The Paul Mcdonald Mystery Series Vol. 1-2: With Bonus Short Story!

by J. Paul Drew

  “Oh, it’s okay. I’m sorry I did it.”

  “Here’s the thing— are you really so insecure that you thought I’d dump you just like that?”

  “I guess I must be.”

  “Listen, I’m not going anywhere. Honest. I’m yours. All yours, okay?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What do you mean you guess so, dammit? What can I do to make you feel secure?”

  “I do feel secure, all right? That’s not the problem.”

  “Kiss me, then.”

  I did, but it was only pro forma. I didn’t really feel like kissing her. There was something about being made secure when I’d gotten all revved up to be hurt that was a little unsettling. Sardis used to say I had lover’s block instead of writer’s block, but I thought I was over it. Maybe you never got over it. Maybe it just came up from time to time and you had to put up with it and wait till it went away again. Okay then, I’d wait. Why not? I was secure; I had my Becky. No problem.

  “How was your day?” I said.

  “Okay. I might make a lot of money on this thing with Steve. How was yours?”

  “Let’s go in the living room and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Unlike Crusher, she was crazed with jealousy at not having met Tom Sawyer, boy grown-up. Like most artists, Sardis loved screwballs, but that wasn’t all— she was intrigued by the intricate detail of the museum. “Do me a favor,” she said. “Next time you have an adventure that good, take me along, will you?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Painting. Why?”

  “Too bad. Detection waits for no man.”

  “Maybe I could paint next Thursday.”

  “Could you? That would be great.”

  “Tell. I’m on the edge of my chair.”

  “Crusher and I are flying down to L.A. to beard Herb Wolf. I could really use you to play Sarah Williams.”

  “You tricked me!”

  “No, I didn’t. You walked right into it. Besides, I’ve been thinking about something. I need you on this case, and Booker’s paying me enough to hire you as an operative.”

  “How official-sounding.”

  “How about thirty-five bucks an hour?”

  “Oh, Paul, you sweet man. I can’t let you do that— you’d be down to twenty for the hours we work together.”

  “That’s okay. I’m making enough. Thirty-seven and a half. I’ll split fifty-fifty.”

  “No, thirty-five. I insist.”

  “Thirty.” She kissed me.

  “Not a chance.” Time had passed and I was a new man. I found I was able to kiss quite enthusiastically.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mr. Wolf was in, taking calls from his swimming pool, if there was anything to stereotypes. He would be charmed to see Miss Williams, in fact she was the person he wanted to see most in the world— she should come over instantly, he was completely at her service. He lived in Pasadena.

  Pasadena! Not Beverly Hills, not Bel Air, not Malibu, not Laurel Canyon. But Pasadena— star of all the great film noir classics— or did it only seem that way? Surely it was real; I remembered it too vividly— first the midnight drive to the mansion, usually in a blinding rain. Then the eccentric old men, rich old ladies, gorgeous young women, most of them homicidal but some in danger, all after the same rare coin or something. Pasadena was an ideal place, when you thought about it, to be tracking down so romantic a thing as a missing manuscript. Especially if you brought an arsenal with you.

  Nonsense, said Crusher, who’d lived off and on in L.A. The homicidal or old-money element had dwindled, as we ought to have deduced from the fact that such a parvenu as Wolf even lived there. There were plenty of new-money blacks and Asians there now, lots of condos, and only rarely a rare coin.

  Nonetheless, the street we ended up on was clearly a vestige of better times. The houses, though not the palatial estates I remembered from the movies, were old and gracious— some quite fine. Wolf’s was a marvelous example of the Craftsman style. I could see now why he didn’t live in Bel Air. Obviously he was a man of exquisite taste— the sort of truly cultivated gentleman who’d appreciate a genuine Mark Twain manuscript.

  Clearly, he hadn’t solved the servant problem, though. His butler wore white shoes, plaid pants, white patent leather belt, and yellow polo shirt stretched over rampant belly. The man’s style of greeting bordered on the rude: “Yeah?”

  “Sarah Williams,” said Sardis, “to see Mr. Wolf.”

  “Who’re the bozos?”

  “The bozos?”

  “I think he means us,” I said.

