Juvenile Delinquent Page 14

  I put my gun away and asked, “What were the plans after I passed out, Betty? Were you just supposed to leave me here and tell Bremmer things were all set?”

  She shook her head dully.

  I took her by the shoulders and she looked up at me fearfully. “I think you’d better tell me, Betty,” I advised gently. “That way you’ll just have a little sleep and won’t get hurt otherwise. You don’t want to get hurt, do you?”

  She shook her head again, let her head droop and began to sniffle.

  In a low voice she said, “He gave me a half hour. Then he was coming up and knock. If everything was okay, I’d let him in. Otherwise he’d just make some excuse and go away again. That’s all I know about it. I don’t know what he meant to do to you after you were out. Honest.”

  Transferring one hand to her elbow, I led her over to the bed. “Better lie on this side,” I said. “It’s a little wet in the middle.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she looked up at me from eyes already beginning to glaze. I took her shoulders and gently eased her back on the pillow. When she pulled her legs up on the bed, I took off her shoes and laid them on the floor.

  She continued to look up at me, her eyes growing duller and duller. After about five minutes they slowly closed and she began to snore. The snoring changed to merely heavy breathing when I rolled her over on her side, facing out toward the center of the room.

  After that there was nothing to do but wait. I tried the view from the lone window, but all I could see was the brick wall of the building next door. Reading the hotel rates and regulations posted on the inside of the door used up about five minutes. And a blotter pad on the dresser top contained a number of advertisements which made interesting reading for another five.

  I had gotten around to admiring myself in the mirror when a soft knock finally came at the door.

  Drawing my gun, I unlocked the door and pulled it open with my left hand. Sherman Bremmer stood there alone, his empty hands at his sides.

  “Come in,” I invited.

  His small eyes grew big at sight of the gun and his mouth popped open.

  “What …” he started to say.

  “Come in,” I repeated, and clicked off the safety.

  He entered hurriedly. I gave him a shove toward the center of the room, and while he was busy recovering his balance, I made a quick jump into the hall. When I saw no one else in sight, I came back in just as quickly, pushed the door shut and locked it.

  Bremmer had come to a halt a few feet from the bed. He was licking his lips and gazing at the unconscious redhead.

  “I hope it was only chloral hydrate you put in the whisky,’ I told him. “Was it?”

  He only stared at me and licked his lips again.

  “Where’s Buzz?” I asked him. “Waiting downstairs for the all clear?”

  “I … I don’t know what you mean.”

  Centering my gun on his stomach, I let my face grow expressionless and slowly increased the trigger pressure. It was a ticklish thing to do, because this time the safety wasn’t on. But though I have an aversion to shooting unarmed men in cold blood, even accidentally, it wouldn’t have upset me nearly as much to have the gun unexpectedly go off while it was pointed at Bremmer as it would have to have put a hole in the redheaded girl. Also I suspected Bremmer was too familiar with guns for me to work a bluff with the safety on.

  Apparently he was familiar enough with them to know even an expert can’t always exactly control trigger pressure, and he was in danger of catching a bullet in the stomach accidentally even if I happened to be bluffing. Throwing both hands in front of him palm forward, the fat man backed until his knees caught the room’s sole easy chair. He sat heavily, his hands still up before him to ward off the expected bullet.

  “Don’t!” he squeaked. “For God’s sake, don’t!”

  “Where’s Thurmond?” I asked.

  “In my office,” he managed to whisper. “But it’s not what you think. I swear …”

  “Shut up,” I cut him off.

  Relaxing my trigger pressure, I crossed to the dresser and poured one of the tumblers half full of rye. Taking it over to him, I thrust the glass under his nose.

  “You’ve got a choice,” I informed him. “Gulp this down in two swallows, or take a bullet in the guts. Don’t strain my patience by stretching it to three swallows.”

  He stared up at me fascinatedly until I let my expression become a little resigned and at the same time steadied the gun on his stomach again. Then he quickly reached out, grabbed the glass from my hand and drained the contents in two shuddering gulps. He gasped and wheezed for several seconds afterward, but he managed to keep it down.

