“Look,” I said, “I didn’t kill Beaumont or Cunningham or whatever his name was and …”
“Deitsch, but you did throw a lamp at Delamater, who went for a one-way flight out of your window,” Seidman pitched in. “You’ve been piling up too many corpses for a coincidence.”
I tried again.
“Errol Flynn is going to be killed some time after midnight if you don’t let me call him.”
“O.K., you want to call Errol Flynn and save his life. Why don’t you just give us the number, and we’ll call him with your message and save his life. We’ll give you all the credit.” Phil was acting tough and sure, but he knew there was a chance of my telling the truth.
“Call the Beverly Wilshire, and ask for Rafael Sabatini in Room 1504,” I said.
Phil exploded.
“Very funny, you two-bit piece of shit. You buy a certificate and a piece of tin, and you own the world. Well, I’m here to tell you that, brother or no brother, you’re getting nailed for this and you deserve it. Tell him.” His face was red as he turned away and moved to the window.
“You are under arrest for the murder of Harry Beaumont,” Seidman said. “We’re warning you that anything you say can be taken down by me and used in evidence against you.”
I pointed a finger at Phil’s back.
“You self-righteous bastard,” I croaked, my voice cracking. “A man might die tonight because you think I’m playing games with you.”
A frail man in white with blond hair and glasses came in. He looked young enough to be refused a drink in the worst dive in Pasadena.
“What’s going on in here?” His voice was soprano. “I’m Doctor Parry, and I didn’t operate on this man to have him die of shock brought on by you two.”
“This man may be a murderer,” said Seidman. Phil kept his back turned.
“He’s a patient,” said Young Doctor Parry, “my patient. I want both of you out of here, now.”
“Look, doc,” Phil said, turning menacingly. It was a good look, designed to wilt Dillinger, but it had no effect on Parry.
“You have thirty seconds to leave this room.” Parry’s voice was even. “If you haven’t gone, I will file an official report stating that your presence here was a danger to my patient.”
Seidman put his notebook away. Phil and Parry stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Phil moved to the door.
“A uniformed officer is going to spend the night outside this door,” Phil said to Parry. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Phil,” I tried once more, “Call Flynn, believe me. Tell him to get out of that hotel room. Tell him …”
My brother slammed the door and left.
“You’re not as sick as I told them,” said Parry, adjusting his glasses and walking over to me. He turned me over and examined the bandage.
“Thanks, doc,” I said.
“It wasn’t for you,” he said, turning me on my back again. “This is a hospital, not a police station.”
“Doc, you’ve got to make a phone call for me.”
“Not a chance, Mr. Peters. No breaks for them and none for you. That policeman said you might be a murderer.”
“I’m not. I …”
“Forget it. I’ll take care of your health. You take care of your personal problems.”
He went out. It was up to me. I sat up, almost falling on the first try. The nausea passed, but the dizziness stayed with me. I didn’t know how much blood I’d lost, but it was enough to make it tough for me to walk to the door.
I pushed the door open a crack. A big uniformed cop was sitting in a chair against the wall, looking at my door. He didn’t look terribly bright, but he was doing his job.
My clothes were in the closet, at least my pants and shoes were. The jacket and shirt must have been too full of blood to save. Getting my pants on left-handed was the toughest part. I tucked the hospital nightgown in, hoping it might fool a nearsighted lunatic into thinking it was a shirt. The shoes went on without much trouble, but I couldn’t tie them.
The big problem was wrapping the blankets up. I tore strips of sheet as quietly as possible. In about ten minutes, I had fashioned an unreasonable facsimile of a human dummy. It wouldn’t have fooled anyone within twenty feet of it, but I looked out the window, and the ground was five stories below. As quietly as I could with one hand, I raised the window. Below me was a courtyard. No one was in it. I dropped the dummy out the window. Faint light from the windows of rooms gave it a sickly human look as it fell. I took the water glass and moved to the bathroom door. I threw the glass at the wall and let out as wild a yell as I could into my cupped hands. Then I ducked behind the door of the bathroom.
