The Case of the Exploding Speakeasy

by David E. Fessenden

  Hoff gave a grimace. “You mean that idiot Jones? What does he know? I suppose he told you that I had him rubbed out.” He paused to light a cigar. After a few tentative puffs, he blew a smoke ring into the air. I watched it float, slowly undulating outside the circle of light shed by the bare bulb overhead. Then he stared at me again, trying to read my facial expression. “He did tell you I killed him, didn’t he? What a jerk! As if I’d be stupid enough to bump off one of my best customers.”

  “Was Ragan paying you regularly? Was he giving you a hard time about the quality of your hooch? Maybe you bumped him off, and you’re trying to use me as an alibi.” As soon as it came out of my mouth, I knew I had said the wrong thing.

  Again Hoff paced back and forth in front of me several times, and I watched the line of his jaw harden—discernible even when he stepped out of the overhead bulb’s circle of light. “You know, Watson,” he said after a long pause, “I’m gonna let that go because I know you’re a reporter, and you have to ask insulting questions if you want to get anything out of people. But put yourself in my shoes. Ragan was a moneymaker for me. And as long as you asked, yeah, he was payin’ me regular, and yeah, he was happy with the quality of my booze—as if the bozos that frequented his place would notice the difference!” My two guards snickered.

  “I’ll even tell you something not too many people know, Watson. Ragan was my business partner. I owned a piece of his place, and now it’s shut down—a wasted investment. Kill him? I’d be crazy to do that. I wanna find the guy that killed him because it cost me a lot of dough.” He absentmindedly stabbed his spent cigar into the post he had been leaning against. It was festooned with many dark circles where he had apparently put out a legion of stogies.

  All this talk of killing did nothing to calm my nerves, but it suddenly reminded me that I did have a suspect—an apparent hit man—and I needed to identify him. Who would be more likely to know a hired gun than Boo-Boo Hoff? “May I ask you just one more question, Mr. Hoff? It could aid my investigation.”

  He lit another cigar, gave a few tentative puffs, then said out of the corner of his mouth, “Go ahead, sport. I’m at your disposal.”

  “Do you know anyone with the nickname of ‘Painless’?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Well, he was a fairly regular player at Ragan’s card game, but he was not there on the night of the explosion.” I searched the gangster up and down in a vain attempt to see if this information produced a reaction.

  Hoff scratched his chin, took a few steps away, then swung around abruptly and faced me, the smoke from his cigar trailing behind him like a ribbon. “Conspicuous by his absence, ya mean? Think he might be the killer?”

  “I really couldn’t say. All I know is, he’s a loose end I’m following. So the name doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “Nah, but that don’t mean nothin’.” He paused and looked at me with a rather shy smile. No doubt about it. He had the innocent routine down pat. “You want the truth? I called Ragan a friend, and I invested in his club, but I didn’t really know him that well. It don’t pay to get too close to anybody in this business. After all, how should I know who Ragan played cards with? He just bought booze from me. It ain’t exactly like we was on the same social register!”

  That last remark brought forth a burst of laughter from the two muscle-bound sentries. I heard McLoon cackle over my shoulder and say, “That’s a good one, boss.”

  Hoff’s smile faded and his jaw tightened. “Watson, you just keep that hound-dog nose of yours on the trail, and you’ll pick up the scent. And when you find this ‘Painless,’ or whoever killed Harry, you just let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

  He leaned against a post and flicked a bit of ash on the floor. Then he stood to face me again, with one hand on his hip and the other batting the air for emphasis, the stogie lodged between two fingers.

  “Yessir, we’ll make a great team—you find the guy, and I’ll finish the job.”

  I stared down at the floor. Great, just great. Not only was I supposed to find the killer—I was also to be his executioner!

  “Mr. Hoff, assuming I can really find the killer, why do you need to ‘take care of it’? I don’t mean to be telling you your business, but don’t you think it would be best all around to just let the authorities handle it?”

