Peter Gunn

by Henry, Kane,

“That I said, Miss Bain.”

  “And you want to tell me?”

  “Yes, Miss Bain.”

  “Alone?”

  “Over my dead body,” said Edie, and then she laughed. “No, I’m kidding. Good-by, all.”

  “Just stay where you are,” said Gunn and he explained to Alice: “When I’m with Edie, I’m alone.”

  “Now there’s a compliment,” said Edie.

  “No, no, I mean Edie and I are as one. I have no secrets from Edie Hart.”

  Edie grinned with love. “That’s my boy. Sometimes he says things just right. Sometimes.”

  “No, please,” said Alice. “I was only trying—”

  “Don’t try,” said Edie. “He’s mine. I staked out my claim early in his career.”

  “I’m in the middle of something, aren’t I?” said Alice.

  “Like it’s love, or lust, or something,” said Edie. “Whatever, it should be like that between you and Sam, and I’m wishing you the best, sweetie.”

  “Sam,” said Gunn, “is the reason your father retained me.”

  “Sam Lockwood?” said Alice.

  “Is there another Sam?”

  “There is no other Sam. I didn’t think he’d dare.”

  “Who?”

  “My father.”

  “Now don’t get Daddy wrong, Miss Bain. He didn’t hire me to throw the monkey wrench. He hired me to inquire.”

  “About what?”

  “Same answer. Sam Lockwood.”

  “You’re going to talk to him?”

  “I sure am.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “But—”

  “Not yet.”

  “But why?”

  The girl finished her bourbon. She lit a cigarette. Her fingers trembled. “Look,” she said, “do you know my father?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, do you know… about my father?” The dark-brown eyes veered toward Edie and the cloud of cigarette smoke did not obscure the expression of embarrassment.

  “I’m going to cut out,” said Edie.

  “Honey,” Gunn said to Alice, “don’t be bashful because of Edie. Whatever you say, I’ll discuss with her anyway, and since you’re a gal, it’s good to have Edie near by. Edie pitches on the side of the gals, I mean if it’s impersonal, and Edie can be a very valuable ally. So, if you wish, kindly say your piece in the presence of Edie if you have a piece to say, and rest assured that Edie will dream up a few angles that I could never have thought of. Simply, it’s a matter of hormones, and all of Edie’s are feminine. Now if you want her to go she goes and if you want her to stay she stays, up to you.”

  “Please don’t go,” said the girl.

  “Thank you,” said Edie.

  “Now what about it?” said Gunn.

  “I go for the guy,” said Alice Bain and gazed a wistful gaze upon her empty bourbon glass.

  “Good enough,” said Gunn and motioned to the waiter for refills all around.

  “My father doesn’t approve.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “I don’t believe it is a special reason. I believe there are a variety of reasons, most of them unconscious, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not quite,” said Gunn.

  “You’d have to know a bit of the background.”

  “I’m listening,” Gunn said quietly.

  “Well, you know about my father…”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m an only child. My mother’s dead. My father’s always been very good to me, sent me to the best schools, you know, all of that. When I was twenty-two I became emancipated. I mean, I moved out, took an apartment of my own. I paint. I’m a pretty good painter, I think. My father encouraged that. He’s been very kind, very understanding, always shielded me from any of the bad publicity than can happen, you know, in his business. I trust I’m making myself clear. I… I…”

  “You’re doing fine,” said Gunn.

  The waiter came with the drinks. There was a satisfactory lull at the table as everybody was elaborate in the building of each drink. Edie remarked about how wonderful the combo was this night. Gunn remarked about how good business was. Mother floated by and bestowed a smile upon her customers, patted Gunn’s head, and floated on. Gunn sipped, Edie sipped, Alice Bain gulped her bourbon and this time chased it with the water.

  “Where was I?” she said.

  “Your father is good to you,” Gunn said.

  “I have all the freedom in the world,” she said, “except about men. There he attempts to impose his will and I suppose, if you think about it, you can’t blame him. My life, until my, er, emancipation, was quite sheltered. My father wants the best for me in all things, possibly because he himself has not had the best in all things in his life. He is distrustful of many people.”

  “Can you blame him?” said Gunn. “In his business?”

