Mildred Pierced (17 page)

“I don’t like you, Peters.”

“I figured that out from the subtle clues you’ve been dropping for the past five years,” I said.

“You know why?”

“I’m my brother’s brother,” I said.

“That’s part of it. You’re smug. You are a smug wiseass son of a bitch who doesn’t take anything seriously. It’s all nine innings of game time to you. You’re an overgrown kid who pretends nothing gets to him. Well,
I’m
going to get to you.”

“And Phil?”

“Your brother’s building his own tomb,” said Cawelti. “Just a few more stones in place and he’s buried.”

“You have a brother, John?” I asked.

He backed away a few inches.

“You get along with him?”

“My brother died in the last war,” he said. “My only brother.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“I don’t give a shit if you’re sorry.” He slapped his palms on the table. “I want Sheldon Minck back. I want him off the streets, and, as an added bonus, I want you up for charges of aiding and abetting an escaped prisoner to elude the police. In short, Peters, I want you off the streets.”

“Why don’t we talk about it over a cup of coffee?”

There was a rumbling sound beyond the door and a knock. Sloane stepped back and let Marty Leib in. Marty was wearing a dark sharkskin suit and a yellow-and-red striped tie. He was carrying a briefcase.

“What is my client charged with?” Marty demanded.

Cawelti couldn’t ignore Marty. Marty took up too much space, and his bass voice filled any room in which he happened to be planted.

“I haven’t decided,” Cawelti said.

“Evidence? Reasonable cause? Witnesses?” Marty asked placing his briefcase on the table after pushing the telephone book away.

“Your client was seen with an escaped individual. We have reason to believe he knows where this individual is and—”

“The individual we are talking about is another client of mine, Sheldon Minck, a respected dentist.”

“Your two clients, on their own or together, murdered a man last night. That’s in addition to Minck killing his wife in the park. For that one, we have an eyewitness.”

“In sum,” said Marty, “you have no idea of what you are doing.”

“Hold on.”

“I don’t think so.” Marty took some sheets of paper clipped together from his briefcase. He handed the sheets to Cawelti who read them.

“We are walking,” Marty said. “That copy is for you. Unless you produce a credible eyewitness to my client’s association with an escaped criminal, I think I’ll have to send a letter to the commissioner claiming harassment and strongly suggesting that, if you pursue this, we will bring suit against you, the police department, the mayor, and possibly the state of California.”

“I can hold him here for questioning,” Cawelti said.

“Based on what? Nothing. We’re leaving here now. Come on, Toby.”

I got up and followed Marty, briefcase in hand. Sloane moved out of the way to let us pass.

“Marty,” I began as we headed down the steps from the second floor to the lobby of the station.

He held up his left hand and kept walking as he said, “There are two things I don’t want to hear from you. I don’t want to hear that you know where Dr. Minck is. I don’t want to know if you killed Lawrence Timerjack or even know who did it. Clear?”

“Clear,” I said.

“You’ll have an updated bill in the mail today. Pay it right away, Toby. You need me.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You know what I’d like?” he said, still walking.

“A nice tall glass of Ovaltine?” I said.

“No,” said Marty. “I’d like Sheldon Minck to turn himself in. If any more people are killed with crossbows, there is no doubt that he will be blamed. I don’t want him blamed. I want him victimized.”

“Okay,” I said. “We get Shelly back in jail, buy a crossbow and kill someone. I’ve got a redheaded cop in mind.”

“Very witty,” said Marty, pausing to check his wristwatch. “You keep displaying your wit, and the time clock keeps running.”

“I’ll shut up,” I said.

“You have any ideas?”

We were out on the street now, the sun bright, people in a hurry.

“The scene of the crime,” I said.

“You read too many detective stories when you were a boy,” said Marty, moving to a perfectly polished black Chrysler at the curb. “Killers don’t return to the scene of their crime. They stay as far from it as they can. At least, that’s always been my advice to clients who may or may not have committed a crime. But do they listen?”

“Do they?”

“Hell, yes. The clock is ticking, Toby.”

“Not mine,” I said, looking at my father’s wristwatch.

“Need a ride?”

“How much will it cost?”

“Nothing. I’m feeling generous.” Marty got into the Chrysler and opened the door for me.