I heard the cop come running in. Through the crack in the bathroom door I saw him rush to the window and lean out.
His face was white when he turned, and I thought he was going to throw up. If he decided to do it in the bathroom, I was dead. Instead, he pulled himself together and went running out of the door. In a minute or less, he would know there was a dummy in the courtyard, and a dummy in a Los Angeles police uniform looking at it. Before he knew that, I had to be on my way.
There was still no feeling in my right arm and very little in my legs, but I made them work. They got me to the hall. A nurse was hurrying in my direction, her mouth open.
“He went out the window,” I said, holding my face in my hands. She ran into my room.
There was an exit door in front of me, but it was sure to be the one the cop took. He wouldn’t go for the elevator. At least that was the gamble I took. I went looking for the elevator and found it around a corner. Luck was with me. The elevator was on the floor.
The old man didn’t even look at me as if I were dressed funny. He just took me down to the lobby.
About a dozen people were waiting there. I went past the desk.
“Please return your visitor’s pass,” a voice called to me, but I didn’t stop. There was a coat rack in the corner of the lobby. I moved to it and grabbed a plaid jacket that looked as if it might fit me. If the owner were looking, I’d probably lose the use of my left arm, but I was on my way out the door.
A Red Top cab was waiting at the curb. I climbed in and said, “I’m Doctor Gillespie. There’s an emergency, get moving.”
It was a stupid thing to say, but the driver nodded seriously and pulled away. I turned around, and when we were half a block away, I could see the big cop standing at the curb looking both ways and seeing nothing.
There were two dimes in the coat of the jacket. I told the cabbie to stop at a drug store, and I ran in to call Flynn. It was 11:30 and time was running out.
There was no answer at Flynn’s room. I had one dime left. Flynn might be in the hall or out for a sandwich. Either I went to the hotel and tried to get him out of there, or I went for the murderer and tried to keep him from getting to Flynn. I went back to the cab.
“How fast can you get me to Warner Brothers?”
“About ten minutes if I run a few lights.” The cabbie was a moon-faced, fat guy with freckles.
“How about the Beverly Wilshire,” I tried.
“You got emergencies at both places?” He was totally bewildered.
“Right,” I said seriously.
“Maybe about the same time to get to Beverly Wilshire, but maybe less. The traffic’s tough on the strip and …”
“Warner’s, and fast,” I said.
The L.A. speed limit was 25 for business and residential areas. We hit 60. He ran a few lights, but no sirens followed. At one point I thought I heard him chuckle with joy.
“Who’s sick at Warner’s?” he said, “Some star?”
“Who’s your favorite star?”
“Cagney,” he said. “Saw him last night at the Warner Theater downtown. You know how many times he’s played a cabbie?”
“No,” I said. The cab turned a corner and threw me against the door.
“Lots,” said the chubby cab driver. “Is he hurt?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got to get there for an emergency operation.”
“Shit,” said the cabbie, and we jumped ahead. He was going to be part of saving Jimmy Cagney, friend to the cabbie.
“Pull right up to the gate,” I said, as we shot down the street. He did.
“I’m Doctor Gillespie,” I told the guard at the gate. “I just got a call. James Cagney has been injured.”
The guard was a lot sharper than the cabbie.
“Cagney went home hours ago,” he said.
“I don’t care,” I shouted. “He must have come back through the other gate. Now do you want to be responsible for serious injury to James Cagney?”
“I’ll have to call,” the guard said. “No one told me about this.” He looked at me and the fat cab driver suspiciously and moved for the phone.
“That man is endangering the life of James Cagney,” I said angrily to the cab driver. “I’ve got to get to my patient. Stop that guard if he tries to interfere.”
The cab driver was confused, but he got out of the cab. I got out on the other side and moved into the lot.
“Hey, wait,” shouted the guard, dropping the phone and taking a step toward me. He was an average-sized guy. The cabbie was a head shorter, about Cagney’s height and eighty pounds heavier than his favorite actor. The cabbie got a bear hug on the guard.
