William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“There was.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“I think I can.”

“You search all you want, you won’t-”

“I don’t have to search.”

Chamberlin rushed through the door with five other men. “Search these clowns for weapons. We’re going to make some arrests.”

Patton jumped in front of him. “I’m callin’ my lawyer, right now, see? You got nothin’ on me. He’ll get you so tied up in lawsuits you won’t be able to move. You got no proof, no witnesses-”

“I’ve got better than witnesses. I’ve got pictures.”

“What?”

“Little movie camera, latest scientific gadget.”

“I’ve been here for the last hour. No one’s come through that door.”

“True enough. But you ought to be careful about leaving a window open upstairs.” He smiled. “Especially when the safety director comes calling. With a ladder.”

– -

Ness waited outside The Harvard Club as his officers systematically loaded the operators and patrons into paddy wagons. This was the second shift of prisoners making their way downtown. Most of the patrons would probably be released after the officers scared them a little and lectured them on the evils of gambling. Locking away prosperous citizens wasn’t their goal here. Putting away the Mayfield Mob was.

“Matowitz is going to be sorry he didn’t make this one,” Ness said. “Bound to be the headline story in all the papers.”

Chamberlin nodded. “Unless another torso turns up.”

Ness grunted. “Even if. This is big news. Shutting down The Harvard Club. You know how many people told me it couldn’t be done? Lots.”

He waved to the spectators, many of whom were calling out his name. Good thing he’d tipped off the papers.

He waved again. He was greeted with a chorus of enthusiastic cries and shouts.

Ness smiled.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw several young boys drifting by. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was the same group he’d seen outside The Thomas Club the night they shut that one down.

“Excuse me a minute, Bob.”

Ness trotted toward the crowd. He smiled cordially, but passed through quickly, heading for the youngsters. When they realized he was coming for them, they began to scatter.

“Wait a second,” he shouted. “I just want to talk.”

They slowed but did not stop.

“Seriously. I need your help. I want to deputize you.”

That did the trick. The three boys slowly turned around.

“That’s more like it. You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours. How about it?”

The tallest of the three, who wore a felt crown-shaped cap, kicked at the dirt. “My name’s James. But people call me Bud.”

“Nice to meet you, Bud.”

The boy to his right, the blond kid in the dirty torn shirt, waved. “Joe.”

Ness shook his hand.

The smallest of them, who couldn’t have been more than ten, looked uneasy about the whole situation. But he answered. “I’m Billy.”

“Good to meet you all.”

Bud cleared his throat. “Are you-are you really… Eliot Ness?”

“The one and only. Far as I know.”

“You’re the guy who beat up Al Capone?”

Ness laughed. “Well, not with my fists. But we got him locked up. He’s still behind bars.”

“My dad said you were a real honest-to-goodness American hero.”

“Do you live with your father, son?”

Bud kicked at the dirt again. “Not anymore. He’s dead. Tuberculosis.”

“Your mom?”

“She’s dead, too.”

“Where do you live?”

“Wherever I can. Shantytown. Under a bridge. Maybe a flophouse, when I’ve got a little money. But that isn’t often. Most people won’t hire me ’cause I’m too young. Even the ones who will hire me don’t pay much.”

“Any of you have homes?”

“Billy does.” Billy nodded his agreement. “But his mom doesn’t like him bein’ around nights. She works nights. Men come back to her place.”

“What do you eat?”

Bud shrugged. “Whatever we can. There’s a restaurant downtown that lets us go through their garbage and eat whatever we find.”

Ness winced. “What about you, Joe? Where do you live?”

“My dad’s got a one-room on Third Street. But he ain’t home much and sometimes he forgets to pay the rent. He travels. Rides the rails. Says he doesn’t have enough money to leave me any.”

“When was the last time any of you had baths?”

No answer.

“Any of you ever play a game of baseball?”

Joe frowned. “I saw one once.”

“Any of you have any male relatives or… any kind of person to keep an eye on you?”

No answer.

“Well… that’s fine,” Ness said. He placed his hand firmly on Bud’s and Billy’s shoulders. “Now you do.”

“Two thousand people?”

“That’s what his secretary says.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Apparently it is.”

“In two days?”

“What have I told you, Zalewski? Nothing attracts people quite as much as something that should repel them.”

Merylo couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of pride. Although Pearce hadn’t resisted his plan to put the latest head on display in the morgue, he had expressed doubts that anyone would come to look at it. So had Zalewski and everyone else in the department-including Chief Matowitz. Fortunately, he was so busy rounding up poker players with the safety director that he was pretty much letting Merylo do whatever he wanted these days. Which was exactly how Merylo liked it.

There was only one problem-one tiny matter that prevented him from finding complete joy in this victory. Although approximately two thousand people had come by to look at the head-no one had recognized it. Not even a possible identification. Nothing. And this head was in the best condition of any they had found yet.

“Why do you think no one recognized him, sir?”

Merylo shrugged. “People look different after they’re dead. Haven’t you ever been to an open-casket funeral?”

“No.”

“Well, if you can avoid it, you should.”

“You think maybe he’s a transient? Vagrant? He was found near Shantytown.”

“Possible.”

“But then how does it tie into your theory that these are all organized crime rubouts? That it all ties back to Andrassy?”

“I never said it all tied back to Andrassy. I said they all must’ve been involved in something with Andrassy.” And he only said that because Andrassy and Flo Polillo were the only two corpses they had managed to identify.

“Still-the more bodies we get, the harder it’s going to be to make a connection.”

“Not once we know what the connection is. Once we figure that out, it will all make sense. Mark my words.”

“Of course.” Zalewski shifted uncomfortably in his suit. “See the paper this morning?”

“I told you, I don’t read the papers.”

“This unidentified head bumped the Republican National Convention right off the front page.”

Merylo sighed. “Well, I’m not that fond of Alf Landon. Reminds me of some of the guys I used to put away for running penny-ante gin joints. Any luck on the fingerprints?”

“Sorry. We got good prints, but no one has them on file. He’s got no record.”

“And the initials tattooed on his arm?”

“Nothing.”

Merylo swore. He’d had two good leads, two solid chances to identify the victim. And neither had produced anything.

From the rear office, Arthur Pearce emerged, pulling off his gloves and adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. “Any luck, gentlemen?”

“No ID.”

“Well, it was a valiant effort.”

“Maybe in time-”

“Merylo-I can’t leave a dismembered head on display any longer. It’s going to deteriorate. Then it will be useless.”