The first shot came when he stepped onto the landing outside the door. The second shot came when I stepped back from the door and watched Grover Niles turn toward me as his knees gave way. His handkerchief was in his hand and he was reaching up to mop his brow.
The second shot took him somewhere on the right side. He spun toward it and disappeared down the stairwell. I heard his body clumping.
There was no point in wishing I had taken my .38 out of the glove compartment. There had been no reason to think I might need it. It hadn’t done me much good the few times I had called on it in the past. In the best of situations I was a lousy shot, but a few bullets fired in a situation like this might make a killer pause instead of rushing up a stairway like Dillinger.
I listened, back against the wall. He didn’t rush up the stairs.
He would probably just turn around and run. No self-respecting killer would jump over a victim and go up a flight of stairs to a possible dead end when a beat cop who heard some shots might be right behind him.
I was wrong. This was a highly motivated killer who didn’t want to leave any witnesses. I could hear his footsteps coming up the stairs: steady, light, and even. I grabbed the biggest framed photograph on the wall, Claudette Colbert. She was smiling sweetly and looking over her right shoulder.
The footsteps were almost at the top of the stairs. The door was open slightly. I stuck my left foot out, eased the door open with it, and stepped onto the landing, swinging Claudette with two hands. If he was a step too low I’d hit air and take a bullet.
The picture hit him dead solid on the side of his head. He got off one shot that went up somewhere as he tumbled backward. I started after him and watched him lose his gun and sprawl over the body of Grover Niles, who hadn’t quite made it to the bottom.
He came up with a bloody face and a dazed look. The gun was on a step midway between us. The difference was he’d have to scramble over the late Grover Niles to get to it first. I didn’t get a good look at him, but it was enough. I was sure I’d recognize him again if I saw him, especially if I saw him in the next few weeks before his face healed.
I went for the gun and he went for the door.
When I came up with the gun and took ten steps down, a figure appeared in the doorway below. I came close to shooting the cop, but he came just as close to shooting me.
“Put it down easy, you son of a bitch,” he called.
I bent my knees and put the gun on the steps.
“A guy just ran out of here with …”
“Hands in the air and down the stairs slow,” he said.
He sounded scared. Not as scared as Grover Niles had sounded, apparently with good reason, but scared. I put my hands up and moved down slowly.
I stepped around Niles’s body, which was no easy trick on the narrow stairway, and said gently, “You know what I’m going to say?”
“You didn’t do it,” he guessed.
I guessed the cop’s age at twelve, but I didn’t tell him. He had the gun and I had the problem.
“Right.”
He backed away, gun leveled at my stomach. We went out into the street and found a small crowd waiting in the drizzle. The crowd included the old lady from the bakery.
“First homicide?” I said softly to the young cop.
“Yes,” he said, wondering what to do next. It wasn’t that tough, but when you suddenly find a corpse and a homely man with a gun in his hand, your memory sometimes goes for a walk.
“Ask one of the bystanders to call for backup,” I suggested. “Wilshire’s not far. I suggest they ask for Captain Pevsner or Lieutenant Seidman.”
The young cop looked bewildered.
“I’ll call,” said the bakery lady. “Pevsner and Seidman.”
“Right,” I said.
The rain started again and the crowd reluctantly moved on. The cop and I were alone, and the cookies in my pocket were getting soggy.
“How about we go inside the bakery?” I suggested.
“We stay here,” he said, blinking his eyes. “We stay right here till I get backup.”
And that’s what we did. We stood in the drizzle till Steven Seidman pulled up in an unmarked Ford coupe, looked at the cop and then at me, and shook his head.
Ten minutes later, after Seidman had looked at Niles’s corpse, heard the young cop’s tale and told him to write a 243 Report, Seidman pointed me toward the Ford. I got in and we drove off, leaving the young cop bewildered in the rain.
Five minutes later he stopped in front of the Peppy Pup hot-dog stand, which was shaped like a big dog. We got out and walked over to the outdoor table.
