“I’m late for church,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, getting my second arm in and moving to the bundle without buttoning up. TOBY PETERS was printed on the outside of the brown paper wrapper in neat letters. I pulled off the string and found my neatly pressed suit, the one I had traded with Doc Olson. The torn sleeve had been neatly repaired. Lying on top of the suit was a card on which was written in what looked like a feminine hand: Sorry, really.
“It’s your suit,” said Mrs. Plaut, disappointed.
“I’m sorry it’s nothing more exciting,” I apologized, and Mrs. Plaut left in disgust.
For about an hour I sat making notes and trying to sort the case out. Nothing came so I finished dressing, hung my suit in the closet, and went out into the late morning with a book under my arm. The sun was bright and the two little girls who lived next door to Mrs. Plaut were throwing a ball against Mrs. Plaut’s steps.
“My mother says you’re a criminal,” said the younger girl. She was about eight and wore pigtails. There were blue ribbons in her pigtails.
The older girl, about ten, looked embarrassed, and whispered, “Gussie, no.”
“I’m a private detective,” I said.
“My mother said you kill people,” the girl went on, looking up at me.
“Only them what needs killing, little lady,” I said in my best Harry Carey. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my work to do.”
My work consisted of a run up to Burbank with some worry about how much gas might be left in my gaugeless tank. Rationing was soon going to officially cut me to five or six gallons a week. I knew I could get more through Arnie, but I wasn’t sure I could pay the price.
Jeremy was parked halfway down the block where he could keep his eye on the stairs leading up to Jane Poslik’s apartment. I parked behind him and walked over to lean through the window and hand him the Robert Frost poems and the paper bag I had stopped for on the way.
“Tea, hard rolls, and some poetry,” I said, handing him the bag. “Your favorite.”
“You are very thoughtful, Toby,” he said, laying aside the pad of paper he had been writing on and taking the book and the package.
“Right, very thoughtful. I send you out on a Sunday morning to wait for the Frankenstein monster and I go off for dinner with the family,” I said.
“Sunday is like any other day to me, Toby. It holds no special significance. The sun is warm. I am relaxed and this is a good place to work and to read. Forget your guilt. Would you like a roll?”
I declined and he told me that Jane Poslik had gone out an hour earlier to pick up a newspaper but was now safely back in her apartment. No one had come or gone.
“I’ll relieve you this evening,” I said.
“I would prefer,” Jeremy put in, examining the first roll, “that you devote your time to finding the person who threatens this woman. That would be more effective than protecting her at the point of her greatest vulnerability. It’s a simple principle of wrestling.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep at it.”
When I arrived at my brother’s small house on Bluebelle in North Hollywood, it was about three. Lucy greeted me at the door, her hands behind her back probably concealing her padlock. Nate and Dave, my nephews, were seated in the small dining room playing with toy soldiers. Nate was almost fourteen and Dave about eleven. I picked Lucy up carefully to avoid hidden locks and said hi to the boys.
“Uncle Tobe,” Nate called. He touched something in front of him and a toothpick flew across the table mowing down a lead soldier. Dave groaned.
“How’s it going, Huey and Dewey?” I said, pinching Lucy’s nose gently.
“Okay,” said Nate. “I’m smashing him. He’s the Nazis.”
“No I’m not, Nate. You’re the Nazis.”
Ruth came in, skinny, tired, with tinted blond hair that wouldn’t stay up and a gentle smile.
“Toby, you’re early,” she said.
“I’ll go away and come back,” I said, starting to put Lucy down.
“No, Uncle Toby,” Dave said.
Phil came through the front door, a package in his arms, and grunted at me.
“Take this and put it on the kitchen table. Make yourself useful.”
I put Lucy down, took the package, and went into the kitchen.
“How’s Seidman?” I said over my shoulder.
“Minck almost killed him,” Phil said, following me in after picking up his daughter, who stuck her finger in his hairy ear. “He has a hell of an infection. An oral surgeon at the university is taking care of him. Steve may kill that dirty dentist when he gets out of the hospital.”
