“I’m impressed,” he said sarcastically.
Maybe he knew nothing, but he could be the key to this whole thing—the guy who took a shot at Flynn and murdered Cunningham over his daughter’s honor. He didn’t seem the type, but I’d been fooled before. Getting him angry was the quickest way to get information and Bogart had given me a good start on the job.
“You were at the table when Flynn got that blackmail threat?”
“You came all the way out here to confirm that?”
“No, I came all the way out here to ask you what you did when you recognized the girl in the picture.”
He wasn’t as good an actor as his wife. His look was narrow and wary.
“Recognized the girl?”
“Your daughter, Lynn.”
He walked toward me. I was ready for him if he didn’t have my gun in his pocket.
“You mind telling me what you’ve been doing for the past two days,” I said evenly, “like every minute of your time, and what you know about the murder of a guy named Cunningham?”
He fingered his moustache.
“Not at all,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”
He started to turn and I relaxed slightly. It was a mistake. I was making a lot of them. He turned quickly for such a big man and rammed his fist into my stomach. I doubled up, trying to refill my lungs. Beaumont pushed me backward with both hands, and I slid down catching a little air, but it was coming too slowly. He opened a closet and shoved me in. I reached up to hold the door open, but a coat was in my mouth. The door closed and I heard Beaumont’s footsteps moving away. As I untangled myself from the clothes and got to my feet, I heard a car start and pull away. There wasn’t much room in the closet to get my shoulder into the door. I sat in the dark with my back against the wall. It took two or three good kicks to break the lock, which wasn’t designed for holding men.
As I ran out of the house, I met Cowan coming down the hill. Behind him and in the distance I could hear Bogart shouting, “All right. All right. I’ll take the goddamned fall.”
“You talk to Beaumont?” Cowan asked me.
“Briefly,” I said panting.
“Mean-tempered son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
Cowan told me Beaumont had torn down the road in his car, a white ’39 Cadillac. I thanked him and made it to my car, which was no match for a Caddy. My wind was back, and I wanted my hands on Beaumont. I had been pushed around enough.
Beaumont had a three or four minute start on me. He also had a Caddy that could leave my gasping Buick eating dust all the way back to Los Angeles.
But I had a few things going for me. First, that big car of his ate a lot of gas, and my tank was full. If he needed gas anywhere between Buellton and just beyond Santa Barbara and he stayed on the main road, I might catch up with him.
I knew I was a good driver. I didn’t know anything about Beaumont except that he lost his temper easily. That might make him a driver who took chances. Maybe he would get caught in a speed trap or maybe he’d have an accident. He was still wearing his state trooper costume from the movie. He might stop to change that if he thought I hadn’t followed.
I went down the mountain. Between some lower hills I saw the white Caddy heading down the highway. He was going way past 70. I took it easy going out of the hills, but pushed the speed limit all the way and never let up when I hit the highway.
He wasn’t in sight for forty minutes, and I was beginning to think he had turned down a side road or held back waiting for me to pass. Then I spotted him. He was a couple of hundred yards ahead in a gas station, a ramshackle place with the ocean at its back and a mountain in its face, on the other side of the highway.
Once Beaumont was gassed up, he would almost certainly not stop again till he hit home. When he got to the city I either closed the gap or took a chance on his seeing me. He didn’t know what my car looked like, but I was sure he’d remember my face.
I stepped on the gas and pulled into the station on the other side of the pumps from the white car. Beaumont wasn’t in it, but an attendant was pumping it full of ethyl.
The attendant looked like an extra from a Republic Western, one of the tough bad guys. He was wearing Levi’s, a red flannel shirt and a two-day growth of beard. His hair was long and black, and he was a burly type.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Check the oil,” I said, getting out of the car and stretching. I couldn’t see Beaumont.
I tried the washroom inside the station. The door was open, but Beaumont wasn’t in it. I considered asking the attendant where the driver was, when I saw the small house behind the station. It was a little more than a shack, but it was right on the edge of a two-story drop into the ocean. The view probably made up for the lack of splendor in the house.
