Peter Gunn

by Henry, Kane,

  “What’s that?” said Gunn.

  “Mine is a gin rickey.”

  “What’s the one that’s not a gin rickey?”

  “What you ordered.”

  “I ordered?”

  “An ice cream soda.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Lockwood grinned, showing square strong teeth. “I won’t say it’s professionally made, but I bet it’s good. Part coke, part ginger ale, part milk, a little chocolate syrup, and some pistachio ice cream from the freezer. I hope you like pistachio.”

  “Love pistachio.”

  Lockwood set the tray down, delivered the soda to Gunn, said, “Sorry, you’ll have to eat the ice cream with a tablespoon. I tried a teaspoon but it slipped all the way in.”

  Gunn seated himself and Lockwood seated himself opposite. Gunn drank thirstily of the soda, said, “Ah, good, hits the spot.”

  Lockwood lifted his gin rickey, said, “Cheers.”

  “Drink hearty,” said Gunn and attacked the pistachio with the tablespoon.

  “Well, how’s it going?” said Lockwood.

  “The soda?” said Gunn without looking up.

  “The investigation,” said Lockwood.

  “Oh, that.”

  “That,” said Lockwood.

  “At this moment, it’s getting strained, I believe.”

  “Well, you don’t expect me to sit back and like this kind of thing, do you?” Charm ceased. This was suddenly an irate young man with a red face and a tense jaw.

  “What kind of thing?” said Gunn.

  “The son of a bitch putting a peeper on me.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit harsh on a doting father?”

  “Doting father my ass. A rotten, corrupt, labor racketeer.”

  “But dotingly interested in his daughter—let’s put it that way.”

  “Let’s put it this way,” said Lockwood. “Dotingly interested in getting rid of me.”

  “There are two sides to an investigation, Mr. Lockwood.”

  “Now it’s with the riddles, huh?”

  “No riddles, Mr. Lockwood. You might come up pure and clean as a fresh-smelling rose. Then instead of being Peter Gunn delivering a lousy report, I could be Cupid Gunn with bows and arrows and stuff. I mean my recommendation might be so blissful, the old man might fall all over himself just to seize you as a son-in-law.”

  “Fat chance. That guy thinks a musician is a blood-brother to a snake.”

  Gunn lit a cigarette. “Let’s give it a try, huh? You’re step Number One. You’re my first interview.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Just general stuff, so that I can get a general impression.”

  “Okay, let’s give it a whirl, man. I’ve never been investigated before. Let’s see how it works.”

  “Thank you,” said Gunn. “Now, first off, what about you and the gal? This ring-around-the-rosy or are you serious?”

  “I want to marry her.”

  “There you are. Nice and straightforward. You keep it in that pattern and this interview will be over in no time.”

  “Cut the crap, man. You don’t impress me.”

  “I’m not here to impress you, pal. Rather, vice versa. All right. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “How long have you been a musician?”

  “Practically all my life.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Right here in L. A.”

  “Mr. Lockwood, you say you own this house. How come? I mean, could you afford it?”

  “No, I don’t think I could afford it, Mr. Gunn. You see, I didn’t buy it, I inherited it.”

  “Oh?” said Gunn, tapping out his cigarette in an expensive ash tray.

  “My mother was a widow. My father died when I was about five years old. When I was about seventeen, my mother married another guy, a guy I didn’t like. About that time, I was already a pretty good musician, and I cut out, played with small bands, that sort of thing, all over the country. My stepfather owned this house. He died a few years ago and my mother inherited it. Last year, my mother died and I inherited. That’s when I came back to this town, last year. That’s how I own this house, Mr. Gunn.”

  “I see.” Gunn looked about. “It’s beautifully done. Your mother had fine taste.”

  “That’s my taste, Mr. Gunn.”

  “You furnished it?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Your mother leave a lot of money?”

  “Left very little, as a matter of fact.”

  Gunn waved a hand. “This thing figured to take a lot of dough.”

  Lockwood drank his gin rickey, set it down, lit a cigarette, stood up and walked about.

