Buried Caesars

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Buried Caesars Page 4

by Stuart M. Kaminsky


  It was Shelly’s patient, Sam.

  We stood face to face. I wasn’t sure I could take him. The man was rail-thin and sunken-cheeked, but there was something in his face that made me think this was a man who didn’t know how to give up. He was certainly a man who didn’t back away.

  The pad-pad of laceless shoes came behind me as I stood waiting, ready.

  “Is he after your limo, Peters?” Zanzibar asked behind me. “If he’s after your limo, I’ll crown him. We got a deal.”

  “We got a deal, Al,” I said. “He’s not after my car.”

  “Then what’s he after?” Zanzibar Al asked, reasonably.

  It was a good question. I let it stand. The traffic moved by us a few feet away, ignoring the drama in the alley.

  “What’s he after?” Zanzibar Al repeated. “Geez damn. The world is one hell of a flash sometimes. You know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean,” Sam said, a small smile on his thin lips. “I simply want to talk to Mr. Peters for a minute or two.”

  “You could have knocked on my door,” I said.

  “Old habit,” Sam said. “I used to be in the business. Pinkerton. I guess I’m not as good a shadow man as I used to be. That, or you’re damn good.”

  “Let’s say I’m damn good. It’ll make us both feel better,” I said.

  “I feel better,” Zanzibar Al said to himself behind me.

  I couldn’t figure Sam. My first thought was that MacArthur or Castle had sent him to keep an eye on me, but he could have done that without going through a session with Shelly. Besides, I had the feeling that I had seen him …

  “Hammett,” I said.

  “Hammett,” he agreed.

  “I’ve seen your picture in the Times,” I said.

  “I had a black mask as a kid,” Zanzibar Al said. “I forget the precise reason for it.”

  “Not for some time,” Hammett said. “May I suggest we go somewhere less awkward?”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” I said. “My limo is parked back here under the watchful eye of Zanzibar Al.”

  I stepped back, to reveal Al, whose right cheek twitched in embarrassment.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Al said.

  “And I you,” said Hammett.

  I dipped into my pocket, came up with two quarters and dropped them in Al’s waiting hand. It was more than double what I usually gave him, but the fee was being paid by the General.

  Hammett said no more as we moved to my car and I opened the door.

  “Never been in one of these,” he said as he climbed in.

  “You’re in for a rare treat,” I said.

  We drove past Al, who waved at us with the fist that still clutched the quarters.

  “You can get two bottles for that money in San Francisco or Spokane, if you know where to go,” Hammett said, looking straight ahead. “And I know where to go.”

  “Where can I take you?” I asked. “And why did you follow me?”

  “I’m staying in the Kingston on Beverly,” Hammett answered. “Dr. Minck gave you the right information. Last week I went to the Whitehall Street induction center in New York City and attempted to enlist. They turned me down. No surprise. I’m forty-eight years old. I’ve drunk as much or more than your friend Zanzibar. My lungs are shot from tuberculosis. The scars showed in my X-rays. Hell, I’m a disabled World War I veteran. I convinced them that I had stopped smoking and drinking, which I have, and that my lungs are all right, but they rejected me because of the teeth. So …”

  “You got on a plane, came to Los Angeles and picked the first dentist you ran into,” I said, heading west toward Sunset. “You couldn’t do it in New York?”

  “Something like that,” he agreed. “There’s a woman in New York who might succeed in talking me out of this. I wanted to get as far from New York as possible. When I go back I’ll need to be sober, have a healthy mouth and be inductable before I have to deal with Lillian.”

  “You could do better than Sheldon Minck,” I said.

  “Perhaps, but I could also do worse,” he said. “I think I picked him because his was the only package I have ever encountered which included a dental office and private investigation agency, and I’ve encountered some strange businesses.”

  “And you need a private investigator?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve been in the business.”

  “I know,” I said. “Then …”

  “Let’s say I’m offering my services for a few days while Dr. Minck gets rid of some teeth and gives my mouth some semblance of health, at least cosmetic semblance.”

