Murder on the Yellow Brick Road (12 page)

“I often sit around hotel lobbies picking up characters and dialogue,” he explained. “That is a little lower than the places I usually sit around in, but it was worth it. I found you. You're the first real private investigator I've seen at work.”

I couldn't tell if he was putting on an act or if he was what he said. His story sounded dumb.

“What books have you written?” I said. I put my gun back in my holster, but I didn't lean back.

“Well,” he said. “I did one called The Big Sleep and a few months ago another one of mine, Farewell, My Lovely, came out.”

I'd never heard of him or them, and I said so.

“The number of mystery novels that have had even minimal success in the past five years can be counted on one hand of a two-toed sloth,” he sighed.

It sounded like writer talk.

“You don't look dangerous to me,” I admitted, “but.…”

“I'm a pretty dangerous man with a wet towel,” he grinned. “But my favorite weapon is a twenty-dollar bill when I have one, which is seldom. Look, you can check on me easily enough. My publisher is Knopf. I'll give you a number to call, or you can look it up yourself. I live at 449 San Vincente Boulevard in Santa Monica with my wife Cissy. You can call her up.”

I told him I'd do just that and guided him onto Broadway and into a tavern. The phone was on the wall, and I had Chandler stand where I could see him. I had the impression that he was usually a sad man with a world weary look, but something had awakened him, and he was smiling as he smoked.

I called an L.A. number Chandler gave me. It was a literary agency. I checked it in the phone book as I talked. I asked the guy if he had heard of Chandler, and he said he had. I asked for a description, and he gave me a pretty good one. I hung up.

“You're a careful man, Mr.…”

“Peters,” I said, “Toby Peters. I make up in caution what I lack in brains.”

“Can I buy you lunch or a beer, Mr. Peters?” Chandler said.

In ten minutes, I had pushed around a warped desk clerk and a well-meaning solid citizen. I had worked up an appetite. We found a place on the block where steak sandwiches could be had with beer and I could sit with my back to the wall watching the door. Chandler might not be the only one following me. I told Chandler my tale, and he listened. I think for a minute he decided I was nuts, but I offered to let him call Warren Hoff at Metro. He declined.

“I probably make up in brains what I lack in caution,” he said. “Peters. I have an offer for you. I heard what happened at that flop house. You're going to start looking for that midget, right?”

I said I was.

“Good,” he said. “I'll help you if you like. It'll be good background material, and it will help make up for my giving you a scare.”

It would also cheer up a man who needed cheering, and I meant Chandler, not me. I could use the help even if he didn't give much, and he was good company.

“Fine,” I said. “Pay the bill, and let's get going.”

We drove the few blocks to my office, and Chandler turned his head to soak in the smell of Lysol and the atmosphere. I introduced him to Shelly, who was working on a regular customer, a kid who looked like Alfalfa in Our Gang. Shelly was trying to straighten the kid's teeth or kill him in the attempt.

I told Shelly that Chandler wrote detective stories, but Shelly had never heard of him.

“You got an overbite problem there Ray,” Shelly said pointing his cigar at Chandler and looking over the top of his thick glasses. “I'll take a look when I finish with my friend here.”

“Some other time,” said Chandler with a smile.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Shelly, making it clear the loss was Chandler's. The kid in the chair was sitting with his mouth wide open. I motioned to him to close it. Shelly breathed on his mirror and wiped it clear on his dirty coat before turning to the kid whose mouth flew open as if it were hinged.

“Landlord's a writer,” said Shelly probing the kid's mouth. “Writes poetry. You should meet him. He used to be a wrestler.”

“I used to think I was a poet,” said Chandler. The sad look started to cloud his face, and I hustled him into my office.

I picked up the phone and asked the operator if there was a directory listing for John Franklin Peese. She said there wasn't which didn't surprise me. There were a few ways to try to track down Peese. I could try theatrical agents in the hope that he was in entertainment, but it was a longshot. I could also ask my brother to see if Cash, the dead midget had an address or number for Peese in his effects. If they knew each other, it was possible. But I doubted if Phil would give me the information.

