The Devil Met a Lady (13 page)

“It’s six in the morning,” said Phil, looking at me with tired, red eyes. “We finished our shift at two. I got to bed at three and took the call about you at five. Seidman is sleeping.”

Phil walked closer to the bed and looked down at me. He shook his head in disgust.

“What?” I asked.

“Bruise on the left cheek. Bruises on half your ribs. Cuts … Someone worked you hard, Toby, but nothing’s broken. You’ll live. Tell me your story. Make it short and make it true.”

He stood over me with his arms folded. He hadn’t even bothered to put on a tie, and his jacket had a brown stain just below the pocket. I decided not to tell him about the stain.

“I was kidnapped,” I said.

Phil blinked and nodded for me to go on. I did.

“Bette Davis and I were kidnapped.”

Phil neither blinked nor nodded.

“The guy who shot Niles,” I said. “His name, maybe not his real name, is Jeffers. He works for an ex-actor named Erik Wiklund, at least that’s the name he gave us.”

“Us?”

“Me and Bette Davis,” I explained, reaching down to feel what I was wearing and touched a short hospital gown. They took me to the house in a Graham, locked me in the film room. I got behind the case in front of the window, made a hole with a chair leg, and got outside. They …”

“Wiklund and Jeffers?”

“No, Hans and Fritz. Not the ones in the funny papers. Two big ones with no names,” I said, watching Phil’s eyes. He wasn’t buying any of it. “They were waiting for me. Then Jeffers came and they started to beat the hell out of me. Then, I don’t know, I was here. They were gone. I …”

“No one saw anyone but you, Toby,” Phil said.

“But the neighbor, he saw Jeffers with the gun.”

“He says you had the gun,” said Phil calmly. “You were sitting in the backyard with a chair leg in one hand and a gun in the other, talking to yourself.”

“Phil, wait, there was a woman there. I mean with Wiklund. Her name was Irene. No, Inez. And, wait. How could I forget this. Pinketts. Andrea Pinketts, the private detective. He was there.”

“Hell of a party,” Phil said. “All you needed was the USC cheerleaders. How did you get up there, Toby? A cab? We can check the cabs. Someone drop you?”

I laid back and closed my eyes.

“They drove us in the Graham, a convertible,” I explained.

I had the sudden sensation of floating off into vast space. I opened my eyes, scared as hell. Phil was gone. I looked around the room. He was back in the chair with his head in his hand.

“Phil?” I said, trying to sit up.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought.

“Phil?” I repeated.

Phil held up his free hand, a signal for me to stop.

“I didn’t come here to see you, Toby,” Phil said. “Ruth’s been here for three days. She’s on the next floor. They brought her back for more surgery. They don’t know if she’ll make it.”

“I didn’t know she was back in,” I said.

“You haven’t called,” he said, lifting his head and sighing. “I tried to reach you.”

“The boys, Lucy?” I asked, moving toward Phil on bare feet and shaky legs.

“Ruth’s mother.”

“Phil, I’m …”

“You know how much she weighs? I mean best weight on a good day. Forget about being sick, the operation.”

“I don’t …”

“Ninety pounds. You should see her now. No, you shouldn’t see her now,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’m taking my leave. I’ve got about three months saved, maybe more. If Ruth gets out of here, I’m staying home with her and the kids. If she … then I’ll stay with the kids.”

“If I can do anything …”

“You can do a lot,” said Phil, looking up at me. “You can stop acting like a goddamn kid. I got enough kids. I’m not Pa.”

“What I told you about last night was true,” I said.

“Toby, you’re not listening. I don’t care if it’s true. Two days ago you’re with a guy who gets killed. Last night you’re making holes in people’s walls. I’m telling you, Toby. I just don’t have the heart or gall for your shit anymore. I don’t even want to talk to your client. Get dressed. Go look for the bad guys if there are any. But don’t call me to save your ass next time. I won’t be there. I’m turning the Niles murder over to Cawelti.”

Something kicked my stomach from the inside. John Cawelti was neither brother nor pal. We hated each other. Cawelti was a big redheaded sergeant with a bad complexion, his hair parted down the middle like a barkeep, and no sense of humor.