  He paused to let me take it in, and it was a lot to take in. The man at my side had written stories, books, movies. I’d seen the movies, read the books.

  “I’m no Sam Spade,” I said.

  “No one is, quite,” he said. “He’s the devil’s version of me at my worst and best.”

  “And I’m no Continental operative, though I probably look more like him,” I went on.

  Hammett inspected me.

  “No, Jimmy Wright, a Pink back in Baltimore, came the closest,” Hammett said.

  “So what is it? You want me to play Nora to your Nick?”

  “I considered spending a few days with my wife and daughters,” he said, “but it’s been too long and … if I go back to the hotel I’m likely to start smoking and remembering what a drink or two can do to get you through elastic hours. I don’t write anymore, not real stuff. If I can keep busy for two or three days and get back to New York sober and in reasonable shape, I can talk them into letting me enlist. The plain truth is that the U.S. Army in the middle of its worst war may be the only thing that can save my life. There’s an irony there that doesn’t escape me.”

  I looked his way. He looked out the window.

  “Forget it. It was a bad idea,” he finally said. “A whim. I don’t usually go for them.”

  “Wait a minute,” I came back, assuming he was talking about giving me a hand and not about joining the army. “I could use some help on a case. Just follow-up and tracing.”

  “That’s how I made my living,” he said. “I’ve been beaten, clubbed, knifed and shot at. I finally gave it up and turned to writing full time when I got my skull dented on a case, couldn’t stop coughing blood and almost lost touch with what passes for the real world. Dent’s still there in the noggin to remind me.”

  “What the hell,” I said. “No salary and the food’s on me. Might even get Shelly to give you a discount.”

  “No need,” he said. “I may be emotionally and physically bent but I’m far from financially broke.”

  3

  Andrew Lansing did not live in the poverty belt of Los Angeles County. Life would have been much easier if he had. No, Andrew Lansing lived in an enclosed Pacific Palisades development with a high gate, a guard and, probably, large dogs with big teeth. It made one wonder where Andrew Lansing got his money before he ran off with MacArthur’s political war chest.

  I drove past the driveway and came to a stop a block beyond. I laid out the situation for Hammett and told him only what I had to tell him, that I had to get through that gate, find the house of Andrew Lansing, and get any information I could on where he might be.

  “Lansing’s run off with some money, a lot of money,” I said. “And some papers that are worth something, particularly to the wrong people.”

  Hammett nodded, stone cold, and said, “Come back to the gate in five minutes. They’ll let you through and we can drive up to Lansing’s house.”

  “You’re sure about that?” I said.

  “Reasonably,” he said.

  “What’ll you say?”

  “I’ll improvise,” he said, getting out of the car.

  I watched him walk back toward the gate in my rearview mirror. As he walked he stood straighter. By the time he hit the gate his shoulders were squared. He was into whatever character he had taken on.

  I looked at the wristwatch my father had left me. Acco
rding to the battered timepiece it was two-twenty. The watch always ran, but no matter how many times I reset it, it had a will of its own. I flipped on the radio and found Vic and Sade on KNX, which meant it was after ten-thirty. Uncle Fletcher was telling Sade that it was time for a family reunion, and Sade was telling Uncle Fletcher that Vic would be against it. Just then Rush came in excitedly claiming that the Gooch cat was stuck in the mailbox.

  I figured five minutes had passed. I made a U-turn and headed back to the iron gate where Hammett, animated and looking a lot healthier than he had ten minutes earlier, stood chatting with one of two gray-uniformed guards. Hammett was nodding sympathetically. He spotted me and waved me forward. I rolled down the window.

  “Floyd,” he said. “Mr. Lansing’s house is number six just beyond the far turn at the left.” He handed me a key. “You go get started and I’ll join you in a while. Arthur and I have a few things to talk about. Arthur was in the Rainbow Division during the last war.”