I pulled out a phone book, sat Chandler at my desk and told him to start at the A's and call downtown hotels. I'd go back from the Z's. When we hit the M's, if we did before we got a lead, we'd talk it over. I told him we'd consider Downtown as a rectangle bordered by Alpine, Seventh, Figueroa and Alameda. If we didn't hit anything in that square we'd consider spreading it out or giving up on the idea.

“If they ask, say you're the police,” I said. “If they want your name, make one up, but remember what it is. If they say they have no one named Peese, then say you're a cop even if they don't ask and find out if they have any midgets registered.”

He nodded and plunged eagerly into the book while I went out. I could hear him saying, “Alexandria Hotel?” when I closed the door. It might turn out to be one hell of a phone bill, but M.G.M. would pay it if I had to itemize every hotel called. There was a pay phone in the hall, and I left Shelly humming when I went to it with a pocketful of nickels.

Two of the first five hotels I called thought I was pulling some midget gag.

About fifteen minutes later when I was about to give the operator the number of the Natick Hotel, Chandler hurried into the hall looking both ways.

“Got it,” he yelled. I hung up and moved to his side.

The hotel was a big one downtown. Peese was registered under his own name and was in his room. Chandler had not asked to speak to him. He had thought fast and said he wanted to mail something to Peese and was confirming his address.

We got in the Buick, cut across the Figueroa and went the few blocks downtown. While we drove, I told him about a case I'd been on in which I'd spent two weeks looking for a runaway husband who turned out to be hiding in a crawl-space in his own basement. Chandler smoked, listened and said more to himself than me, “Funny thing, civilization. It promises so much, and what it delivers is mass production of shoddy merchandise and shoddy people.”

There wasn't time for much more conversation, and I had the feeling that a full day's talk with Chandler in his present mood would send me running for the night watchman's job my brother wanted me to take.

I found a space on the street, and we walked to the hotel. It had a doorman who recognized Chandler as a potential customer and accepted me as a character. I told Chandler to let me do the talking, and we crossed to the desk. There were two clerks, and one stepped forward with a slight smile.

“Yes?” he said.

“John Franklin Peese,” I said. “His room please.”

The clerk looked at me and Chandler.

“I'll announce you,” he said, and I put up a hand to stop him.

“Mr. Peese is my brother,” I said. “I haven't seen him in years. I'd like to surprise him.”

The clerk looked suspicious and Chandler said, “Mr. Peese's condition is not hereditary. He is the only one of four brothers who is a midget.”

The clerk waivered but hesitated. We had him on the brink, and I didn't want Peese to duck on us.

“I don't know,” he said. He had a little mustache that looked painted on. He played with it. “Mr. Peese has.…”

“A temper,” I finished, faking anger, “and that is inherited in our family.”

I had purposely raised my voice and Chandler took the cue. He stepped forward and pretended to calm me.

“All right,” said the clerk recognizing the familial temperament if not the face and body. “He's in 909.”

“Thank you,” Chandler said while I stalked toward the elevators.

“Wait down here,” I whispered to Chandler. “Go back and apologize to the clerk for my shouting. Keep him from calling Peese as long as you can. Chandler nodded and hurried back to the desk clerk, who was watching me. I glared at him while I waited for the elevator. When it came, Chandler was nodding in sympathy to something the clerk had said.

On the elevator, I had a few seconds to consider my approach to Peese. I could make up a story, say I was an agent or theater owner or producer and get him talking, but it might be awkward to work the conversation around to the murder. I could pretend I was a cop or at least give the impression, but if Peese was the kind of character Wherthman and Valentine said he was, he might complain and get my license pulled.

When the elevator groaned to a stop at nine, I decided to hit him with something close to the truth. He might just get mad enough to say something. I couldn't picture myself muscling a midget, but I might be able to do it. Maybe I could push him to get me mad enough.