  “I’m not blaming, I’m only trying to explain. It’s not uncommon. People with a background such as my father’s, hope for their offspring to reach higher, much higher. He would like me to marry a banker, or a doctor, or a senator, or a highly-placed executive—”

  “But not a jazz musician,” said Gunn.

  “He doesn’t approve of anything as precarious, or, in his mind, as shoddy, as a jazz musician. Oh, I can understand him although I can’t go along with him. There’s a good deal of my father in me, we’re both stubborn, and we’ve fought like hell about this. He objects to Sam without actually knowing him, and I object to his blanket objection. I happen to be very fond of Sam Lockwood.”

  “Obviously,” said Edie.

  “My father is a labor boss,” Alice said to Edie, “and not a very savory one.”

  “Blunt,” said Gunn. “Just like Papa,”

  “He’s done good for his union but his methods are questionable,” said Alice.

  “And he’s been questioned by experts,” said Gunn.

  “Bain?” said Edie. “Steve Bain? Is he Steve Bain?”

  “My father is Steve Bain.”

  “Sam Lockwood against Steve Bain is like a cockroach against an elephant,” said Edie with the tender realism of all women. “Your father could step on him and squash him without even breaking his stride. Why hasn’t he?”

  “Because of me. We’re worlds part, but he loves me. He knows I’d never forgive him if something sudden and horrible happened to Sam Lockwood.”

  “Check,” said Edie. “So like it’s an impasse.”

  “And it seems he now wishes to break that impasse by engaging the engaging Mr. Gunn.”

  “Baby, I might do you good,” said Gunn. “I might convince Papa that Sammy is the sweetest, most delicate little being alive.”

  “He isn’t,” said Alice. “Sam is a doll, but Sam can be wicked and violent when aroused and my father knows that.”

  “How?” said Gunn.

  “They’ve talked. Twice. Papa was trying to do it by proper means, but Papa and Sam are like flint and stone. Twice they had violent arguments. Sam has a beastly temper, and he’s not afraid of my father, and he resented my father’s preconceived concepts, my father’s entire attitude. That’s the reason I don’t want you to talk to him tonight, Mr. Gunn.”

  “I don’t quite follow,” said Gunn.

  “He’ll blow sky high. My father putting an investigator on his tail. He’ll blow up and then there’s no telling what will happen. You can’t push my father too far; on the other hand, you can’t push Sam too far either. I… I just don’t want trouble.”

  “I’m going to talk to him, Miss Bain.”

  “But please, not tonight.”

  “Will it be better tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Why will it be better tomorrow, dear Miss Bain?”

  “I’ll talk to Sam tonight. I’ll break it easy. I’ll make him understand that my father is thinking of me, my best interests. I’ll talk him out of thinking this sort of investigation is… is an insult. I’ll prepare him for it. I�
�ll… I’ll even arrange an appointment for you. All right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  “Swell,” said Gunn. He laid out pencil and pad. “I’ll give you my address and phone number in exchange for your address and phone number and Sam’s likewise.” He looked at her. “Is there any secret about either of those?”

  “No, of course not.”

  The exchange was made, and the music stopped, and Edie said, “Here comes Sam.” And she nudged Gunn’s knee beneath the table and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Good-by, Miss Bain,” said Gunn.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gunn, you’ve been very nice. And thank you, Miss Hart.”

  “Welcome,” said Edie. “Come on, Gunn. Young love has need to be alone.”

  “What about old love?”

  “Has need to be alone.”

  “I feel the need too. Like where?”

  “Well, singers have dressing rooms.”

  “A prurient suggestion, but apt. Lead on, Miss Hart.”

  Miss Hart led.

  Mr. Gunn followed. Fade out.

  chapter 3

  Next morning, which was April 11, bright and very hot and sunny, Mr. Peter Gunn rolled out of bed quite nude and slightly hung on Scotch and ambled toward his matutinal shower, buoyed by the shimmering memories of the postures and pleasures of dressing rooms. The inevitable song of the shower this day was an unmelodious roundelay of wonder and admiration at the varied surprises which ladies can produce under the prick of jealousy, no matter how slight and how admittedly unwarranted. He showered long and grinningly, munching upon his memories, and then he shaved and naked had his bachelor’s breakfast of orange juice from a cardboard container, two shots of Scotch (each with a fervid toast to dressing rooms), toast, instant coffee, and a salami sandwich with mustard and milk. A burp, a glance at the clock (it was nine-thirty), a quick wash of the dishes, and then he lay out upon the bed, took up the phone caressingly, dialed and waited flutteringly.