Moving around the far side of the garage I came up on the shack. There was a dirty window. I went up to it as quietly as I could through the thick weeds.
Through the window I could see Beaumont in his state trooper uniform. He was talking on the phone. I put my ear near the window to try to catch what he was saying. The noise of the ocean drowned out his voice.
I went to the front door and opened it a crack.
“… when I get there,” he was saying. He paused and laughed. It was an ugly laugh, the laugh of a man who knew the person dealing with him hated him, but he was going to rub the hatred back in that person’s face.
“I know what I am,” he went on. “We’ve been over that before, several times. We also know what you are, don’t we? But that’s not what I want to discuss.” Another pause for the person on the other end to talk. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. The fewer people involved, the better. I …”
The interruption wasn’t on the phone. It came from me. Something grabbed me from behind and shoved me into the room. I kept my balance, and Beaumont looked up.
“Caught him listening to you at the door, trooper,” said the gas station attendant, who had given me the shove. He stood across from me with a heavy chisel in his hand.
Beaumont held the phone for a second, uncertain, his mouth open.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” he said into the mouthpiece and hung up. Then to the burly gas station man, he rasped:
“Good work. I thought he looked suspicious down the road. I think he’s on our wanted list.”
“Hold it,” I countered, moving toward Beaumont.
The gas station man held up the chisel. Both he and it looked mean.
“You hold it, mister,” he said. “You want to take him, trooper?”
“No,” said Beaumont with a triumphant, one-sided smile. “Hold him here for about fifteen minutes. I’ll be back with a car and some help.”
“He’s not a state trooper,” I shouted. “That’s a costume for a movie. He’s an actor.”
Beaumont had recovered and was now playing the part. I had to admit he looked like a trooper, and I surely looked like a thug from a Monogram serial. Beaumont adjusted his cap, patted the bearded man on the shoulder and took a step toward the door.
“Why’s he driving a new Cadillac if he’s a state trooper?” I tried.
Beaumont laughed and shook his head sympathetically.
“Not very clever,” he said, “that’s a stolen vehicle. I’m driving it in. My partner is in my car about ten minutes ahead of me.”
“That’s good enough for me,” the gas station man said.
Beaumont went out of the door.
“Why didn’t he call from here?” I tried on the man with the chisel.
“He could see I could handle you.”
“But he was on the phone when I came in. Who was he calling? Why …” I could hear the Caddy starting above the sound of the waves.
“Did he pay you for the gas?”
The man shook his head. His shoulders were broad. He looked as if he regularly lifted motors for sport.
“I gotta hand it to you fella,” he said. “You don’t give up. Now why do
n’t you just sit down and wait for the trooper to come back like a good guy, huh?”
I looked around the room, but it didn’t inspire me. The table, cabinets and bed all looked homemade and not very well or carefully made.
“What’s your name?” I asked, sitting on the bed.
“Burt.” Burt kept holding the chisel over his head. “I don’t need to know yours.”
“I’ll tell you anyway. It’s Peters. I’m a private investigator, and I was following that man. He’s involved in a murder.”
“Jesus,” sighed Burt, “you don’t give up, do you?”
“My identification is in my wallet, in my pocket.” I reached for the wallet.
“Don’t prove anything,” Burt replied, as I pulled out the wallet. “Might all be fake.”
“Burt, you are going to find out in about twenty minutes that I have been telling you the truth because no state troopers are coming back here. The trouble is that when you apologize it will be too late, and I’ll have to try to find that man in Los Angeles, which is not easy.”
“Talk all you want, mister, just don’t move.”
I sat forward. Two minutes or so had passed since Beaumont went to the door. I looked around the room at the furniture and a tire company calendar on the wall. I leaned forward with my head in my hands, but I wasn’t relaxing. Burt was going to have a hell of a time standing over me at attention, but in a few more minutes it wouldn’t matter. Beaumont would be so far gone that I might as well just wait it out.
