Murder on the Yellow Brick Road (8 page)

Grundy led me into a coffee shop on La Brea, and we sat in a booth. The waitress recognized him, and he flashed her a smile. She was an overworked, washed-out creature with frizzy hair. The smile from Grundy made her day.

We ordered, and I asked, “Why do you do it?”

“Body build?” he said, “Compensation in a way, Mr. Peters. It started when I realized that I wasn't going to make it as a camera operator or cinematographer with a studio. That was what I wanted. I was born a few miles from here. I've passed those studios all my life. I wanted to be behind a camera, even prepared by becoming a still photographer, taking movie courses. But it never happened. I never got the break. I guess I started the weights when I knew it wasn't going to happen. No one has said I'm not good enough. Maybe I'm just the right guy in the wrong place.”

“So,” I continued, “you make up for it by doing stills for studios when you can get the work and building your body.”

“That's about it,” he agreed, welcoming his plate of four fried eggs and half pound of bacon from the waitress who smiled at him while she served. She had forgotten my coffee, but went back for it quickly.

“Most of my work is baby pictures and some industrial stuff,” he explained between bites. “Once in a while I get to do spillover work for a studio or a small industrial movie, nothing much; but I live cheap and do all right.”

He was telling me more about himself that I needed to know, but I've run into a lot of people like that. They'll give you their life stories and a cup of Hill's Brothers if you'll just sit and listen. I'm a good listener. It may be the thing I'm best at.

“About yesterday, the morning?” I asked.

“Right,” he said finishing a glass of milk in a long gulp. “I was in the studio to deliver some pictures I'd taken and walked past these two midgets arguing.”

“How close were you?” I asked. The coffee was bitter, but I kept drinking.

“About ten feet,” he said. “Walked right past them. I told the cops. I heard them arguing, and one of them had an accent, a German accent. The other one, the one in the soldier suit, called him Gunther. That's all I heard.”

“Could you identify either of the midgets again?” I tried.

“No,” he said finishing his toast and looking around for something else to eat. I though he'd give the plate a try, but instead he motioned to the waitress who knew what he wanted and brought more milk, toast and jam. “Both the little guys were wearing makeup and costumes, and I didn't really look at them. I was tempted to break them up, but they weren't actually fighting and it was none of my business.”

“Weren't you surprised to see them in Oz costumes?”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “I know they still do occasional publicity shots with the midgets. I've even taken a few myself for Mr. Hoff. The midgets get a day's fee for posing and so do I for a few quick prints.”

“Did you see anyone else when you passed the arguing midgets?” I'd finished my coffee and had a refill before I could stop the waitress, who was happy for any excuse to come back to our booth and gawk at Grundy.

“No, no one else was in sight,” he said. His fresh order of toast was gone and he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Last question,” I said reaching in my pocket for money. “What time did this happen?”

“A little after eight, maybe a quarter after at the latest. Hey, I'll take the check.”

He reached for the check but I pulled it out of his reach. He had reached fast. He may have had muscles like blocks of wood, but they didn't slow him down.

“I'm on an expense account,” I explained. “Breakfast is on Louis B. Mayer.”

He knew how to accept a free breakfast graciously. I paid the moonstruck waitress and walked back down Melrose with Grundy.

“My car's down here,” I said. We shook hands.

“If there's anything else I can do, let me know,” he said. “And if you ever need any photo work in your business, here's my card. I'll work cheap.”

The card read exactly like his door: “B. Nimble Grundy, Pictures Still and Moving.” It also had his address. I thanked him and watched him jog toward his office-home.

It was Saturday and Grundy looked like a man who owned Saturdays. The day wasn't quite mine though. Either Grundy was lying, which wasn't likely, or the midget who killed Cash had faked a German accent. In which case, why had Cash called him Gunther? The other possibility was that Gunther was guilty. Or maybe Gunther had fought with Cash but not killed him. In which case he had simply lied to me, for which I couldn't much blame him.

