Buried Caesars (24 page)

Castle screamed at the sky and let out a pained cry I could only imagine in my worst nightmares.

“Come down, Major,” MacArthur called, stepping past me.

“Gone,” cried Castle. “It’s gone. Now all I can do is kill you. It’s not enough. It’s not fair and it’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got.”

The .45 came up again and leveled at the advancing MacArthur, who didn’t pause. MacArthur had lost the advantage. He could have shot Gastle a second time while he ranted, but he let the opportunity pass, dropped the Luger and continued down the path.

“Major,” MacArthur commanded. “You have a direct order to put that weapon away and come down here.”

“General,” I shouted, going down the steps for the Luger. Castle turned and fired. I stopped and went rigid.

“I hope you burn forever in hell,” Castle said, turning the gun back on MacArthur.

“That is between me and my God,” MacArthur said. “If I am to be punished, it will be by my maker and not by you or any other man.”

And MacArthur kept walking along the path and to the bottom of the bridge, no more than twenty feet from Castle, who stood above him clutching the red wooden bridge railing with his wet bloody hand.

MacArthur’s eyes never left the face of the man on the bridge as he began to climb the steps. I stood watching, knowing that the best I could do was go for the Luger and get off a shot or two after he shot the General. If I was lucky, I’d hit him and maybe MacArthur would survive. I wasn’t feeling lucky.

MacArthur climbed the stairs, swiftly reducing the chances for his survival and mine. I bent, deciding on a dive and roll that would put me in the hospital if I were lucky enough to survive.

When he was no more than three feet from Castle at the top of the half-moon bridge, MacArthur held out his hand for the gun and Castle handed it to him.

“Oh, God,” cried Castle, going to his knees.

MacArthur stepped forward and took the man’s head against his chest.

I was too far away and the rain was too loud and heavy to be sure of everything MacArthur said next, but I’m sure that the’first four softly spoken words were, “It’s all right, son.”

W
hen we got back to the house MacArthur turned Castle over to two armed soldiers, whom he ordered to treat the Major with “the respect his military record merited.” The rain had slowed to a trickle and I was tired, tired and heavy. I had a mental flash of Jeremy’s damned hourglass and I felt depressed.

“I’ve seen this too many times and in too many wars,” MacArthur said as Castle was ushered away in a military car. “Good men. Good soldiers. Major Castle is a good soldier.”

“Not for me to judge, General,” I said. “I’ll have to report this to my brother. He’s a captain in the L.A.P.D. Have someone call him and work it out. His name’s Pevsner, Phil Pevsner in the Wilshire Station. He was a good soldier in the last war. Rainbow Division. One of your boys. Wounded.”

“Give him my best and my thanks,” the General said, holding out his hand. I took it.

“I appreciate your professional assistance,” he said. “A check will be forwarded to you from a personal account. The name on it will be McBridge. I cannot be in the position of having to explain why I am writing checks to a private investigator.”

“I understand, General,” I said.

He looked at his watch and smiled sadly.

“I have a plane to catch and I must shower and change,” he said.

Those were his last words to me as he turned the corner past the mirror which had been shattered by Castle’s shot. I left the house and got in the Chrysler.

“What is happening?” Pintacki demanded as I turned in the driveway. “What was all that shooting? Whose place is this?”

I didn’t talk. I drove in the puddled streets and tried to find Helen Forrest again. I was wet, tired and miserable. Where was Helen Forrest when I needed her most? I couldn’t find her or Harry James or Ziggy Elman or Tex Beneke. I turned off the radio and told Pintacki if he didn’t shut up I’d lock him in the trunk. I meant it. He knew it and shut up.

I delivered Pintacki to the Wilshire Station and turned him over to Phil, who had already received a call from one of MacArthur’s aides. They were working out what to do about Castle. We didn’t say much. I told Phil that MacArthur had given him his best and Phil looked touched.

“Ann’s fine,” he said as a uniformed cop led Pintacki away, squalling for his attorney. “He didn’t hurt her. Just shoved her in the closet.”

“I’ll get right over there,” I said, and turned to leave.

“She doesn’t want to see you, Toby,” Phil said. “She said you’d brought the old life back again and she didn’t want it. Go home, take a shower and get in bed. You look awful. And give Ann some time.”

“I’ll do what I have to do, Phil,” I said.

“You’ll stay away from Ann or I’ll bend you, Toby,” he said evenly. “Believe me.”

“Okay, I believe you,” I said. “I’ll give it a while. I’ll see you, Ruth and the kids on Sunday.”

“You do that,” he said, turning back into the squad room and not looking back.

I got the Chrysler back to No-Neck Arnie’s just after four. He charged me an extra five. I paid it and listened to him talk about gas-ration books for a minute or two before I cut him off and told him I was soaked and tired. He let me go with a“just think about the books. All I ask.”

