The Devil Met a Lady

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “You may put the cat down, Mr. Peters. Drink, Miss Davis?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, sitting down across from him in a straight-back chair with a padded cushion.

  I put Dash on the floor. He padded off to explore the room.

  “Mr. Peters?”

  “Pepsi,” I said, sitting a few feet from Davis in a matching straight-back chair. “Nothing for the cat.”

  “Inez,” said the man without looking back. “A Pepsi for Mr. Peters.”

  “I’ll have a rum collins,” said Pinketts.

  The man in the overstuffed chair glanced in Pinketts’s direction with annoyance.

  “Yes, my dear, a rum collins for our friend Mr. Pinketts.”

  Inez stopped playing with her ring and moved through a door next to the book-lined wall behind her. She looked relieved at the chance to escape.

  “Now,” said the man in the overstuffed chair, putting the book he was holding carefully on a perfectly shined table at his side. “We can talk.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “You got so tired of the noise from the Hollywood Canteen keeping you up that you decided to kidnap Bette Davis.”

  The last time Davis and I had seen the man in front of us was on the stoop of a house near the Hollywood Canteen. He was the older guy, the defense worker who had told me he couldn’t sleep and that he had a son in the army. He was the guy who had said he spent each night waiting for a glimpse of stars so he could pass the information onto his son. He was one hell of an actor.

  And then I remembered what Juanita had said, that we’d both met the man who would kidnap us. And that he had worn a mask.

  “As reluctant as I am to recapitulate, Mr. Jeffers and his helpers have been following you since I contacted Mr. Farnsworth by phone yesterday. We were aware of your meeting at Levy’s and we kept an eye on you while we discovered a bit more about your less-than-illustrious history. Dismissal from the Glendale Police Department. Dismissal from the Warner Brothers security staff. Divorce. Impecunious circumstances. We followed you. When you contacted Mr. Pinketts, who had initially informed us that you had knowledge of the notorious record and would make an ideal go-between, we decided to have another talk with him, and he graciously decided to cooperate with us once more.”

  Pinketts shrugged a what-choice-did-I-have-amigo shrug.

  “This,” the man in the overstuffed chair said, “enabled us to anticipate your visit to Grover Niles, an unsavory creature whose loss should trouble few. Though I did not in fact commit the deed, I am quite willing to take on responsibility for his demise and face judgment for it before my maker, if the ultimate irony transpires and, indeed, there is a maker.”

  “The Hollywood Canteen,” I reminded him.

  “Of course,” he said. “Forgive me. I digress. We watched you searching for a parking space. I got out of the car, hurried to the front of the house in front of which you were parking, and assumed a role. My performance was, I gather, at least adequate.”

  “I’d rate you road company Maid of the Ozarks,” I said.

  “Underweight Sydney Greenstreet,” said Davis.

  “I’ll accept that as praise,” said the man. “My life in the theater was extensive and unrewarding. Blithering foils to Frank Fay and Skeets Gallagher. My reviews, when anyone bothered to note my performance, were patronizing. I would eventually have faded into lesser character roles until I could no longer keep the lines straight between Shakespeare and Moss Hart.”

  “A sad tale lacking sound and fury trying to signify something,” said Davis.

  “Yes, my life was a farce,” said the man as Inez returned with a tray, upon which sat my Pepsi in a glassful of ice, another glass with what looked like Pinketts’s rum collins, and a tumbler of beer. “I wanted tragedy and I found myself living a life of farce. I fled from comedy and turned to dealing in magic, spells, blessings, curses, and ever-filled purses.”

  “Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Davis dryly. “I thought you were above comedy.”

  “Please,” he said, “it is not that comedy is beneath me. It is simply not within me.”

  “I brought you a Schaefer,” Inez said, handing the tumbler to the man. “They had Rupperts and Ballantine but I thought …”

  “This will be fine, Inez.”

  He turned to me and Davis, held up his beer and toasted as Inez moved to the sofa to give Pinketts his drink.

  “Long life and independence.”

  We drank.