The rest of the afternoon went fine. Lucy clipped me once on the shoulder with a wooden toy. We listened to a baseball game on Nate’s short wave. The Red Sox snapped a thirteen-game Cleveland winning streak, 8–4, in Boston. Charlie Wagner was the winning pitcher. Bobby Doerr had three hits. Pesky picked up a couple and Ted Williams had one. Foxx and DiMaggio were blanked. Nate, a Red Sox fan, was happy.
Ruth had made turkey, salad, iced tea, and a jello mold with little pieces of pineapple in it.
“Remember when I used to think you killed people every day,” Dave said after dinner. “That was dumb. No one kills people every day except maybe in the war. My dad doesn’t even kill people every day.”
“Dumb, dumb, dumb,” Nate said, looking at the ceiling.
“Dumb, dumb,” Lucy repeated, giggling.
“It’s not funny, you little twerp,” Dave said to his sister, which made her giggle even more.
Ruth and Phil took the tickets I gave them and went off to Volez and Yolanda after dinner. As soon as they were gone, Nate said, “Okay Uncle Toby, tell us about someone you beat up or shot this week or something.”
With Lucy on my lap, I made up a tale of scarred Nazi villains and assorted gore, none of it mine. By the time I was finished Lucy was alseep in my lap sucking her thumb.
“Is that a true story?” Dave asked when I was finished.
“Would I lie to you guys?” I said.
By ten the boys were asleep and Lucy was up crying for Ruth. I played with her, let her pull my hair, gave her rides on my back, and blessed the moment Ruth and Phil came through the door to take over.
“Thanks, Toby,” Ruth said, giving me a kiss on the cheek at the door after she took Lucy.
“My pleasure,” I said.
Phil’s hands were plunged deeply in his pockets. He bit his lower lip, ran his right hand across his bristly hair, and put out his hand. I took it.
“Business as usual tomorrow,” he said, pointing a thick finger in my face.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said, meaning it, and went out into the night.
When I was a kid back in Glendale, Sunday nights were for reading, talking, and playing board games. Sometimes we would go to a movie. My father liked comedies. Harold Lloyd was his favorite. I liked anything just so it moved. A late movie would have been nice, but I couldn’t leave Jeremy on that dark street all night.
I pulled up behind him and walked to the car. His eyes were closed and he was snoring gently. I hadn’t thought about it before, but now it hit me that Jeremy Butler was not a young man in his prime. He was at least five years older than I was. Even a bull deserves some time in the pasture.
“Jeremy,” I said softly through the open window.
His eyes came open instantly and he looked at me.
“Relief is here,” I went on. “I can’t sleep and it’s too late to do anything else. Go on home. You can take over tomorrow. If I don’t turn anything up by afternoon, we’ll talk to Miss Poslik about moving.”
“I was asleep,” Jeremy said softly.
“It was a reasonable thing to do,” I said. “It’s almost midnight and you’ve been sitting here all day and night.”
“I had a responsibility,” he said. “The meaning of one’s life is measured by the responsibilities he accepts and lives up to.”
“We agree pretty much on that, but you haven’t let me down.”
“We must check on Miss Poslik,” he grunted, getting out of the car and motioning me aside. He closed the door and moved down the street, a huge dark cutout moving lightly. I caught up with him.
“I don’t think the sight of you at her door at midnight would reassure her,” I said. “I’ll check. She knows me.”
That seemed reasonable to Jeremy, who zipped up his windbreaker and went with me to the apartment. There were no lights on as I started up the steps, but my footsteps must have sent a shock inside. The living room lights came on as I reached the top and brought my hand back to knock.
“Who’s out there?” Jane Poslik’s voice came through the door.
“Me, Peters,” I said. “I’ve got to tell you something.”
The door came open and she stood there wearing a man’s blue bathrobe with white dragons clutched over her chest. She kept the screen door locked.
“I think it best that you not come in,” she said.
