Buried Caesars

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Pudge?” asked the comic cop. They had spread out, comic cop in the street, sidekick on the lawn. Across the street a door opened and a man in a robe stepped out to watch. He had a gray walrus mustache and a very serious expression.

  “Mr. Block’s nickname is Pudge,” Hammett explained. “The two you’re looking for are …”

  “Maybe right in front of us,” said the comic. “This your car?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Don’t see many of these in Angel Springs. Don’t see many of these that can even make it to Angel Springs.”

  “God, Barry,” the other cop said, shaking his head and smiling, gun still aimed at us.

  “Let’s make it simple,” Hammett said. “Simple enough for Laurel and Hardy here. I suggest we go in and ask Mr. Block.”

  Barry and his buddy exchanged looks and nodded. I had the feeling that we would have been safer dealing with Wylie and Conrad. The walrus across the street shielded his eyes from the sun to watch us march to Pudge’s door.

  “Careful,” the man across the street called. I couldn’t tell who he was warning, us or the cops.

  Hammett was reaching for the door when we heard the shot. It came from inside the house, clear, sharp, and only once. Barry shouldered his way past us, his partner aiming his weapon at Hammett, then me, and back again. He wasn’t smiling anymore and Barry wasn’t making jokes.

  Barry turned the door handle and went in, weapon up, hands less than steady.

  We followed him. Barry went to his knee on one side of the door. His partner ducked into the living-room doorway on the other side. Hammett and I stood in the hall.

  “Police,” Barry called into the house.

  “Crap,” sighed Hammett and stalked down the hallway.

  “Stop,” called Barry.

  Hammett simply threw up his hand in disgust and moved forward with me right behind.

  We found Pudge in the kitchen, seated at the table, an empty bottle near his left hand, his pistol in his right. The hole in his temple was deep and almost black. Pudge was smiling as if he had a secret he wasn’t going to share. He was right.

  6

  We spent the morning in the cleanest cell I’d ever been in. If you had to go to jail, Angel Springs was the place to do it. There were only two of us in the cell, Hammett and me. We played poker with an almost new deck of Bicycles at a clean table, and ate a hot meal brought to us on plates.

  “I know jokers who’d come up with a dime a night to huddle in a place like this,” I said.

  “Not bad,” Hammett agreed, cutting the cards.

  I owed him about thirty bucks by the time an old man in uniform came for us. He opened the cell door and motioned for us to follow him. He stayed about three feet ahead of us, gun bouncing in his holster. We could have taken the weapon, blown his head off and headed back to Los Angeles, but all three of us knew that you didn’t do things like mat in Angel Springs. We strolled into the outer office of the station past a pair of desks, one empty, the other filled by a dark-haired woman in a blue uniform talking frantically on the phone. She looked up at us and pushed the hair away from her face the way Ann used to do. I smiled at her. She looked through us and went back to her call.

  Chief Spainy’s office was clean and sunny. The windows were big and freshly washed. The desk was clear and unscratched. Spainy was a bulky little man, in his fifties, with a thick neck. He wore a blue uniform and a tie that choked him and furrowed his throat. He did not look comfortable. He sat behind the desk, hands flat on it, and watched us sit.

  “What do you know about rabbits?” he said finally.

  “Not much,” I said.

  “Stupid animals,” said Spainy. “Less sense than a chicken, if you can believe that. Less than a fish or frog. I’ve seen rabbits run right out on Highway 99 and stop, dead in the headlights of my jeep, just waiting to get squashed.”

  “Sounds stupid to me,” I said.

  “Domestics are even dumber than the wild ones,” he went on. “And they aren’t so damned friendly. Ever eat rabbit?”

  Hammett sat with his hands in his lap, saying nothing, letting me carry the fascinating conversation.

  “No,” I said.

  Spainy shook his head in sympathy for my loss.

  “Hassenpfeffer, fried rabbit, rabbit pie, roast rabbit, rabbit cooked in casserole. You take care in raising rabbits, wire-bottom hutches, off the ground. Feed them carefully and nothing tastes better. Nothing—not even a good steak from Kansas or an abalone from up the coast.”