I trotted down the hall to 909. Chandler seemed to be doing the job I gave him, but I didn't know how long he could hold the clerk. I was knocking loud at 909 when I heard the phone ring inside.

“Who is it?” asked a high, petulant voice.

“My name's Peters,” I said. “I'm a private detective, and I want to talk to you.”

The phone kept ringing.

“About what?” said the voice.

My name didn't seem to mean anything to him, which implied that he didn't know anything about who was trying to kill me, and that he probably wasn't the one who made the call to Shelly about my address.

“Murder,” I said. “The murder of a little man named Cash.”

“Screw off,” he screeched. The phone kept ringing.

“Right,” I said. “I'll just go the lobby and call the cops. I work for M.G.M., and my job is to keep things quiet, but if you want noise, you'll find out what noise is when the cops get here and start asking things like where were you on Friday morning? How well did you know Cash? What business were the two of you in? Why have so many people talked about the fights you had with him?”

The phone stopped ringing. He had answered it. I put my ear to the door and heard venom spit from his mouth as he said, “Thanks, you mental cripple. He's here now. Yes, he's my brother, but how about calling me when they're down there so I can decide if I want to see them or not. That's what I pay for.” He hung up.

I pulled away from the door as small footsteps moved toward it. The door opened, and I saw the smallest human I'd ever seen. Wherthman would have stood a head taller if they were side by side. I noticed that, like Wherthman, he was well proportioned. He didn't look deformed in any way, but he sounded it.

He let out a stream of “fucks” and “assholes” and some colorful additional things about sex and bowel movement. It was a small education.

Peese wore a fancy white embroidered shirt and a soft sweater. I would have spent more time looking at him, but I noticed something else as we stepped into a large room. All of the furniture was scaled down to his size. A door was opened in the wall and I could see into the bedroom. It, too, was scaled down.

He turned and sat in a small dark armchair. His face was childlike, but there was ancient anger on it. He was one of the small, bitter people of the world. Some of them are six feet tall, but their palms sweat; they keep their heads low and turn them only briefly upward as they pass you with the sneer of the cornered animal unsure of whether to bite or cry. He lit a cigar and said, “Sit down.”

I wasn't sure where to sit. The couch was too small and the little table in the room too fragile looking. He watched my awkward search for a perch and smiled viciously. He puffed at the full size cigar and leaned back.

“You don't get many full size visitors?” I asked, deciding to sit on the floor. The carpet was dark green and soft enough.

“I get them all sizes,” he said.

“I get it,” I went on, placing my hat on the floor and my back against the wall. “You like full-sized people to feel awkward and clumsy in here.”

“You're a smart man, Penis,” he said with a grin.

“The name's Peters, John Franklin, remember it and I'll remember not to step on you,” I said returning the grin. Wherthman had told me that my brother Phil had used that line on him. It had done wonders to ruin Wherthman's disposition. I wished the same on Peese, but I didn't get it.

“Well,” he said, puffing away, “I feel awkward most of the time in your houses, your buildings. I enjoy having people like you feel foolish.”

He had a point, but I wasn't going to start giving him points.

“I do keep a few bloated chairs for friends,” he said. Since he didn't run to a closet to fetch a chair, I assumed I wasn't in the elite company of his friends. But, after all, we had just met.

“It's been pleasant getting acquainted with you John Franklin, and I hate to cut off this stimulating conversation, but I have a few questions.”

“I don't have any answers,” he puffed. The room was getting smokey and smelled like leftover cow's breath. I wanted to get out as fast as I could.

“Let's try,” I said, shifting my weight on the floor. “Why did you kill Cash?”

A cloud of smoke cleared, and I could see his eyes. I wondered if I could defend myself against a knife attack from him while seated on the floor. No knife came out.

“I didn't kill him,” said Peese. “Didn't know he was dead. Sorry to hear it.”

“You sound like you'll recover from the shock.”

“I'll get over it,” he answered.

We made a fair act, but I wasn't sure which of us was Bergen and which was Charlie McCarthy.