Buried Caesars

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I was in a vital command position,” said MacArthur, softly.

  “Once,” Castle shouted. “Once in seventy-two days. You know what we called you?”

  “Yes,” said MacArthur, so softly that I could barely hear him.

  “Dugout Doug,” spat Castle.

  “We were shelled on Corregidor, Major,” MacArthur said. “We, my wife, my son, myself, were shelled and near starvation. We …”

  “You can’t be allowed to turn this country into another Bataan,” said Castle. “Not if it means my life. No more Corregidors, General. I’m turning those papers over to someone who’ll see to it that every radio station, every magazine, every major newspaper in this country sees them. You’ll be lucky to keep your stars for a week. Pintacki wanted to use you. I know you can’t be used. But you can be destroyed.”

  “Major,” MacArthur said. “You won’t destroy me. You’ll destroy the morale of this nation. You’ll destroy it at a time when the United States needs to put its faith in General Douglas MacArthur.”

  “Sorry, General,” Castle said. “You’re just not that important. I could shoot you. I wouldn’t hesitate for a second, but turning over those papers will destroy you every day of your arrogant life. I hope you live forever, General. I hope you live forever and suffer the way we did on Bataan.”

  “It’s over, soldier,” MacArthur said, gently. “Stand at ease and …”

  “We sang a song on Bataan, General,” Castle said, his voice cracking. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “I think not, Major,” MacArthur said, standing face to face with Castle.

  “Dugout Doug MacArthur lies ashakin’ on the Rock,” Castle began singing it to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” his voice cracking and slightly off-key:

  Safe from all the bombers and from any sudden shock

  Dugout Doug is eating of the best food on Bataan

  And his troops go starving on …

  Dugout Doug come out from hiding

  Dugout Doug come out from hiding

  Send to Franklin the glad tidings

  That his troops go starving on.

  MacArthur’s hand came up in a low arc. His open palm slapped against Castle’s cheek, turning the Major’s head to the right in a sudden jerk.

  “Steady on, soldier,” MacArthur whispered.

  Castle’s wet eyes blinked madly and fixed on MacArthur. I’d seen that kind of look before. Castle’s hand went to the holster at his hip and came up with a pistol leveled at the General’s stomach.

  “Steady on, soldier,” I said, showing the Luger I had eased into my lap.

  MacArthur didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. He continued to meet Castle’s eyes and I could see Castle glancing at my gun. Madness might overcome his plan, so I reminded him: “If you shoot the General, he won’t suffer when you turn in the papers.”

  Major Castle took a deep breath, gulped and turned his army .45 in my direction.

  It was a stand-off, though I had the uncomfortable feeling that if triggers were pulled I’d come out the worse for wear. I’d survived two other stand-offs in the last couple of days. I wasn’t sure about this one. Castle knew how to use his gun. He was a pro and I was seated and in no hurry to start shooting in that small, hot room. I glanced at MacArthur. The son of a bitch still wasn’t sweating.

  Castle reached back for the doorknob, keeping his .45 aimed at me. MacArthur’s right hand began to move and I said, “No, General.”

  MacArthur shot me a less-than-friendly look but dropped his hand as Castle backed out of the door and slammed it. I got out of the chair and MacArthur went to the phone.

  When I stepped into the hall I saw Castle turning a corner. Behind me, MacArthur was barking orders into the phone. I followed the rapping of Castle’s shoes ahead of me and peeked around the corner. He picked up a small khaki bag near the door, heard me behind him, turned and fired. The bullet cracked a mirror over my shoulder and I flattened myself against the wall. I heard the front door open and close and Castle’s footsteps on the porch.

  I took a breath, dried my palms against my pants, regripped the pistol and followed him out the door in a crouch. It took me a second to realize mat he wasn’t running down the driveway to the gate. He was on my right, running across the lawn, bag dangling from one hand, pistol in the other.

