“We’ve already got a hardware store,” the man said. “Bainbridge’s.”
“We know all about Bainbridge’s,” I said. “We are in the process of buying out Bainbridge’s. This is all hush-hush.”
The man looked perplexed. I took out a five-dollar bill and handed it to him.
“People find out about what we’re doing and prices are going to go up,” I said. “Be best if no one knows we’re in town.”
“Gotcha,” said the man with a wink, pulling in the five spot.
I registered as Ronald, Richard, and Ryan North, took the keys, and reminded the clerk that our business was of the greatest secrecy and that we would be needing a man who could keep a secret as manager of the store.
“Name’s Floyd Simpson,” he said, tucking in his shirt.
“I won’t forget it, Floyd,” I said, taking the keys.
Gunther parked the battle-scarred car around the end of the last room, where it wouldn’t be seen by anyone coming down the highway.
“Everyone freshen up,” Fields said, taking his key for room 3.
“We congregate in twenty minutes for our meeting with the president of the bank, whose name is …”
“Jeffrey Saunders,” I said.
“I’m sure he’s in the phone book,” said Fields, looking back at the car and patting its dented and bruised left fender. “Stout warriors, these Cadillacs.”
Gunther looked exhausted. He went into room 4 with his bag and I went into room 2 with mine.
I washed, shaved, wiped my dirty shoes with a frayed wash-cloth, and sat in a chair with my .38 in my lap, waiting for what was left of the twenty minutes to pass. They passed quickly.
There was a knock on the door and Fields’s voice said, “It is I.”
I opened the door and there he stood. The whole dangerous adventure had brought him to life. He looked fresh, clean, and alert.
“We have a rendezvous with Mr. Saunders at the bank in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I did not speak directly with Mr. Saunders, who was occupied, but with his wife, who relayed my plight with great success and the requisite show of emergency. Shall we repack so that we can make a hasty departure from our possible pursuers after I collect my cash?”
I agreed and we had everything back in the car within five minutes.
I wasn’t too happy about driving into town in the Caddy. One of the Klansmen might recognize it, but it was Sunday night and the town was quiet. Gunther found the small bank. A man in a dark suit stood on the steps. He was about fifty, magnificent mane of dark hair, and a ruddy face that suggested a fondness for a beer or two, or something even stronger.
Gunther let us out and pulled around the corner onto a dark street.
Fields moved in front of me to the waiting man, who smiled and held out his hand.
“Mr. Saunders, I presume?” said Fields. “This is my associate, Mr. Peters. Another associate, Mr. Wherthman, is parking our vehicle and will join us.”
“Pleasure to meet you all,” Saunders said, taking my hand after he shook Fields’s.
I nodded. It was no pleasure. The voice of Mr. Jeffrey Saunders was definitely the voice of the head Klansman with the chain around his neck.
Chapter Nine
Whenever a lion starts chasing you, don’t stop to change your clothes.
Gunther came hurrying to the front of the bank and I watched Saunders’s face. The small benevolent smile he had perfected over many years, the bank official’s smile, remained.
“Sorry to get you out on a Sunday night,” I said.
Saunders took out his keys and opened the front door of the bank. We stepped in.
“For a man of Mr. Fields’s stature, and on the basis of this being an emergency, I am most willing to be of service,” said Saunders, closing the door and switching on the light. “I have already informed the police that we are here so that no officer will come running in when he sees the lights.”
“Thought of everything,” said Fields.
“Not everything,” said Saunders, still smiling, “but it is almost always possible to rectify errors or learn to live with them and go on to other endeavors.”
The bank was small, the smallest we had been in yet. Two tellers’ cages, a wooden table around arm height where people could make out their checks or calculate their wins and losses, a pair of doors to our left, both to offices with clear glass windows so the occupant could look out at the bank and directly at customers and the tellers.
Saunders opened his office door and stepped back, after turning on the light, to let the three of us in. The office wasn’t large, but it would do. An oak desk and chair with a barred window behind them, a small round table, also oak, with three plain chairs.
“Humble, but adequate for a town this size,” he said. “We get a substantial business from the farm community. Shall we sit?”
He pointed to the table. We sat and he went behind his desk to a solid-looking swivel chair. With my hand under the table, I pulled out my .38 and aimed it across at Saunders.
“A quaint establishment,” Fields said, looking around as he had in the lobby. “Character. Small and neighborly.”
“That’s what we strive for,” said Saunders, his smile growing a bit larger. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I wish to make a withdrawal,” Fields said. “Many years ago, under the name of Oscar Treadmill, I opened an account when I passed through your delightful community while on tour. I should now like to liquidate that account of six thousand dollars, plus all interest incurred.”
Saunders stopped smiling.
“I have been president of this bank for twenty-two years,” he said. “Only once before have I been called upon to come in on a Sunday to conduct a transaction. Today I have been called in twice.”
“He’s been here,” I said with a sigh.
“Someone calling himself Oscar Treadmill appeared here today and made a withdrawal?” asked Fields.