My brother Phil was eating a Peppy Pup hot-dog sandwich. He waved the tail end at a second one on a plate in front of him. Fries surrounded it. I wasn’t hungry, but there was an outside chance, far outside, that this was a kind of peace offering, a gesture of good will from my brother the cop. At least that’s what I wanted to think.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said and reached for the dog.
Phil was sitting at the metal table painted white in front of the Peppy Pup. I sat across from him. An umbrella was over us, but we didn’t need it at the moment. The rain had stopped. Steve Seidman, my brother’s partner for the past two decades, stood behind Phil, pale, bored, his arms folded, his hat tilted back to show his high forehead.
I took a bite of the sandwich and looked out at the traffic on Melrose swishing by. The mustard, onions, and relish were fine, but it needed texture. I started to stuff fries into what remained of the dog.
“Don’t do that,” Phil said, a wad of sandwich in his cheek.
I stopped stuffing fries and ate.
My brother is five years older than I am, forty pounds heavier, and much less friendly. He looks something like a big standing steamer trunk. His short hair is gray. His tie is usually loose and his collar open. He always looks as if he ate a few seconds ago and it didn’t agree with him.
Phil had two passions. First, he hated criminals, believed it was his mission, his duty, to destroy them all without a trial. His dedication had earned him a wartime promotion as a district captain. His nearly religious fury had booted him back to Wilshire. Phil’s second passion was his family: his suffering, smiling stick of a wife, Ruth, with her mop of straw-yellow hair, and his three kids, Dave, Nate, and Lucy. Sometimes I was included. Usually not. I owed my smashed nose to Phil. He wasn’t the only one who had broken it, but he held the record, twice. I think he wanted me to make something of my life, be a violinist or sell muddy lots in Sherman Oaks. I was a great disappointment to him the day I was born, which happened to be the same day our mother died.
Phil finished his sandwich and watched me finish mine and play with the fries. I was in no hurry. I looked at the Peppy Pup behind Seidman and my brother. The pup was big and happy in spite of the chips of paint that had been taken from him by wind, heat, and rain. From the hole in his belly a guy with a worry was doling out hot dogs and Green Rivers.
“Finished?” asked Phil.
I looked up at him and then at Seidman.
“Finished,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “What are we doing here?”
“Having dinner, conducting business,” said Phil, resting his big hands on the table. “Wilshire’s being painted.”
“Your allergies,” I said.
“It’ll take two, maybe three days before I can go back in. Steve and I have been moving around.”
I nodded in understanding. Phil had suffered from allergies all his life. His favorite was fresh paint, which closed his sinuses and made him itch. Next came strawberries, which made his hands swell, and finally came fresh coconut, which made him throw up.
“Sorry,” I said. “How are?…”
“Don’t,” Phil said with a warning smile, holding up his right hand.
“Don’t, Toby,” Seidman added.
I had been about to say, “How are Ruth and the kids?” a question that sent my brother into a rage. I’m not sure why. I don�
�t think he is, either, but it’s a fact that has to be honored except when I’m feeling lucky or there’s a mischief in me. I wasn’t feeling either.
“Toby,” Phil said, pushing the empty plates out of the way and leaning toward me. “Ruth’s surgery had some problems. It’s taking her a little longer to recover than the asshole of a doctor promised us. Now, with your cooperation here there is a chance I might be able to get home tonight before the kids get to sleep. You gonna help me?”
“Absolutely,” I said amiably.
“Good,” said Phil. “Tell us what happened. Whole thing. No lies. No bullshit about protecting clients. Tell it fast. Tell it convincing. And then we decide what to do.”
“Give me a second to think about this,” I said.
“No,” Phil answered with a pained, knowing smile. “You don’t understand, Tobias. It was not a request. Talk or suffer.”
“You’re going to beat your own brother on a public street in front of a giant puppy?”
“I’ve done things which have shown even less control,” said Phil. “You’ve seen some of them. Steve has seen a few more.”