  The first thunderclap from the coming storm crackled overhead like a massive short circuit. I went after Castle, fast as my back would let me. We went through a row of trees, and by the time he hit the rear fence I was losing ground. He threw the khaki bag over the fence, holstered the pistol and began to climb. It wasn’t an easy feat, but he was lean, more than a little nuts and in good condition. He went over and came down on the other side with me about twenty yards away and panting, a fence between us.

  He turned to me, put his hand to his holster, changed his mind and ran into the grounds of the Huntington estate. There was no gate that I could see. No break. I paused at the fence to catch my breath, put the Luger in my belt and started to climb. It took me about six or seven months to get to the top of the fence and a frightening moment of hell to make it over the pointed iron stakes at the top. By the time I hit ground on the other side, my legs were as wobbly as a middleweight who’d made it to the fifth round with Tony Zale.

  Castle was nowhere in sight and I didn’t know how well, if at all, he knew the Huntington grounds. It had been more than twenty years since I’d last been there, but if things hadn’t changed too much I knew where I was.

  I jogged across a flat lawn and past a pond filled with colorful carp who came toward me with curiosity and then backed away when they saw I didn’t have anything. I didn’t see any people, any visitors. Maybe the place was closed for additions or repairs. Maybe the threatening rain had driven them away. Thunder cracked again and the rain began to fall from the dark sky. I kept going past the main house. Nothing. I searched the grounds for about ten minutes and considered giving up but decided to turn left and head for the Oriental garden.

  By the time I got to the entrance on the hill the rain was getting serious. I looked down at the swaying white flowers and the red drum bridge over the pond. Pellets of water popped in the pond and I had the feeling that I was in the right place. The hill facing the pond was empty. I walked down the path carefully and reached for the Luger in my belt. It wasn’t there. I’d lost it along the way. I could have sworn until that very second that I felt it, chill and heavy against my stomach. But all my swearing wouldn’t make it so.

  I was halfway down the path, blinking and wiping rain from my face, when Castle appeared on the red bridge. He had been crouched low behind the railing, apparently been watching me, and knew I had lost the gun.

  “Stop,” he called. He stood, the bag in his left hand, gun in his right aimed at me. The rain was in my favor. So was the distance. But he had had bad-weather shooting experience and there was nowhere to hide. A bush can’t be relied upon to stop a bullet.

  “I’m backing away, Major,” I said, showing my hands.

  “Too late, Peters,” he said. “You’ll have to die. It’s not the way I want it, but I’ve got a mission and a lot of dead men counting on me.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Oren,” I said.

  The shot tore a red rose from a stem at my left. No one could shoot that well. He’d either missed me or fired wide because, in spite of what he said, he still wasn’t sure about what he wanted to do.

  Another clap of thunder and a flash of lightning on the hill behind seemed to help him make up his mind. He leveled the .45 in my direction and I closed rriy eyes.

  The shot came, sharp and close and from the wrong direction. I opened my eyes and saw Castle glaring past me up the hill. I turned and watched Douglas MacArthur, my Luger in his right hand, gun leveled at Castle, walking down the path. MacArthur’s eyes didn’t blink, and even though he was soaked through he looked fresh and confident.

  “It’s over, Major,” MacArthur called. “I don’t
wish to shoot you.”

  Castle laughed and stared up into the rain which pelted his face and mouth.

  “It’s not over, General,” he said, holding up the khaki bag.

  MacArthur’s arm went level and he sighted along it. He was a few feet behind me, and when he pulled the trigger it was followed by a recoil of lightning over the San Gabriel Mountains. On the drum bridge, Major Castle tottered and dropped the bag. It fell into the pond and began to sink. Blood mixed with rain and trailed down his left arm.

  Castle screamed at the sky and let out a pained cry I could only imagine in my worst nightmares.

  “Come down, Major,” MacArthur called, stepping past me.

  “Gone,” cried Castle. “It’s gone. Now all I can do is kill you. It’s not enough. It’s not fair and it’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got.”

  The .45 came up again and leveled at the advancing MacArthur, who didn’t pause. MacArthur had lost the advantage. He could have shot Gastle a second time while he ranted, but he let the opportunity pass, dropped the Luger and continued down the path.

