A Fatal Glass of Beer

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Then, after ransacking my office, you came down here to look, and I appeared like a silent wraith, gun in hand, risen from the pages of a fascinating tome of a time a bit simpler than our own by your noise,” said Fields. “Unless I have suddenly become an ill judge of human nature, you intend to shoot me whether I give you my bankbooks or not. I’ll make a counter offer. Give me back the money you’ve already taken and I’ll turn you over to the cops for your day in court. You’re a younger man than I, with much more to lose across the O.K. Corral Memorial Pool Table.”

  “And here we stand,” said the man. “Let’s count to three and you talk or we start shooting.”

  “Let’s pick an even number like two thousand,” said Fields.

  Jeremy was within a few feet of the intruder now.

  “One …”

  “Do I get a last request?” asked Fields.

  “What?”

  “I should like to see Paris before I die.”

  “Two.”

  Jeremy leapt forward and grabbed the counting man’s gun hand, turning it downward as he fired. The bullet hit the green felt of the table and screeched a two-foot path along it. Fields went to the floor, accidentally pulling the trigger on his shotgun. The pellets went into the already drooping ceiling, which instantly sagged even more, and, as Jeremy took the gun from the man’s hand, a hefty piece of plaster and lath fell with a crash on the pool table.

  Jeremy turned the man around. He threw a punch at Jeremy’s throat. It hit the mark but Jeremy Butler had a neck that was all muscle. He didn’t flinch or step back. He reached under the man’s armpits and lifted the would-be thief into the air.

  The man kicked at Jeremy’s groin. Jeremy turned aside, taking the kick on the thigh. Ceiling plaster coated everyone but me. Fields was completely white and picking pieces of plaster from his hair as he looked up at the hole above us.

  “Damned landlord should have had that fixed long ago anyway,” he said, reaching for a ball on the pool table.

  The man Jeremy was holding aloft and shaking threw a bent knee into Jeremy’s face. Jeremy didn’t let go or drop the man, but he did take two steps back. Before the man could throw the next knee, Fields let go with the billiard ball, hitting the intruder smack in the middle of his head. The man went limp and Jeremy dropped him on top of the plaster-covered table.

  Jeremy had a distinct bruise on his cheek, but he ignored it and stood over the man.

  “Dead?” asked Fields.

  “No,” he replied. “He’ll wake up soon.” Jeremy, in his wrestling days, had seen more than one unconscious man. I trusted his diagnosis.

  “Good,” said Fields. “Wouldn’t want to kill an FBI man, even if he was after my bankbooks.”

  “He’s not an FBI man,” I said, pushing the unconscious man on his side so I could get to his wallet and open it. “And his name’s not McEvoy. The ID’s a fake. I called the FBI locally and asked for McEvoy. They referred me to Washington, D.C. I called the office there. They confirmed that they had an Agent McEvoy, but that he was not available, though he could return my call. I described our tall blond here, and the guy in Washington said it wasn’t McEvoy. Our fake FBI agent and his partner planned it fast and almost made it. First, he comes to you within an hour of our getting back, identifies himself, takes away your reason for calling the FBI, and takes away your reason for calling the local police or keeping me on the job. The FBI is on the case. He even checked in with the police as McEvoy, told them that he was working a case, and said he’d keep them informed if there was a local connection.”

  “Then who the hell is he?” asked Fields, coming around the table, shotgun in hand.

  “Name is Knox,” I said. “Mickey Knox. He’s a detective with the Philadelphia Police Department.”

  I threw the wallet to Fields.

  “Gus Belcher’s partner,” I said. “The helpful Philadelphia cop who said he wanted to work on the case, who said he’d call the FBI. Belcher went on a sudden vacation the day we left Philadelphia. It wasn’t for one day. Belcher followed us. His partner covered for him, and whenever I called, Knox here took the call and had Belcher call us back from wherever we were. My bet is he called us from the same towns we were in. And we thought he was in Philadelphia.”

  “So Belcher killed Lester Burton and the Chimp,” said Fields.

  “I’d say so. And when he killed Burton, he went ahead to the next bank with a fake cast.”