My leads had almost run out. All I had left was Gable and the hope that Wherthman would remember the name of the other midget who had worked and fought with Cash. Both were slim. Something had to make sense, and I was heading in the right direction or there wouldn't be two bullet holes in my Buick.

Judy Garland had told me production was starting on Ziegfield Girl today so I headed for the studio. It wasn't far from Grundy's place. I took another look at his card and put it away, reminding myself to ask if Nimble was his real middle name if I should ever see him again.

It was a little after ten when I arrived at the studio. Buck McCarthy was on the gate and he sauntered over to me, chewing a wad of gum and pretending it was a plug. He leaned into the window.

“Miss Garland said to hurry you in if you showed up,” he said. “You know the way?”

“Yep, you want to drive?”

He declined this time, and I drove slowly to her dressing room. I didn't see any stars, but a group of carpenters working on the fake front of what looked like the Taj Mahal. The fake front was leaning against a real building.

Judy Garland wasn't in her dressing room, but Cassie James was, which suited me fine. Today she was dressed entirely in pink with a red patent leather belt. She smelled like July in the mountains. When I knocked and came in she was pouring herself a cup of coffee from the pot brewing in the corner.

She gave me a small smile and handed me the cup. Something was wrong. She sat in a straightbacked chair and crossed her legs.

“Someone tried to kill Judy,” she said.

For a second or two I didn't absorb the words. Maybe I even thought I imagined them, but I hadn't.

“Tried to poison her,” Cassie continued.

“How? When?” I sat with my coffee on a chair a few feet from Cassie.

“When we came in the morning, there was a pitcher of ice water on the table. Judy was a little nervous about starting the picture today and her throat was dry. I poured her a drink and started to hand it to her, but it looked a little discolored. I smelled it, and it smelled strange. So she didn't drink it.”

“Then how do you know it was poisoned?” I asked.

“We called the doctor. There's one on hand whenever shooting is going on. He said it was filled with arsenic. A mouthful would very likely have killed Judy.”

Cassie was certainly nervous, but not in panic.

“It's lucky you noticed,” I said reassuringly. “Where's Judy now?”

“She's shooting. I told her to take the day off and wait till we talked to you, but she wouldn't do it. She got sick once during the shooting of Oz and held up shooting for a while. She doesn't want to do it again.”

Cassie gave me more information. The dressing room door hadn't been locked so anyone on the lot could have come in with the water. The poison water had been dumped out after the doctor confirmed the presence of poison. It wasn't clear whose idea the dumping was, but no one had questioned it. The pitcher was glass, but with everyone handling it there probably wouldn't have been worthwhile prints anyway.”

“O.K.,” I said standing up and putting down the cup. “I think we should call the police. Someone tried to kill me yesterday, too.”

She got up suddenly and looked shocked. I was touched.

“What happened?” she asked stepping toward me.

“Someone took a couple of shots at me and obviously missed.” She took my hand. It was time to work up more sympathy.

“They may try again,” I said.

“Did you see who did it?” She was looking into my eyes, clearly concerned and interested.

“No, but I'd like it to stop. So I'm going to try to get some police protection for Judy and do my damndest to find out who killed Cash and is trying to make Judy and me a duo of death.”

I'd heard that “duo of death” phrase in a Captain Midnight show and always wanted to work it into a conversation. This was the first chance I had. I pushed my hat back further on my head and took Cassie's hand in mine. I was glad she wasn't wearing her tape measure.

“I'll call the police and tell them what's happened. It might give them second thoughts about Wherthman being the killer. Then I'd better track down Clark Gable and check his version of what happened here yesterday morning.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked. We were close enough together to exchange comments on our mouthwash, except I didn't use any. I hoped my dental sample smile lingered till noon. Hers did.

“Yes there is.” I said softly. “Find Hoff. Tell him that Cash was chummy with another midget, maybe even went into business with him. See if he can find out who it is. Wherthman is filling his time trying to come up with the name too. It may not be a lead, but its worth a try.”