  He looked at us both to see if we were going to challenge him. We didn’t.

  “You might guess I raise rabbits,” he said, pushing away from his desk and clasping his hands. He grinned. “That would be a good guess, but you might wonder why I’m talking rabbits with you.”

  “You don’t want any trouble,” Hammett supplied. “You want to hold your job, raise your rabbits and retire without embarrassment.”

  “Something like that,” Spainy said, losing his grin and not too happy to be upstaged. Upstaging Spainy didn’t strike me as a good idea either.

  “We don’t get people getting shot in our town,” he said. “Residents don’t like it. And what they don’t like I don’t like. You know what I like?”

  “Rabbits,” I said.

  “And no trouble,” he added. “Now I’ll be quiet and you tell me everything there is to tell. I still got the victim’s widow to find and some explaining to do for her.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said.

  “I know that,” sighed Spainy. “And you,” he said, nodding at Hammett, “are a big-time writer, Maltese Falcon, Thin Man, that kind of stuff. Never read it. Wife does, though. Tell your tale and don’t waste time trying to impress the country folk.”

  “We were staying overnight with Pudge, Mr. Block,” said Hammeft. “He was depressed. As an autopsy will show, he was dying. He made up a story about two men waiting outside with guns to get us out of the house. Mr. Peters and I went out to look. Your men pulled up, thinking we were the two men, and we heard a shot inside the house.”

  “Simple so far,” said Spainy.

  Hammett brushed back his white hair and shrugged.

  “But you told my man Barry that a car had just pulled away,” said Spainy, shaking his head.

  “To protect Mr. Block,” I stuck in.

  “Dumb-ass story,” said Spainy, opening his desk and fishing for something.

  “Most true stories are dumb-ass,” said Hammett. “We were outside with your men when Pudge shot himself. They heard the shot.”

  Spainy found what he was looking for, a small jar of Postum. “J.V.!” he screamed.

  The door to his office opened instantly and the dark, pretty and slightly overweight woman in uniform who reminded me of Ann stepped in, biting her ample lower lip. Spainy threw the small jar to her. She juggled it, managed to keep it from falling and clutched it to her bosom like a back pulling in a pass from Sid Luckman.

  “Make a pot of that stuff, will you, J.V.,” Spainy said. “You two want some?”

  Hammett and I shook our heads.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, sitting down. “Hate the crap but I’ve got to drink something since I went off coffee. Hate tea. Don’t like cold drinks.”

  J.V. left with her small jar still clutched tight.

  “Could have been an accomplice,” Spainy said, returning his gaze to us and raising his eyebrows knowingly. “You could have had someone inside the house firing a gun. Block already murdered. Or you could have had a record of a shot or set up a gun to go off with some kind of timer.”

  “I thought you didn’t read detective novels,” I said.

  “Ah, hell. Jenny leaves ’em laying around. I pick up a few just to get ideas,” he said.

  “Maybe we hypnotized Carl,” said Hammett. “Made him shoot himself while we used the police for an alibi.”

  “Can’t make hypnotized people kill themselves,” said Spainy, pointing a finge
r at Hammett.

  “No? Maybe not, but what if they don’t know they’re killing themselves?” Hammett went on, warming to the game. “What if they’re told it’s a toy gun, or …”

  “… a new kind of thing to cut your hair,” said Spainy, leaning forward.

  I tried to catch Hammett’s eye. Spainy didn’t need help in turning a suicide into a murder and pinning it on us. He needed help in recognizing it was a suicide.

  “That’s nuts,” I said. “The man shot himself.”

  Spainy spun around once in his swivel chair, a complete, slow circle full of thought.

  “Seems so, seems so,” he agreed. “But I got a feeling something’s stirring here I ain’t been told. The rabbits are restless. I can feel it, but suicide’s better than murder. People are supposed to come here, feel good about life, not shoot themselves—but hell, maybe I shouldn’t complain. It’s better than murder.”

  “Most things are,” said Hammett.