“Good idea. I don’t want to frighten you, but I think Bass might pay you a visit.”
She shuddered and clutched the dragon robe around her neck.
“Why?”
“Because I came here yesterday or because that Martin guy you heard Doc Olson talking to found out that you have been talking about Fala,” I said. “He was parked outside your apartment when I was here. I think you should move out of here for a day or two. It shouldn’t take more than that to clear all this up.”
She stood thinking about it for a while, undecided, and I tipped the scale by repeating “Bass.” It was enough. It was either scaring her or being responsible for another possible corpse.
“I haven’t got anyplace to go,” she said.
“I’ll find some place; just throw some things together. I’ll wait out here. Take your time.”
She unlocked the door and told me to come in and wait. I looked at Lucille Ball dressed as Madame Du Barry for about five minutes while Jane packed. She came in wearing a brown cloth coat and carrying a brown, very worn leather suitcase.
“Ready,” she said, and I led her out.
At the top of the stairs I told her that a rather large, very gentle friend was on the street waiting for us and assured her that he was more than a match for Bass, something that I was beginning to doubt but didn’t want to share with anyone, not even me.
We closed the scene with Jeremy saying that he was sure she could stay with Alice Palice for a day or two. That sounded like a good idea to me since Alice was nearly as formidable as Jeremy himself. I wished them a good night and waited in the street to be sure no car was hidden in a driveway ready to follow. Satisfied, I got back into my Ford and drove home.
I made it to my room in the darkened boarding house without waking anyone, and removed my clothes. My original plan was to change my underwear, but I altered my plan. Never let the enemy anticipate what you might do. In this case the enemy was my own desire to keep reasonably respectable.
In my Sunday night dreams, Johnny Pesky threw me out in a close play at second, Lucy chased me through Pershing Square with a giant lock, and Koko the Clown kept saying “Monks, monks, monks.” And then it all came together. Lucy threw her lock to Pesky who heaved it at Koko, taking off his clown’s hat.
I woke up thinking it had been one hell of a throw and was disappointed to find that it had all been a dream.
“Are you stirring?” came Gunther’s voice through the door just as I was sitting up.
“I’m astir,” I said, and he came in.
He was wearing a lighter suit today, but it was still three pieces, including tie. My wall clock said it was almost eight. Gunther held a stack of cards in his hand and a very tiny satisfied smile on his lips.
“I have information,” he announced, tapping the cards with his finger. “I could not work last evening so I made a sojourn to Broadway. It being Sunday there were not many people traversing the streets, but there were restaurants. And,” he said triumphantly, “it was in one of these establishments that I encountered success.”
“You found Martin?” I asked, sitting up further.
Gunther had not only found Martin Lyle, but had tapped some resources, mostly writers he knew, who gave him a profile of the man and his business. Lyle’s office was in the 900s on Broadway right near Little Joe’s Italian Restaurant. Lyle ran an office, the New Whigs, a political group of reactionary Republicans who had left the party deciding that even the most conservative branches were too soft. The New Whigs were, according to Gunther, believed to have plenty of money and no more than a few dozen members, six of whom lived in or around Los Angeles and the rest in Washington, D.C.
“And this I discovered this morning,” Gunther concluded. “I made a most early call to an acquaintance who has actually written a piece on the group for the New Politics Review. He is, like me, a Swiss. He told me that a principal aim of the group is to discredit President Roosevelt and the Republicans so they can propose their own presidential candidate. Apparently, they have been in touch with both Generals Patton and MacArthur about running as New Whig candidates. My friend does not know how either of these army officers may have answered. And, finally …”
The pause was for effect and I didn’t want to deprive Gunther of it since he had done such a first-rate job.
“Finally,” he repeated, “your Doctor Olson was a founding member of the New Whigs. Is that not an interesting piece of datum?”
“An interesting piece of datum,” I agreed, getting up and putting on my neatly pressed suit. The suit from Doc Olson was heaped in a corner. I’d worry about that, and about making the bed and changing my underwear, some other time.