“Called this morning,” Saunders said. “Said it was a matter of life and death, could only stay in town a few hours and then had to get back to New Orleans to pay for an operation for one of his children. Said he planned to drive all night to get the money in the doctor’s hands by sometime tomorrow. I pointed out that it was highly irregular, but he was almost in tears. I met him late in the morning. He produced the bankbook and signed for the withdrawal.”
“You gave him my money,” said Fields.
Saunders reached into his desk and produced a sheet of paper. He passed it to Fields, who sat to his left. Fields examined the sheet.
“Withdrawal statement,” said Saunders. “I plan to file it in the morning.”
“Signature’s nothing like mine, like mine when I signed ‘Oscar Treadmill.’”
“Mr. Treadmill had suffered an accident in his hurry to get here,” said Saunders, folding his hands on the table as he watched Fields. “His left arm was in a cast, right down to his fingers.”
“How did he expect to drive to New Orleans like that?” said Fields. “The cast was a fake. I’ve used dozens of them for all appendages—well, almost all appendages.”
“Mr. Treadmill signed with his left hand,” said Saunders. “There is a similarity.”
“Yes,” said Fields, looking at the sheet before him. “Not incomparable to the remarkable resemblance between Dolores Del Rio and Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”
“He had the bankbook,” said Saunders. “And the arm in a cast.”
“Did he show some identification?” I asked.
“Indeed,” said Saunders. “As I recall, a ration book, a driver’s license, a draft card.”
“All reading Oscar Treadmill,” I said.
“Indeed,” Saunders replied.
“All with the same signature on this withdrawal sheet?” I asked.
“The same,” said Saunders.
“So,” I went on, “he got them all after he injured his hand, which he told you he had done on the way here.”
“Point w
ell taken,” said Saunders. “I should have been more observant, but it was an emergency and …”
“Every one of those cards can be erased and new names put in,” I said.
“You know quite a bit about such things,” said Saunders.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said.
“I see,” said Saunders, shaking his head. “I neglected to tell you that he had one piece of identification, a membership card for a social organization to which I belong.”
I let that pass for a moment. Gunther and Fields watched the verbal Ping-Pong game going on between me and Saunders.
“What did this guy look like?”
“I’m afraid I rather concentrated on his broken arm and hand,” said Saunders, “but he had dark hair, about your height and age, possibly a few pounds heavier than you are.”
“Did he look like a primate?” asked Fields.
“Now that you mention it,” said Saunders, “there was a resemblance to some kind of simian.”
“He didn’t really tell you he needed the money for a doctor,” I said, guessing.
Saunders sat silently, hands folded, head slightly cocked to the left with an air of curiosity. “He didn’t?”
“You were a busy man today,” I said. “It would take more than a man who didn’t want to wait a day to get you in here for the first time in over twenty years. You want my guess?”
“Please,” said Saunders amiably.
“He said he needed it for the Klan,” I obliged. “Probably didn’t have any of that identification except a Klan membership card with a name other than Oscar Treadmill. And the name on the Klan card was?”
“There was no Klan card,” Saunders said. “But the name on the organization card to which I referred was written some time ago and was an almost illegible scrawl, a common phenomenon in the banking business. As far as I, and this bank, are concerned, the simian gentleman with the bad arm made a valid withdrawal this morning. I’m sorry. As much respect as I have for Mr. Fields, the name on the account was not his, he has no bankbook, and the account holder presented the book and more than sufficient identification. Mr. Fields’s claim may be quite valid, but he is, in fact, without evidence of his claim to this account.”
“Do you suppose,” said Fields, “that my cohorts and I are gamboling across the nation, gleefully rousing bank presidents with false claims to accounts?”
“I really don’t know,” said Saunders. “It sounds rather far-fetched, but …”
Gunther leaned over to whisper in my ear. I nodded as he sat back. Saunders’s hands were no longer folded in front of him. They were out of sight beneath the desk. Gunther’s height had allowed him a partial view of something metallic in the banker’s hand.
“Guess what I’ve got in my hand?” I said.
“Let’s not get obscene,” Fields said.
Saunders didn’t answer.
“I’m holding the same thing you are,” I said.
“Godfrey Daniel,” said Fields. “I’ve stumbled into a den of covert Victorian depravity.”
I took my hand from under the table and showed the .38, which I leveled at him.
“A bank robbery,” Saunders said as he rose, showing no weapon. “Who would believe that W. C. Fields … or are you an impostor?… that’s it. You look like an impostor.”
Gunther got up and moved to Saunders’s side. He reached out of sight toward the swivel chair and came up with a fair-sized Colt six-shooter. Saunders looked at it.
“Protection for just such an incident as this,” Saunders said, showing not the smallest sign of fear.
Fields and I rose from our chairs and moved toward Saunders.
“And when we leave,” I said. “You plan to call the police and say you stopped a bank robbery?”
“I believe that is what is taking place,” said Saunders.
“And if Gunther didn’t find your gun and I didn’t have one, you would have shot the robbers and claimed you really believed Fields was an impostor.”
Before either of us could say anything more, Fields leaned over the desk and took a short jab at Saunders’s face. The punch landed square on the nose. Saunders’s hands went to his nose and he began to gulp.
