Mildred Pierced: A Toby Peters Mystery

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Someone call the fire department,” I shouted. “Tell them there’s an injured woman in here.”

  I went down the concrete steps. No one tried to stop me. The small gathering backed away. Some feeling was starting to return to my left arm and shoulder. Most of it was pain, but some of it was allowing my fingers to move.

  I headed for the street. More people had gathered.

  “The Japs,” cried one woman. “Oh, my God. They’re bombing us.”

  I didn’t take the time to correct her.

  On the other side of the street was a parked car with its engine running. The driver was Anthony. He looked at me and I looked at him. He started to pull out of the parking spot. I brought the shotgun up with my right hand and a little help from my left. As he pulled into the street, honking to get people who were coming to see what had happened out of the way, I decided not to fire. Too many people and I’m too bad a shot—even with two hands working.

  I watched him drive away and shuffled toward my car.

  “You all right, mister?” a fat woman with curlers in her hair asked warily.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  I opened the Crosley’s door, dropped the shotgun in the backseat, and eased behind the wheel. Then I remembered my gun. My .38 was in that apartment somewhere, probably in Lewis’s pocket. I doubted if any of the people who had seen me come out of the explosion could identify me. My face was black, my clothes a smoldering mess. But the gun. I didn’t even consider going back for it.

  Slowly, painfully, I managed to get the key into the ignition and start the car. I managed to put my left hand on the steering wheel. Feeling was coming back a little faster now, but not fast enough. Shifting gears and steering would have been tough even if I weren’t hearing ringing sounds and trying to keep my burning eyes open.

  Tough or not, I had to do it. I drove.

  CHAPTER 16

  “IT’S ME,” I said when Anita answered my knock at her apartment door. “Before you open the door, I think you should know I’m not at my best.”

  “I think I can take—” she began, as she opened the door. Then she stopped and looked at me with more shock than horror.

  “Toby, what happened? You look like Daffy Duck in one of those cartoons where Bugs Bunny blows him up.”

  “Compliments are always welcome,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean …”

  “It’s okay,” I said raising my right hand about waist high and stepping past her.

  “Before you sit on anything, take off your clothes. I’ll help you,” she said.

  It sounded like a good idea. She was wearing a pink robe and pink slippers. They looked warm and normal. She helped me out of what I was wearing.

  “I don’t think we can salvage any of these,” she said. “Except maybe the shoes. No, not even the shoes.”

  I stood there in my white boxer shorts as she turned me around.

  “You’re not burned,” she said. “Thank God.”

  I shuffled into the bathroom with her and looked in the mirror. My face and hands were minstrel black. The rest of my body looked almost albino white.

  “What happened?” Anita asked again, spotting the wound in my shoulder.

  I opened my mouth and she stopped me, saying, “Take a shower. Use the soap and shampoo in the rack.”

  I nodded dumbly while she ran the water. The room began to steam, and the sound of water reminded me of the spitting fish fountain.

  “You okay in there?” she asked.

  “Perfect.” I stepped into the hot water.

  “I’ll fix some Spam and eggs,” she said. “There’s an extra robe on the hook behind the door.”

  I washed slowly, surprised that my wound didn’t hurt more than it did, remembering that the kid who had put the hole there was well beyond pain.

  When I finished, Anita was standing outside the shower stall. After I dried myself and put on my shorts, she cleaned the hole in my shoulder with hydrogen peroxide and alcohol, and then dabbed on iodine. I felt no pain. She put a bandage on me and handed me the white robe hanging on the hook behind the door.

  “Tell me what happened while we eat,” she said.

  I did.

  She listened carefully. I was hungry, and the more I ate, the more feeling returned to my left arm and shoulder. Most of the feeling was mild pain, but there was also movement as long as I stuck to forks full of Spam and eggs and a cup of coffee.

  “Toby,” she said. “You think Shelly is … all right?”

  I shrugged.

  “Sax hasn’t killed him so far. Sax has been applying pressure on Shelly to tell him where the new will is hidden. I can’t see Shelly holding up under the threat of pain, let alone the application. Shelly is an expert on pain as long as he’s inflicting it on patients. But he seems to be holding up.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “James Fenimore Sax is not a very common name,” she said. “There must be some way to find him.”

  “If Gunther can’t do it, it can’t be done. You mind if I sleep here tonight?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I mean, ‘sure,’ it’s okay.”

  “How about right now?” I asked.

  I slouched out of the kitchen heading for the sofa. She stopped me after three or four steps and steered me into the bedroom.

  “I’ll take the sofa,” I protested.

  “We’ll both take the bed,” she said. “I promise not to compromise you in your sleep, and you look like you could use a shoulder to put your head on.”

  She was right about that. I knew I should be thinking of some way to save Shelly, but I couldn’t think. I let her lead me to the bed. I vaguely remember falling face down on a pillow, having my feet lifted and put down gently on the blanket, and being turned over.

  Faint sensation of a warm body alongside of mine. Dreamless sleep and then a tingling of warmth on my eyelids. I opened my eyes, realized where I was, and sat up, my left hand pushing on the bed. A stab of pain hit my shoulder.

