The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I’ll just take a look-see in there and hold them off while you get away,” he said.

  “But Alex,” I said “I have to see Alex.”

  “Never you mind,” said the Duke evenly, pulling out a .45 automatic and a Smith and Wesson revolver. “This is just a dream.”

  “There they are,” came a voice at my side. I tried to pull loose from Koko and Chaplin, who were grinning at me.

  “Toby, there they are,” came the voice again.

  Koko let go and dived into a keyhole. Chaplin let go, doffed his little hat, and waddled down the hall as John Wayne hitched up his gun belt and walked into the room to face the Larchmonts, corpses, and assorted fruit.

  I opened my eyes and tried to say something.

  “Down there,” said Gunther.

  He was standing and pointing. I followed his finger and found myself looking down a hill at a group of men and a woman.

  “Time,” I grunted, dry-mouthed.

  “Almost eleven,” Gunther said. “You have been sleeping an hour. I did not wish to wake you until and unless we achieved some success.”

  “Straight-Ahead,” I said, sitting up and blowing out some air. “He should be around someplace. He’s supposed to be keeping an eye on—”

  A shot echoed through the small valley. It could have been a hunter. The group of people in the little valley looked up. Then another shot. A puff of dirt exploded about ten feet from the little group and they ran for cover.

  “Uncanny timing,” Gunther said.

  “No,” I groaned as I opened the door. “Our friend Alex was waiting for us to arrive before he played out the scene. Where the hell is Straight-Ahead?”

  I had groaned because my back was sore. I took my newly purchased pawn shop beauty and scanned the ridge. Something glinted. Straight-Ahead appeared through the brush and pointed with his pistol at a spot about thirty yards to his left. Something glinted there, too. I nodded. Straight-Ahead motioned that he was going to circle behind the spot and I nodded in agreement.

  Straight-Ahead looked good standing there, like a monument, but I didn’t think he could get to that spot in less than three or four minutes. He strode into the trees. The next shot came toward me and pinged the right headlight out of my Crosley. It exploded.

  “Gunther,” I yelled.

  “I am safely ensconced behind the automobile,” he shouted.

  I aimed my pistol at the spot on the hillside where Straight-Ahead was making his way. I held the pistol in two hands and balanced it in the crook of a small tree. I hit a tree about ten yards from where I was aiming, which was one of my better shots at that distance. I considered another shot but realized I might accidentally have killed Straight-Ahead.

  “Stay here, Gunther,” I said. “I’m going down.”

  And down I went, through bushes and brushes, dirt and small scurrying animals, probably scattering a rattler or two.

  I took the last ten yards at a roll and landed covered with dirt and dust at the foot of John Wayne.

  “Peters,” he said, hands on hips. “What the hell is going on?”

  My breath wouldn’t come. Still seated and looking up at the frightened and puzzled faces, I pointed with my gun at the spot where Straight-Ahead was headed. Then a few words came.

  “Up there … Trying to … Same guy.”

  Wayne looked up at the hill just as a shot came down. It fell short. The woman, dark-haired and overly made up, screamed and said something in Spanish.

  “This is some stupid joke by one of your drinking friends,” said a bald guy about sixty.

  “Rein it in, Herb,” the Duke said. “This is no joke.”

  I sat up, took careful aim, and shot at the spot from which the shot had come. I was about five yards off this time, even though I was much closer than I had been when I’d fired from the ridge. I consoled myself with the fact that I was aiming low to keep from accidentally hitting Straight-Ahead, but I was hoping for five feet, not five yards.

  “Give me that thing,” said the Duke with exasperation. Still trying for a good breath and unable to make sense, I let him take the pistol and watched him hold it up with one hand and aim for the hill.

  “Straight-Ahead,” I gasped.

  “That’s the way I always shoot,” he said, and fired.

  The shot tore leaves right at the spot where the glint had been. Wayne fired again and tore more leaves only a foot away from where his first shot had entered. He tried for a third shot but the pistol jammed.

  “Peters,” he said in further exasperation, “where the hell did you get this thing, in a dime store?”

  “Pawn shop,” I said, getting up.

  “Why don’t you—” he began, but shots rang out on the ridge. Everyone ducked for cover but no bullets hit nearby. The shots were coming from the ridge and into the ridge. There were four shots and Straight-Ahead popped up through the brush shouting.

  “Up the hill,” he said. “Merit Beason’s going after him.”

  I waved and Straight-Ahead disappeared.

  “Who the hell is shooting at me, mister?” Wayne said. He was wearing a dark windbreaker like mine, except that his was clean. “I’m getting a little tired of this.”

  I stood and tried to dust myself off. I also took the pistol back from Wayne and plunked it in my shoulder holster.

  “I’ll get back to you later,” I said, gulping for air.

  “Toby,” came a small voice from above.

  I looked up and waved at Gunther.

  “He’s getting away,” Gunther called.

  “No,” I tried to shout. “I know where to find him.”

  I got some quick introductions as I caught my breath. The dark woman was a friend of Wayne’s, Chata Bauer. One of the men was Herbert Yates from Republic Pictures. I don’t remember the others and they didn’t look as if they were interested in polite conversation. They all looked scared.

  One of the people in the group, a vaguely Indian looking guy Wayne called Yak, led the way to a path up the hill. I had trouble navigating but I didn’t want to show it. I was dirty, tired, and thirsty. My back ached and I had some bruises and a mouthful of dirt. All I needed was someone to feel sorry for me and help me up a hill.

  I made it and Gunther greeted me.

  “Toby,” he said, taking my arm. “Are you intact?”

  “I’m intact,” I said. “This is my friend Gunther Wherthman,” I told the assemblage.

  They stepped forward and leaned down to shake his hand.