She agreed and volunteered to do some checking on her own. She had worked on Oz for a short time and knew the names of a few of the midgets. I said thanks and lingered. She kissed me. It was a little more than motherly, but not enough to make anything out of.

“Be careful,” she said, and I promised I would be.

She went off to look for Hoff and I picked up the phone. I didn't need to talk to Hoff right now, but I needed information and action. I called Andy Markopulis, the guy I knew who worked for M.G.M. security. He was at home building a patio with his kids. It was so wholesome I couldn't even make a joke about it. I explained the whole set-up to him and asked him to assign a couple of people to take off their uniforms and keep an eye on Judy Garland for a while. He said he'd assign two good men named Woodman and Fearaven. I didn't know them, but Andy knew his business.

Then I called my brother.

“Well?” he asked. “And if you ask me how Ruth and the kids are, I'll find you and punch your heart out.”

“Someone tried to kill me and Judy Garland,” I said.

“Bullshit.”

“It's not bullshit,” I said. “I've got bullet holes in my car windows.”

“Bullshit,” he repeated.

“For Chrissake Phil, why would I lie?”

“It's an asshole stunt to get that little Nazi turd you're working for off the hook. Someone's trying to kill you and Garland. Wherthman's in the can, so it can't be him. That's the picture.”

“So I shot bullet holes in my car windows?”

“Why not?” That hunk of junk isn't worth ten dollars. It's about time you shot it and put it out of its misery. It reminds me of..…”

“One of dad's old heaps,” I finished. “Maybe that's why I like it.”

He was quiet for a few seconds.

“How did they try to kill Garland?” he asked, but his voice showed he was humoring me.

“Poison,” I said. “Someone left a water pitcher full of poison in her dressing room at the studio this morning. Someone noticed that it smelled funny.”

“Where's the poison now?” he asked.

“They poured it out.”

“That's a hell of a story, Tobias. Even if there was a pitcher of poison, which I doubt, you could have put it there, made sure she didn't drink it and then arranged for it to be conveniently dumped out before the police arrived. You've done worse.”

He was right. I had done worse and was kind of proud of it, but this wasn't one of the times. I decided not to tell him about the phone calls to Garland and me from the unaccented man with the high voice. He wouldn't believe me.

“You're wrong, Phil.”

“I've got a wave of ax murders waiting and no time for you. Now hang up and get a job as a night watchman.”

“You're a whale Phil,” I sighed, “a goddamn whale with an eye on each side of your head. You try to juggle two separate images and miss what's right in front of you. Someday you're going to swim into an iceberg.”

I hung up. Then I talked to the long distance operator and asked her to connect me to the William Randolph Hearst Ranch in San Simeon. I didn't have the number. I began to think I'd have to track down Hoff and get the number when I was connected to someone. It was a man who said, “Can I help you?”

I said he could if this was Bill Hearst's place, but I didn't say Bill and I didn't say place. I told him Clark Gable was expecting a call from me. He told me to wait, and there was some buzzing and clicking on the line. This time a woman's voice came on, and I repeated my message.

She said Mr. Gable and some other guests were on a picnic and wouldn't be back for three or four hours. I asked if someone could bring him a message and she said he was about ten miles away. Then she told me to wait. I waited, considering my next move. In a few minutes she came on.

“Mr. Gable left a message for you,” she said. “If it's not inconvenient, you can come up here and see him this evening or call him tonight.”

For a few good reasons, I decided to take the trip to San Simeon. First, I liked to be face to face with someone I'm talking to on a case. A facial expression or a move of the body might lead me somewhere. In addition, telephones demand action and business and hate silence. They don't give you much time to think, and I needed time to think. Going to San Simeon would give me some time and I had no other leads to follow. Getting out of town would also put distance between me and the guy who took the shots at me.

I drove off the lot, waving to Buck as I left, and checked my watch. It was almost noon. I beat the crowd to the Gotham Cafe on Hollywood and had an order of their special potato pancakes and sour cream to fortify myself for the trip. Then I was on my way.