  Anita wasn’t in the bed. I checked the clock on the night table. It was a little after ten-thirty.

  I stood up and examined myself for burns or bruises. There were no burns and only a blue and yellow bruise on my chest and the bandage on my shoulder.

  I took one small Frankenstein-monster step toward the living room and then another. By the time I reached the door and opened it, I was close to my normal gait.

  When I stepped into the living room, I found myself looking at Gunther Wherthman seated in Anita’s armchair.

  “Anita called me,” he explained. “She had to go to work. I have brought you some clothes.”

  He looked at the sofa in front of me where he had neatly laid out pants, shirt, clean underwear, socks, and a paper bag.

  “Your toothbrush and razor are in the bag. I’ve taken the liberty of placing your wallet in the pocket of your pants.”

  “Thanks, Gunther,” I said.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with concern.

  “I’m alive. I’m walking, talking. I’m all right.”

  “The police were at Mrs. Plaut’s this morning looking for you,” he said.

  “Cawelti?”

  “The angry one with red hair. Yes.”

  “I think I know what he wants,” I said, picking up the phone on the stand next to the sofa. I made a call I should have made the night before. I called the police and reported that my name was Toby Peters and that my gun had been stolen. I waited while I was connected to a woman who asked me the standard questions: type of gun, serial number of the gun, where I lost it, how long it had been missing.

  I got the serial number from the card in my wallet, answered her questions, telling her I had just noticed the gun was missing, that it might have been gone for a few days. She didn’t care, just told me to come in and file an official report within twenty-four hours. I hung up.

  “I showered last nig
ht,” I told Gunther. “Just give me a few minutes to shave and get dressed. Been here long?”

  “Approximately one hour and twelve minutes,” he said, looking at his watch. “I brought something to work on.”

  He held up the thin book in his hand.

  I went back into the bedroom with the paper bag, took its contents to the bathroom, shaved with soap and a fresh Gillette Blue Blade with the sharpest edges ever honed, and brushed my teeth with Dr. Lyon’s Tooth Powder. Then I got dressed carefully and looked at myself in the mirror. About normal. Maybe still a little pale.

  “What’s on your schedule today?” I asked Gunther.

  “I am at your disposal.”

  “Good, I’ve got to track someone down. Give me a few minutes.”

  I got back on the phone and struck it lucky by going to the obvious on my first call. A Martha Helter had been admitted to County Hospital the night before. Her condition was stable. She was in the Acute Unit. I asked if she could have visitors and said I was her brother.

  “Regular visiting hours are seven to eight in the evening,” the woman said. “But a close relative can visit for a brief period if the doctors approve. Let me check.”

  I held the phone for about a minute before she came back on.

  “You can come, but only for a very brief visit. You’re her brother?”

  “Yes, Robert Biggs. Helter is her married name. I’ll be right there.”

  I hung up and told Gunther where we were going.

  “How did you get here?” I asked.

  “Taxi.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “It is of no matter,” he said.

  “I’ve got a client.” I opened my wallet and saw less in there than I would have liked.

  “Four dollars,” he said.

  I pulled out four and gave them to him.

  “Let’s go to the hospital,” I said. “You drive.”

  My shoulder was still hurting and the diminutive Crosley was one of the few cars the diminutive Gunther could drive with only a pillow or jacket under him.

  We got to the hospital on the 1200 block of North State in about fifteen minutes and parked on the street.

  County Hospital is comprised of 123 structures on 56 acres. The Acute Unit is a huge setback building with soaring vertical lines rising twenty stories high. It can be seen from most of the hilly eastern section of the city.

  Gunther waited in the car while I went in search of Helter.

  At the desk, I told a woman in a blue apron that I was Martha Helter’s brother. She looked up the name. There are about 2,500 patients in the hospital on any given day so it took her a little while to find it. A notation by the name said that I was allowed to visit my sister.

  She handed me a pass—a white card with the floor and room number and her signature—and I headed for the elevators.

  I got off on the sixth floor and went to the nursing station, where a thin woman wearing big glasses and a white uniform told me I could see my sister “for a few minutes.”

  “Will she be all right?” I asked.

  “She’ll live.” The nurse gave me a reassuring smile.

  I went to the room marked on the card and entered. A doctor or orderly was leaning over Helter, something in his hand. I knocked on the inside of the door to get his attention. When he turned, he got mine. I had seen him before. His name was Anthony, Anthony of the craggy face, Anthony the Survivor.

  We faced each other. I had a feeling that at my best I might give him enough of a tussle to draw a crowd, but with one working arm and an aching body, I could only fake it.

  “James Fenimore Sax?” I asked.

  His answer was to throw whatever he was holding at me. I turned my head and it crashed into the door. He rushed at me head down and slammed his shoulder into my stomach. I hit the wall and went down. He ran through the door. I got up, but it was slow going and I knew he would be long gone before I even opened the door.

  Instead of going after him, I moved to the bed to check on Helter whose eyes were fluttering, her dry, cracked mouth open.

