The milkman went in, but I didn’t follow him. I went into the flop house. It took about thirty seconds to adjust from the light to the dusty darkness of a lobby of forty-watt bulbs.
The forty-watters were a good idea. They saved the management money, and they made it hard to see the lobby. The lobby was small and decorated in early 20th century junk. It was the kind of place in which Shelly Minck picked up most of his trade, and his trade picked up most of its diseases.
When my eyes adjusted to the dim yellow light, I went to the desk. I passed a guy sitting in one of the two lounge chairs in the lobby. I didn’t give him a second look, but I held him in mind. He was too damn well dressed to be sitting around in the morning in a place like this. It was a warm day, and the parks were free. On a day like this even a bum knew enough to hike the few blocks to Exposition Park.
The guy behind the desk was wearing a ratty sweater and a jacket. His nose was running. He had a cold, and I didn’t want to get too near him. It might not be a cold. He was bald with big freckles on his scalp. His chest was caved in as if he had taken one big cough and had never recovered. His belly flowed out and he could have been any age from 25 to 50.
“My name’s Peters,” I said quietly and seriously. “I’m involved in an investigation and I’d like to have some information on one of your tenants.”
He blew his nose on a dirty handkerchief, pushed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket and looked at me with moist eyes.
“Mr?,” I tried again.
“Valentine,” he said. “I only use one name.”
“Like Garbo,” I said.
“She’s got another name,” he said. “I only use the one.”
“You in show business?” I said.
“No,” he sneered. “Who you want to know about?”
“Peese,” I said. “John Franklin Peese.”
“Don’t recall him,” said Valentine retrieving his handkerchief.
“You can’t miss him,” I said softly, overcoming my repulsion and leaning toward him. “He’s only about three feet tall.”
Valentine gave a good blow and seemed to be thinking about people three feet tall.
“Who’s the night man?” I asked.
“I am,” he said. “I don’t leave here. Sleep back there.” He pointed to a door behind him.
“Look in your book,” I said wearily.
“You ain’t a cop,” he said turning away.
“Three bucks,” I said.
“Five,” he said.
“Goodbye,” I said.
“Wait,” he said.
We both knew how the conversation would go, but the rules of conduct made us ride out the race. I’d played it dozens of times, and I knew it wasn’t over. I counted out three bucks and he said, “Room 31.”
I started to turn and he added, “But he’s not there anymore. Moved out about five months ago. Glad to see him go. He was a mean little fart.”
“You got an address for him,” I said keeping my back to the counter. The well-dressed man in the lobby was pretending to read a book, but I knew he could hear what we said.
“He didn’t leave one,” said Valentine, purring.
“You have some idea of where I can find him?” I said.
He took too long to answer “no,” so I knew he had something, maybe just a badly congested nose, but I took a chance. I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t horse around here all day playing games. I turned slowly, pulled two bucks out of my wallet and reached over the counter grabbing Valentine by the sweater. Part of it came off in my hands. I grabbed again and pulled him into the counter. Our faces were inches apart. He smelled like Friday’s garbage on Monday morning. I thought both of us were about to throw up. Him in fear; me in disgust.
“I heard he was someplace downtown,” he squeaked.
“Where?” I asked with a forced smile.
“I don’t know, one of the big hotels,” Valentine said gasping for air. “One of the guys who flops here saw him. He said Peese looked like he’d made the big time. Big cigar. The works. Peese wouldn’t give him the price of a small flop. He’s a bastard, that little one, a bastard.”
I let him down gently. His sweater was bunched up on his bird chest and he was panting. I must have looked to him like my brother looks to me.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “This’ll buy you another sweater and a last name.” I dropped five more on the counter. He could get ten sweaters for less than that within a block.
“I don’t want a last name,” he said putting the five under the counter. “What good’s a last name done anybody?”
He had a point.
I walked into the sun, and my eyes closed. I waited until I was out of sight of the door before I wiped my hands of Valentine’s grime. I knew a shortcut back to Broadway through an alley. I’d chased a kid through it once when I was doing a month as a bouncer at the Broadway Bar in ’37. Since most of the customers were bar flies and winos, I’d built up a good win-loss record. But the two or three good losses were enough to make me go back to my private investigating, Depression or no Depression. One of the losses had left me with my scalp split like a car seat that spent too much time in the desert.
The happy memory faded as I stepped into the alley and realized two things. First, I had to look forward to a day of looking for a midget in downtown hotels. He might not even be in a downtown hotel. Valentine might have got the word wrong, or the bum who passed it might have messed it up or dreamed it, but I had to give it a try. Most of my investigating involved following leads that lead nowhere. The cops did the same thing, but there were lots of cops.
The second thing I realized was that someone was following me. I didn’t want to turn back. If it was the dragon with the bad shot, he might shoot sooner than he planned if I turned. I kept walking through the alley around garbage cans looking for an open door and expecting a bullet in the back. I had taken one there not too long ago. I didn’t want to press my luck. Even the bat who was trying to do me in would have the odds going for him eventually.
He didn’t know how to tail, and I could see his long shadow out of the corner of my eye as it hit the brick wall. He was hurrying now to keep up, but I didn’t want to break. My armpits were damp, and Broadway was just a dozen yards or so ahead. I made up my mind, reached for my gun as I walked and took a sudden turn into a doorway.
The guy behind me stumbled forward, and I moved out with my .38 under his nose and grabbed a hunk of his jacket. It was the well-dressed guy in the flop house lobby. I pulled him into the doorway and pushed him into shadow. He looked surprised, but only a little and not at all scared. I felt him for a weapon the way the Glendale cops had taught me a tenth of a century earlier. He came away clean, and I looked at him. He wore a light grey suit with a white tie and shirt. He wasn’t dressed for tailing. He stood out like a snowball in a coal pile.
He was in his fifties. His face was round, and his mouth was small and a little weak. His nose was straight, and he wore round tortoise glasses. His hairline was falling back and his hair was thin, but he had it combed forward on the left to battle the receding glacier of time.
“O.K.,” I said, “Who are you, and why are you following me?”
He took out a pipe and lit it. His hands weren’t shaking and his voice was a little high, but perfectly calm.
“My name’s Chandler, Raymond Chandler,” he said getting the pipe going. “I’m a writer. I write detective stories and novels.”
“That doesn’t explain why you were in the lobby of that bedbug palace and why you followed me,” I whispered through my teeth. It was my best shot at menace, but he looked interested and amused.
“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?”
Murder on the Yellow Brick Road: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Two) (Toby Peters Mysteries) Page 9