“I’ve seen more than I want to see, Phil,” Seidman said.
“Started around lunchtime today,” I said. “Client.”
“Name of client?” said Phil softly, as Seidman took notes.
“Arthur.”
“Arthur? That a first or last name?”
“I don’t know. That’s all he gave me, that and a cash advance.”
Phil’s chunky fingers began to play with the edge of the plate. “Go on.”
“Well,” I said, “he said someone was trying to blackmail him about a recording made of his wife and another guy.” Phil was shaking his head in disbelief. I kept on talking. “I found out from a guy that …”
“A guy?” asked Phil. “Guy have a name, a first and last name?”
“He’s not important. He’s just a guy who knew who had the record,” I said impatiently.
“Record of your client’s wife and another guy,” Phil supplied.
“Right,” I said admiringly, as if he’d just won a box of Milky Ways on “Dr. I.Q.”
“Wife and the other guy have a name?”
“Everybody’s got a name, Phil,” I whined. “I don’t know theirs.”
“Go on,” he said.
I didn’t like the way his hands were clenching and unclenching. “Well, the guy gives me the name of Grover Niles, says Niles has the record or knows who does. I go to Niles, ask him. He says he knows who has the record—who must be trying to blackmail my client. Niles was about to take me to the blackmailer when he got shot. Killer came up after me. I hit him with a picture. You’ll find it up there. He went down the stairs, dropped the gun he shot Niles with. I picked up the gun and he ran.”
“You get a good look at the killer?”
“Good enough,” I said, sitting back.
“That’s it?” asked Phil.
“I’ve got nothing else, Phil, except a pocketful of cookie pieces and crumbs.” I tried to look like a cherub. I grinned, shrugged, held out my hands, palms up. If my brother was going to destroy me, the time was now.
“I believe you,” he said. “Except for the shit about not knowing anybody’s name. Steve?”
“As far as it goes,” added Seidman, putting away his notebook.
“As far as it goes,” agreed Phil. “You figure the blackmailer found you, knew Grover would talk, and shot him?”
“Something like that,” I agreed. “Makes sense.”
“How’d he know you were with Niles?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I wish I had some idea.”
Phil got up. I started to do the same. He motioned for me to sit down and moved to my side, leaning down to whisper in my ear. His right hand touched my shoulder. His fingers dug in deep. I kept looking at the belly of the pup beyond Seidman.
“Talk to your client,” he whispered. “Tell him the police want his name, the police want to talk to him about blackmail and murder. Tomorrow you call, give me your client’s name and address, and tell him to come see me. You understand?”
“I understand, Phil.”
His fingers came out of my shoulder, leaving an indented jacket and bruised flesh.
“Good. You want to come over for dinner, maybe Sunday, if Ruth’s up to it? Ruth and the kids ask about you.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Ruth’s making stuffed cabbage,” he explained. “Come anytime in the afternoon.”
“Okay. I’ve had a busy day and I’d better track down my client.”
Phil didn’t say anything. He moved slowly toward the curb where Seidman’s car was parked.
“Have your client call tomorrow,” Seidman reminded me, adjusting his hat. “Walk easy, Toby.”
“You forgot to say Seidman says,” I said.
“Never heard that one before,” Seidman said deadpan, as he turned and took a step toward his car.
“Hey,” I called after them. “What about my car? I left it parked near Niles’s office.”
I think Phil shrugged. No one answered. I sat there and watched them get into the car and drive away.
CHAPTER FOUR
I had cash and Arthur Farnsworth was paying and, so far, getting his money’s worth. I hailed a Black and White cab and had him drive me back to my Crosley, which had a ticket under the windshield wiper. I pulled into evening traffic, turned on the radio, and searched. I heard Walter Huston’s voice first, then Bette Davis’s rasping answer. I didn’t know Dodsworth, but I figured out fast that Davis was playing Dodsworth’s wife, that she had been fooling around, and that he wasn’t happy about it. It sounded too much like real life. I turned it off and headed for the radio station.