  “That a fact?” I said, looking at Arthur, a potato of a man. He nodded in agreement.

  I drove on before the other guard, who was more the celery type, started to get suspicious. Number six was easy to find, a white stone building surrounded by trees with a good view of the ocean through a clump of trees. The next house was about thirty yards down the road, which looked recently paved. I parked in front of the house, walked to the door and opened it with the key Hammett had handed me. I left the door unlocked so Hammett could get in.

  The house was dark. The drapes and curtains in every room had been closed. The furniture was all new, modern stuff with lots of chrome. The walls in the Hying room were dark wood, with paintings of women tastefully spaced along them.

  The women looked fine. I didn’t care much for the furniture. The house wasn’t big but it wasn’t small either. I moved through the first floor, checking the living room, dining room and kitchen. I opened drawers, turned them upside down, turned the paintings around, unscrewed the bases of the lamps so I could look inside and, in general, did a pretty thorough job. Major Castle and his men had apparently done a good job of going over the place and putting everything back. The only clear sign of someone else having gone over the place was the fact that the screws in the bases of the lamps came out too easily, as if someone had recently turned them.

  I kept looking. The refrigerator was well stocked. Fancy cheeses, wine, juices, eggs. I opened everything and pulled the ice cube trays out to be sure nothing was in them but ice. The shelves were filled. I pulled down boxes, opened them, and sampled the contents of a jar of honeyed wheat germ. I had climbed up on the sink and was considering an assault on a jar of semi-stale cookies on a high shelf when I heard the front door open.

  Hammett came into the kitchen and looked up at me. His cheeks had some color in them and he seemed pleased with himself.

  “Not the first rube I’ve caught with his hand in the cookie jar,” he said.

  “They’re stale—macaroons. Want one?” I said, pushing the jar back and easing my way down with two macaroons in hand.

  “No, thanks,” he said, brushing back his white hair. “Someone wanted privacy in here the last few days.”

  “The drawn curtains,” I said.

  “Drapes, shades,” he said, looking around. “They’re usually open. You can see where the sun bleached out the rug in the front room.”

  I bit off a corner of macaroon and asked him what he had told the guards.

  “Two ways to go,” he said, crouching to look up at the underside of the kitchen table. “Blend in and get lost or make the lie big. We didn’t have time to blend. I told him I was Lansing’s uncle, that I had recently bought a home down the road, that I had just been hired as the attorney for the Los Angeles Police Department and that I was supposed to meet my nephew here at eleven to discuss redecorating his home.”

  “And who am I?” I asked, looking for a place to dump the cookie.

  “Interior decorator,” he said. “Your car is being repaired and you’re using your son’s for the day.”

  “And they bought it?” I marveled, locating the garbage can under the sink. There was garbage in it, including a few opened envelopes.

  “I told them that Andrew would be back soon and that they should tell him I’m here as soon as he arrives,” Hammett went on while turning over the kitchen chairs and checking their bottoms. “I hinted strongly to Arthur that my department was in need of reliable men like him, men with a military background. Arthur has reason to expect a call in the near future from a Lieutenant Flynn.”

  I was used to putting my hands in garbage. This time it wasn’t too bad except for the coffee grounds. The envelopes were all from bills.

  I led the way back to the staircase and headed up. Something moved in one of the rooms above. All the doors were closed. I pointed to a door directly in front of us at the top of the stairs. Hammett nodded in agreement. We took our time going up the final five steps. At the top of the landing, Hammett put his hand under his jacket and came out with his finger pointed and thumb up in imitation of a gun. I shook my head no. Hammett nodded and looked around. He quickly pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and quietly placed a handful of coins in the center of it. He twisted the handkerchief, tied the end and demonstrated a reasonably good homemade blackjack. The entire project had taken him no more than ten seconds.

  “I always carry a pocketful of coins for special occasions like this,” Hammett explained.