  “Wiklund,” said Bette Davis.

  I looked at her and she looked back at me with a triumphant smile.

  “Erik Wiklund,” she said.

  “I am flattered,” said the man, again raising his beer tumbler to her.

  “Yes,” she said. “I saw you in New Haven. Underworld. You played Bull Weed and were quite good.”

  Wiklund nodded his head and closed his eyes in acceptance of recognition.

  “I believe you had difficulty finishing the performance,” she went on, and his eyes snapped open. “Rumor had it that you were a talented man with a fondness for hard liquor.”

  “A fondness shared by others, including your husband, Mr. Arthur Farnsworth,” he said. “I have, however, overcome my fondness, while your husband seems to have turned it into a love affair. I find I am no longer enjoying this conversation.”

  “There has been no conversation, Mr. Wiklund,” Davis said, standing. “There has been a performance designed, I imagine, to intimidate and frighten. I find it pathetic and fourth-rate.”

  Pinketts looked at me and took a puff of his cigar. Inez looked frightened and twisted her ring.

  “Look,” I tried, seeing a look in Wiklund’s eyes which held no promise of good will for me or Bette Davis.

  Before I could get another word out, Wiklund picked up the book he had gently placed on the table and threw it at me. It shot past my head and hit a headless marble torso. The torso fell over but didn’t break.

  “The way to steal a scene is to underplay, not rant and shout,” said Davis. “A lesson you obviously did not learn.”

  Wiklund stood up now and ran his palm across his head to smooth any gray locks which might have gone astray.

  “I will call your husband now,” said Wiklund. “I will tell him to get me the information I have requested. You will talk to him. I really don’t care what you say. He will give me the information and I will let you go.”

  “With the recording,” she said.

  “If I am reimbursed for the money I put up to obtain it from Grover Niles, plus a modest few dollars for the investment of my time, the maintenance of my staff.”

  “A few dollars,” Davis repeated.

  “Fifty thousand,” he said, pursing his lips. “I expect to get as much as two hundred thousand for the information your husband will provide. That should more than compensate for my ingenuity, the risks I have taken, and the possible charges connected to the fortunate demise of Grover Niles.”

  “And,” said Davis, taking a step toward Wiklund. “How am I to know that there are no more copies of the record?”

  “My word,” said Wiklund, putting his hand to his heart.

  “Arthur will not trade military secrets for my life,” she said. “I would despise him if he did so and he knows it.”

  “Well,” I said, “let’s not anticipate too much here. There may be some room for negotiation, but …”

  “There had best be more than some room for negotiation,” said Wiklund. “Inez, tell Mr. Jeffers and his merry band to return.”

  Inez moved to the door and opened it. Jeffers, Hans, and Fritz stepped in.

  “Now,” said Wiklund, rising and moving his chair a few feet to the right. “We have a few moments of respite, a brief charade, a tribute to our captive audience.”

  Jeffers crossed the room to Inez, who shook her head.

  “Are you familiar with Henry the Sixth, Part Three?” asked Wiklund.

  “Can’t say I am,” I said.

  “I was
—” Wiklund said, fixing me with raised eyebrow, “—addressing Miss Davis.”

  “No,” she said curtly.

  “Pity,” sighed Wiklund. “One of Shakespeare’s least appreciated and seldom-done masterpieces. We are going to entertain you with a scene from this Henry, and when we have concluded, I would like your candid critique. Do not try to spare us.”

  “I assure you I will not,” Bette Davis promised.

  “Good,” said Wiklund, pointing to where his supporting cast should stand. “Then we shall begin. Act two, scene two, Edward, Duke of York, the son of Henry, has come to take his father’s throne. Backed by the Earl of Warwick and thirty thousand men, Edward confronts his father and Queen Margaret. It’s a bit more complicated than that, but the drama of the moment speaks for itself. I shall play Edward, Mr. Jeffers will play Richard, and the lovely Inez will be Queen Margaret.”

  “Can we opt for torture instead of the performance?” asked Davis, crossing her legs.