  The phone on Spainy’s desk rang. He looked at it with irritation, looked at the door, looked at us as it rang on, and finally picked it up with a grunt.

  “J.V., I am ensconced,” he said, and then put his hand over the mouthpiece to address us. “Fancy word, huh? You’re not dealing with bumpkins here, Mr. Writer.” He removed his hand from the mouthpiece and listened for a few more seconds before jumping in. “Yeah … okay … finish up that Postum and put him on.”

  Spainy looked at the ceiling, took a deep breath and spoke into the phone. The folksy Spainy was gone. He could have been a prof down from Stanford.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Pintacki?” he said into the phone.

  Hammett and I exchanged glances and Spainy looked up at us as he nodded his head and listened.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m sure that can be arranged … with the greatest possible dispatch … who would? … yes, I will … Beverly or Salinas … glad to help … good-bye, sir.”

  He hung up the phone, looked at it for inspiration, ran his tongue over his lower lip and turned his attention to us.

  “Mr. Hammett,” he said politely in his Stanford voice. “You are free to go. There’s been an obvious misunderstanding and I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you. If you think disciplinary action should be taken against the two officers who brought you in, just tell me.”

  “I seem to have an influential friend,” Hammett said, standing up.

  Spainy looked at the phone. “Oh, that,” he said with a shrug. “Had nothing to do with it.”

  I got up to follow Hammett, who had headed for the door.

  “Not you,” Spainy said. “Got a few more questions for you. We’re going to trade recipes for rabbit stew.”

  Stanford was fast disappearing and the good old boy was almost back.

  “Mr. Peters and I are together,” Hammett said.

  “Just a question or two,” Spainy said, holding his ham hands up to show they were empty and he was honest.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  Spainy beamed love, good will and underlying hostility worthy of Billy Sunday.

  “I’ll wait outside,” Hammett said.

  “Have a cup of Postum before you go,” said Spainy, as J.V., hair falling over her eyes, balanced her way through the door with a cup of hot liquid.

  “No, thanks,” said Hammett and went through the door as J.V. put the hot cup on the table in front of the Chief. J.V. wiped her palms on her uniform and smiled tentatively, like a mother who had baked a special treat for her spoiled child. The Chief eyed the brew and J.V. with distaste.

  “It’ll do,” he said.

  J.V. looked at me and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Good girl,” Spainy said, picking up the cup. “A bit obsequious.”

  “Good word,” I said.

  “Damn good word,” Spainy said, drinking and making a face. He put the cup down and added, “Can’t believe this stuff is good for you. Want to know another good word? Lepus. Means rabbits.”

  I had a couple of good comments but I managed to keep from letting them spurt out.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” he said.

  Behind his back, through the window looking out on the street, I could see the traffic roll slowly by. Angel Springs wasn’t in a hurry. Neither was Chief Spainy.

  “There’s a war going on,” I said. “Russian front is shaky. Rommel is backing up in North Africa. Port Moresby looks like it might fall in the Pacific:”

  “You a joker?” asked Spainy, pointing his cup at me.

  “No,” I said, straight-faced.

  On the street behind his back, I saw Hammett come out of the station, shade his eyes and look toward the sun. He plunged his hands into his pockets, looked back at the station and stepped to the sidewalk to pace and wait.

  “You’re a talker,” he said. “That’s good. I’m a listener. Now you just tell me what you know and I’ll listen.”

  A car pulled up in front of Hammett on the street, a DeSoto. I sat up to be sure. It was Wylie and Conrad.

  “I’m listening and I don’t hear anything,” Spainy said. “I got some time.”

  “On the street,” I said, pointing, as Wylie and Conrad, still in overalls, got out of the car. Hammett stood his ground. Wylie shielded something with his body. I figured it was a gun because Hammett looked up at Spainy’s window, gave a lopsided grin followed by a thin-shouldered shrug, and got into the car.

  “They’re out there,” I said still pointing. “They’re kidnapping Hammett.”

  Spainy lifted his eyebrows but he didn’t turn.

  “That a fact? Right in front of police headquarters,” he said, sipping again at his Postum. “Who’s kidnapping him?”