I got there just as the broadcast was ending. I already had one parking ticket in the glove compartment, next to my .38. I had to risk another one. I pulled into a parking lot marked Staff Only, looking for a guard to talk my way past. No one appeared. I found a space next to a big DeSoto, got out, and went in search of Bette Davis.
People were streaming out of the building, probably the audience for Dodsworth. I moved with a small chattering crowd of women, young girls, and a few men, two of them sailors, to the side of the building. It was dark but I felt the winter threat of returning rain. A few of the women gave up after five minutes. A few others held out with me.
“Where’s your book?” asked the guy at my side, all teeth and smiles and far from young.
“Book?”
“Autograph book,” he said, holding up his book to show me. “I don’t have Walter Huston,” he explained. “I could always use another Bette, anyone could.”
“I agree,” I said.
“Here they come,” said a woman in the front of the group.
The door, up two concrete steps, opened. Two men and a couple of women stepped out, ignored the crowd, and kept walking. Then Huston appeared. He grinned broadly, acted surprised at the gathering, and moved down to sign autographs. The guy at my side lumbered toward him with his book open and his Parker pen at the ready.
Bette Davis came out a few steps behind Huston and the crowd split. About ten people, including the sailors, surrounded her. She smiled gently, exchanged a few words as she signed.
Davis was wearing a gray dress with a silver necklace. Over the dress she wore a matching cape, its hood covering her head and shading her eyes.
Autograph seekers moved from her to Huston as a few were doing the reverse. Huston finished first, waved at Davis who blew him a kiss, and moved briskly into the parking lot as the guy I had been talking to tried to follow him.
“Sorry,” said Huston, turning back. “Another appointment.”
The guy stopped and hurried back toward Davis, who was just finishing the last woman and now turned her attention to the sailors. She was interrupted by Autograph Harry, politely signed, and continued talking to the sailors as Harry waddled away with his prize.
I was
about six feet away when she looked up at me. Recognition took a few seconds. She turned back to the sailors.
“And what are you two planning for the rest of the evening?” she asked.
Neither boy knew what to say.
“Movie, maybe a beer, and back to the hotel.”
“Shipping out tomorrow,” the second one said.
“I have an idea,” Davis said. “I’m on my way to the Hollywood Canteen. Are you familiar with it?”
“I think … I don’t know, Cal?”
“I don’t think so,” said Cal. “Maybe I think I’ve heard of it.”
“You have a car?” she asked.
“No,” said Cal.
“Good,” she said, taking their arms. “Come with me. I’ll drive.”
Both kids were beaming as they moved into the lot, locked to Bette Davis. They gave me wait-till-we-tell-the-guys-on-the-ship grins as they moved past me. Davis slowed half a beat and looked at me again, trying to place me, maybe wondering what I was doing there, and then she moved on.
I gave them time to get to her car and drive off. I didn’t have to tail them. I knew where the Hollywood Canteen was.
Fifteen minutes later I was driving down Sunset, worrying about all the gas I was using and how few gas ration stamps I had left.
The location of the Hollywood Canteen, about a block off of Sunset, was fine unless you wanted to park a car. According to Shelly Minck, the myopic dentist, the Canteen had been started the year before by Davis. John Garfield, who was 4F and feeling guilty about it, had come to Davis while she was making Now, Voyager and suggested that she head a drive of movie people to run a place where soldiers and sailors about to ship out to the Pacific or just coming in for leave could meet stars like Davis, Dietrich, and Grable, dance with starlets, and be entertained by acts like Bob Hope and the Mills Brothers.
The place, an old theater and dance hall, was refurbished by movie-studio craftsmen donating their time and movie studios donating paint and parts. Business boomed from the start. Supposedly two thousand movie people did shifts serving, dancing, entertaining, and even cleaning up, and every night more than a thousand kids in uniform came through the doors.
The Devil Met a Lady Page 6