“What is it that we now do, Toby?” Gunther said seriously.
“You stay here in case I get a call,” I said. “Jeremy’s guarding an important witness and Eleanor Roosevelt may be in touch.”
“I will listen attentively and keep Mrs. Plaut from chaotic intervention,” he said.
“Perfect,” I said, putting my shoes on. “I’ve got time for coffee and some cereal. Join me.”
“I have eaten,” he said, “but I will have some coffee if you permit me to rewash the cups.”
I permitted him and he drank while I downed two bowls of Little Kernels and we worked on a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan but it might do. I read the side of the cereal box to Gunther using my best Georgia accent.
“To me it sounds correct,” Gunther shrugged, “but having my own difficulty with exact pronounciation I am not able to know the subtleties of accent. I am sorry.”
It would have to do. In the hall, I looked up the number of the New Whigs, dropped in my nickel, gave the operator the number, and waited. It was a few minutes after nine. Lyle himself answered on the fourth ring. I recognized his voice from the warning call on Saturday. I felt like shouting “Bingo.”
“The New Whig Party,” he said. “Can I help you?”
Dropping my voice and plunging in, I croaked, “Mah name is O’Hara. Ah’ve heard good things, good things about you from a friend in Washington, a big fellah, good smile.”
“Allen Hall,” he supplied.
“Sounds about right,” I said. “Suggested I should get in touch with you should I get to this part of the country on business. That’s just what I’m doing.”
For some reason the image of Thomas Mitchell as O’Hara in Gone With the Wind had popped into my mind and now I was tangled in my awful Southern accent overlaid with an even worse Irish brogue.
“Well, Mr. O’Hara,” Lyle oozed, “would your schedule permit a visit to our modest but adequate West Coast offices some time in the next few days?”
“Got a big meeting this afternoon with some folks at Pacific Electric Railway. Let’s see heh. Could make it this mornin’ if that’s okay on your side of the border?”
Lyle agreed and we set the time for ten, one hour away. I hung up and tried to recite some Mother Goose with a Southern accent.
I was well into “Taffy was a Welshman,” and almost to the bottom of the stairs, when Mrs. Plaut appeared, large wrench in hand.
“You are saying if all wrong, Mr. Peelers,” she corrected. “There is an impediment.”
“Thank you,” I shouted and then had an inspiration that would better have been forgotten. “You have an old Western hat in the garage. White hat, in the back seat of the car in the garage.”
Mrs. Plaut had a 1927 Ford in her garage. It had been there since 1928 when Mr. Plaut died. She had worked on it when the mood struck her but had never driven it. I had borrowed her tools a few times for minor surgery on the piles of scrap Arnie had sold me, and I remembered the hat.
“I’m sorry Mr. Peelers,” she said, holding the wrench in two hands. “I thought you said you wanted Myron’s hat from the car.”
“That’s just what I do want.” I nodded furiously. “I just want to borrow it.”
She stood blinking at me for a full ten seconds.
“Myron’s hat?”
“Myron’s hat,” I agreed.
She shrugged, turned, and led the way through the house, out the back door and down to the garage, where sat the old Ford with Myron’s hat in the backseat. I reached back, dusted off the hat, and tried it on. It was a bit small, but it would do. I looked at myself in the windshield, which Mrs. Plaut kept spotlessly clean. The effect was less than perfect.
“You look like Tom Mix,” said Mrs. Plaut, eyeing me critically. “Though Mix had a very large shnoz and you’ve got practically none. Though you are a match in the homely department.”
“Thanks for your honest appraisal, Mrs. P.,” I said.
The hood of the Ford was up and she inserted the wrench, turning her back on me.
“That hat,” her voice echoed from under the hood, “originally belonged to Uncle Cruikshank, the one in chapter four of the family book you will recall.”
“I recall,” I said, stepping toward the garage door.
“That’s Uncle Ned Cruikshank, the assistant sheriff in Alemeda, Kansas, before the gout epidemic of 1867.”
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