  “He tried …” she whispered and then coughed.

  “He didn’t give you anything, stick you with anything?”

  She tried to shake her head and got out, “Going to. You came.”

  “He killed Lewis,” I said. “He was taking a second shot at killing you.”

  “Why?” she asked, a tear in the corner of one eye.

  “You could identify him. You could challenge his right to Shelly’s money. He’s going to kill Shelly as soon as he gets that new will and tears it up. Where does he have him? Where were you and Lewis and Anthony going to take me last night?”

  “Sax’s house,” she said, her eyes closing.

  “Where is it?”

  “Don’t … know,” she said. “Water.”

  “It’s near the water?”

  “No.” She mustered some irritation. “I want some water.”

  There was a glass of water with a straw on the table next to the bed. I smelled it, tasted a drop on the tip of my finger and held it for her to drink.

  “Just a little,” I said.

  She drank just a little and lay back, eyes closed, exhausted.

  “Music,” she said.

  I couldn’t tell if she was asleep, delirious, or trying to tell me something. “Once I heard music on the phone when Lawrence called Sax.”

  “Music?”

  She nodded, said, “Funny music,” and fell asleep.

  There was a phone next to the water glass. I picked it up and called my brother’s house. Ruth’s sister answered. I asked for Phil.

  “Yeah,” said Phil.

  “I’ve got a story to tell you,” I said. “You still on suspension?”

  “Yeah, and I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “I need your help,” I said. “Can Ruth’s sister take care of the kids?”

  “The boys won’t be home from school for about three hours, but Becky can watch them and Lucy after that.”

  I told him what had happened the night before, told him about my missing gun, and about the attempt to kill Helter. I asked him if he could come and guard her while I looked for Sax.

  I expected an argument. I expected a refusal. I got a “Sure.”

  I told him her room number. He was still a cop and wouldn’t have any trouble convincing the staff that he should be there guarding an important witness.

  “If it goes on till tomorrow, I can have Steve Seidman spell me,” said Phil. “It’s his day off.” Seidman had been my brother’s partner till Phil got demoted.

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll wait till you get here.”

  “I’ll make a call and see what I can find out about your gun,” he said and hung up.

  I picked up the broken glass from the syringe Anthony had thrown at me and dropped it in the wastebasket.

  Helter slept. I stood waiting till the nurse with the glasses came in and told me it was time to leave.

  “You can come back tonight at seven,” she said. “Regular visiting hour.”

  I thanked her and went through the door while she held it open. I followed her to the nursing station and started to talk, stall until Phil arrived.

  “Are there many male nurses?” I asked her as she went around to the other side of the station and picked up a chart.

  “A few,” she said. “They say there’ll be a lot more when the war ends. Medics.”

  “You know Dr. Parry?” I asked.

  “Emergency room,” she said with a slight look of distaste as she adjusted her glasses and wrote something in pencil on the chart.

  “He’s seen me a couple of times,” I said, looking at the elevator.

  “I see.” She glanced up at my flat nose and obviously injured arm.

  “He was a war hero, you know?” I said.

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Did something to him. The war, I mean.”

  “I’ve noticed,” she said.
<
br />   “Makes some men bitter, you know?”

  “I know,” she said, putting down the chart and picking up another. “I have to make my rounds now, Mr. Biggs.”

  She had a clipboard in her right hand as she came back around the nurses’ station.

  I was being told nicely to get the hell off her floor. I tried to think of something else to say.

  “One more thing,” I said.

  She paused, grasped the clipboard to her small breasts and looked at the supposedly distraught brother of one of her patients with clear signs of impatience.

  “And that is?” she asked.

  Before I had to come up with something, the elevator door opened and Phil stepped out, slacks, white shirt, blue zippered jacket with the hint of a holster bulging under his left arm.

  He ignored me and addressed the nurse.

  “I’m Detective Lieutenant Pevsner,” he said showing his badge. “I’m here to watch a Miss Martha Helter. She’s a material witness in a murder, and we don’t want her trying to get away.”

  “She’s in no condition to go anywhere,” the nurse said.

  Phil sighed and said, “I’m sure you’re right, but this isn’t my idea. My captain sent me, and so here I am.”

  “Good-bye,” I told the nurse. “I’ll be back at seven.”

  I heard Phil ask the nurse for a chair as the elevator doors closed.

  “I saw your brother enter the hospital,” Gunther said as I got back in the car.

  “I called him. Sax tried to kill Helter. Phil is going to watch her.”

  “Then,” said Gunther, “where shall we go?”

  It was a good question. We should go where Shelly was, if he was still alive—save him, nail Sax, save Joan Crawford’s reputation, and go back to Mrs. Plaut’s, where I could get undressed and lie on my mattress for a week or two.

  “Wilshire Police Station,” I said.

  Gunther looked at me, pursed his lips, and decided to say, “Is that wise?”

  “Can’t go back to Mrs. Plaut’s. They’ll be watching for me there. Cops and probably Sax. Same for my office. Let’s go surprise Cawelti.”

  “If you think that best.” Gunther started the car and made it clear that he did not agree.