  I estimated Bremmer had consumed about one and half times as much rye as the girl, but he possessed more than one and a half times as much bulk. However, either the girl had higher resistance to dope, or you aren’t supposed to figure chloral hydrate dosage according to body weight.

  By my watch it was only four and a half minutes until the hotel proprietor dropped off to slumber still sitting in the chair.

  21

  I CHECKED the hall carefully before I stepped out of the room, but no one was in sight. I locked the door behind me.

  I also went down the stairs carefully, my hand on the butt of my gun in case Buzz Thurmond had grown tired of waiting in Bremmer’s office and was on his way up to investigate the delay. But I might as well have strolled down to the lobby with my hands in my pockets insofar as any danger was concerned. I didn’t encounter a soul.

  Behind the desk the old man was sleeping as soundly as Betty and the hotel proprietor were sleeping upstairs. I laid the key to 301 on his desk without disturbing him.

  No one was in the lobby, but as I started toward Bremmer’s office, the street door opened and a man came in. I paused to glance at him, he glanced at me too, then looked away without interest and crossed to the desk.

  He was a thin, timid-looking man of middle age with gray hair, a weak chin and an arthritic gait. I guessed he was one of the permanent residents.

  Since he looked about as formidable as a senile mouse, I turned my back on him and continued toward Bremmer’s office.

  A moment later I got my first view of the man I had heard so much about. He was seated behind Sherman Bremmer’s desk, his feet on its top, reading a newspaper.

  Buzz Thurmond had changed considerably during the eight years since the photographs on his police record card had been taken, but he was still recognizable as the same man. His description at age twenty-two had listed his weight at two hundred and six; I guessed it now as two fifty. His thick-featured face was also much heavier than it had been in the photographs, but it had the same strong jaw and the same sullen expression.

  Peeking over his paper at me, he said, “If you’re looking for Bremmer, he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “I’m looking for you,” I said.

  Dropping his feet to the floor, he folded the paper and carefully laid it on a corner of the desk, all the time peering at me with a mixture of suspicion and puzzlement. Not having the advantage of having seen my picture in a rogues’ gallery as I had seen his, apparently he didn’t even suspect I was the man who was supposed to be stretched out cold in room 301.

  “You’re Buzz Thurmond, aren’t you?”

  He nodded warily.

  “I’m Manny Moon,” I told him chummily. “Heard you were looking for me.”

  His body became completely still. Both hands were flat on the desk top, but after a moment the right one started to drift off. I shook my head at him.

  “You’re in too awkward a position, Buzz You’d be full of holes before you even touched it. We’ll have a little gun duel if you like, but I’d prefer just to talk.”

  His hand stopped its movement and he licked his lips. “What you want?” he asked huskily.

  “Just a little conversation. First why you felt you had to stir the Purple Pelicans up against Stub Carlson. Then about the announc
ement you made to the club that you’d take care of me. If you’re still conscious when we finish those subjects, we’ll talk about Bart Meyer’s murder.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What you mean, still conscious?”

  “I wouldn’t expect a crumb who steers kids into dope addiction and crime to talk freely without a little persuasion,” I explained. “Matter of fact, I’d be a bit disappointed if you did.”

  I reached behind me to push the door shut, but instead my hand encounted rough cloth. This startled me, but not enough to make any sudden moves. Cautiously I pressed against the cloth and discovered a thin leg beneath it.

  After that I wasn’t terribly surprised to feel a gun muzzle press into my back.

  “Put your hands on top of your head,” a thin voice said in my ear.

  I put my hands on top of my head.

  “You got here just in time, Limpy,” Buzz Thurmond said, coming to his feet. “This is that Moon character I was telling you and Bremmer about.”

  Moving forward, he relieved me of my P-38 and patted my pockets for other weapons.

  “He’s clean,” he finally decided.

