The Devil Met a Lady (11 page)

On the other hand, he might just be shrewd enough to know that I’d figure this out and the information might make me less likely to give them trouble.

However, I was an eyewitness to his murdering Grover Niles and I had hit him with Claudette Colbert. But he had just told us that he hadn’t shot Niles. Why bother to deny it if he was going to shoot me anyway?

I was thinking all this through when we went through the front door and were led to our right through another door and into a library where three people were sitting. Two of them I recognized. One, the woman, I didn’t. The two men were seated, one in an overstuffed chair, a book in his lap, the other—Andrea Pinketts—at the end of a matching couch, a thin cigar in one hand, his legs crossed. The woman, a slightly chunky but still pretty if overly made-up blond version of Claire Trevor, stood against the bookcase looking more than a little nervous. She kept twisting the ring on her finger and looking at the man in the overstuffed chair.

“Thank you, Jeffers,” the man in the overstuffed chair said. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit with a wide, red-and-white striped tie and a matching handkerchief in his pocket. “You and your assistants may wait just outside the door.”

Jeffers smiled broadly. The smile made it clear that he did not wish to stand outside any door. The smile was particularly unsettling because the light in the library was bright and the cuts on his face were red and ugly. But he and the Katzenjammer Kids left.

“You may put the cat down, Mr. Peters. Drink, Miss Davis?”

“No, thank you,” she said, sitting down across from him in a straight-back chair with a padded cushion.

I put Dash on the floor. He padded off to explore the room.

“Mr. Peters?”

“Pepsi,” I said, sitting a few feet from Davis in a matching straight-back chair. “Nothing for the cat.”

“Inez,” said the man without looking back. “A Pepsi for Mr. Peters.”

“I’ll have a rum collins,” said Pinketts.

The man in the overstuffed chair glanced in Pinketts’s direction with annoyance.

“Yes, my dear, a rum collins for our friend Mr. Pinketts.”

Inez stopped playing with her ring and moved through a door next to the book-lined wall behind her. She looked relieved at the chance to escape.

“Now,” said the man in the overstuffed chair, putting the book he was holding carefully on a perfectly shined table at his side. “We can talk.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “You got so tired of the noise from the Hollywood Canteen keeping you up that you decided to kidnap Bette Davis.”

The last time Davis and I had seen the man in front of us was on the stoop of a house near the Hollywood Canteen. He was the older guy, the defense worker who had told me he couldn’t sleep and that he had a son in the army. He was the guy who had said he spent each night waiting for a glimpse of stars so he could pass the information onto his son. He was one hell of an actor.

And then I remembered what Juanita had said, that we’d both met the man who would kidnap us. And that he had worn a mask.

“As reluctant as I am to recapitulate, Mr. Jeffers and his helpers have been following you since I contacted Mr. Farnsworth by phone yesterday. We were aware of your meeting at Levy’s and we kept an eye on you while we discovered a bit more about your less-than-illustrious history. Dismissal from the Glendale Police Department. Dismissal from the Warner Brothers security staff. Divorce. Impecunious circumstances. We followed you. When you contacted Mr. Pinketts, who had initially informed us that you had knowledge of the notorious record and would make an ideal go-between, we decided to have another talk with him, and he graciously decided to cooperate with us once more.”

Pinketts shrugged a
what-choice-did-I-have-amigo
shrug.

“This,” the man in the overstuffed chair said, “enabled us to anticipate your visit to Grover Niles, an unsavory creature whose loss should trouble few. Though I did not in fact commit the deed, I am quite willing to take on responsibility for his demise and face judgment for it before my maker, if the ultimate irony transpires and, indeed, there is a maker.”

“The Hollywood Canteen,” I reminded him.

“Of course,” he said. “Forgive me. I digress. We watched you searching for a parking space. I got out of the car, hurried to the front of the house in front of which you were parking, and assumed a role. My performance was, I gather, at least adequate.”

“I’d rate you road company
Maid of the Ozarks
,” I said.

“Underweight Sydney Greenstreet,” said Davis.

“I’ll accept that as praise,” said the man. “My life in the theater was extensive and unrewarding. Blithering foils to Frank Fay and Skeets Gallagher. My reviews, when anyone bothered to note my performance, were patronizing. I would eventually have faded into lesser character roles until I could no longer keep the lines straight between Shakespeare and Moss Hart.”