A car pulled into the gas station outside. Burt heard it first. He was used to the ocean. He turned his head toward the door, unsure of what to do. I ran at him head down. His arm with the chisel was up.
My head hit him in the stomach, and the chisel went flying. Burt was gulping for air and holding his stomach with both hands when I straightened up. I considered hitting him to be sure he’d stay off my back, but I didn’t have the time or the desire. Beaumont was simply a better liar than I was a teller of truth. His whole career had been built on convincing people that he was someone else. My career was based on convincing people that I was a responsible character named Toby Peters.
I ran through the weeds to the station and my car. The hood was up. I slammed it closed and jumped in. An old lady in a DeSoto tried to tell me she wanted two dollars worth of gas. I ignored her and took off.
Burt staggered out of the shack as I pulled away. The old lady tried to get him to listen to her order, but he was following me out into the road.
Beaumont had a good enough start on me to beat me back with no race now. But I still had a possible ace. He might feel confident enough of his performance to think that there was no hurry. He might even stay inside the speed limit. I pushed my Buick over the limit, put my foot to the floor and felt it rattle as I began passing law-abiding citizens.
Within ten minutes I saw the Caddy in front of me. We were alone on a stretch between rocks. Beaumont spotted me around a turn, and I figured him to try to outdistance me. Beaumont had something to hide, and from the way he was acting, it probably was something he had in the car with him. It might be too much cash or a gun of mine or a negative.
I was wondering about who he had called, back at the shack, when I lost sight of him for a second or two behind a turn. When I came through the turn and could see around the formation of rock, he was gone.
I braked and pulled over. A cloud of dust was settling a few dozen yards ahead. I could see a small road. I got back in my car and moved forward. I turned up the road slowly and heard an engine go mad in front of me.
Beaumont’s Caddy was coming back down the narrow road toward me, and he was coming fast. We were going to hit head on, and the momentum, if not good sense, was on his side. I threw the Buick in reverse and started back. Before I turned to look at the road I could see Beaumont’s face under the trooper’s cap. He was not in a friendly mood.
I didn’t know if anything was coming down the highway, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. Going as fast as I could in reverse, I shot across the two-lane strip.
A small truck barely missed me, and I went backwards off the road and hit my brakes. Beaumont skidded behind the truck and looked back at me.
One of my wheels was spinning over the edge of a drop into the ocean. If Beaumont turned around and rammed me even gently, I’d go over. He might have had it in mind, but the truck that had barely missed me stopped about fifty yards ahead, and the driver got out.
I kept spinning my wheels. The truck driver had his hands on his hips and was yelling back at us. Beaumont decided to forget the ram and head toward L.A. and his secret meeting. The truck driver hurled some great quotes down the road and left.
The Buick wouldn’t move forward. I gunned it, coaxed it, and cursed it, but it wouldn’t move.
I got out and walked in the direction of Los Angeles. About a mile down I found a truck stop. I had a cup of coffee and waited for a guy in the garage to take a tow truck out and pull me off the ledge.
The guy in the tow truck talked all the time, but I didn’t listen. My mind was on Harry Beaumont. I didn’t even think of the case or the money. I just wanted to sink my fists into that man’s face. When I was a kid, I used to break the wishbone with my brother on Thanksgiving and wish for a million bucks or a Tris Speaker baseball glove. I daydreamed that I had the long part of that bone, and I wished for Beaumont in front of me. The wish kept me going all the way back to Los Angeles.
Finding Beaumont among the million and a half people in Los Angeles was not as easy as I hoped it would be. I should have figured he would find a hole. Holes were easy to find in Los Angeles, the largest municipality in the world. The city was really 451 square miles of suburbs loosely strung together. The original Spanish name for this mass was appropriately ponderous: El Pueblo de Neustra Senora La Reina de Los Angeles de Porciuncula. The studio had only one address for Beaumont, the one in Beverly Hills. I called Brenda Beaumont. The Mexican maid said she wasn’t home. She said Lynn Beaumont wasn’t home either.