Shelly was gone when I got to the office just before five. The place looked as if a cleaning woman had died halfway through her monthly work. Shelly hadn’t done any more on the office since I’d left. I half expected an angry note. There
was
a scrawled note taped to my office door, but it wasn’t angry. It said that Shelly had hired Louise-Marie as his receptionist-assistant and that I was to call a Mr. Hammett. Shelly went on to say that Hammett had explained that he had to leave town on an emergency and would be sending Shelly a check for inconveniencing him. The last words on the note were: “You are forgiven.”

I sloshed into my office, sniffled a few times, blew my nose and threw the handkerchief in the trash can under rhy desk. Then I called Hammett. He was, he said, about to check out of the hotel.

“A friend of mine recommended a dentist in Albany, New York,” he said. “Should be quiet there.”

“Good luck,” I said.

“Is it over?” he asked.

“Over,” I said.

“Castle?” he asked.

“Castle,” I said. “He bumped Wylie and Conrad, too. Cops have Pintacki. I don’t know who gets Castle, the military or the L.A. District Attorney. The army has him now. Thanks again for the help.”

“My pleasure,” said Hammett. “Proved I can still handle myself. Now all I have to do is prove it to the army.”

“Good luck,” I said with a sneeze.

“I’ll look you up when the war’s over, Toby,” he said and hung up.

I went to Jeremy’soffice but it was dark and locked. I’d hoped to run into Alice and congratulate her on the baby, but it was probably just as well I didn’t come near her. I seemed to be coming down with something from my romp in the rain through the Huntington estate.

I drove back to Mrs. Plaut’s, hungry, wet and coming down with a cold.

She caught me five steps up.

“Mr. Peelers,” she said triumphantly. “You missed the tumult and uproar this morning. I rousted an invasion of Nazis who were looking for you.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“You are welcome,” she said. “You look a fright. Where is my man-u-scrip?”

“The Nazis got it,” I said.

Mrs. Plaut looked startled.

“Why on earth would they want a chapter of my family chronicles?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It is sometimes difficult to fathom the devious mind of a Nazi.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said. “Fortunately, I made a carbon copy and will deliver it to your room presently. In the meanwhile, take a hot bath and I will mix you a toddy.”

“Thank you,” I said. I pulled myself up the stairs and slogged to my room where I peeled off my clothes, wrapped a slightly used towel around my waist and headed for the bathroom. I got in the tub with my nub of Lifebuoy soap, turned on the tap and sat while the hot water trickled slowly against my toes.

Mrs. Plaut appeared about five minutes later, with the water no more than three inches high. She burst through the door and placed a steaming drink on the bathroom stool which she had kicked next, to the tub.

“I’m in the tub, Mrs. Plaut,” I said.

“I am not blind,” she said, crossing her arms. “Drink. It will make you feel better. My mother’s concoction.”

“I am naked,” I said over the trickling water.

“We are born naked, Mr. Peelers,” she said. “And you are not such a vision as to drive me to passion. Only the late mister could do that, Lord rest his bones.”

She left only when I had sipped the toddy, pronounced it good, which it was, and promised to finish it all. The toddy was definitely alcoholic.

I got out of the tub about half an hour later, dried myself, returned the soap to the communal medicine cabinet, brushed my teem with Teel and returned to my room. I found Gunther Wherthman sitting on my sofa, his feet a good six inches from the floor and the cat in his lap. Gunther, as always, was dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit. This one was dark brown.

“Toby,” he said in his Swiss accent. “I am pleased to see you well. I hope you do not mind my coming into your room.”

“Not at all, Gunther,” I said, sinking down on my mattress on the floor. “I spent the night in your room. Don’t ask me. I’ll explain it after I’ve had some sleep. How was your trip to San Francisco?”

“Excellent,” he said, petting the cat, whose eyes closed contentedly. “I translated three librettos from French and one from German for possible English language presentation for the opera.”

“Terrific,” I said. “How about dinner after I get a few hours’ sleep?”

“By all means,” Gunther said. “I stopped for provisions and will prepare something light.”

“Something heavy will be fine, Gunther,” I said. “Something very heavy.”

“As you wish, Toby,” he said. “But my call is a bit more than social.”

I looked at Gunther blearily.

“You’ve got a problem?”

“Not I,” he said. “An acquaintance I worked with in San Francisco. It is rather delicate, and I suggested that I knew someone who might be of some assistance to him.”

“San Francisco,” I said. “Who’s the client?”

“Leopold Stokowski,” he said.

“I’ll give him a call tomorrow,” I said.

“The cat? He is yours?” Gunther asked.

“Let’s share him, Gunther,” I said. “If it’s all right with you.”

“That will be acceptable,” Gunther said, placing the cat gently on the sofa and climbing down. “What is his name?”

“Dash,” I said.

“A rare name,” said Gunther, walking to the door. “What is its origin?”

“A guy who gave me a hand,” I said, closing my eyes and putting my head back on the pillow.

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copyright © 1989 by Stuart M. Kaminsky

This edition published in 2012 by
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