“A sad tale lacking sound and fury trying to signify something,” said Davis.

“Yes, my life was a farce,” said the man as Inez returned with a tray, upon which sat my Pepsi in a glassful of ice, another glass with what looked like Pinketts’s rum collins, and a tumbler of beer. “I wanted tragedy and I found myself living a life of farce. I fled from comedy and turned to dealing in magic, spells, blessings, curses, and ever-filled purses.”

“Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Davis dryly. “I thought you were above comedy.”

“Please,” he said, “it is not that comedy is beneath me. It is simply not within me.”

“I brought you a Schaefer,” Inez said, handing the tumbler to the man. “They had Rupperts and Ballantine but I thought …”

“This will be fine, Inez.”

He turned to me and Davis, held up his beer and toasted as Inez moved to the sofa to give Pinketts his drink.

“Long life and independence.”

We drank.

“Wiklund,” said Bette Davis.

I looked at her and she looked back at me with a triumphant smile.

“Erik Wiklund,” she said.

“I am flattered,” said the man, again raising his beer tumbler to her.

“Yes,” she said. “I saw you in New Haven.
Underworld
. You played Bull Weed and were quite good.”

Wiklund nodded his head and closed his eyes in acceptance of recognition.

“I believe you had difficulty finishing the performance,” she went on, and his eyes snapped open. “Rumor had it that you were a talented man with a fondness for hard liquor.”

“A fondness shared by others, including your husband, Mr. Arthur Farnsworth,” he said. “I have, however, overcome my fondness, while your husband seems to have turned it into a love affair. I find I am no longer enjoying this conversation.”

“There has been no conversation, Mr. Wiklund,” Davis said, standing. “There has been a performance designed, I imagine, to intimidate and frighten. I find it pathetic and fourth-rate.”

Pinketts looked at me and took a puff of his cigar. Inez looked frightened and twisted her ring.

“Look,” I tried, seeing a look in Wiklund’s eyes which held no promise of good will for me or Bette Davis.

Before I could get another word out, Wiklund picked up the book he had gently placed on the table and threw it at me. It shot past my head and hit a headless marble torso. The torso fell over but didn’t break.

“The way to steal a scene is to underplay, not rant and shout,” said Davis. “A lesson you obviously did not learn.”

Wiklund stood up now and ran his palm across his head to smooth any gray locks which might have gone astray.

“I will call your husband now,” said Wiklund. “I will tell him to get me the information I have requested. You will talk to him. I really don’t care what you say. He will give me the information and I will let you go.”

“With the recording,” she said.

“If I am reimbursed for the money I put up to obtain it from Grover Niles, plus a modest few dollars for the investment of my time, the maintenance of my staff.”

“A few dollars,” Davis repeated.

“Fifty thousand,” he said, pursing his lips. “I expect to get as much as two hundred thousand for the information your husband will provide. That should more than compensate for my ingenuity, the risks I have taken, and the possible charges connected to the fortunate demise of Grover Niles.”

“And,” said Davis, taking a step toward Wiklund. “How am I to know that there are no more copies of the record?”

“My word,” said Wiklund, putting his hand to his heart.

“Arthur will not trade military secrets for my life,” she said. “I would despise him if he did so and he knows it.”

“Well,” I said, “let’s not anticipate too much here. There may be some room for negotiation, but …”

“There had best be more than some room for negotiation,” said Wiklund. “Inez, tell Mr. Jeffers and his merry band to return.”

Inez moved to the door and opened it. Jeffers, Hans, and Fritz stepped in.

“Now,” said Wiklund, rising and moving his chair a few feet to the right. “We have a few moments of respite, a brief charade, a tribute to our captive audience.”

Jeffers crossed the room to Inez, who shook her head.

“Are you familiar with
Henry the Sixth, Part Three
?” asked Wiklund.

“Can’t say I am,” I said.

“I was—” Wiklund said, fixing me with raised eyebrow, “—addressing Miss Davis.”

“No,” she said curtly.

“Pity,” sighed Wiklund. “One of Shakespeare’s least appreciated and seldom-done masterpieces. We are going to entertain you with a scene from this
Henry
, and when we have concluded, I would like your candid critique. Do not try to spare us.”