  When he was ready I moved to one side of the door and he stood at the other with his weighted handkerchief in hand. I reached for the handle, twisted it quickly and pushed the door open hard. Hammett was at my side in the nearly darkened room. Thin slits of sun crept around the closed curtains. Someone was there. We could both hear him.

  I found the light switch, hit it and turned, knowing that whatever was in there had spent time adjusting to the darkness but would be vulnerable to a shock of sudden light. The bedroom was empty. The bed was unmade. Pillows on the floor, blanket in a heap.

  I pointed to the floor under the bed. Hammett nodded no and pointed to a closed door, a closet or bathroom. We held our breath and I heard a slight movement beyond the door. Whoever was in there had heard me open the door, had probably heard us come in the house. He or they either didn’t have a gun or they did and thought we were armed.

  I took four steps to the closed door, pulled it open, a dark screeching ball leapt at my face. I threw up my hands and saw Hammett step forward and swing his loaded handerchief at a naked man just inside the door. I went tumbling backward and tripped on one of the pillows on the floor. The dark ball had hit my face, scratching my cheek and filling my nose, mouth and eyes with something soft and furry.

  I grabbed the screeching creature and pushed it away. The cat flew into the corner, landed on its feet and tore out of the room. I tried to get up to help Hammett with the man in the bathroom, but he didn’t need help. The man, wearing nothing but a pair of glasses, was on his back on the tiles of the bathroom floor.

  “He’s dead,” Hammett said looking at the body.

  “You killed him with a handful of nickels and dimes?”

  “Nickels and dimes don’t make holes in a man’s chest,” Hammett said. “I dented the skull of a corpse.”

  I got up, touched the claw scratch on my cheek and moved to Hammett’s side to look down at the body. The corpse looked surprised. He lay dead and naked, staring at the ceiling.

  “Cat must have been locked in with him,” Hammett said, kneeling next to the body. “I’d say he’s been dead less than eight hours.”

  “I’d say I agree.”

  “Someone propped him against the wall,” said Hammett, removing the glasses from the corpse and dropping them in his pocket. “Rigor straightened him. Damned odd. Only seen one standing corpse. That was back in Omaha, a second-story man named Booster Eddie Simms. Booster Eddie had a wild left eye. Damned thing danced all around the place. Couldn’t carry on a serious conversation
with Eddie because of that eye. This Lansing?”

  Hammett was having a hell of a good time.

  “No,” I said. “It’s probably his roommate, Hower.”

  Hammett turned back into the bedroom while I examined the body. Four bullet holes, lots of dried blood. Lots of blood on the floor, the walls, the sink. The mirror was bullet-hole cracked.

  “It’s Hower,” Hammett said behind me. “Pants and wallet here. Sixty bucks. No robbery.”

  “No robbery,” I agreed stepping back out of the bathroom and trying to slow down the thoughts. Thought one: Castle and his men came in. Hower was taking a shower. Castle or one of his men ran into him and shot him. Okay. What did that mean? Why didn’t Castle just make it look like a murder during a breaking and entering? Leave the place a mess, take the money from the wallet? Thought two: Castle, maybe with or without MacArthur’s knowing it, had set me up, sent me here to take the count for Hower’s murder. I didn’t like that thought. Thought three: Lansing killed Hower. Why? I don’t know. Whatever happened, Lansing was gone and Hammett and I were going to be identified by Arthur the gatekeeper and his partner.

  Hammett was sitting on the unmade bed smoothing his thin mustache with the nail of his nicotine-stained right thumb.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

  “Let’s finish what we started,” he said. “No one’s going to bother us for at least an hour. If you had something bigger than a Crosley, we might consider getting the body out of here. That would buy us time.”

  “And obstruct justice,” I said.

  “Obstruct the law,” Hammett corrected, getting up. “The law and justice are not always the same. All right. We leave the body.”

  For the next twenty minutes we searched. I checked the second bedroom, the closets. He took the dead man’s room and the small attic. I could swear he was humming as we looked. He was humming and I was sweating.

 

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