  “Major,” MacArthur commanded. “You have a direct order to put that weapon away and come down here.”

  “General,” I shouted, going down the steps for the Luger. Castle turned and fired. I stopped and went rigid.

  “I hope you burn forever in hell,” Castle said, turning the gun back on MacArthur.

  “That is between me and my God,” MacArthur said. “If I am to be punished, it will be by my maker and not by you or any other man.”

  And MacArthur kept walking along the path and to the bottom of the bridge, no more than twenty feet from Castle, who stood above him clutching the red wooden bridge railing with his wet bloody hand.

  MacArthur’s eyes never left the face of the man on the bridge as he began to climb the steps. I stood watching, knowing that the best I could do was go for the Luger and get off a shot or two after he shot the General. If I was lucky, I’d hit him and maybe MacArthur would survive. I wasn’t feeling lucky.

  MacArthur climbed the stairs, swiftly reducing the chances for his survival and mine. I bent, deciding on a dive and roll that would put me in the hospital if I were lucky enough to survive.

  When he was no more than three feet from Castle at the top of the half-moon bridge, MacArthur held out his hand for the gun and Castle handed it to him.

  “Oh, God,” cried Castle, going to his knees.

  MacArthur stepped forward and took the man’s head against his chest.

  I was too far away and the rain was too loud and heavy to be sure of everything MacArthur said next, but I’m sure that the’first four softly spoken words were, “It’s all right, son.”

  14

  When we got back to the house MacArthur turned Castle over to two armed soldiers, whom he ordered to treat the Major with “the respect his military record merited.” The rain had slowed to a trickle and I was tired, tired and heavy. I had a mental flash of Jeremy’s damned hourglass and I felt depressed.

  “I’ve seen this too many times and in too many wars,” MacArthur said as Castle was ushered away in a military car. “Good men. Good soldiers. Major Castle is a good soldier.”

  “Not for me to judge, General,” I said. “I’ll have to report this to my brother. He’s a captain in the L.A.P.D. Have someone call him and work it out. His name’s Pevsner, Phil Pevsner in the Wilshire Station. He was a good soldier in the last war. Rainbow Division. One of your boys. Wounded.”

  “Give him my best and my thanks,” the General said, holding out his hand. I took it.

  “I appreciate your professional assistance,” he said. “A check will be forwarded to you from a personal account. The name on it will be McBridge. I cannot be in the position of having to explain why I am writing checks to a private investigator.”

  “I understand, General,” I said.

  He looked at his watch and smiled sadly.

  “I have a plane to catch and I must shower and change,” he said.

  Those were his last words to me as he turned the corner past the mirror which had been shattered by Castle’s shot. I left the house and got in the Chrysler.

  “What is happening?” Pintacki demanded as I turned in the driveway. “What was all that shooting? Whose place is this?”

  I didn’t talk. I drove in the puddled streets and tried to find Helen Forrest again. I was wet, tired and miserable. Where was Helen Forrest when I needed her most? I couldn’t find her or Harry James or Ziggy Elman or Tex Beneke. I turned off the radio and told Pintacki if he didn’t shut up I’d lock him in the trunk. I meant it. He knew it and shut up.

  I delivered Pintacki to the Wilshire Station and turned him over to Phil, who had already received a call from one of MacArthur’s aides. They were working out what to do about Castle. We didn’t say much. I told Phil that MacArthur had given him his best and Phil looked touched.

  “Ann’s fine,” he said as a uniformed cop led Pintacki away, squalling for his attorney. “He didn’t hurt her. Just shoved her in the closet.”

  “I’ll get right over there,” I said, and turned to leave.

  “She doesn’t want to see you, Toby,” Phil said. “She said you’d brought the old life back again and she didn’t want it. Go home, take a shower and get in bed. You look awful. And give Ann some time.”

  “I’ll do what I have to do, Phil,” I said.

  “You’ll stay away from Ann or I’ll bend you, Toby,” he said evenly. “Believe me.”

