing. He wants it with me. I heard he was looking for me, and I thought I’d save him the trouble.”

  He looked faintly puzzled. “Looking for you? Why?”

  “Tell me where to find him and I’ll ask him.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I haven’t the faint—” He broke off and a look of enlightenment suddenly grew in his small eyes, almost instantly to be suppressed again.

  “I really couldn’t say,” he said calmly.

  I grinned at him. “It just registered, eh? What happened? Buzz just refer to me as a private cop, and forget to mention my name?”

  He managed to get the puzzled expression on his face again, but this time it was obviously forced. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about, Mr. Moon.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, rising. “Thanks for the information, Bremmer.”

  I meant it. I now knew for sure that Buzz Thurmond’s boss was Sherman Bremmer, and that the order to get rid of me and Stub Carlson had come from the fat hotel proprietor. It seemed that he hadn’t even known who he was ordering killed when he issued his instructions, however. Either young Buddy Tipp had forgotten my name when he initially passed along to Buzz the information that a private detective knew all about his connection with the Purple Pelicans and hoped to pin a murder rap
on him, or Buzz had simply neglected to mention my name when he relayed the news to his boss.

  As I walked out of the office, Bremmer heaved himself out of his chair and followed me into his lobby.

  I was several feet away when he called, “Oh, Mr. Moon!”

  Stopping, I looked back inquiringly and waited for him to catch up. I was surprised to see how he had an ingratiating expression on his round face.

  “If you’re not in a hurry and would enjoy a little relaxation …” He let it trail off and looked at me expectantly.

  “What kind of relaxation?”

  He lifted his hands delicately. “A little, shall we say, feminine companionship?”

  I stared at him blankly. It was general knowledge, at least in underworld and police circles, that Bremmer used a squad of procurers who worked outside of the hotel to drum up business for his girls, so that in the event a plant by the police managed to sneak in, he could disclaim all knowledge that a prostitute had been operating in his hotel. Yet here he was opening himself wide to a procuring charge by personally soliciting business from a private cop he must have known had a reputation for co-operating with the police.

  Then I got it, and it was so glaringly obvious, it was almost funny. Now that he realized I was the private cop he had ordered killed, he hoped to detain me long enough to get Buzz Thurmond over here to perform the job. I’ve encountered enough racketeers over the years not to expect them to exhibit much intelligence, but still I am occasionally astonished at how stupid even the supposedly smart operators can be.

  Since I was as interested in meeting Buzz Thurmond as he was in meeting me, I decided to act as stupid as the hotel owner. To play him along I let a momentary light of interest glow in my eyes before I shook my head.

  “I’m not in the habit of buying it, Bremmer.”

  He gave an understanding nod. “Private supply, huh? But a little variety now and then …” He considered for a moment, then in a burst of generosity said, “For your first visit we could charge it to good will. Who knows? Maybe it would start you being a regular customer.”

  I pretended to do a little considering too. Then I smiled deprecatingly. “Don’t know why I should look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  This struck him as such a witty remark, he chuckled until his whole body shook. When he managed to regain control of himself, his elbow gave me a sly nudge and he urged me over to the desk.

  “The key to 301,” he ordered the ancient desk man, who was again collapsed in the easy chair.

  Rousing from his coma a second time, the old fellow handed over a key. Bremmer relayed it to me.

  “Just go on up and wait,” he instructed me. “Your friend will be along in a few minutes. What color would you like?”

  “White,” I said.

  He went into another paroxysm of laughter. “I mean blonde, brunette or redhead,” he said when he could speak again.

  I considered. “How about one of each?”

  With a regular audience of Sherman Bremmers I could have driven Jack Benny into retirement. I was the funniest comedian he’d ever heard. When he recovered from this hilarious gag, I decided to suppress my wit before he started rolling on the floor.

  “Just use your own judgment,” I told him.

  The Bremmer Hotel didn’t possess an elevator, so I had to climb two flights. I located room 301 without difficulty, unlocked the door and went in.

  It must have been one of the better rooms, possibly the bridal suite, because it possessed a private bath. But aside from that it wasn’t much like home. The bed was an old-fashioned brass one with a sag in the middle, the marble top of the ancient dresser was cracked and a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. The only item which might have been considered luxurious was a full-length mirror on the bathroom door, and even this was full of brown spots

  I discovered an excellent utilitarian purpose for the mirror. When I adjusted the door to a forty-five-degree angle, I could stand in the bathroom out of any possible line of fire and get a reflected view of the door to the hall.

  Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, I checked my P-38 to make sure I had a shell in the chamber, then reholstered it. For the next ten minutes I just sat there and waited for something to happen. At the end of that time something did.

  A light knock came at the door.

  20

  STICKING my head out of the bathroom, I called, “Come in.”

  Then I drew back and watched the reflection in the mirror.

  In the outer room the knob turned and the door slowly opened. But to my surprise it wasn’t Buzz Thurmond who entered. Bremmer had actually sent a girl.