  “Doll,” he said when the connection was made.

  “Oh, no,” wailed Edie.

  “You were wonderful,” he said, but the flutters ceased.

  “Thanks, but not in the middle of the night. Please!”

  “It’s nine-thirty.”

  “That’s what I said—the middle of the night. Go to bed.”

  “I am in bed.”

  “Go to sleep,” she said. “Nighty-night.” And she hung up.

  He sighed, frowned, smiled, replaced the receiver, yawned, and the phone pealed. He lifted the receiver and said, “Okay, apology accepted. Now kiss me long distance, short distance. People can make love over the phone, you know, and I’m dressed for it.”

  “Mr. Gunn?”

  “What?”

  “Is this Mr. Gunn?”

  Morosely he said, “Gunn. Yes?”

  “Alice here. Alice Bain.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Oh, yes. Certainly.”

  “Is anything wrong, Mr. Gunn?”

  “I was sleeping. The phone woke me from a crazy dream. Crazy!”

  “Oh. Look, Mr. Gunn, everything is arranged with Sam. You’re to see him this morning, half past ten.”

  “He’s granted me an appointment? That’s very nice of him.”

  “Oh, please, Mr. Gunn, don’t take it that way.”

  “Do I see him directly? Or am I first interviewed by his secretary in the royal chambers?”

  “Mr. Gunn, you said you’d co-operate. Oh, please, please,” the plea in her voice was a warning of tears.

  “Hold it,” said Gunn.

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t cry. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Middle of the night!”

  “I thought it was a good play. I wish I had what it’ll earn in stock. By a fella by the name of Paddy.”

  “Mr. Gunn, are you drunk?”

  “Who gets drunk on salami?”

  “Please, Mr. Gunn, be serious.”

  “All right. I think I talked you out of crying.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did.”

  “Fine. Okay, I’ll see your boy at ten-thirty. Where are you?”

  “Home. I’m here waiting. I told Sam to call me right after you see him. Oh, I do hope it goes all right.”

  “I’m sure it will.”

  “May I call you afterward?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where?”

  “Back here at my apartment.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gunn.”

  “Good-by, Miss Bain.”

  He dressed and looked at the slip of paper which bore Sam Lockwood’s address. It was up in Hollywood Hills, not far. He locked up and went out to a beautiful day, warm and getting warmer. There were no clouds, there was no smog, and the morning sun was already blazing. He looked at his watch. It was early. He climbed into his car and drove to the bank where he attended to the pleasant task of depositing five thousand dollars to the account of Peter Gunn. He cashed a check for two hundred dollars and went out feeling like a millionaire, but a hot millionaire. The air sat, there was no breeze, it was getting sticky. He removed his jacket, laid it in the rear of the car, pulled down his tie, opened his collar, and drove off, resisting two impulses. The first was the delightful impulse of calling upon Edie, middle of the night or no. The second was the prosaic impulse of stopping for an ice cream soda which would serve as antidote for the impetuous selection of salami for breakfast. Unhappily there was no time for either if he was to be prompt for his appointment.

  He was prompt for his appointment, only five minutes late. The house was a flat one-story structure on a desolate crag of rock off a bumpy dirt road. It was isolated, in a barren area. He parked the car on a teetering incline, trudged up a steep path to a white door with a brass knob sparkling in the sunlight. He tried the knob. The door was locked. He pushed a bell-button and heard the bell ring inside. He waited impatiently. No answer. He wanted to mop the perspiration from his face but his handkerchief was in his jacket pocket and his jacket was in the car. He rang again. No answer again. He was about to start back to the car when the door was drawn open by Sam Lockwood. Gunn did not say hello. He said nothing: a polite but rigid smile formed on his lips. Lockwood wore slacks, loafers and a basque shirt with short sleeves tight about muscular arms. The muscular arms were very male and very well formed but they made singularly small impression upon Gunn. He was fascinated by the appendages to the arms, the hands—in particular, the right hand which was clasped about the butt of a long-barreled revolver, the long barrel seemingly endlessly long, out of proportion, because its muzzle was aimed in the general vicinity of Peter Gunn’s palpitating navel.

  chapter 4

  When Gunn found voice it piped strangely falsetto but it cracked typically Gunn-like: “Like this you’re a host?”