  “‘She jests at scars who never felt a wound,’” Wiklund came back. And then, moving into character, “‘Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace and set thy diadem upon my head or bide the mortal fortune of the field?’”

  “‘Go, rate thy minions,’” said Inez, with all the zeal of a dying trout. “‘Proud insulting boy. Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?’”

  “‘I am his king,’” Wiklund shot back, taking a step toward Inez who looked toward Pinketts, who shrugged and puffed at his cheroot. “‘And,’” Wiklund went on, “‘he should bow his knee. I was adopted heir by his consent; since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, you that are king though he do wear the crown, have caus’d him, by new act of parliament, to blot out me, and put his own son in.’”

  “‘And reason too,’” shouted Jeffers. “‘Who should succeed the father but the son?’”

  I had to give this to Jeffers. He was good. He sounded sincere.

  “‘Are you there, butcher?’” Wiklund puffed, turning to Jeffers. “‘O, I cannot speak.’”

  “Would that it were so,” Bette Davis whispered to me. Wiklund’s eyes flicked in our direction but he went on with the show.

  “‘Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,’” Jeffers said angrily, teeth clenched. “‘Or any he the proudest of thy sort.’”

  “‘’Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not?’” asked Wiklund, pointing a finger at Jeffers, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  “‘Ay,’” Jeffers shot back defensively. “‘And old York, and yet not satisfied.’”

  “‘For God’s sake, lords,’” Wiklund shouted to Hans and Fritz, who were standing at the door. “‘Give signal to the fight.’”

  “That will be sufficient,” Bette Davis interrupted, standing. “My assessment will be painfully brief. Mr. Wiklund, with a decent director to keep your musical-hall exuberance in check, you might return to your former acceptable mediocrity. Miss Inez, your beauty is only surpassed by your ineptitude. And Mr. Jeffers, your talents are sufficient to guarantee you major character roles in the productions at Folsom Prison where you will surely reside within the month.”

  “Tell my agent,” Jeffers said, moving to the sofa and sitting next to Pinketts.

  Wiklund’s eyes were fixed, unblinking with anger, at Bette Davis, who returned the gaze and went him one or two better. She looked a hell of a long way angrier than he did, but then again she was a much better actor.

  Wiklund broke first.

  “I suggest that Mr. Peters and Mr. Pinketts finish their drinks in the living room while Miss Davis and I call her husband. We will try to arrange, as we have planned from the beginning, an appropriate point of exchange, with Mr. Peters as go-between. If that is not possible … well, Miss Davis, we suggest that you be as persuasive as we know you are capable of being.”

  Wiklund nodded, and Hans and Fritz stepped forward to escort us, drinks in hand, out of the room.

  “I’ll figure something out,” I whispered to Bette Davis as I moved toward the door.

  “Do it quickly,” she whispered back.

  When Pinketts, the boys, and I were outside the door, Hans pointed with his .32 down a short corridor. We walked. Fritz was in front of us. He stopped at a door, opened it, and motioned for us to enter. Pinketts and I entered.

  The windowless room was lined with shelves. The shelves were filled with thirty-five-millimeter film cans. There was a single chair and a small table in the center of the room.

  Pinketts and I stepped in. Hans and Fritz stepped out and locked the door.

  “I thought they were going to kill us,” said Pinketts, expelling air in a rush.

  “I think they plan to,” I said, finishing my Pepsi and putting the empty glass on the table. “It depends on what Farnsworth tells them, and I’ve got the feeling he may tell them to go to hell.”

  “Ah,” said Pinketts, “you have become an optimist.”

  “No,” I said. “But if you don’t put out that cigar, we could both become toasted hot dogs. This room is filled with film.”

  Pinketts reluctantly put his cigar on the floor and ground it out with his heel.

  “And now,” he said with a grin, sitting in the lone chair, “what is your plan?”

  “I plan to stay alive,” I said, moving to the nearest rack of film cans and looking at the labels.

  The films, each labeled with the title and the name of the star, were in no particular order—Hearts of Dixie, The Great K & M Train Robbery, Our Hospitality, Sunrise.