  Hoff shook his head at me indulgently, as a clump of cigar ash dislodged itself and lazily floated down near his feet. I suddenly felt like he and Mycroft had been comparing notes.

  “You’re a sharp guy, but you’re in over your head, kid. Once you finger this guy, he’s gonna be after you. Your life won’t be worth a plugged nickel. Let me know first—before you tell the cops.”

  “You—ahh—make a convincing argument, sir.” My right leg started shaking involuntarily, so I grabbed my knee to hold it still. I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could stand. “How am I supposed to contact you?”

  “You just stop in at the Broadway Athletic Club and tell ’em you’ve got a message for Max. I’ll be in touch.” Hoff turned and faced the two bruisers. “Now you guys give Mr. Watson a nice ride back downtown—or wherever he wants to go. He’s a friend of mine, so you treat him right—or you’re gonna hear from me.” And he stalked back into the dark recesses of the building.

  I stood up slowly—and a bit wobbly. McLoon slapped me on the leg and laughed. “Mr. Watson, I wanna shake your hand.”

  I bent down and shook his hand gravely. With a sloppy grin on his face, he didn’t look half as creepy. “Thank you, Mr. McLoon.”

  “Hey, you just call me Hugh. Any friend of Boo-Boo’s is a friend of mine. And stop by my place anytime—the Dry Saloon, at Tenth and Cuthbert. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  I walked out of the building with my entourage and managed to make it to the car without fainting. One of the big men held open the back door, and McLoon climbed in beside me. As we headed back downtown, the little man regaled me with story after story of his experiences with the Athletics.

  CHAPTER 14

  I let the driver drop me off at the same street corner they picked me up on. After all, I still had to pick up my pay at the Herald. I probably should have asked them to take me home, but I didn’t want to tell them where I lived. Of course, they probably already knew—an unsettling thought that flip-flopped in my stomach.

  Charlie Rosenbaum sat with his feet propped on his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, and the newly-minted edition of the day’s paper spread out before him. I never understood why he read the paper during the late-afternoon lull between daily editions—after all, as editor, he must have already read and re-read every word of it anyway. I was glad, however, to catch him in the lull before the storm.

  “I’m here to pick up my pay, Charlie,” I said as blandly as I could. I don’t know whom I thought I was fooling, but I wanted to make it look like getting fired was no big deal, like I was an idle rich man and couldn’t care less.

  “Oh, Watson—just the man I wanted to see!” Who was this guy? He looked like Charlie, but he sure didn’t act like him. He was even smiling!

  “You haven’t found another job yet, have you?”

  “Well, no, but my inheritance should give me some time to find a new one.” That’s right, Watson, give him the idea you really are independently wealthy. He doesn’t have to know that the initial inheritance check is mostly spent.

  “Oh, well, forget it then. I was going to give you another chance, but if you’re not interested—”

  “Of course I’m interested. You mean I’m hired again?”

  “Not so fast. But you keep snooping around. Maybe you can come up with a new angle on the speakeasy story. Then we’ll talk about giving you your old job back.”

  Snooping around? That was the same phrase Hoff had used. Had he gotten to Charlie somehow? Could this be what Hoff meant by “helping out”?

  I folded my a
rms and stared at Charlie. “What’s going on here? Why the sudden change of heart?”

  He chuckled. “No reason. No reason at all. I just want to let you have another try at it.”

  My skepticism must have shown on my face, because he coughed and spoke in a more characteristic tone. “Look, Jones’s story on the explosion was dull as dirt, and the other papers are asking questions. The Inquirer somehow caught the tail end of your waiter’s story with the part about the angry face in the keyhole. They think there’s more to this than a typical mob hit.”

  So now it’s not considered a typical mob hit. Funny, I thought I had heard that somewhere before. And of course the story was dull, after Jones chopped out all the details from the first-person account that Basil supplied. “Hmm. Maybe the Inquirer might be interested in my story.”

  “Now, don’t go peddling this to some other paper—we’ve got an exclusive on this.”

  “You had an exclusive—until you let Jones butcher my story and then fired me.”