I had a burger at the Carpenter’s Drive-In sandwich stand on Sunset. The waitress was a skinny woman with a fake smile.
Then, I headed for Dayton Way in Beverly Hills. My idea was simple; scare the shit out of Brenda Beaumont and get her to give me a lead on her husband.
It was still light when I pulled up in front of the gate of the Beaumont house. But I didn’t stop. There was a white ’39 Cadillac in the driveway. Harry Beaumont was home. I parked about fifty yards down in the shade of a short palm. Beaumont came out in about five minutes. He was wearing a white suit and an angry scowl.
Following him in traffic was easy. He was a lousy driver, easy to anticipate, and he had no idea he was being followed. We drove back to Hollywood, or what’s called Hollywood. Hollywood isn’t a separate place but a district in the city on the foothill slopes of the Santa Monica mountains. The movie studios aren’t even located there, except for Columbia. When Beaumont pulled into a parking lot on Franklin off of Hollywood Boulevard, I turned into a small lot on the other side of the street. The old guy in the lot was wearing a blue uniform that didn’t fit. He looked like an ancient kid playing policeman. I handed him my keys and a five-dollar bill and hurried back to the street. Beaumont came out a few seconds after I did and went into one of those buildings that couldn’t make up its mind if it was a hotel or an apartment.
The place was called “Aloha Palms,” but there were no palms. There was a kind of lobby with a desk. Beaumont bypassed the desk and the man behind it and went for the stairs.
My suit was new, my stomach was full, and I was anxious to meet Harry Beaumont in a nice quiet place for a talk. I walked into the lobby of the “Aloha Arms” slowly, looking around as if everything had a slight odor. The guy at the desk pretended not to see me. He went on listening to Baby Snooks on his radio. He was young and skinny, with plastered down hair and a bad complexion. He also looked a bit stupid. I flashed my tin, a private investigator’s badge I bought for a quarter
three years earlier.
“Pevsner,” I said, “Homicide.” I leaned forward over the desk. Fanny Brice had just finished playing bridge with Robespierre, her little brother. She had placed him between two chairs and walked over him. The clerk didn’t smile. I didn’t smile.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Man who just walked in here,” I whispered, “who is he, and what room is he in?”
“Mr. Simmons is in Apartment Fourteen.” He touched a pimple.
“Did he kill somebody?”
“Sorry, I can’t talk about it. Does he have many visitors?”
“I don’t know about days,” said the kid, “I’m nights. I haven’t seen him with anyone during the nights. He’s only been here a few weeks. Can I tell Mr. Siska about all this? He owns the Aloha Arms and …”
“Let’s keep it between you and the Homicide Bureau for now,” I said, reaching over to pat his shoulder and give him a wink. Siska might be a lot brighter than my acned friend, and I didn’t want my description given to Homicide.
Baby Snooks screamed “Daddy,” and I headed for the stairway.
Beaumont’s room was at the end of a hall on the second floor. I wrapped my hand around my keys and made a fist. Then I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder. Nothing. The door was locked. There was another door at the end of the hall. Outside the door was a fire escape.
What looked like a window to Beaumont’s apartment was about four feet from the fire escape. The window looked as if it were open a crack.
I couldn’t quite reach the window, but it was only a short jump. I was less worried about the fall than the possibility that Beaumont might be inside, hear me and greet me as I pulled myself in.
There was no one in sight and it was growing dark. I climbed over the rail, held my breath and made the leap. The window went up easily and no one cracked me in the head, but it wasn’t doing my new suit any good.
I pulled myself into a small bathroom and got to my feet as soon as I could. No one came rushing into the room, and I could see beyond the open door that the lights were out.
Bullet for a Star: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book One) Page 9