  “Figured to take a lot of dough,” Gunn persisted.

  “So what?” said Lockwood and his color was up again.

  “I mean, a musician…”

  “What is it with you? You hate musicians too?” He inhaled deeply, squashed out the cigarette.

  “Musicians,” said Gunn, “don’t make it like tycoons.”

  “They make enough,” said Lockwood.

  “Enough to furnish a pad like this?”

  “Let’s say I’m a thrifty musician. Let’s say I always work. Let’s say I don’t throw my lettuce around like other guys do. Let’s say I save it and spend it for things that matter. Report that to your client, Mr. Gunn.”

  “You’d have to save a hell of a lot.”

  “So I saved a hell of a lot. Maybe I got lucky at a couple of horse tracks. Okay, Mr. Gunn. You’ve had your interview. How’d I make out in the general impression department?”

  Gunn slapped his knees, sighed and stood up. “Am I being invited to leave?”

  “I’m getting bored.”

  “You bore easy, don’t you?”

  “Look, I played along because I told Alice I’d play along. I don’t like this bit, I don’t like any part of it, and I’m going to tell that to Mr. Steve Bain right to his goddam face. Now go write your report, pal.”

  “That quick temper of yours ever get you into trouble, Sammy?”

  “It might if you don’t quit whiplashing at me, Petie. Good-by please.”

  Gunn started for the door, stopped at the teakwood cabinet. “That’s a pretty array of artillery,” he said. “Did you inherit that from your mother too?”

  “Those are guns, Mr. Gunn, which I bought with hard-earned money because I’m a thrifty musician. That’s my hobby, Mr. Gunn, guns. Report that to your client too. Tell him I’m an expert marksman with lots of medals in competition. Tell him I take target practice every morning which I was doing when you came along—”

  “Yeah, so you told me.” They were at the door.

  “So I did, didn’t I?” said Lockwood. “Good-by, Mr. Gunn. Thanks. For nothing.”

  Gunn turned his back, reached a hand for the knob. “You’re welcome, Stanley.”

  His shoulder was grabbed and he was whirled around. He ducked a fist and shot one of his own. Abruptly Sam Lockwood sat down on one of his area rugs. He rubbed his chin and shook his head to take the glaze out of his eyes.

  “Stick to the guitar,” said Gunn. “Don’t make like a fighter. Like that you can get hurt, Stanley.”

  “Where’d you get that Stanley?” said Lockwood, still seated.

  “From Papa,” said Gunn.

  “Bain?”

  “Who else?”

  “The son of a bitch,” said Lockwood, rising, shaking his head, the glaze gone, rage giving his eyes a wild look, black pupils contracted to savage pinpoints in the ice-blue of the irises. “So you were lying to me. So the machinery’s already been in operation behind my back. So I wasn’t step Number One, was I?”

  “Yes, you were, Stanley.”

  “Cut it out!”

  “Don’t you like to be called Stanley?”

  “I don’t give a damn what I’m called. I just don’t like to be waltzed around. I don’t like to be a patsy. Where’d you get it?�
��

  “I told you. From Bain.”

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “From a chum who told him in New York you’re Stan Lacey. Any special reason you’re Sam Lockwood in Los Angeles?” Gunn held up a hand. “I’m not asking for confidence, pal. I’m not prying for your secrets.”

  “It’s no secret.”

  “Then why the excitement?”

  “Because the old son of a bitch… Oh, I’ll get to him!”

  “Get to me first, because I’m going to get to dear old Alice, and when I come up with this discrepancy—”

  “It’s no discrepancy.”

  “What is it—a similarity?”

  “Listen! You just listen!”

  “Man, I’m listening, but say something. Like what’s with Stan Lacey?”

  “It’s my name.”

  “So what’s with Sam Lockwood?”

  “It’s my name.”

  “Brother, your name is confusion.”

  “Stan Lacey,” said Sam Lockwood.

  “Go, man,” said Gunn.