  “The two guys at Pudge … Block’s house,” I said. “Look, for God’s sake.”

  Conrad was in the back seat. Wylie was in front with Hammett at his side.

  “The guys …” Chief Spainy said, nodding. “I thought there were no guys.”

  “There were. We just said that because … things were getting too complicated,” I explained. “Will you take a look?”

  I got out of the chair, and started to move around the desk to show him as the DeSoto began to pull away from the curb. Spainy came out of the chair and kicked it behind him. It rolled back against the wall as he stepped in front of me. He still hadn’t looked out the window and I was beginning to understand whose pocket he was in.

  “Sit back down,” Spainy said, fists balled.

  “Do something, Spainy,” I said as the DeSoto pulled away and turned the nearest corner.

  “Don’t ask for the dance if you don’t know the steps,” said Spainy.

  “They’re gone,” I said, teeth clenched, looking into his eyes. “They’re gone, you damn pachyderm.”

  One ham-handed fist came up and caught me in the stomach, doubling me over. The other hand, an uppercut, caught me on the left ear. I had a good shot at his groin. I didn’t take it. I staggered back to the chair at a ninety-degree angle.

  “I’m the one with the big words around here,” he said, jabbing his thumb at his chest. “You are more than fifty miles from home and in a lonely place. Hammett’s got some friends, but you …”

  “Friends like Pintacki?” I asked.

  “None of your damn business, rabbit,” said Spainy, still standing.

  My ear was bleeding, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me touch it.

  “A couple of guys I think work for Pintacki just kidnapped Dashill Hammett from in front of your building,” I said, holding back the pain in my stomach. The ear didn’t really hurt. It just throbbed and demanded attention I wasn’t giving it. “He’s a real famous man, Spainy. Something happens to him and you’ll be riding herd on your rabbits full time.”

  “Got no time for this, Peters. I warn you.” The first tremor of nervousness appeared in his voice. “You got some answers for me?”

  “None,” I said, sitting up as straight as I could
. “I’ve got other things I’d like to give you but I think I’ll save them for the holidays.”

  Spainy laughed, a false laugh that shook his chest and turned his face red.

  “Threats,” he said, between bellows. “God, rabbit, you got a nerve. I give you that. I pick you up by the ears and you’re still ready to bite. I’ll give you that.”

  “You didn’t give it to me,” I said. “I earned it. How about I leave now or you throw me back in the cell and waste more taxpayer money? If I’m not out of here soon, I’d guess Hammett will call his friend Pintacki.”

  “Thought old Hammett had been kidnapped?”

  “Pick your story,” I said softly.

  “I’ll pick your … get the hell out of here. I got reports, a lunch talk at the Kiwanis in Overton. Get the hell out.”

  I stood up, ready to give him a Jimmy Cagney smile, but he was rummaging through his desk for something or nothing. I ignored the pain in my stomach, walked reasonably straight to the door and went out. My hand went to my ear and came down bloody. I leaned against the wall, felt my tender gut and looked around for a washroom or a water fountain. I saw J.V. looking up at me from her desk a few feet away. She was talking on the telephone again but not looking through me. The look on her face was full of sympathy. Another blue-uniformed woman, in her sixties, was standing near J.V.’s desk looking at a clipboard and tapping her toes to a Kay Kyser song on the radio.

  I spotted a drinking fountain a few feet away and moved to it to moisten my hand and put it to my ear.

  The place wasn’t bustling with life. I found a semiclean handkerchief in my pocket and turned it wet, cold and red in seconds.

  “I’ve got some stuff in my desk,” came a voice behind me. I turned to face J.V. Her skin was clear and tan and her eyes concerned, a good combination.

  “He might come out,” I said, looking at Chief Spainy’s door.

  “God,” she said, clasping her hands. “Wait. I’m on lunch break. Come on.”

  She motioned for me to follow her, swept her dark hair away from her face and headed for the exit, glancing back at Chief Spainy’s door.

  “Be back at one, Dorothy,” J.V. said to the toe-tapper in uniform.