I turned a corner as soon as I could. Behind me I could hear the guard shouting at the cabbie:
“What the hell are you doing, you goddamn nut!”
My killer was on this lot, and I had about fifteen minutes to find him before he made his way to Flynn. On a good day, in top condition, I could have made the rounds of all the buildings in half an hour, running at top speed. I had come close to it a few times when I worked at the studio.
Knowing the studio was the only edge I had. I knew about where to find my killer, but I was weak and getting weaker. I had to lean against a building and think. Even if I found him I wasn’t sure what I could do in my condition, but a few ideas were coming.
The studio was dark except for the night lights. Some of the offices and editing rooms had lights on, but at a few minutes to midnight, it was nothing like it had been at noon.
My head cleared, and I tried to figure the route, to make it as easy on myself as I could. I tried five buildings and a few stages. I struck it rich—or poor—in ten minutes. There was a light on in the stage where I had talked to Edward G. Robinson and Peter Lorre. It was the same light I had followed when I met Lorre, and he gave me the suggestion that had proved to be right.
Slowly and quietly I moved over and through the equipment and darkness to the office of Spade and Archer. There was a light on in the set, a single small light, but enough for me to see Spade’s desk.
There was a man at the desk opening a drawer. As silently as I could, I moved to the sofa in Spade’s office and sat, just as I was about to collapse. The man at the desk was so busy that he didn’t hear me.
He was my killer and I greeted him. We were old friends.
“Hello, Hatch,” I said softly.
Hatch jumped about a foot.
“Toby, what are you doing here?” His voice was friendly, but he knew something was in the air.
“I used to run the midnight check,” I said. “I had a pretty good idea of what your route would be. I wanted to catch you before you went off duty.”
Hatch stood up, his bulk blocking out the light behind him. He was a dark mass in front of me. I thought about my friendly inkwell, but I fought it off.
“Why did you want to catch me?” he said. “Mr. Adelman told me about Mr. Flynn. I was going to head there as soon as I finished. He’d be …”
“Dead within ten minutes of your getting to him,” I said.
“Dead? Mr. Flynn? Me?”
He took a step toward me.
“Right. You want to go over the whole thing, Hatch, so we can decide what we’re going to tell the cops, or do you go on screwing things up.”
He stood over me. I still couldn’t see his face, but I could bet he was holding onto the friendly uncle grin.
“Toby, you look sick. Let me get you to a doctor.”
He reached a big arm down to me, and I could feel his fingers dig into my remaining good shoulder.
“Forget it, Hatch, it’s all over.” I twisted away from him. “Brenda tried to kill me tonight. She missed. She’s not as good a shot as you, but then you were shooting at men at close range, except for Flynn, and you missed him.”
“Toby …”
“Shit, Hatch, I knew as soon as I saw the photograph in Brenda’s room, the family photograph. You’re Harry Beaumont’s old man, and Lynn is your granddaughter.”
“Well, yes,” he stammered, “but …”
“But you killed your own son.” I had to keep him off balance. Maybe I could get him as weak emotionally as I was physically.
Hatch gave in. He moved back to the desk and sat. His big hand went to his face and pushed his guard’s cap back. The light was still behind him. His voice sounded as if he might be sobbing.
“He deserved it, Toby, believe me, he deserved it. He was going to use that negative, his own daughter …”
“Take it from the beginning, Hatch,” I said. “All I have is a rough cut. You give me the final edit.”
His body heaved like a great whale, and he talked softly, moving from anger to tears:
“Harry got me this job years ago when he started to move up, but he didn’t want anyone to know I was his father. He was right. Everything was fine. I’d visit the family. I love that girl, Toby. Lynn is a wonderful girl.”
“Well, when Harry saw that picture of Flynn and my granddaughter, he came to me and told me about it, told me about the exchange for the negative.”
“I was waiting for you when you got there. I walked in behind you. Cunningham recognized me. I had seen him plenty of times at the gate. I had to hit you, to get the negative and the picture. I didn’t want to kill you.”