  “Stan Lacey,” said Sam Lockwood. “Stanley Lacey was the name on my birth certificate. Then my mother married this other guy and his name was Samuel Lockwood. Once she married him they had to change my name legally to Lockwood. As long as they were changing it, they changed it all the way—I became, legally, Samuel Lockwood, Jr. I hated the guy and I hated the name. When I cut out, I went back to my own name, Stan Lacey. When I came back here to L. A. to take over the house I had to use my legal name, Sam Lockwood, and I stuck with it. So that’s the whole big deal, no discrepancy, no secret, no nothing. Now kindly get the hell out of here. Get, will you?”

  Gunn got.

  chapter 5

  Jacket over shoulder, Peter Gunn inserted key into lock, opened the door of his apartment, traversed the threshold, irritably swung the door shut, shrugged out of the jacket which fell into a becomingly graceful heap, proceeded directly to the telephone, inserted finger into hole and dialed long-distance to New York. Peter was calling another Peter, neither Peter a saint nor either Peter a demon: our Peter was calling a Peter whose surname was Chambers, a professional eye on the East Coast as Gunn was a professional eye on the West Coast. These were a couple of capable Peters with a transcontinental reciprocity: if either needed a professional favor the other granted it free of charge.

  The buzz of the phone was stung by a click and the West Coast Peter was the recipient of a yawningly sleepy East Coast “Yes…?”

  “Pete?” inquired the West Coast Peter.

  “The same,” said the East Coast Peter. “And who would this be?”

  “Peter Gunn,” said Peter Gunn.

  “Hi, Pete,” said Peter Chambers.

  “Hi, Pete,” said Peter Gunn. “How’s the weather?”

  “Who knows?” said Peter Chambers. “I just hardly got to sleep.”

  “But it’s afternoon out East, what with the three-hour difference.”

  “What’s the difference about the difference—I got to bed late.”

  “Oh, you New York guys know how to live.”

  “Yeah, but you Hollywood guys get all the television shows.”

  “Enough with the banter,” said Peter Gunn.

  “Shoot,” said Peter Chambers. “State your problem, if any.”

  “Stan Lacey,” said Peter Gunn.

  “Sounds like embroidery for a Grandma Moses picture.”

  “Good enough for a guy without too much sleep, but not great.”

  “Oh, now you’re a critic too.”

  “Do you have a pencil?”

  “Do you sleep with pencils?”

  “No,” said Peter Gunn. “You’re alone, I hope.”

  “Yes, damn. How’s Edie?”

  “Fine. Go get a pencil.”

  “There should also be a pad somewhere around this pad. Hang on.”

  “Crazy,” said Peter Gunn.

  After a few moments the East Coast Peter said, “Go, man. The pad is poised and the pencil is aimed.”

  “There’s a guy out here,” said Gunn, “whose name is Sam Lockwood. He’s mixed with a chick named Alice Bain. Alice Bain is the daughter of Steve Bain.”

  “The Steve Bain?”

  “The Steve Bain. He’s the client.”

  “I hope you hit him for a big enough fee.”

  “Big,” said Gunn.

  “Good boy. I’m glad television hasn’t spoiled you.”

  “Sam Lockwood is a jazz musician, guitar. Played in New York at a place called the Show Spot. His name there was Stan Lacey. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want whatever you can get on the guy.”

  “I dig.”

  “As fast as possible.”

  “Dig.”

  “Anything real special, give Western Union the business.”

  “Crazy, Dad. Anything else?”

  “That’s all I’ve got.”

  “It’ll do. Good night, man.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Good afternoon. Good-by.”

  Gunn found that he was smiling as he hung up, but the smile turned sour. Chambers, even sleepy, was a tonic, but, unfortunately, insufficient panacea for the burning pangs which are the resultant penalty of the whimsical choice of salami for breakfast. He hurried for bicarbonate and heartburn was hardly assuaged before the telephone trilled imperiously. Gunn stumbled toward it, grasped the receiver and gasped amidst momentous upthrust of esophageal upheaval. “Um. Yes? Pardon me. Yes?”

  “Please, please,” said Alice Bain.

  “Alice?” said Gunn.