On the way back to Mrs. Plaut’s, Marty again advised me to tell Shelly to turn himself in. I told him I’d pass on the advice if I saw Shelly.

“He’s going to be a rich man, Toby,” Marty said. “He’ll need a business manager.”

“You?”

“None better.”

He was probably right. Marty went for your last penny, but he was honest and he was good.

He dropped me at Mrs. Plaut’s. The unmarked cop car, which had been following us since we left the front of the Wilshire Station, parked about twenty cars back. There was plenty of room at this hour of the morning.

Mrs. Plaut’s door was closed. I didn’t bother to tiptoe up the stairs. I knocked at Gunther’s door, went in when he answered. He was at his desk, working. He turned toward me and took off his glasses.

“Thanks for calling Marty Leib.”

“You are most welcome. On the other matter, the Survivors for the Future. It was not difficult. The founder and sole owner of the organization and all the assets of the organization is James Fenimore Sax. I have been able to find nothing further about Mr. Sax.”

“So if Shelly doesn’t live long enough to change his will, Sax—whoever he is—gets everything,” I said.

“Precisely,” said Gunther. “You believe this Sax will try to find Dr. Minck.”

“And his new will, if Shelly’s written one,” I said, plopping into his easy chair. “I’m tired. I’m tired and it’s going to be a long day.”

“Can I be of assistance?” he asked.

“Probably,” I said. “I’ll let you know. What are you working on?”

“A technical pamphlet on potential military and industrial uses of magnesium,” he said. “It is written in Hungarian, a language designed not for science but for melancholia.”

“The poetry of magnesium,” I said.

“In a sense,” Gunther agreed. “Hungarians—even scientists—have a tendency to think of themselves as poets. It often makes conversing with them a bit depressing.”

“James Fenimore Sax,” I repeated, standing. “The Pathfinder. The Deerslayer. Natty Bumppo. The survivor.”

“You mean James Fenimore Cooper. I’ve read his works. I find them without poetry.”

“He wasn’t shooting for poetry,” I said. “He was shooting to see how many people he could kill off in as few pages as possible.”

“A worthwhile literary endeavor,” Gunther said straight-faced. “Though it is not politic, I prefer the German western writer Karl May.”

“Got to get to work,” I said. “I’ll call if I need you. Thanks again.”

Gunther tilted his head in acceptance of my thanks, and I went to my room where I discovered what had happened to Mrs. Plaut.

She was sitting on my sofa, hands on her knees.

“You lead a varied life,” she said.

“I do indeed,” I agreed.

“Who were those men who took you away? They were not from Fish and Wildlife.”

“They were not,” I agreed, going to my refrigerator for some milk and opening the cabinet over it for some Kix.

“They were the police,” she said.

“They were,” I confirmed.

“I know why they were here,” she said.

“Why?”

“During your work as an exterminator, you poisoned some pond or something.”

“Then maybe they were Fish and Wildlife,” I said, working on my Kix.

It was at that moment Dash decided to jump from the tree onto my windowsill.

“They were from the F.B. and I.,” she said. “They think you are a Nazi saboteur poisoning our water-supply system. It troubles me that people who are responsible for protecting us from the enemy could fail to see that you are a harmless and nearly impoverished American of middle age who ekes out a living killing bugs and editing manuscripts.”

“Thanks for your vote of support,” I said.

“I shall write a series of letters on your behalf,” she said firmly and decisively. “I will write to Harry Hopkins, Cordell Hull, and the president himself.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She moved to the door, opened it and said, “If that cat gets to Jamaica Red and slinks away with one feather of any hue, I shall be greatly upset and will not send my letters.”

“I’ll keep Dash from Jamaica Red,” I said.

She left me with Kix, Dash, and a plan for saving Shelly. It wasn’t much of a plan. It didn’t stand much chance of working. It was probably dangerous. No, it was
definitely
dangerous.

I was, therefore, reasonably happy.

W
HEN
I
GOT
to the room at the Biltmore, Shelly was gone. So was my ephemeral happiness. Note the word “ephemeral.” It had been in one of Jeremy’s poems. I’d asked him what it meant.

