Читать книгу The Gay Detective - Lou Rand - Страница 6

Flanagan’s, a small bar near Bay City’s Hall of Justice, would look to the stranger to be just another small bar. With one or two casual customers and a bored, toothpick-munching bartender, there appeared to be little real justification for the place to be open for business.

Captain of Detectives John Starr, striding into the place, nodded only briefly to the man behind the counter, who never paused in the absorption of his toothpick. Also without pause, Captain Starr strode the length of the premises and passed through a door at the rear.

The room the detective entered was another milieu entirely. Graciously spacious and fitted out as the lounge of an exclusive gentleman’s club, this was the famous “Back Room.” With several obscure entrances and exits, and with a small service bar as well as a tiny kitchen presided over by an aged and efficient Chinese, the Back Room had been for almost a century the quiet gathering place of many of Bay City’s finest citizens. These included judges, lawyers, professional men, a few select businessmen, one or two journalists, and, on occasion over the years, one or two gentlemen connected with the local police.

The “Back Room crowd” was never a membered group, nor were there such devices as dues and meetings. Those who were welcomed came and went as they chose. Others found entrance doors locked, or were simply and quietly turned away by the ageless waiter and bartender, Mr. Grimes, who was the sole arbiter. It was, nevertheless, a quiet and companionable place. By several unwritten but understood rules, pending cases of judges, lawyers, police, and the business of others who might be present, were not discussed. Such news personnel as were admitted seldom quoted anything said or overheard here, and then only with express permission.

As Captain Starr entered he was pleasantly greeted by those who sat about the huge central table. This great round board had often caused the place to be referred to as the “Little Algonquin.” Today it was only fairly attended, but by gentlemen all of whom were certainly local personages in their own right.

Next to the detective officer, as he seated himself, was Jay Eberhard, one of the city’s leading attorneys, who was frequently referred to as the “Old Master.” A quiet appearing and genteel man, one would hardly suspect the number of murderers, embezzlers and other criminals whom he had, temporarily at least, freed from the toils of the law. On the Captain’s other hand, and also sitting very quietly and at his ease, holding an ignored drink in his hand, was another figure often seen and read about in the local papers—Senator Martin.

Bruce Martin was a distinguished and cultured gentleman. He had served, very briefly, the remaining part of the term of a deceased state senator. He had likewise taken the bench for a short period upon the demise of a mu nicipal judge. Member, and often chairman, of many private and public committees and bodies, he was surely one of Bay City’s most prominent citizens. The Senator was a bachelor. He was past fifty, and was considered to be a man of means. It was also considered that his means had been inherited. At least he had no immediately obvious source of income. Personally, the Senator was a quiet, even-tempered but reticent old gentleman. He always appeared in the most select civic and social groups. Never a fop, he was definitely a man about town.

Though Captain Starr sat down next to the Senator, the latter seemed hardly to notice his presence, aside from a perfunctory greeting. He was seemingly engrossed in conversation with a rather brash appearing young man, Bert Kane, a columnist of Bay City’s leading newspaper.

Kane did not write featured stories or national news. Rather in the McIntyre tradition and manner, he sounded off daily about local personages, their fads and foibles. Though young, Kane was clever, and his widely read column was often delightfully humorous and interesting. He was certainly a popular and an obviously discreet newspaperman. His items were personal but never vicious, as currently seemed to be the fashion with certain braying and crusading columnists in eastern cities. Significant in a sense was his welcomed presence in the Back Room. It was to him that Starr addressed himself, after ordering from Mr. Grimes, the ubiquitous waiter.

“Bert, what’s the latest that the police should know about but probably don’t?” he asked with a smile.

Kane had paused in what he had been saying to the Senator, but before he could reply, a heavy laughing voice from across the table cut in on the interchange. The booming voice of Tiger Olsen, an ex-professional football player, now a used car salesman, cut in with: “Kane’s been giving us the lowdown on this guy, or woman, or whatever it is, who went to Denmark and had his marbles removed.” Olsen’s jolly laughter was infectious and brought out smiles all around the table.

Without letting him finish, the columnist chimed in, “Yeah, but get this for a laugh: At the Council meeting yesterday, the Commissioner started to discuss the suggestion that the city again operate ferries on the Bay. Well, some one loudly remarked that he would like to see more ferries on the Bay and fewer on the streets.”