“I assure you I will not,” Bette Davis promised.

“Good,” said Wiklund, pointing to where his supporting cast should stand. “Then we shall begin. Act two, scene two, Edward, Duke of York, the son of Henry, has come to take his father’s throne. Backed by the Earl of Warwick and thirty thousand men, Edward confronts his father and Queen Margaret. It’s a bit more complicated than that, but the drama of the moment speaks for itself. I shall play Edward, Mr. Jeffers will play Richard, and the lovely Inez will be Queen Margaret.”

“Can we opt for torture instead of the performance?” asked Davis, crossing her legs.

“‘She jests at scars who never felt a wound,’” Wiklund came back. And then, moving into character, “‘Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace and set thy diadem upon my head or bide the mortal fortune of the field?’”

“‘Go, rate thy minions,’” said Inez, with all the zeal of a dying trout. “‘Proud insulting boy. Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?’”

“‘I am his king,’” Wiklund shot back, taking a step toward Inez who looked toward Pinketts, who shrugged and puffed at his cheroot. “‘And,’” Wiklund went on, “‘he should bow his knee. I was adopted heir by his consent; since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, you that are king though he do wear the crown, have caus’d him, by new act of parliament, to blot out me, and put his own son in.’”

“‘And reason too,’” shouted Jeffers. “‘Who should succeed the father but the son?’”

I had to give this to Jeffers. He was good. He sounded sincere.

“‘Are you there, butcher?’” Wiklund puffed, turning to Jeffers. “‘O, I cannot speak.’”

“Would that it were so,” Bette Davis whispered to me. Wiklund’s eyes flicked in our direction but he went on with the show.

“‘Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,’” Jeffers said angrily, teeth clenched. “‘Or any he the proudest of thy sort.’”

“‘’Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not?’” asked Wiklund, pointing a finger at Jeffers, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“‘Ay,’” Jeffers shot back defensively. “‘And old York, and yet not satisfied.’”

“‘For God’s sake, lords,’” Wiklund shouted to Hans and Fritz, who were standing at the door. “‘Give signal to the fight.’”

“That will be sufficient,” Bette Davis interrupted, standing. “My assessment will be painfully brief. Mr. Wiklund, with a decent director to keep your musical-hall exuberance in check, you might return to your former acceptable mediocrity. Miss Inez, your beauty is only surpassed by your ineptitude. And Mr. Jeffers, your talents are sufficient to guarantee you major character roles in the productions at Folsom Prison where you will surely reside within the month.”

“Tell my agent,” Jeffers said, moving to the sofa and sitting next to Pinketts.

Wiklund’s eyes were fixed, unblinking with anger, at Bette Davis, who returned the gaze and went him one or two better. She looked a hell of a long way angrier than he did, but then again she was a much better actor.

Wiklund broke first.

“I suggest that Mr. Peters and Mr. Pinketts finish their drinks in the living room while Miss Davis and I call her husband. We will try to arrange, as we have planned from the beginning, an appropriate point of exchange, with Mr. Peters as go-between. If that is not possible … well, Miss Davis, we suggest that you be as persuasive as we know you are capable of being.”

Wiklund nodded, and Hans and Fritz stepped forward to escort us, drinks in hand, out of the room.

“I’ll figure something out,” I whispered to Bette Davis as I moved toward the door.

“Do it quickly,” she whispered back.

When Pinketts, the boys, and I were outside the door, Hans pointed with his .32 down a short corridor. We walked. Fritz was in front of us. He stopped at a door, opened it, and motioned for us to enter. Pinketts and I entered.

The windowless room was lined with shelves. The shelves were filled with thirty-five-millimeter film cans. There was a single chair and a small table in the center of the room.

Pinketts and I stepped in. Hans and Fritz stepped out and locked the door.

“I thought they were going to kill us,” said Pinketts, expelling air in a rush.

“I think they plan to,” I said, finishing my Pepsi and putting the empty glass on the table. “It depends on what Farnsworth tells them, and I’ve got the feeling he may tell them to go to hell.”

“Ah,” said Pinketts, “you have become an optimist.”

“No,” I said. “But if you don’t put out that cigar, we could both become toasted hot dogs. This room is filled with film.”