  “How?” asked Pinketts reasonably.

  I began to remove the film cans from the shelves across from the door.

  “Stack them in front of the door,” I said. “The door opens into the room.”

  Pinketts shook his head.

  “So you keep them out with a wall of film cans and they let us starve to death.”

  “Move the cans,” I said, pausing to give him a grin of enormous sincerity.

  “You threaten me?” he said, putting his right hand on his chest. “There are men out there planning to kill me. What have you to threaten me with?”

  “No threat,” I said, moving toward him and dropping the stack of full film cans in his lap. “There may be a window on the other side of the shelves. We can’t move the shelves until we get the cans out.”

  “Then,” he said, “you shall have the use of my strong back and willing arms.”

  Pinketts got up and stacked the cans from his lap in front of the door. It took us about ten minutes to empty the one set of shelves and stack all the cans. Then we realized that the shelves against the wall were wedged behind the two sets of shelves on the side walls. We unloaded one of those and then tried to slide the empty set out of the way. We couldn’t budge it and my back started to scream.

  “Keep pulling,” I said.

  “I do not like to sweat,” said Pinketts.

  “I don’t like to be shot,” I said.

  We pulled. The shelves began to move. Not much, but they did move. It took us maybe another ten minutes to get the shelves out far enough to reach the empty shelves against the wall across from the door. That set was bigger, heavier, and there wasn’t much room to move it because of the film cans covering most of the floor. When we got it far enough out, I crawled behind and found …

  “No window.”

  Pinketts laughed. I came out from behind the shelves and looked at him.

  “Why would anyone build a room with no window?” I asked.

  “To store film or wine,” said Pinketts.

  “This isn’t a wine room and it was built before anyone heard of movies,” I said.

  We both figured it out at the same time. The window was boarded over. All we had to do was tap the wall till we found it.

  “We need more room,” I said, stacking cans upon cans upon cans. Tom Mix on Louise Glaum on Reginald Denny.

  Another ten minutes and we had enough room to inch the shelves about three f
eet from the wall. Finding the window was easy.

  “There,” I said, pointing at the place I had just tapped.

  “Brilliant,” said Pinketts. “Now I ask a question and you ask a question?”

  “Ask.”

  “What do we use to make the hole?”

  “I’ve got a better one,” I said. “What do we do to cover the noise?”

  “They can’t get through the door,” he reminded me.

  “But they’ll hear us breaking through the wall and be waiting for us on the other side,” I said.

  We moved back into what was left of the middle of the room, where I got a new idea.

  “Take the tops of two cans,” I said, tipping over the single chair and breaking off one thick wooden leg, which is easier to say than it was to do, especially trying not to make noise.

  “When I say ‘bang,’” I said, “knock them together. I’ll try to go through the wall.”

  “Insane,” said Pinketts.

  I ignored him and slithered back behind the shelves with my club.

  “Now,” I shouted.

  I hit the wall and felt the wooden chair leg go through and hit glass, but there was no bang of cans to cover the noise I made.

  “I said, ‘now,’” I hissed.

  “You were supposed to say ‘bang,’” said Pinketts smugly on the other side of the shelves.

  “What are you two doing in there?” came Jeffers’s voice at the door.

  “Start banging,” I whispered. “And don’t stop banging till I tell you.”

  Pinketts began to bang.

  “Louder,” I called as I plunged the chair leg through the wall again.

  I could hear the rattle of film cans as Jeffers tried to open the door. I punched holes in the wall with a fury while Pinketts banged film-can lids and added his own touch, Italian folk songs.

  It took five or six punches in the wall to get enough room to start to pull out the plaster. Jeffers had stopped trying to open the door. I knew where he was going. I worked harder.

  “Bang,” I shouted. “Bang for the love of Kali.”

  Pinketts kept banging and singing.

  The good news was I made a space big enough for us to crawl through in about three wild minutes, during which I could tell that Jeffers had been joined by someone, probably Hans and Fritz, in trying to push the door open.