  “What the hell?” said Lockwood.

  “I mean, this is hospitality?”

  “What the hell?” said Lockwood.

  “I mean, I had an appointment and everything, with an interview in the royal chambers, and a worried chick ringing me up, in the middle of the night.”

  “What the hell?” said Lockwood.

  “The hell is I don’t think it’s quite Emily Post to greet a comparative stranger, innocent and totally unsuspecting, with a gun pointed at his belly.”

  Negligibly Lockwood said, grinning, “Oh, that?”

  “That,” said Gunn, breathing more easily, normal baritone returning, rigid smile dissolving to a querulous, less strained, but bewildered expression.

  “It’s nothing,” said Lockwood.

  “But a real big nothing, isn’t it?” said Gunn and smiled again. “You mean it isn’t loaded?”

  “Oh, sure it’s loaded.”

  “Well, then, aim it in another direction, will you kindly? A long-barreled nothing like that I need like a hole in—no, no, no holes!”

  Lockwood flipped the gun competently. “I was taking target practice.”

&nbs
p; Gunn fought off falsetto. “Oh, target practice,” he said rippling-toned. “How very nice, indeed.”

  “I was out on the target range. In the rear. I didn’t hear your ring at first.”

  “Oh, didn’t hear the ring. Better you shouldn’t have heard it at all.”

  “Won’t you come in, Mr. Gunn? You are Mr. Gunn?”

  “I wish I weren’t. I wish I were Craig Stevens or somebody. The way you open a door for company, a guy can get a heart attack.”

  “You’re a queer kinda fella, aren’t you?” Lockwood’s blue eyes narrowed quizzically.

  “I’m a queer kind of fella!”

  “Come in, won’t you?”

  “Pleasure, thank you very much,” mumbled Gunn, and inside in the cool carpeted vestibule, he said, “Do you happen to have a handkerchief?”

  Lockwood drew a handkerchief from a rear flap-pocket of his pants and handed it, neatly folded and clean, to Gunn. Gunn accepted it, unfolded it, and used it as a towel across his face and hair and down against the back of his neck. He returned it, sopping wet, holding it gingerly at a corner. Lockwood took it, gingerly at a corner, and placed it and the pistol upon a tall teakwood table.

  “I can offer you a shower,” he said.

  “Another time,” said Gunn.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Love it,” said Gunn.

  “What would you like?”

  “An ice cream soda.”

  Lockwood’s reaction was a frown as though in pain. The edges of his mouth drooped and his eyes stared upward upon Gunn through squinted lids. Then he sighed, smiled, shrugged broad shoulders, and led Gunn into a large living room.

  “Lovely, this is very lovely,” said Gunn.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you own this house?”

  “Yes. Excuse me.”

  Lockwood left the room and Gunn moved about examining a beautifully furnished living room with expensive oils in expensive frames upon its expensively wood-paneled walls, expensive draperies, expensive furniture, expensive area rugs, expensive knickknacks and statuettes, and an expensive glass and teakwood cabinet containing a small arsenal of firearms, all pistols of every make. Expensive, very expensive, all of it, but, Gunn had to admit, in excellent taste. He touched a door of the teakwood cabinet. It was unlocked. He took out a pistol, an automatic, and inspected it. It was clean, oiled and ready for use, but not loaded. He replaced it as Lockwood came back into the room bearing a tray containing two glasses, each filled, one familiar and one strange. The familiar glass was an ordinary eight-ouncer, somewhat cloudy, bubbling ice and soda. The unfamiliar glass appeared to be the bottom half of a cocktail shaker containing a murky brew with a greenish top, the edge of the silver handle of a spoon protruding over the rim.