“You’re too big to pick on kids anyway,” I said. “Heard how Burglary et al are making out with their catch?”
“Pretty good, I guess,” Day said sourly. “They found Krebb’s house loaded with stolen stuff and got a confession from him on receiving stolen property. Claims he didn’t know it was stolen, of course, and can’t remember the names of the boys who brought it in. Not because he’s trying to protect them. He’s just afraid the kids will break down and implicate him even worse.”
The pushers’ apartments also yielded a good supply of reefers and heroin, Warren Day told me. Buzz Thurmond gave the inspector the impression he was telling the truth, and didn’t have anything to do with Bart Meyers’ killing.
“I got the feeling Thurmond was lying about everything else but the murder,” Day said. Then, he added grudgingly, “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve requested the D.A. to hold off asking for an indictment against young Brighton until we’ve gone over the Bremmer gang.”
That was some consolation anyway, I thought as I left the inspector’s office. But not much. I wouldn’ have admitted it to Warren Day, but I had a healthy respect for his ability to judge the veracity of suspects.
16
After leaving the Inspector’s office, I had a few words with Joe Brighton in the detention cells. He looked listless and dispirited. When he saw me, he swung his feet to the floor and gripped his knees with his large-knuckled hands.
“Get me out of here, Uncle Manny,” he said in a low voice. “For God’s sake, get me out of here!”
I told him I was doing my best and let him know about the gang’s capture. Briefly I told him what had happened since I last saw him, and that there was an outside chance Homicide might pin Bart Meyers’ murder on the gang.
“It would help if we could establish opportunity for Thurmond or some other member of the gang to have gotten hold of that hunting knife,” I said. “You ever mention it to him or to any members of the Purple Pelicans?”
“I never even knew Dad owned it. Honest, Uncle Manny. I never saw it in my life until the night I found it sticking out of Bart’s chest.”
I only stayed a few minutes, having stopped by just to see how he was getting on, and not because I wanted anything in particular. When I left I told him to hang on to hope a couple of more days, as by then Warren Day should have made up his mind definitely as to whether or not Bremmer’s gang was responsible for Bart Meyers’ death.
It was shortly after two-thirty when I got back to my flat. I had hardly entered when the phone rang. Dave O’Brien was on the other end. He told me the whole neighborhood knew that Buzz Thurmond and his gang were in jail, and were worried about being pulled in themselves. With the gang in this mood, it seemed to me a good time to talk to them, and Dave O’Brien arranged the meeting.
The Purple Pelicans were strangely subdued when I arrived in the club room. The boy who had tried to knife me sat as quietly as the rest, and it looked as though most of the members were present, either seated on folding chairs or on the benches around the walls.
I let them know that I’d consider my experience with them past history, and start fresh. “I think by now most of you boys must realize you were suckered into making that play. Is there anyone here who doesn’t by now know that Buzz Thurmond deliberately worked you up into a mob in order to block my investigation into Bart Meyers’ murder?”
There were a few mutters, but no one said anything aloud.
I explained that Bremmer’s gang had been arrested for offenses ranging from possession of stolen property to pushing narcotics. “The police seized plenty of narcotics as evidence, but what really concerns you is the stolen property since you all know, and I know, and the police suspect, that most of it came from members of this club.”
I paused and the group shifted uneasily.
“However, I doubt that the police will be able to break down the fences and implicate you boys,” I said.
There was a murmur of mingled surprise and relief.
“But not because any of them give a hoot in Hades what happens to you,” I said brutally. “They won’t give your names only because you’re just a bunch of kids, and they know you’ll squeal back. Right now they’re only hooked for possession. They know that once the cops got hold of you, they’d be hooked for everything from conspiracy to commit burglary to contributing to the delinquency of minors. So if you’re tempted to admire your adult pals for not breaking, forget it.”
I stressed that they’d been suckers for a gang which made one-third of their members dope addicts, to widen the market for their pushers, and were advised on burglaries in order to drum up business for the gang’s fences. I finished up by telling them that Stub Carlson would be home in a day or so, and that I’d beat the living hell out of the instigator if there was any ganging up on him such as happened before. If they were sore with him for telling me club secrets, they could take him on one at a time. Stub was a big boy and could take care of himself that way.
I asked them if they had any questions. No one had. I made the trip across the room in dead silence until I was within feet of the stairs, then somebody gave a tentative clap.
That set it off, and the kids began to applaud as though I had sung like Mario Lanza instead of bawling the hell out of them.
I grinned, gave them a wave and started up the stairs.
17
The next day I stopped by headquarters in the afternoon to check how Homicide was making out with its interrogations. The results were depressing.
Back in the inspector’s office, I asked, “Think there’s any hope?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think he’s guilty. Or anybody else in the gang. They were after you because you threatened their rackets, not because you were digging into the murder.”
“So what’s the situation on Joe Brighton now?”
“What do you think?” he growled. “The D.A.’s going ahead and ask for an indictment.”
When I left headquarters I was more irked than I was discouraged. I was personally convinced of Joe Brighton’s innocence, which meant there had to be evidence of it somewhere. The only thing to do was continue digging.
One phase of the thing I hadn’t looked into was young Joe’s theory that he had been framed by the Gravediggers. I’d skipped it because it seemed such an unlikely possibility it hardly seemed worth checking. But with the probability of pinning the killing on Buzz Thurmond growing more remote by the minute, it was time to look into even unlikely possibilities.
Another point I hadn’t managed to make any progress on was the identity of the girl who had phoned the police at about the time Bart was killed and reported a reefer party in progress at the club room. Turning her up might answer a lot of questions.
I checked with Stella Quint and Ruth Zimmerman again, but got nowhere. Stella was no longer listless and her thoughts seemed to have stopped turning inward at least enough for her to be aware of her surroundings. When I asked if she had ever heard any rumors about who the girl who had phoned the police might be, she said she had heard some speculation about it, but nobody seemed to know.
Ruth Zimmerman had apparently thrust out of her mind everything connected with the murder just as she had thrust Joe Brighton out of it, for she had to concentrate a moment before she figured out what I was talking about. “Oh, you mean the girl who said she was Joe’s girl friend,” she said. “She had some nerve. I asked everybody in the auxiliary. Not a one of the girls even knew what. I was talking about. I bet there never was such a girl.”