  “He called me.”

  “Who?”

  “Sam.”

  “So?”

  “He’s on his way. He’s going there.”

  “Where?”

  “To my father. Oh, there’s going to be trouble.”

  “Your father at the office?”

  “No.”

  “At his apartment?”

  “No. At our home in Bel Air. He’s there alone.”

  “Now listen,” said Gunn, speaking rapidly. “You’re home, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have your address. Wait for me outside. I’ll pick you up. I’m leaving right now.”

  “Please hurry, Mr. Gunn.”

  Gunn hung up, scooped up his jacket, slammed out, started the car, fractured a few traffic rules and picked up the girl outside her Beverly Hills apartment. She was neat and pretty in a white gabardine suit and a blue blouse but her dark eyes were moist and frightened.

  “What’s the address?” said Gunn.

  “1102 Canyon Road.”

  The car shot forward and the girl sat back, clasping and unclasping her hands.

  “How come alone?” said Gunn.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your father. Bel Air. How come alone?”

  “Actually the house is closed,” she said, “but my father’s been doing some private work up there on some contracts. He’s been going there the past few days, spending the mornings and afternoons where he won’t be disturbed.”

  “And Lockwood knew this?”

  “I’d mentioned it to him.”

  “How’d he sound over the phone?”

  “Furious. He said he was going to have it out with him once and for all.”

  Canyon Road was twisting, steep and narrow. 1102 was a three-story, beige-brick mansion with trees and lawns and sculptured hedges. A car, tilted on the shoulder of the narrow road, had not taken advantage of a wide white-pebbled driveway that led to the pink-marble entrance-steps. The car was a pale-blue convertible with its top down. “That’s his car,” said Alice.

  “Lockwood’s?”

  “Yes.”

  Gunn drove up the white-pebbled driveway and they climbed the pink-marble steps to a door that gaped widely and ominously ajar. Gunn looked at Alice, touched her to follow, and preceded her. The interior was a cool high-ceilinged foyer which opened through an archway upon
a vast gray-carpeted drawing room, and there Gunn discovered both Steve Bain and Sam Lockwood. Bain wore black mohair slacks and white silk sport shirt, open-necked. He was smiling but it was not a smile of greeting; The smile was hideous, lips writhed back stiffly immobile, disclosing teeth and gums and the hollow of mouth. Nor was his position a position of greeting; he lay on his back, arms outflung and legs outspread, and the red stain on the white shirt at the left side of his chest glistened like a badge.

  Flat-footed, Sam Lockwood, pale and rigid, stood over him. Lockwood was attired exactly as he had been when Gunn had seen him earlier that morning with the addition of a checkered jacket. His left hand hung in a tightly clenched fist. His right hand was also clenched—about the butt of a blue-black gleaming revolver.

  A ticking clock was the only noise in the room.

  The hands stood at three minutes after twelve.

  chapter 6

  For a moment the tableau held: the horizontal Bain, the transfixed Lockwood, the astonished Gunn, the tense, open-mouthed, vertical Alice. And then the tableau exploded to a weird sequence of action; Alice trembled, sighed and fell against Gunn on her way to the floor in her swoon; Lockwood whirled and flung at Gunn in a bull-rush, his head ramming Gunn in the stomach and knocking him breathless; and Gunn, falling, reaching almost out of instinct and smashing the weapon out of Lockwood’s hand as Lockwood ran. Each was a distinct and muted thud upon the carpeted floor: first the girl, then Gunn, then the pistol; and as Gunn fought for breath and tried to regain balance, he heard the wail-whir of a motor starting up, and when he managed to get to the door, the blue convertible was gone.

  Gunn stood in the open air heaving for breath. Recovered, but still shaken, he returned stiff-legged to the drawing room. The girl lay cramped and gurgling but Gunn went to the grinning man and examined him. Bain was still warm and pliant but totally, hopelessly dead. Gunn sighed, rose, bent to the girl and gently slapped her back to consciousness. He raised her to her feet, and held her, conscious of her yielding, unresisting young body. She clung to him, and then they parted.