  “Okay, I believe you,” I said. “I’ll give it a while. I’ll see you, Ruth and the kids on Sunday.”

  “You do that,” he said, turning back into the squad room and not looking back.

  I got the Chrysler back to No-Neck Arnie’s just after four. He charged me an extra five. I paid it and listened to him talk about gas-ration books for a minute or two before I cut him off and told him I was soaked and tired. He let me go with a“just think about the books. All I ask.”

  Shelly was gone when I got to the office just before five. The place looked as if a cleaning woman had died halfway through her monthly work. Shelly hadn’t done any more on the office since I’d left. I half expected an angry note. There was a scrawled note taped to my office door, but it wasn’t angry. It said that Shelly had hired Louise-Marie as his receptionist-assistant and that I was to call a Mr. Hammett. Shelly went on to say that Hammett had explained that he had to leave town on an emergency and would be sending Shelly a check for inconveniencing him. The last words on the note were: “You are forgiven.”

  I sloshed into my office, sniffled a few times, blew my nose and threw the handkerchief in the trash can under rhy desk. Then I called Hammett. He was, he said, about to check out of the hotel.

  “A friend of mine recommended a dentist in Albany, New York,” he said. “Should be quiet there.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Is it over?” he asked.

  “Over,” I said.

  “Castle?” he asked.

  “Castle,” I said. “He bumped Wylie and Conrad, too. Cops have Pintacki. I don’t know who gets Castle, the military or the L.A. District Attorney. The army has him now. Thanks again for the help.”

  “My pleasure,” said Hammett. “Proved I can still handle myself. Now all I have to do is prove it to the army.”

  “Good luck,” I said with a sneeze.

  “I’ll look you up when the war’s over, Toby,” he said and hung up.

  I went to Jeremy’soffice but it was dark and locked. I’d hoped to run into Alice and congratulate her on the baby, but it was probably just as well I didn’t come near her. I seemed to be coming down with something from my romp in the rain through the Huntington estate.

  I drove back to Mrs. Plaut’s, hungry, wet and coming down with a cold.

  She caught me five steps up.

  “Mr. Peelers,” she said triumphantly. “You missed the tumult and uproar this morning. I rousted an invasion of Nazis who were looking for you.”<
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  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “You are welcome,” she said. “You look a fright. Where is my man-u-scrip?”

  “The Nazis got it,” I said.

  Mrs. Plaut looked startled.

  “Why on earth would they want a chapter of my family chronicles?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It is sometimes difficult to fathom the devious mind of a Nazi.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she said. “Fortunately, I made a carbon copy and will deliver it to your room presently. In the meanwhile, take a hot bath and I will mix you a toddy.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I pulled myself up the stairs and slogged to my room where I peeled off my clothes, wrapped a slightly used towel around my waist and headed for the bathroom. I got in the tub with my nub of Lifebuoy soap, turned on the tap and sat while the hot water trickled slowly against my toes.

  Mrs. Plaut appeared about five minutes later, with the water no more than three inches high. She burst through the door and placed a steaming drink on the bathroom stool which she had kicked next, to the tub.

  “I’m in the tub, Mrs. Plaut,” I said.

  “I am not blind,” she said, crossing her arms. “Drink. It will make you feel better. My mother’s concoction.”

  “I am naked,” I said over the trickling water.

  “We are born naked, Mr. Peelers,” she said. “And you are not such a vision as to drive me to passion. Only the late mister could do that, Lord rest his bones.”

  She left only when I had sipped the toddy, pronounced it good, which it was, and promised to finish it all. The toddy was definitely alcoholic.

  I got out of the tub about half an hour later, dried myself, returned the soap to the communal medicine cabinet, brushed my teem with Teel and returned to my room. I found Gunther Wherthman sitting on my sofa, his feet a good six inches from the floor and the cat in his lap. Gunther, as always, was dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit. This one was dark brown.

  “Toby,” he said in his Swiss accent. “I am pleased to see you well. I hope you do not mind my coming into your room.”