“I’m not filing on this,” said Phil, moving to the door. “I just paid a visit to my sick brother. Cawelti can book you if you’re still here when he gets the call and runs over here.”

“Thanks, Phil,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter, Tobias,” he said, opening the door. “If he doesn’t get you this time, he’ll get you the next. Just walk through the door and find you with your big toe up your nose.”

“Phil …” I began, but he was out in the hall, pushing the door shut behind him. He didn’t slam it. Just closed it. Then he came back in.

“The gun you picked up on Niles’s stairs,” he said. “The one your friend Jeffers had. It didn’t kill Niles. Niles was killed with a .45.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Phil was gone.

I found my clothes on a hook in the bathroom and got dressed, trying not to pay too much attention to the purple and yellow patches on my chest and the pain in my ribs.

What with the plaster dust, grass stains, and a few tears, my pants, shirt, and jacket looked like hell. I looked in the mirror. I looked worse than hell. My right cheek was puffy and purple. There was a cut over my right eye and I needed a shave. I brushed my hair back with my hand and tried to wash my face. The left side was fine. I couldn’t touch the right side.

My wallet and keys were in the night table next to the bed.

There was no cop on the door. There wouldn’t be. From the way I looked, whoever dropped me here must have been sure I wouldn’t be moving. Probably went down as a drunk or nut breaking into a house in the hills and making a hole in the wall.

I hit the corridor on a shift change and decided to play the bereaved visitor who had been up all night.

“Why did it have to happen to Mike?” I said, rubbing my eyes as a pair of nurses in white walked by.

They had no answer and didn’t even want to deal with the problem.

I went down to the floor below using the stairway, not wanting to run into John Cawelti in case he got the good news early and decided to run over to the hospital and pay me a visit.

There were two nurses at the desk.

“Ruth Pevsner,” I said.

One of the nurses, who looked as if she had been brought out of a long retirement because of the war, squinted up at me over her glasses. I knew what I looked like.

“Relative,” I said.

“Relative?”

“Brother-in-law.”

“No visitors,” she said. “She is not conscious.”

“Is she?…”

The other nurse, also in white, but young enough to be the first nurse’s granddaughter, looked at me.

“Really don’t know,” said the nurse. “Officially, her condition is critical. Unofficially, I think she’s going to make it, but … you never know. Tell a doctor I said that and I’ll call you a liar.”

“I won’t tell a doctor,” I said. “Thanks.”

“You look like you need a doctor,” the young nurse, plump little girl with large teeth, said.

I did something in her direction that I hoped was taken for a smile.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Fell on my face running here.”

Before they could think about this I walked, hands deep in my jacket pockets, to the stairway.

There was no one in the stairwell, and when I hit the main floor I opened the door a crack and looked into the corridor.

Nothing.

I stepped out and made my way toward the hospital entrance. I was watching for Cawelti or another cop I might recognize. I wasn’t watching for the man in the trim beard, spectacles, and bushy hair who bumped into me.

“Many pardons,” he said with a bow and a heavy German accent.

“It’s okay,” I said, starting to move away.

“No,” he said, taking my arm. “You are not well. You should not be leaving from the hospital. You need help.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I just fell when …”

“Feel this,” he said, his accent gone.

Something was jammed into my already sore ribs. His arm was around my shoulder.

“I feel it,” I said.

“Guess what it is,” he said.

“A gun,” I said.

“Not just any gun,” said Wiklund. “Your gun. I can shoot you and be out of here before anyone notices, and even if they do, the description they would give would fit a man who does not exist.”

“Well?” I asked as a flurry of white uniforms went past us.

“We go out, get into the car which is waiting, and have a talk. How does that sound to you?”

“Like a great idea,” I said.

We walked to the entrance, Wiklund’s arm around my shoulder.

“If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me,” he said. “
Macbeth
. I was just on the way up to your room when I saw you. Another few seconds either way and … but then Mr. Jeffers is watching the door and he surely would have seen you coming out. So …”

“Is she all right?”

“You shall see,” he said. “You shall soon see.”

And I did. The Graham was parked, engine running, about twenty feet from the hospital entrance, just far enough away to be outside the glare of the entrance lights.