  “Oh, the bozos. Of course. My business associates— Paul Mcdonald, Crusher Wilcox. Would you mind telling Mr. Wolf we’re here?”

  “Come in.”

  As he graciously stood aside, I saw him do a most peculiar thing— speak into a walkie-talkie. “Pinkie,” he said, “bring the dog.” I had a sudden strange feeling it might be better to interview Mr. Wolf by phone, but before I could mention it, I heard the dog— directly above us at the top of the stairs.

  She was a sleek young Doberman who looked as if she’d be very nice once she got to know you. Pinkie, on the other hand, was holding an Uzi, and wouldn’t have looked that friendly empty-handed. His nickname, I figured, came from his skin, which appeared to have been inherited from a long line of Irish drunks, and reddened up further by the owner’s excesses. He said, “You okay, Mr. Wolf?”

  “Yeah. Suah,” said the newly elevated butler. “Miss Williams brought friends, that’s all. Upstairs, gentlemen, please. Miss Williams, you behind them.”

  I was mightily disappointed, having hoped to get a better look at the house— I thought it was a Greene and Greene, and I’d never been in one.

  “Pinkie, babysit the boys. I’m takin’ Miss Williams in here.” I glanced in as he opened the door and saw that it was a bedroom. Was the guy a rapist? How had we gotten into this, anyhow? “Come, Lassie,” he said, and the Doberman joined him and Sardis.

  Pinkie took us into a sort of study across the hall. Good. At least Sardis was close. Neither Wolf nor Pinkie closed any doors. Crusher and I were permitted to hear every word, see every action going on in the other room. The only thing we weren’t allowed to do was leave. Pinkie faced us sentry-style, gun at the ready.

  “Sit down,” said Wolf to Sardis. “Lassie, sit,” he said to the dog. Sardis sat on the bed, Wolf in a chair, Lassie at Sardis’s knee, close and menacing.

  “Nice dog,” said Sardis. “Nice doggie-woggie.” She put out a hand, as if to pet.

  “Stop!” said Wolf. “She won’t give a warning growl. She’ll just attack. Now tell me— what sort of rare book dealer has a ‘business associate’ named Crusher?”

  Sardis gave a nervous little laugh. “Oh. I can see how you— I never thought—”

  Wolf’s voice was menacing. “Exactly what are you people trying to pull?”

  “Frankly,” said Sardis, now sobered, “I don’t blame you for being put off when I showed up with two strange men, one of them named Crusher. But I assure you he’s a very gentle person. I think it was originally ‘Bus-crusher’ from some sort of driving miscalculation. He’s a pilot now, you see. And is only here because he flew Paul and me down.” She shrugged and gave him big innocent eyes. “Honest. We’re not trying to pull anything. We’re trying to sell you a manuscript.”

  “Yeah? Where is it?”

  “Surely you didn’t think I’d bring it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I think that? Seeing as how you said you would. Average honest businesswoman says she’ll bring her product, she brings it. How else am I going to know if I want to buy it? But you don’t bring the product. Ergo, you don’t have it. And you aren’t average, and you aren’t honest. So, listen— what are you trying to pull?”

  “Mr. Wolf, I’m quite sure I didn’t say I’d bring the manuscript.”

  “You’ve got a short memory, babe. You said it ten days ago— last time we talked. You said if my bid wa
s the highest, you’d get back to me— with the manuscript, so I could examine it. Then you suddenly show up ready to deal this morning— only you’ve got nothing to deal.” He was getting louder with every word, and obviously hotter under the collar. He ended up with “Pinkie! Crusher.”

  Pinkie moved so fast I hardly saw him, just heard the thwack of the gun across Crusher’s chest and saw him reel back. Pinkie took his seat again, silently.

  “Miss Williams,” said Wolf, “what’s your scam?”

  “I walked in here in perfect good faith and now you’re holding my friends and me prisoner. If you think we’re some kind of criminals, why don’t you call the police?”

  “Pinkie! The other one.”

  This time both Crusher and I were ready. As Pinkie raised the gun to hit me, Crusher blocked him. I threw him a punch to the stomach and gave him a head in the chest.