  “The Chimp said ‘police’ when he was dying,” Fields said. “He wasn’t telling us to call the police. He was telling us the police had shot him.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  Jeremy stood at ease near the table. He didn’t appear to be interested in our conversation.

  “So, where is Belcher? Where is my money? And who is this giant?”

  “This is Jeremy Butler, my landlord, friend, a poet, philosopher, and a husband and father.”

  “You remind me of the Great Bombini,” said Fields to Jeremy. “On the circuit for years. Strongest man I ever met. Wrestled from time to time.”

  “I fought him twice,” said Jeremy. “Strong but slow. Beat him too quickly the first time. The audience didn’t like it. I let it go ten minutes the second time.”

  Knox groaned.

  “I’ll get some water and hit him in the face with it,” Fields volunteered.

  “Not necessary,” said Jeremy. “I suggest you put your weapon away, drink some water slowly, and sit down.”

  “Excellent idea,” said Fields. “I’ll get a drink. Don’t let him wake up till I get back.”

  While Fields was out of the room, Jeremy shook most of the plaster off his clothes, saying, “I think Mr. Fields was very frightened. He needs a few moments to calm himself.”

  “And a martini or two, or I don’t know my man,” I said.

  Knox opened his eyes. A small piece of plaster or some plaster dust got in his right eye. He blinked, rubbed his eye, and tried to sit up. Jeremy reached down, put his right hand behind the man’s neck, and lifted him to a sitting position on the pool table.

  “Close your eyes,” Jeremy said.

  Knox looked at the massive bald head almost touching his face. He closed his eyes.

  “Roll your eyes around and keep them closed,” said Jeremy.

  Something happened under Knox’s eyelids. And then Jeremy’s left hand came up open-palmed and slapped Knox’s cheek, turning the man’s head suddenly to the left. Knox opened his eyes. Tears of pain were coming out of his eyes.

  “Tears should wash out the dust,” said Jeremy.

  We let Knox sit on the edge of the table. When he seemed to wobble as if he were going to fall, Jeremy sat him up again. In a minute or two Fields reappeared, rubbing his hands together, plaster gone from his face and hair. He was wearing a new robe, silk again, but with purple flowers on a red background.

  “Two questions,” I said. “Where’s Belcher? Where’s the money?”

  “Not talking,” Knox said weakly, blinking tears.

  “Breaking and entering. Assault with a deadly weapon. Accomplice to murder. Impersonating a federal agent.”

  “During wartime,” said Fields. “An act of treason. Firing-squad offense. I shall volunteer.”

  “Belcher’s gonna take the money and run,” I said. “Your bag is empty. His is full. Where is he? Where would he go? You’re a cop. I was a cop. You know you didn’t pull the trigger on those two victims. Get a good lawyer quick and make a deal to testify against your pal Gus. Might even get immunity.”

  “Who are you kidding? I’ll get at least ten years, if I’m lucky. Wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” said Knox, closing his eyes and shaking more plaster from his face and hair.

  “But it did,” I said.

  Knox shook his head and opened his eyes. There was nothing in them but tears.

  “I’ve seen them get away with murder and I’ve seen them caught by bad luck and dumb mistakes,” said Knox. “Gus said we knew enough to get away
with it. I didn’t expect the killings. He was just going to go after the money. I flew from Philadelphia to Chicago to Denver to here yesterday. I was on the job in Philly when Gus killed those guys.”

  “You want a deal?” I asked. “My brother’s a cop. You met him. Pevsner. I’ll call him and see what he can work out with the district attorney’s office.”

  “I got a choice?”

  “None I can see,” I said.

  “Gus is in the car,” Knox said with a sigh and a cough. “In the next driveway, next door, that way, waiting for me. If I got caught, I was to stick with my FBI cover, say I had orders to confiscate the bankbooks, but …”

  That was as far as he got. The window exploded. Glass crashed and Knox slumped forward. Jeremy grabbed him. Knox had a large wide red blotch of blood coming out of the bullet hole in his back.