  The gun in my back shoved me forward and I heard the door close.

  “Okay, Buster,” the thin voice said. “You can turn around now.”

  I turned around and looked at the gray-haired man who had entered the lobby just as I started for the office. I felt a little silly for having walked right past Limpy Alfred Levanthal after having seen his picture and having studied his description. But this hadn’t been quite as stupid as it sounds, because even after I knew who he was, he looked nothing like I had imagined he would.

  Aside from his slight build and receding chin there was little resemblance between the two-year-old photographs in his file and the man himself. The features were the same, of course, but the police pictures had shown a sinister-looking man with a gash for a mouth and the expression of an habitual criminal. This must have been a trick of photography, for he actually resembled Caspar Milquetoast without a mustache. Nor could his halting gait properly be described as a limp. It was more a stiff manner of walking, as though he had general arthritis instead of merely a game leg.

  On top of everything else he looked fifty-five instead of the forty-two he was. In the pictures his hair hadn’t even been gray.

  “What’s the deal?” Limpy Alfred asked Thurmond.

  The big man shrugged. “Bremmer was supposed to have the guy Mickey Finned up in room 301. He’d gone up to make sure he was out, and I was waiting for him to come back and for you to show up when Moon walked in here and started spouting off.

  You know as much about how he got out of that room as I do.”

  Limpy Alfred said, “Maybe we better check what goes on upstairs.”

  Buzz Thurmond went first, checking the lobby to make sure it was clear. When he announced that it was, the gray-haired man gestured me ahead of him with his gun.

  The ancient room clerk still slept behind the desk when we went by, and we encountered no one either on the stairs or in the third-floor hall. When we reached room 301, Thurmond tried the knob.

  “It’s locked,” he said.

  Limpy Alfred curtly ordered, “Get up the key, Moon.”

  I said, “I turned it in at the desk.”

  Both of them looked at me with faint exasperation.

  “You knew we were coming up here,” Thurmond complained.

  I grinned at him. “Why should I make your job easier?”

  “Go get the key,” the gray-haired man ordered Thurmond. “I’ll see that Buster doesn’t go anywhere.”

  With a scowl at me, the big man walked away down the hall. Limpy Alfred stood a careful four feet away from me, his pistol unwaveringly leveled at my belt buckle. I wondered what he’d do if some tenant unexpectedly stepped out into the hall, but the possibility didn’t seem to disturb Limpy Alfred, for he made no attempt to make the gun inconspicuous. I decided that considering the type of clientele the Bremmer Hotel catered to, there probably was little chance of anything happening even if some tenant did see us. Probably he’d simply walk by without even looking surprised.

  In a few minutes Thurmond returned with the key, puffing from his extra climb. When he had opened the door and entered the room, Limpy Alfred prodded me in after him.

  Both men thoughtfully regarded the sleeping girl and the sleeping hotel owner.

  “Looks like Bremmer’s Mickey Finn idea backfired,” Limpy Alfred commented with mild amusement.

  Buzz Thurmond wasn’t amused. “What in the devil are we supposed to do now?” he asked. “Bremmer didn’t tell me what he wanted done with this guy.”

  “I thought he wanted him bumped?”

  “Not here, he didn’t,” Thurmond said. “He had it figured where he wanted us to take him, but he didn’t get around to telling me. He said he’d outline it to both of us after you got here.”

  I said, “He can’t tell you now. Guess we’d better call the whole thing off.”

  Ignoring me, Limpy Alfred said, “Why not just take him out somewhere and dump him?”

  Thurmond shook his head. “I think Bremmer had some kind of plan to frame it like an accident. Or maybe frame somebody he didn’t like for it.”

  “Like you framed Joe Brighton for the Bart Meyers kill?” I asked.

  Both of them looked at me.

  “Why don’t you just shut up?” Thurmond inquired in an irritated voice.

  Limpy Alfred said, “I guess all we can do is wait for him to sleep it off. How long you think he’ll be out?”