“I must tell you that Mr. Jeffers and his associates are not pleased with you,” Wiklund said, urging me forward toward the car with the hand barrel of the gun under his coat. “I think they would like to have a serious discussion with you.”

“What do you want with me, Wiklund?” I asked.

We were almost to the car. I couldn’t see inside.

“What do I want? You know my name. You know my plan. You could do enormous damage.”

Wiklund nodded as two couples in hospital whites walked past us, talking about the famine in China.

“How?” I asked reasonably.

“You could give the press or the police the recording,” he explained. “You could destroy the value of one of the two things we have to trade with Arthur Farnsworth, his wife and her reputation.”

“So I’d ruin my client’s reputation,” I said, leaning forward to get into the car.

“By taking away both of our chips,” he said. “You might see it as your patriotic duty. Ruin a reputation and protect a military secret. No, I cannot risk erratic behavior on your part, Peters. Please get in. My client is already having some doubts about the professionalism of my little troupe.”

I got into the back seat next to Jeffers. Wiklund slid in next to me. Bette Davis was in the front passenger seat looking back at me with concern. Inez was in the driver’s seat.

“Are you all right?” asked Davis.

“Considering the situation,” I answered as Wiklund began to remove his makeup.

“You look terrible,” Davis said. Inez stepped on the gas and started to drive.

“Maybe a nice ride will bring the pink back to my cheeks.”

“This isn’t funny,” Davis said, looking at Jeffers and Wiklund. “They say they’ll kill you if Arthur doesn’t give them what they want.”

I looked at Wiklund, who shrugged.

“Well,” he said softly. “We can’t very well kill Bette Davis, can we? If we kill you, I doubt it will make the Blue Network news, what with the war. Did you know the Japanese have launched a new battle for the Solomons?”

“No,” I said.

“My goddamn head hurts,” Jeffers said, looking at me. “You hit me in the face. You almost break my head. I’m beginning to run out of restraint.”

“You’ve not treated me with great courtesy either,” I reminded him.

Wiklund laughed and put an arm around my shoulder. “Peters, you are admirable. In the face of likely death, you can’t stop displaying sarcasm. You should have considered a career on the stage or in film.”

“I missed my calling,” I said, trying to convey confidence to Bette Davis, who was still peering over the front seat with a look of alarm.

“I do not want this man harmed,” she said.

“Nor do I,” said Wiklund. “I like him, and he has something which belongs to me. But, my dear lady, what choice do I have? Your husband, in spite of our reasonable threats and promises, seems recalcitrant. I am afraid that I may have underestimated his patriotism. He may, it seems, prefer to sacrifice his wife’s reputation and possibly her life to safeguard his country’s secrets. Now, I find that admirable, but not humane or loving, and I hope I am wrong. So … would you like to supply the scenario, Mr. Peters?”

“So,” I said. “He wants you to tell Arthur to give them what they want. If you don’t, they’ll give the recording to …”

“When you return the recording to me, Mr. Peters, we will have many options. Who knows,” said Wiklund lightly. “British newspapers, Jack Warner. It could yet yield a profit and you might pass what remains of your not-very-meaningful life in peace.”

“How long do you think you can keep me a prisoner before the press finds out?” Davis tried.

“Not long,” admitted Wiklund. “And we don’t intend to keep you. The trick is to convince your husband that you are in danger. No, I’m sorry to say that the amusing Mr. Peters is the one in quite serious trouble.”

“I’m not sorry to say it,” said Jeffers.

Wiklund patted my shoulder.

“We’ve given Mr. Farnsworth a day for an answer,” Wiklund said. “Arbitrary, perhaps, but a deadline which must be met. I’d have no reputation at all in my business if my clients thought I would not deliver on threats.”

“I’ll call Arthur,” Bette Davis said.

“Ahh,” said Wiklund, sitting back.

Inez, who had said nothing, lit a cigarette and offered one to Davis, who took it and sat facing forward.

As the car filled with smoke and Inez turned the radio on, I did some quick thinking. First, the record of Davis and Howard Hughes was no longer in Wiklund’s hands. For some reason, he thought I had it. Why? Answer: It had been in the house last night. Who had taken it? Jeffers, Hans, Fritz, Inez? My money, and maybe my life, was on Andrea Pinketts, who had taken off like the wind the second we had gone through the wall.