“Blood,” he said.
Gunther took out a handkerchief and handed it to the banker, who put it to his nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
“You’ve broken my nose,” he said.
“That was the intention,” said Fields, sitting back. “Short, hard jab to the nose with your shoulder behind it. Boxer turned strong man named Babe Washington taught me that. He was, by the way, a Negro gentleman.”
“This,” said Saunders, looking at the bloody handkerchief and touching his swollen nose, “is evidence of your intent to rob the bank.”
“It’s evidence of my popping you in an attempt to extract some small modicum of solace from this sham,” said Fields.
“Chief of police,” I said, “is he a Klan member?”
“He’s half Sioux,” said Saunders with contempt, handkerchief now red.
“Hold your head back,” said Fields. “Any Boy Scout could tell you that.”
Saunders held back his head.
“When we leave here,” I said, “you’re not calling the police. If you do, we establish Mr. Fields’s identity and tell them and whatever reporters and radio stations around here that you’re the head of the local KKK.”
“They won’t believe you,” said Saunders, his head back, blood still coming, but now in a trickle, onto his shirt. “You can’t prove it.”
“They’ll believe W. C. Fields,” I said.
“I shall positively identify you,” said Fields. “I am a master at voices and will gladly allow the constabulary to test my ability to recognize voices, even with a curtain between me and the speaker.”
“You will lose a great many customers,” Gunther said. “Judging from the relatively small turnout at your obscene—may I borrow the word?”
“Be my guest,” said Fields with a bow of his head.
“Your obscene gathering tonight,” Gunther went on, “I would guess that your group has far less than significant support in the community.”
“That will change,” said Saunders, sitting up. The bleeding had stopped. The nose was large and discolored. “We’ll grow.”
“Perhaps,” said Gunther, showing more emotion than I had seen from him on the trip or, for that matter, in the more than three years I’d known him. “I witnessed rallies like yours, rallies of Nazis in brown uniforms instead of white ones. Hamburg, Landstuhl, Bremen, Berlin. The same hate from foul mouths. The foul mouth in Berlin was that of Hitler himself. I heard it and I left Germany. I left Europe. I left the spreading hate mongers.”
“Freaks like you will be the first to go,” said Saunders in the voice that was now clearly that of the Klan leader with the chain, the angry voice, altered slightly by now having to breathe through his mouth.
“There is no end,” said Gunther, looking at Saunders with contempt.
“Little fella’s got the goods,” said Fields. “I think my compatriot, Mr. Peters, is absolutely correct. You’re not calling the police when we leave.”
Saunders, his face a bloody disaster, said, “I can call other people.”
“It’ll take these other people time to put on their shoes and pants, get in their cars, and get here,” I said. “By that time, we’ll be long gone on our way back to Philadelphia.”
Saunders said nothing.
“Besides,” I said, “while Gunther sits here willing to put a bullet in your face with your own gun, I’m going to pull out every phone in the bank and then we’re going to put holes in all four of your tires. I’ll tie you in your chair just tightly enough that it’ll take you a few minutes to get loose and a few more minutes on a Sunday night to find a phone.”
We were back in the battle-scarred Caddy about five minutes later. Gunther made a U-turn and headed down the street in the direction of the motel. When we had t
raveled about two blocks he turned left, drove another street over, and then turned left again, heading west.
“It was almost worth six thousand plus interest to break that son of a bitch’s nose.”
“Can you really recognize voices that well?” I asked as Gunther speeded down the highway.
Fields had already finished a cocktail he had mixed hastily as we fled Ogallala. “My gallant knight,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “I did not have the vaguest idea that Saunders was the Klan leader till you exposed him. Clark Gable himself could call me on the phone and I’d assume he was an insurance salesman. Here.”
He handed me some bills.
“Today’s pay,” he said, lying back and closing his eyes. “You’ve earned it. Onward to Rifle, Colorado, ominously named, considering our adventures of the last several days. I am determined to thwart and catch that damned Chimp and get every penny of my money back.”
We could see that Rifle, Colorado, when we drove down the main street the next morning, was even smaller than Ogallala. It was a Monday and not much should have been going on, but it looked like almost everyone in town was on the sidewalk—and a few with noses touching store windows from inside—watching our wreck wobble down the street.
Somewhere on the way, when Fields and I were asleep, Gunther had found a place to get gas. He told me he and the attendant had a hard time getting the dented gas-tank door open. But they had succeeded, and with the wind whistling through the broken windows, Fields and I had slept soundly. And now, fully rested and having satisfied his morning thirst, Fields was prepared for the adoration which he assumed was responsible for the throng. Somehow, he said, word of his arrival had reached the hamlet.
Fields, unable to resist a crowd, opened his window and leaned out to doff his hat to the ladies. It was a one-car clown parade.
“Stop the vehicle,” Fields said, and Gunther pulled over.
Four women in summer dresses were watching us. They ranged in age from about twenty-five to fifty.
“Pardon me,” said Fields. “Can one of you fine examples of Colorado pulchritude direct us to the bank?”
A Fatal Glass of Beer Page 14