I let that pass. There were a few things he was going to juggle, but they weren’t important. He sure as hell had tried to kill me when he shot his son.
“I hit you,” Hatch continued, “and then grabbed Cunningham and took the negative. He found your gun on the floor where it fell. I grabbed it from him and shot him. I wasn’t sorry.
“I brought the gun, the money, the negative and the print you had to Harry. He said I’d been stupid, and he took them; but I had a good look at the negative.”
“You believed it,” I helped him. “That’s why you took a shot at Flynn the next morning. Hatch, for all the good it will do you, Lynn was never with Errol Flynn or anyone else. The picture was a fake.”
The sob was clear and real.
“No need to lie to me, Toby. It’s too late.”
“No lie, Hatch. Why didn’t you just ask the girl?” She would have told you.”
He stood up angrily.
“How could I ask her a thing like that? I love that girl.”
“What about the boys who came to get the piece of picture from me?” I went on, trying to keep him talking.
“That was Brenda’s idea. I told her about Delamater. I didn’t like it, but …”
“And your son?”
“Harry,” he sighed. “Harry tried to blackmail both Brenda and the studio with the negative. After she left the house yesterday, she called me. When he came on the lot this morning, I tried to talk to him, to get the negative, but he wouldn’t give it.
“Then, when you came I trailed behind you. I saw you fighting. I followed you to the Rockne set …”
“Took a shot at me, killed Harry and took the negative and the money,” I finished. “Where are they now?”
“I couldn’t get off the lot,” Hatch continued, wiping sweat from his bald head, “so I hid them in this desk in a prop along with your gun. I knew the set wouldn’t be used for a while.”
Hatch walked around to the other side of the desk and opened the bott
om drawer. He lifted out the figure of a black bird and from its hollow base he pulled out a small brown envelope. He put the bird on the desk where it stared at me while I stared at Hatch who now had my gun in his hand.
“That’s my gun, Hatch. I’d like it back.” I didn’t think I had enough strength left to take it from him even if he handed it to me.
“Sorry, Toby. If you talk, then everyone finds out about Lynn. I don’t care about myself so much, but that girl….”
“Bull shit,” I said, with as much strength as I could pull together. “Both you and Brenda are doing it all for Lynn. Why didn’t you try asking her what she wanted before the two of you went around killing people and … What’s the use? You’ve messed this up so badly I don’t see how you can keep her name out of it.”
He tore up the negative.
“Not enough,” I said, “but I’ll make a deal. Turn yourself in, confess, make up some story about kidnapping or something, and we can keep Lynn out of it. You can work out the story with a lawyer. Brenda has enough money to get you a good one. Do that, and I throw in an extra: I forget Brenda tried to kill me. That way Lynn keeps her mother. She’s lost her father, who wasn’t worth much, and is sure as hell going to lose her grandfather.”
He held up his hand to stop me from talking.
“Sorry, Toby.”
The gun came up and aimed for my chest. I thought about leaping into the darkness, and I might have made it that far, but I didn’t have the strength to crawl away after that. He’d just walk over and shoot me.
“Don’t be a sap, Hatch. With me gone, there’s no one to blame the killings on. The cops will find you.”
The gun leveled. I had been beaten, screwed, shoved in a closet and shot in the back by various members of the Beaumont family. Now one of them was going to kill me, and I was still trying to help them. Maybe my brother was right.
Then I heard a sound. It was inside the building but far away, a kind of squeak and swish. Hatch didn’t hear it. He took a step toward me to make sure he didn’t miss.
In the light behind Hatch, I could see something moving quickly from the ceiling. It got bigger and in my woozy state, it seemed to be moving in slow motion.
It was a man swinging down behind Hatch on an equipment rope. The man was Errol Flynn, in a billowy white shirt. I made the leap into darkness as Hatch fired and missed and turned to watch as Flynn’s flying feet hit him squarely in the back.
Bullet for a Star: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book One) Page 13