  She was a voluptuous redhead in a skin-tight green dress, and she carried a tray containing a bottle of liquor and all the fixings necessary to mix drinks. I had left the key in the door, and the minute she was inside she locked it behind her.

  Then she looked around and said, “Where are you?”

  Walking out of the bathroom, I said, “Hi.”

  She looked me over critically before setting the loaded tray on the dresser. Then she decided to smile.

  “You’re no Robert Taylor,” she said. “But you’re not bad in an ugly sort of way.”

  I looked her over too. She was probably only in her mid-twenties, but already she was beginning to show the inevitable effects of her career. She had an excellent figure and rather nice features, with full lips and a cute little nose, but pancake makeup couldn’t hide the premature crowsfeet at her eye corners. Nor was she able to put much life into the professional smile on her face.

  I said, “You’re no Marilyn Monroe, but you’re not bad either in an un-ugly sort of way.”

  Checking the tray, I discovered it contained a bowl of ice cubes, a bottle of soda, two glasses, a mixing rod, a bottle opener and a half-full quart of Mount Vernon.

  “How’d Bremmer know my brand?” I asked.

  “He didn’t. He just happened to have some rye around. You a rye drinker?”

  “With water,” I said.

  I went into the bathroom with one of the glasses and ran it half full of water. When I returned the girl had uncorked the rye and uncapped the soda.

  As I mixed drinks for both of us, she said, “My name’s Betty.”

  “Mine’s Manny.”

  She raised her glass and we each took a small sip. Then she walked into the bathroom, still carrying her drink. Silently I walked out into the center of the room, where I could see her reflection in the full-length mirror.

  She turned one of the taps on to drown out the gurgle and emptied her drink into the sink, fishing the ice out again and returning it to her glass when the glass was empty.

  Thoughtfully I looked at my own drink. Glancing about the room, I could see nothing to pour it into. Finally I went over to the bed, pulled back the covers and dumped it into the sag in the middle. Then I drew the covers back up again.

  When Betty came out of the bathroom I had returned to my previous position next to the dresser. Just inside the room she posed for a moment in order to give me a chance to admire her.

  “Very becoming,” I said politely.

  She moved over closer to me. “I guess we’re both quick drinkers,” she said, eyeing my empty glass. She thrust hers at me. “How about a refill?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Pouring rye into both glasses, I added ice, let soda trickle into hers and carried mine into the bathroom for water.

  As I turned on the cold-water tap, I glanced in the door mirror and saw that Betty was standing so that I could see only the tip of one shoulder. Since I couldn’t see her face, I figured she couldn’t see my reflection.

  Dumping my drink into the bowl, I fished the ice out again just as Betty had and returned it to my glass. Then I walked out into the room smacking my lips. The girl’s second drink stood untouched on the dresser.

  When I set down my empty glass, she said, “You must have a hollow leg. Want another?”

  Before answering her I l
et my eyes droop momentarily, then popped them open forcibly and shook my head.

  “I don’t think so,” I said in a slightly thick voice. “Those kind of knocked me for a loop. I must have downed them too fast.”

  “Let’s lie on the bed and I’ll wake you up,” she suggested. She moved closer and gazed up at me with practiced invitation.

  I shook my head again. “The bed’s all wet. It wouldn’t be comfortable.”

  “What?” she asked puzzledly.

  “I poured my first drink in it,” I explained. “The second one went down the sink.”

  Her expression turned uncertain, then as she continued to study my face the uncertainty changed to alarm.

  “I … I don’t know what you mean,” she said weakly.

  “I prefer my rye without chloral hydrate.”

  “What’s … what’s that?”

  “The chemical name for a Mickey Finn,” I said. “The stuff Bremmer added to the rye before he sent you up here.”

  Dipping my hand under my coat, I produced my P-38 and pointed the muzzle at her stomach.

  In a pleasant tone, but without any expression whatever on my face, I said, “Just pick up your drink and knock it off, Betty. I’ll give you three seconds to kill it all. If the whole thing isn’t down you by then, what is down you is going to begin to leak out.”

  Her eyes grew enormous and she stared from the gun to my face. What she saw there must have frightened her, because she grabbed up her glass and drained it without even stopping for breath.

  “Now pour another shot and toss it off straight,” I ordered.

  She had slowly turned pale as an albino and her eyes were now the size of saucers. “I’d … I’d sleep for a week,” she whispered.

  “Well, if you’d rather have bullet …” I said indifferently. I let my finger whiten on the trigger.

  Apparently she didn’t know much about guns, because if she had she would have known she wasn’t in any danger as long as I kept the safety on. It’s a little dangerous to apply even gentle pressure to the trigger of a cocked automatic, and I didn’t care to chance accidentally blowing a hole in such a pretty tummy, even after its owner had tried to dope me. My expression must have convinced her that was about to happen, however. She grabbed the bottle, slopped the rye into her glass and tossed it off almost in one continuous motion.