  “If you’re waiting for an apology, you’re not going to get it. But if you can provide me with a story by the first of the week, we’ll talk about giving you your old job back.”

  “I don’t want my old job back. I want a position as a full-fledged reporter, and not some glorified copy boy that has to write obits all the time.”

  “Yeah, fine, sure. We’ll talk. Just get me that story and we’ll talk.” He reached into a drawer in his desk and flung a packet at me. “Here’s your pay. Now get outta here.”

  I ran to catch the 5:00 p.m. trolley to Germantown.

  Even the long ride home was not enough to settle my nerves. Reverting to my British roots, I considered stopping at a diner for a cup of tea, but I knew I’d just end up being disappointed in the dishwater Americans call tea. Besides, I had bills to pay and I needed every dime I had. I’d already spent too much on trolley fare. I had no other choice but to walk the six blocks to the old apartment and hope that Basil and Mycroft hadn’t packed up the kitchen yet.

  Imagine my surprise when Larry Jones stepped off the trolley with me! The last person I wanted to see.

  “Watson, old pal!” Jones grabbed me around the shoulders, like he was glad to see me. What could he possibly want?

  “Jones, what are you doing here? Are you following me?”

  “No, no, I just thought I’d pay you a visit, though it occurred to me that, even though I notice you take the Route 23 trolley every night, I don’t really know where you live.”

  “Perhaps that’s because I’ve never told you.” I eyed him suspiciously. “What’s your angle, Jones?”

  “Heh, heh, Watson, how many times have I told you not to use American slang—it just sounds so ridiculous coming out of your mouth. But you are right, I do have an ulterior motive.” He leaned close to me, close enough that I could tell he’d had liver and onions for lunch. “I just want to see where you live. After all, since you were fired, how else can I collect on our bet unless I know how to get hold of you?”

  After being strong-armed by Boo-Boo Hoff and his goons, I was through being intimidated. “Jones, I ought to lay my fist right across your nose! How dare you imply that I’d welch on a bet?”

  Jones seemed a bit offended and lost some of his bluster, but he recovered quickly. “Then you won’t mind showing me where you live?”

  “Not at all.” Actually I did mind, but I couldn’t help smiling to myself when I remembered that I was taking him to the apartment I was about to move out of.

  Jones followed me right to the door and waited until I unlocked it and stepped inside. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you, if I don’t ask you in,” I said. “That’s a privilege I reserve for my friends.” I shut the door in his face before he could reply.

  And it was a good thing I didn’t let him in, because it was obvious that a move was underway. Boxes lay everywhere; there was no place to sit down and hardly a place to stand. Basil was busy packing, and Mycroft busy—well, supervising. Obviously, I wasn’t going to get an opportunity in this chaos to brew a cup of tea and rest after my ordeal, so I went into my room to sit on the bed, but even that was covered with boxes. Now that I was home, all the experiences of the last few hours—the abduction by Hoff’s goons, the argument with Rosenbaum, the confrontation with Jones—crashed down on me. I walked back to the doorway of my room and put a hand on the doorframe to steady myself.

  “Mycroft, Basil, please listen to me . . .”

  “No time, my boy, no time!” Mycroft called out from across the room. “The movers will be here in less than an hour, and we still have the kitchen to pack up.”

  “But you don’t understand. I need a place to sit down before I faint. I’ve had the most appalling experience.” I tried to gain their attention, but Basil rushed around grabbing things to put in boxes, and Mycroft stalked back and forth, checking off items on a clipboard.

  “I was kidnapped! Do you hear me? I was kidnapped!”

  “What?” Mycroft peered over his glasses with a puzzled expression. “You were kidnapped? Why, Thomas—you’re white as a sheet! Basil, move that box so he can sit down and then get him a glass of water. Now, now, just lean back there. That’s right. I’m afraid the pillows have all been packed. Basil, the water! Come, come, man!” He snapped his fingers impatiently as the butler maneuvered between the packed boxes and crates with the glass in his hand. “Yes, there we are. Now take a few sips, and when you feel ready, tell us what happened.”