“Elusive, ghostlike, difficult to grasp either physically or conceptually, like fog,” he had said.

I liked the word. I didn’t like Shelly not being in his room at the Biltmore. I liked the note he had left me on the desk even less.

Toby, I’m all right. I called James Fenimore Sax, the founder of the Survivors. He assured me that the Survivors will protect me. He’s a noble man. Believe me. You know I’m a good judge of character. For my courage, he is going to promote me to Pathfinder and hide me till this is all taken care of. Don’t worry. I’ll call you.

Shelly

The only question for me was how, after Sax got the new will from Shelly—if he had written one—he was going to arrange for Sheldon’s accidental death.

I asked the daytime desk clerk, a fixture behind the Biltmore desk since it opened in 1923, if Shelly had made any calls. That was easy to find out. I got the number he called, went to the pay phone booth in the lobby and dialed it.

“To survive is to live and fight another day,” the voice said. It was a woman. I guessed it was Helter, the Survivor with the knife.

“Sax,” I said, raising my voice about half an octave.

“Who’s calling?”

“A friend of Dr. Minck,” I said.

“Where can he reach you?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’d like to talk to him now,” I said. “It is urgent. Something he would like to know.”

“Tell me and I’ll tell him,” she said.

“Just tell him I have a copy of Sheldon Minck’s new will. Dr. Minck will deny having left a signed copy in my hands. That is a precaution I asked him to make. He will deny it vehemently. He knows that if he does not do so, he will not be among the Survivors.”

“I know your voice,” she said.

I hung up.

Maybe I had bought time. I didn’t know how much.

It was getting late. I drove my car to No-Neck Arnie’s, two blocks from the Farraday. Arnie and his son, who was just back from the war in the Pacific with a pair of Purple Hearts and a limp, were working on a giant black car. Arnie, Jr. was under the car with his feet showing. Arnie, Sr., he of the no neck, was working under the hood.

The walls of Arnie’s shop were covered with colorful war posters. One was covered with little dollar signs and words in black and read “Don’t feed black-market greed. Pay no more than ceiling prices.” Another had a photograph of a woman with some kind of electrical tool with a long cord. She was working with the tool on a pipe. The words on the poster were “Women in the War. We Can’t Win Without Them.”

My favorite was with what looked like a red oil drum with wings. Behind the drum were two others, one yellow, and one gray. The poster read: “Keep ’Em Flying Back. Usable DRUMS are like AMMUNITION. Help the Service, the Industry, Yourself.” Behind the flying drums trailed the words “Don’t drop—keep clean,” “Don’t strip threads,” and “Empty and return fast.”

“What kind of car is that?” I asked.

Arnie wiped his greasy hands on his overalls, pushed back his gray Sinclair cap and said it was a Lagonda.

“Can’t get parts for these things,” he said. “Have to improvise. Arnie, Jr. is making a new driveshaft. Learned to do things like that in the army motor pool, keep jeeps running with rubber bands and prayers. He can make anything run. What can I do for you?”

“Rear window’s gone. Big hole in my dashboard,” I said.

“Someone throw a rock?”

“Crossbow bolt. Tried to kill Shelly last night.”

“I heard he was in jail for killing his wife,” said Arnie, returning his gaze to the open mouth of the huge car.

“He escaped,” I said.

“Crossbow? Didn’t he kill his wife with a crossbow?”

“She was killed with one.”

“Junior, you ever hear of anyone using a crossbow to kill someone?”

From under the car came the voice saying, “A Jap on Guam used a sling with sharpened pieces of coconut. Didn’t work. A sergeant on Bataan—one of ours—made a bow and arrow when he was separated from his company. Claimed to kill two Japs with handmade arrows. He was a little nuts, though. I didn’t believe him. Crossbow? That’s nuts.”

“That’s nuts,” repeated No-Neck Arnie, having heard the gospel from his war vet son.

“Nuts or not,” I said, “that’s what happened. What will it take to fix it?”

“Piece of glass. Fill in the hole with something. Eight bucks. I can have it for you tonight about five or six.”

“Got something I can drive till then?”

“Got five bucks?”

I took out a five.

“Little coupe with a rumble seat back there by the door. Runs okay. I’m gonna repaint it when I get a chance and sell it.”