  Thurmond shrugged. “Depends on how much stuff Moon made him drink.” He turned to me, opened his mouth and closed it again. “Damned if I’ll ask the smart apple and get another of his silly answers.”

  He looked at a gold wrist watch. “It’s three-thirty now. The way he’s sleeping, I don’t guess he’ll stir before dark anyway.”

  “I have a dinner engagement,” I said. “Maybe I’d better leave and come back later on.”

  Again I was ignored. Stiffly Limpy Alfred walked over to the dresser and examined the bottle of Mount Vernon. Approximately a half pint remained in the bottle.

  “This the stuff?” he asked Thurmond.

  “I don’t know.” He looked at me. “Is it?”

  “Naw,” I said. “The knockout drops are in the soda. That’s pretty good whisky. Let’s all have a couple of snorts for old times’ sake.”

  “That’s the stuff,” Thurmond told Limpy Alfred.

  Still keeping his gun on me, the gray-haired man uncorked the bottle with his left hand, sniffed at it then poured about four ounces in a tumbler. Bringing the glass across the room, he handed it to me.

  “You’re going to take a little nap,” he informed me. “You can take it this way, or get a gun barrel bent over your head. Take your pick.”

  I considered the two alternatives with equal lack of enthusiasm. “Why can’t we just all play pinochle until Bremmer wakes up?”

  Thurmond said, “For God’s sake, just belt the guy and shut him up, Limpy.”

  When Limpy Alfred’s expression indicated he was about to do just that, I said hurriedly, “I’ll take the Mickey Finn.”

  Both men watched as I slowly raised the glass to my lips. “Do I have to drink it all?” I asked.

  “Every last drop,” Limpy said. “Bottoms up.”

  “Thanks. Cheers to you too.”

  I filled my mouth with whisky, which half emptied the glass, then lowered the glass as though I intended to take it in two swallows with a recovery interval in between.

  When nobody seemed to have any objection to this, I spurted the whisky in my mouth straight into Limpy Alfred’s eyes.

  As he staggered backward, blinded, I pivoted and shot the liquid remaining in the glass at Buzz Thurmond’s face. But his reactions were too fast. He jerked his head to one side and the stream passed over his shoulder to land in Sherman Bremmer’s lap.

  As Buzz’s hand darted under his coat, I t
hrew the now empty glass like a baseball. This time he didn’t move his head fast enough. The tumbler clanged against his forehead, ricocheted against the wall and shattered. Buzz stumbled backward and sat heavily in Bremmer’s lap.

  I shot a quick glance at Limpy Alfred, saw he was standing with his eyes squeezed shut, rubbing at them with a handkerchief, and returned my attention to Thurmond. Half stunned, he was groggily dragging a gun from under his arm.

  Taking a step forward, I belted him on the jaw.

  His lantern-shaped jaw looked as hard as a rock, but it must have been glass. He slid to the floor off Bremmer’s lap as cold as though he too had been Mickey Finned.

  But in the three or four seconds it had taken me to dispose of Thurmond, his cohort apparently managed to wipe enough whisky from his eyes to regain at least blurred vision. As I started to swing toward Limpy Alfred, his gun barrel caught me behind the right ear.

  22

  THE first time I awoke it was still daylight. When I opened my eyes such a blinding pain surged from behind my right ear to the top of my head, I could see nothing but swimming colored lights in which a golden red predominated. The pain continued unabated, but gradually the lights slowed down and took the shape of definite objects.

  The golden red became a mass of red hair tumbled across white shoulders inches in front of me. My gaze painfully traveled down a slim bare back to rounded hips encased in green.

  It took me a few more minutes to orient myself, but then I realized I was lying on the bed next to the unconscious Betty. For some reason I couldn’t move my hands from behind my back and I was vaguely aware that my left knee felt wet.

  I had reached the point of figuring out that my knee rested in the center of the sag where I had poured my first drink when the pain in my head built to such an unbearable level I drifted off into unconsciousness again.