  There was a second shot. I think it was aimed at Fields, who was dropping to the floor when it came. Jeremy calmly laid the body down on the table as I took out my .38 and fired in the general direction of the broken window. I hit the wall about three feet above the sash. One of my better shots.

  “He’s running,” said Jeremy.

  “Knox?”

  “Dead.”

  “Let’s get the bastard,” shouted Fields, grabbing his shotgun and digging a shell out of his robe.

  I went for the window, hearing Fields behind me say to Jeremy, “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a cheap decorator, would you?”

  I opened the pane and climbed out, careful with my back, begging it to stay with me. Belcher had a big start, but I saw him about thirty yards away in the dim light as he ran behind a row of bushes. I went after him in a half run, gun as ready as it would ever be in my hand.

  Around the bushes, I stood in an open patch of grass. It looked like the green of a golf course, complete with a cup which caught my heel. I went down. My gun fired into the sky. A shot came from the shadows of three dark trees about forty yards away. Fields’s lawn was the size of a small golf course. Belcher’s shot took a deep divot near my head.

  I lay flat, panting, and heard him running again. I got up and followed, crouching, moving a little slower, and headed for the three trees and then past them. Belcher or a figure that looked like his was down the slope, over a low gate, and heading for a dark car. I took aim with two hands, but before I could shoot, he spotted me and came within a couple of fingers of taking off my left ear. It was becoming quite clear that he was a hell of a lot better shot than I was.

  He got in the car, started it as I made my way down the hill, and backed out of the driveway. I crashed into the fence at the bottom of the slope but managed to hold on to my gun. The lights came on in the big house at the end of the driveway. Getting over the fence was a big problem. My back told me it had had enough. It had cooperated so far, but this was it. I eased my way slowly and gently over the fence, knowing Belcher was getting away. On the other side of the fence, a man suddenly appeared, a big man, barefoot, without a shirt, and in a deep voice he said, “What the hell is going on here?”

  I could have sworn the man was Anthony Quinn, but I didn’t have time to take a close look or carry on a conversation. Jeremy’s car screeched into view and halted at the driveway.

  “No time now,” I said, panting, as I tried to hurry to join the chase. “Fields will explain later.”

  “Fields? I should have known that old lunatic had something to do with this,” said the man, who I think was indeed Anthony Quinn.

  The passenger-side front door of Jeremy’s car was open. I jumped in and closed it. Fields, still wearing his kimono and carrying his shotgun, was in the backseat.

  Jeremy put his foot to the floor and shot forward. We kept Belcher’s car in sight going down to the valley, and Fields said, “If you can just get close enough to the weasel, I’ll explode his dreams of spending my money—with both barrels.”

  We went on for about four minutes and then Jeremy pulled over in front of an apartment building and stopped. “We have lost him,” he said. “Too many streets to turn in to. Too many places to pull over on them and turn off his lights. I tried to watch the streets and keep pace, but …”

  “I know where he’s going,” I said.

  “Then what are we sitting here for?” asked Fields. “This damned vehicle doesn’t even have a bar back here and I didn’t have time to grab my thermos.”

  I told Jeremy where to go, hoped I was right, and hoped we got there before Belcher was gone. He was a cop, a detective. He had the experience and had worked out the plan. If we missed him, he could be on his way to Mexico, Brazil, Canada, or who knows where, probably a place where he could live cheaply and comfortably for the rest of his life on Fields’s quarter of a million dollars.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My associate doesn’t know the meaning of the word “capitulation,” but few do.

  The desk clerk was alone in the lobby. He was thin, with neatly trimmed black hair, wearing a slightly shopworn hotel maroon jacket, dark slacks, a bow tie, and a bewildered look. He was also wearing double-thick glasses.

  Before him stood a trio he would have had trouble describing without people thinking he had dropped out of Alcoholics Anonymous. There was no one in the lobby to help him. The Coltrain Arms Hotel was not the home away from home of movie stars, the wealthy, or politicians. It had always been a slightly out-of-the-way refuge for those who were confident that they’d soon write that great script, land the lead opposite Gable or even Roy Corrigan, or direct Garbo in her comeback. There were still a few like that, but the Coltrain was fast losing its reputation and its willingness to buy new maroon jackets for its desk clerks.