  He fell backward, Crusher grabbing the gun. But Pinkie wasn’t giving in. He held onto the gun, kicking— kicking me over, in fact. As I hit the floor, I looked up to see Wolf coming in the door, Lassie and Sardis at his heels. He spoke fiercely, in German, and suddenly the dog was standing over me snarling. Wolf crossed to Crusher and Pinkie, who were still mixing it up, both holding on to the gun as if to a lifeline. “Crusher! Please observe what my dog is doing. She is trained to kill, and I will give the command unless you let go of the gun— now!” No sooner did Crusher observe what the dog was doing than Pinkie got the advantage and seized the gun away from him, so I never got to find out whether Crusher would have let me be chewed alive while he proved his manhood. I was just as glad— I figured if it had been me, I would have thought I could have got the gun in time to shoot it, thus saving in the nick of time my much-masticated but still breathing friend. Things looked a lot more immediate when you were the one under imminent fang-attack.

  Anyway, Pinkie had the gun, now trained on Crusher. The dog was still babysitting me in her own gentle way. I personally would have said that things looked pretty hopeless, but such a thought apparently never entered the head of the fair Sardis. She leaped upon Wolf’s exposed ventral side, locking her legs around him more or less at crotch level, and seizing his head in a great, generous hug. I couldn’t see, but I think she must have been pulling one ear with each hand, judging by Wolf’s reaction. He had his arms free, but Sardis had him two ways— her heels digging at his crotch, her hands doing God knows what with his ears. He needed both arms to be effective against either hold, and most of his energy just to keep from falling backward.

  Pinkie was in a bind. There was no point shooting anyone but Sardis, but he couldn’t do that without endangering Wolf. As for Lassie, she couldn’t save her master without relaxing her guard on me. Wolf had effectively rendered both bodyguards useless. We were all as immobile as Tom Sawyer’s tableaux— all but Sardis and Wolf, that is. Sardis was kicking and squeezing— and trying to get into position to bite. As for Wolf, he was flailing and staggering blindly, which he continued to do until he managed to trip over Lassie, who leaped yelping out of the way, leaving me to catch the full weight of two falling human beings, one of whom was a flesh-and-blood tree trunk.

  I got the wind knocked out of me and didn’t see what happened next, but as Crusher told it, Pinkie got nervous about all this. So nervous, in fact, he couldn’t keep his focus on Crusher, ending up like a spectator at Wimbledon (eyes right, eyes left), which made him vulnerable once more. Crusher simply waited till Pinkie cast one of his incautious glances our way, and rushed him, this time knocking the gun to the floor. Unfortunately, it slid across the room so that neither man could get it, nor could anyone from our party. Lassie, at loose ends for a while, was moved by some sort of doggie logic to resume guard duty— this time on the gun. Crusher and Pinkie, locked together now, rolled over to our side, hitting our pile. As I was still on the bottom of it and still trying to get my breath back, this affected me hardly at all except to cause me to curse my fate. It seemed to have as little effect on Wolf, who lay on me like a leviathan. Sardis, however, popped up as if stuck with a hatpin, looked quickly about the room, found what she was looking for, and called the police. Or at least was in the act of doing so when Wolf heard what she was saying, rolled off me at last, and ripped the phone from her hands.

  Before either Sardis or I could move, he spoke again to the dog, who came back, teeth bared. Picking up the gun, Wolf bellowed, “Were you calling the goddam police?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Pinkie! Let him go.”

  Pinkie and Crusher unhanded each other. Now things looked like this: I was still on the floor, with Sardis standing over me, Lassie subduing us both. Pinkie and Crusher, slightly disheveled, stood to our left. All four humans (Lassie faced the other way) stared at Wolf, who now held the weapon.

  Slowly and deliberately, he put it on the chair next to him. “Lassie,” he said, “come.” As friendly as if she’d just played a rousing round of Frisbee, the dog wriggled over to him, stump shimmying as if it counted. The atmosphere in the room had changed radically. We were no longer six beings bent on bloodshed, but five quiet humans watching a dog drive itself crazy trying to wag a tail it didn’t have. And frankly, five of us— if you counted Lassie— were a bit on the baffled side.

  “I think,” said Wolf, “I might have overreacted. I’m very sorry, Miss Williams. Gentlemen. Will you stay for lunch?”