  I took a deep breath, sipped a bit of water from the glass, and related my adventure. With each word I felt better. But when I came to the end, I realized all over again the hopelessness of my situation: no clues to speak of, a wise guy breathing down my neck for his winnings from the bet, and now a group of hoodlums looking over my shoulder.

  “Now, be sensible, young man!” Mycroft said after listening to my complaint. “This is the best possible thing that could happen.”

  “It’s the best possible thing for me to be frightened within an inch of my life?”

  “No, no, you don’t understand.” Again, he assumed his patient expression. “You’ve nothing to worry about from those gangsters. If they had any intention of harming you, you wouldn’t be here speaking with us now.”

  “Well, that makes me feel a lot better.”

  Mycroft ignored the sarcasm and continued. “Don’t you see—if Boo-Boo Hoff doesn’t know who the killer is, then it almost certainly is not a “mob hit” as Jones so colorfully described it. Otherwise, Hoff would be in the thick of it. Didn’t you tell me that Hoff has his eye on every crime syndicate in the city? If his gang didn’t do this job, he would know who did. And if he doesn’t, it must be the act of a small group of conspirators or, more likely, the work of a single individual. It couldn’t be a mob-related murder without Boo-Boo Hoff knowing about it.”

  Mycroft’s theory seemed overly optimistic at first, but the more I rolled it around in my head, the more I saw its logic. It can’t be a mob hit because Hoff asked me to find the killer! Then I thought about how illogical that would sound to Larry Jones, or even Charlie Rosenbaum. Larry was about as immune to subtle reasoning as a person can be. Charlie might see the sense of the argument, but he would adamantly refuse any story based on logical conclusions rather than unvarnished facts. I had my work cut out for me, but at least I regained my confidence that I could crack this mystery after all.

  “You know, Mycroft,” I said, “it’s good to hear someone else confirm my view of the situation. I’ve had too many people telling me to stop wasting my time on this. Yet all along, I knew that Ragan’s death wasn’t a mob hit, even though I couldn’t give a logical explanation as to why. You probably think that’s hopelessly emotional.”

  “Not at all, Thomas, not at all. What we call intuition or a ‘gut feeling’ can often be attributed to an unconscious application of logic to a situation. As in calculus, we can
often come to a solution even when certain quantities are unknown.”

  Mycroft paced the room, analyzing me like some strange creature. “If I may, perhaps I can deduce your unconscious logic in this situation. If it were a mob hit, there would be little mystery to the situation. With the police in their back pockets, why would the gangsters need to cover their tracks? Indeed, they usually want to advertise their part in such a crime, since these kinds of killings are frequently intended to send a message.

  “Therefore, the murder of Harry Ragan must not be gang-related, but rather, shall we say, a private affair. Have I touched on the source of your intuition, young man?”

  “Yes, Mycroft, exactly!” I replied. “The killing makes no sense as a mob hit because it doesn’t have the look of a mob hit. The next step, then, is to determine the motive for the murder. That should point us to the person responsible.”

  “No, no, no!” Mycroft cried in exasperation. “And for a moment I had such high hopes for you! You’re looking at it completely the wrong way. The motive for the crime can only be speculation at best until the perpetrator is identified. And the greatest error of your friend Larry Jones —”

  “He’s no friend.”

  “— is his tendency to take his own speculations as fact. He has assumed that the murder is gang-related only because he has written so extensively on gang activities, and the only motives he can think of are gang-related. That is the problem with specializing in one’s field for too long. Your vision becomes myopic.”

  “How can I solve the mystery then?”

  “You must focus on the method of the murder. The details will point to the murderer. The more details you acquire, the more suspects will be eliminated, until only a few, and preferably only one, will fit the details.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Feeling a lot better after sitting for a while, I helped Basil pack up the kitchen. But we hadn’t finished by the time Captain Bill and his men arrived, so we decided to take one truckload to the new apartment and call it a day.