  Fields was wearing his bedroom slippers, silk robe, and a shotgun. I was powdered with plaster dust and looking like trouble, and Jeremy stood huge in dusty dignity, the bruise slightly purple on his cheek.

  “Augustus Belcher,” I said. “Did he just come in?”

  “Yes,” said the clerk. “Five-twelve.”

  “We’re the law,” I said. “Don’t call him and tell him we’re coming up.”

  “But he’s a police officer,” the clerk said.

  “And we are escaped lunatics,” said Fields. “To defy us is to seal your certain doom.”

  “I won’t call Mr. Belcher’s room,” the clerk said.

  “I shall remain here,” Fields said. “Brandishing my faithful musket to hold this myopic traitor to insure your safety during the apprehension of the varlet and the rescue of my cash.”

  Rocco Allen had told me about Belcher, told me that Belcher had been at his desk at noon. Belcher had given him his real name, said he was tracking a fugitive and that he might need help. He also told Rocco the hotel he would be staying at. I didn’t think Belcher would lie to Rocco, in case Rocco tried to call him.

  Belcher’s mistake had been in trying to cover everything—the FBI, his own presence in Los Angeles, the threats. I had come to the conclusion that if Belcher got his hands on those bank-deposit books, he planned to kill me, Fields, and Gunther, and maybe his own partner, but not as soon as he had. He planned to get rid of everyone who might be looking for him so he could extend his vacation and quickly make another round of banks across the country. He could have walked off his job with a million or more, but now he had to figure that the nearly three hundred thousand would do.

  Jeremy and I got in the elevator and, as the doors closed, Fields said, “Adios, auf wiedersehen, and get the bastard.”

  “What do we do when we get to the room?” Jeremy asked reasonably.

  “We have options,” I said, trying to sound confident. “We can knock, identify ourselves as Rocco Allen, and hope he opens the door.”

  “Unlikely,” said Jeremy. “We have just chased him. He is certainly preparing to abscond. Identifying ourselves as the police would in all likelihood not deceive him.”

  “Right,” I said as the elevator crept up. “We say we have a telegram?”

  “Is he a fool?”

 
“No,” I said as we passed the third floor. “I shoot the lock off. We rush in and make a citizen’s arrest.”

  “He shoots far better than you, Toby,” Jeremy said, eyes front, calmly thinking.

  “You have any ideas?” I asked.

  “We quietly approach the door. Listen. And then I break the door down. You come through right behind me, gun drawn, and aim it at him before he can obtain his weapon. The breaking of the door and the element of surprise should give you an extra second or two.”

  “What if you can’t break down the door on your first try?”

  “I will break it,” said Jeremy, closing his eyes and folding his hands in front of him. “I’m visualizing the door. I’m watching myself hurl my shoulder against it. I see it breaking open, open wide.”

  I nodded, though Jeremy couldn’t see me, as the elevator stopped at the fourth floor. We didn’t want to take a chance on Belcher hearing it stop on his floor. We found the stairway, made our way up without talking, and opened the hall door on five. The hallway was empty. The doors we passed were wood and looked pretty thick to me. The real question was whether the locks were strong. The possibility also existed that Belcher had put something—a dresser, chair—in front of the door.

  We found the door. I listened and definitely heard movement inside. I nodded at Jeremy, who closed his eyes again, breathed deeply, and moved against the wall opposite Belcher’s door. He suddenly, silently lunged forward, hitting the door with all his weight and whatever his visualization had come up with. The door didn’t pop open at the lock. It exploded into the room right off its hinges. I could see as I followed Jeremy into the small room that Belcher had put a chair under the doorknob. The chair had splintered into flying pieces of wood.

  Belcher, or at least a leg, was just going out the window. He paused long enough to lean back and take a shot at us. The shot went through the front of my right shoe. I didn’t feel anything. I hoped it had just barely missed my toes. I fired back, hitting a lamp near the bed a good four feet from the window.