  I was the one who recovered first. “Excuse me,” I said, “but did you just ask us to stay for lunch? Does this mean you’ve finally worked up an appetite threatening and assaulting us?”

  Wolf patted his ballast. “I always have an appetite.” He looked up. “It means I’m sorry, okay? Pinkie, get us some drinks, will you?”

  When the bodyguard had left, no doubt to claim his own sorely needed nip as well, Wolf said, “Look, Miss Williams, you call up about a manuscript, I offer to buy it, I don’t hear from you for almost two weeks, then all of a sudden you’re here without the manuscript, but with two guys. Count ’em. Two— one real big and the other named Crusher. What was I supposed to think?”

  “You thought we were some sort of criminals?”

  “You’re gettin’ warm.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “You called the cops.” He shrugged. “What do you think?”

  I said, “Do you usually greet your guests with an attack dog and a semiautomatic weapon?”

  “I got things to protect. Listen. We got warm duck salad for lunch. Made with a selection of tender young lettuces. We got Sonoma-Cutrer Chardonnay, maybe some raspberries. What do you say?”

  We said yes, of course.

  Wolf said, “Sit down, sit down,” and we sat. Pinkie brought wine and served it as stylishly as the most elegant butler. “When Cynthia gets back, tell her we’ll be three more for lunch.” Wolf turned back to the three of us, catching me, for one, gulping rather than sipping. “There’s a reason I asked you to stay. I want to know who you are and what you’re up to.”

  Sardis looked stunned. “Why, exactly as billed, Mr. Wolf.”

  “Herb.” (The way he said it, it was almost “Hoib.”)

  “Paul and I are business associates, dealing in rare manuscripts. And Crusher is our friend who was nice enough to fly us down for the day.”

  “Just how are you and Paul associated?”

  “Frankly,” I said, “sometimes Sarah’s work takes her to the homes of people she doesn’t know. She never knows what kind of dog they’ll have, for instance. So when she gets nervous, I come along.”

  “I don’t get your game. I offered you almost a million for the manuscript. So I figure if you have it, you’d have brought it. But you didn’t, so you haven’t got it— like I said before. So what are you doing here? Even to you literary types, a manuscript’s not like a puppy— you haven’t got to make sure it gets a good home or anything.”

  I said, “Herb, I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll give you a couple of answers if you’ll give us a couple.”


  “Done. Why’re you here?”

  “We get to go first. Do you know a woman named Isami Nakamura?”

  “No. Why’re you here?”

  “Well, actually, we’re— uh—”

  “Hold it!” He started laughing, lustily, the watermelon he seemed to have swallowed rippling and rocking more like a waterbed. “Hold it, I got it.” But he couldn’t speak for three or four more sips— mine, not his. Finally, he said: “You’re looking for the manuscript, aren’t you? You think I’ve got it.”

  “Do you?”

  “No. My turn again. Why the hell did you think that?”

  “Because your name was found in the home of the previous owner— who we think sometimes used the name Sarah Williams.” I paused. “But who was strangled to death a few days ago.”

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  I shook my head, looking very grave.

  “Who was she?”

  “Beverly Alexander.”

  “Who the hell’s that?” Good. He’d denied knowing her without my having to ask him about her— I’d saved a question.

  “A flight attendant for a small airline called Trans-America.”

  “Never heard of it. How the hell did she get my name?” He was shaking his head with every evidence of genuine wonderment.

  “We were wondering that too.”

  “It’s my turn,” said Sardis. “Do you know a Linda McCormick? At the Bancroft Library?”

  “The Bancroft Library.” He was looking pensive, trying to remember. “Yeah. Sure. The Bancroft Library. She’s the gal I talked to.”

  “About what?”

  “My turn, remember? Listen, I’ll stop this whole stupid charade and tell you everything I know, if you’ll just answer one thing straight: Who the hell are you guys and what are you up to?”

  Sardis spoke quickly. “I’m an artist. I mean, I paint.” She shrugged, and I knew the pain behind the simple gesture. “But one doesn’t make a living from that. So I work part-time for a manuscript dealer— a very important dealer in another state. What we’re doing here, frankly, is we’re looking for a manuscript we lost.”