The gentlemen were all amused at this story, though the football player evinced a slight disgust at the type of person indicated.

Tiger Olsen was the youngest of the Back Room group, and had been accepted for the past several years for rather unique reasons. The gentlemen had seldom included an athlete among the older and more professional members. But circumstances had been a bit different with Olsen, who was very popular in many parts of the city. A local boy, in his late teens he had become an outstanding football player and all-around athlete. Snatched up by a nearby university that could afford the best, he had justified their investment by becoming all-American and leading the school’s team to many heady victories. While many people would have doubted it, Tiger Olsen had never slighted his studies. He had, in fact, received his sheepskin with very creditable honors. However, almost simultaneously with the diploma, he’d also received an induction notice from Uncle Sam. This he neatly sidestepped by enlisting in the Marine Corps.

On his return to civilian life a few years later as Captain Olsen, and after a very spectacular service career, he was at once feted everywhere as Bay City’s most representative hero. Two or three seasons of professional football gave him enough of the game. This was followed by a series of positions and jobs, none of which ever seemed to come to much of anything. At present he represented a firm selling foreign cars.

Behind Olsen’s brash and rough surface manner was a good mind and a really pleasant, though actually shy, personality. Of late he had begun to worry about the future. Getting on towards thirty, he had a comfortable nest egg stashed away in the bank. He had hundreds of friends and acquaintances. It was known that a long series of women had enjoyed his company for varying lengths of time and with varying degrees of intimacy.

A psychiatrist would have sensed the inherent shyness of Tiger Olsen. He might have discovered that a good deal of this could have resulted from the name given him by his now deceased parents. The product of a tough neighborhood, he had successfully defended then discarded and lived down the name of Clarence. Very few persons knew the Tiger’s real name, and he very pointedly did not offer it. All in all, ran the general opinion, Tiger Olsen was quite a guy.

Another of the group, Joe Cannelli, a rather gross, middle-aged man who ostensibly operated a bar and restaurant, but who was considered by many to be one of the city’s leading gamblers, shrugged expressively, and with fair accuracy summed up the local opinion of sexually confused persons: “‘Live and let live,’ I always say.”

Kane laughingly put in: “You always say. But my little birdie tells me you’ve got a new bartender at your joint who’s very gay.”

The restaurateur pretended to be annoyed as he growled, “What the hell. The union sent him. Besides, he’s pretty.”

Here Captain Starr broke in. “Let me tell you a real funny story, and it happened only this morning. Do any of you remember the old Morley Agency? Old man Morley was one of the first in the city to have a private license.”

The attorney nodded. “I remember. He did some jobs for me once or twice. Very reliable. And a very decent old fellow.”

Kane interrupted, “Say, didn’t he die just last year?”

“That’s the fellow,” continued the plainclothesman. “Now it seems that he had some steady accounts, quite a sizeable business: skip-tracing, and stuff like that. The lawyers who handled his estate have kept the office open. Some old girl—Morley’s secretary for thirty years—has been running it, with some extra help now and then. Well, as I get the story, there was only one heir to whatever was left. They finally located him back East, and now he’s out here and is going to take over.”

“He in the business too?” queried Olsen. This brought a short laugh from the police officer. “Well, it all depends on what business you mean. He has ‘been in the theater,’ as he puts it, but it seems to me that he was actually a chorus man in a musical show.”

This brought further grins and laughter around the table.

“They say that some of those guys are all man,” volunteered the gruff cafe man.

“Not this one,” put in Starr. “He came in to get a license and a gun permit. A very pretty fellow with a roving eye. Of course, I could be wrong, but I think …”

“Don’t tell us that he made a pass at you, Captain,” wryly put in the poker-faced Senator, while more or less obviously looking over the officer’s very regular and very masculine features. This, and the Senator’s droll manner, brought more hilarious laughter from the group.

“How about it, Starr? Is it, or isn’t it?” asked Olsen.

Pausing speculatively before answering, the Captain said, “Hell, you can’t always tell these days. But when I asked this character what he needed a gun for, he just rolled his eyes, put his hand on his hip, tossed back his wavy hair and shrieked at me that he’d have a helluva time beating off some attacker with a mascara brush …”