  “Mr. Wayne,” he said. “We met yesterday during the unfortunate and somewhat similar incident at Santa Monica.”

  “Couldn’t forget you, Mr. Wherthman,” John Wayne said with a smile.

  Wayne had more questions, but I had no answers, none I was ready to give. I wanted a drink, some cleaning up, and a meeting with a killer. I made excuses and got in the Crosley with as much dignity as I could, which wasn’t much. A burr had latched onto my pants. I sat on it. Charlie Chaplin should have been around taking notes. I didn’t yell but I did pop up and put a hand under me to find the offender and rip it out while Wayne and his crew watched my performance.

  “Just got an idea,” I said lamely.

  As I pulled away, I heard a male voice say, “And you trust him?”

  “Old boyhood friend,” came John Wayne’s voice. “He’ll do the job.”

  “Well?” asked Gunther, looking at me with concern.

  “Not very,” I answered.

  Half an hour later I pulled up in front of the Farraday and parked in a loading zone, leaving Gunther in the car to wait. He’d drive around the block and probably survive if a cop tried to ticket. I limped into the building and into the lobby. Now I was faced with saving time or pain. I opted to save the pain. I got in the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth floor, and leaned back as it lurched into action.

  “Toby?” came Jeremy’s voice, echoing through the dark corners.

  “Jeremy,” I answered.

  He appe
ared on the stairway next to the elevator and began to walk up, easily keeping pace with me. In fact he had to slow down.

  “More pain?” he asked sympathetically.

  “More pain,” I admitted. “But I’m almost through this one. Don’t worry. I’ll make the wedding tomorrow. Wouldn’t miss it. Just have to pick up a killer and tie a few strings. Won’t take long.”

  “Alice is doing the cooking and baking,” he said. “We have two small cakes, one in the shape of a book and another in the shape of a printing press.”

  “Cute,” I said, as he inched past the second floor.

  “Maybe a bit too—” he began.

  “Not a bit,” I said, as he trudged along with me up past three. “Love.”

  “Yes,” he sighed, probably imagining Alice, all two hundred plus pounds of her, a gentle coming together of titans.

  When we hit the fourth floor, Jeremy was standing there waiting and helped me pull open the steel-grate doors.

  He wanted to help me to the office, but having been through hundreds of public battles in wrestling rings he valued the need for dignity.

  “I’ve got to go make further preparations,” he said. “If you need me I’ll be in my place.”

  “Thanks, Jeremy,” I said, and waved as he went down the stairs, his footsteps echoing. I stood for a few seconds holding the rail, took a deep breath of Lysol air, felt better, and went down the corridor into the offices of Minck and Peters, dentist and detective, an enemy of decay and an enemy of disorder. Shelly was sitting in his chair, cigar in mouth, looking at the newspaper. He wiped his hands on his white smock and looked at me through his thick lenses.

  “Toby, you look terrible,” he said, and returned to his paper.

  “Thanks, Shel,” I said.

  “Paul Whiteman’s coming to the Shrine Auditorium next week,” he said. “Bing Crosby, Harry James, The Kings Men, and Dinah Shore are going to be with him.”

  “Sounds terrific,” I said, shuffling over to turn on the water tap and push some dirty dishes out of the way so I could put my mouth under the trickle.

  “That all you can say?” he said. “I’m taking Mildred. You curious about why?”

  I washed my face and hands and looked at myself in the mirror above the sink. Then I washed my face again, which helped a little.

  “Why?” I finally said, seeing Shelly waiting in the mirror.

  He beamed. “Take a look. A celebration.” He jumped from the chair and held out the newspaper. I dried my hands on his jacket, which he didn’t seem to mind, and took the paper. It was page thirty-four of the Times.

  “Admiral Nimit,” I said. “He looks great.”

  “Not Nimitz,” Shelly groaned, adjusting his slipping glasses. He needed a bath or fumigation. I stepped back, paper in hand.

  “The ad,” he prompted.

  My bleary eyes found the ad. There was someone vaguely resembling Shelly in it. No glasses, no cigar, a shirt and bow tie. He was earnestly looking up at me and below him were the words: “Translucent teeth—A form for every face, a size for every case, a shade for every complexion.” It went on the same way with one-line quotes from satisfied customers. The third quote down was from me. “Dr. Minck’s translucent teeth have changed my life,” the quote ran. “I’ve learned to smile again without embarrassment.” I was identified as Tobias Leo Pevsner, Criminal Investigator.

  “I don’t have false teeth, Shel,” I said. “I don’t have a dental plate.”

  He shook his head and took the newspaper back.

  “Quibble. O. J. Quibble. Are we friends or are we friends?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what we are, Shel, but what few acquaintances I have who read the newspaper now think I have a mouthful of fake teeth. What’s worse, they’ll think I was stupid enough to let you put them there.”

  Shelly sulked back to his dental chair. “Vanity,” he sighed. “It’s a vain world we live in, Toby. That’s why this is going to work. That’s why Mildred and I are celebrating. She agreed to invest in the ad.”

  “In exchange for …?” I asked, feeling a little better with a few more feet between me and the dental destroyer.

  “The show, a few promises, things,” he said vaguely.

  “Like what things?” I asked.

  “Things,” he said, retreating behind his newspaper. “Keeping the place clean, sterilizing the equipment, taking Mildred on vacation, getting you to move out or pay more rent.”

  “Little things,” I said. “There’s an open office on two. Jeremy said I could have it for the same thing I’m paying you for the closet.”

  Shelly lowered the newspaper and glared at me with an open mouth. “That’s what we get for loyalty,” he said. “Betrayal. Now I know how Chamberlain felt at Munich.”

  “This isn’t global, Shel, and I didn’t threaten to raise your rent or kick you out,” I said. “Look, we can talk this around later. I’ve got a killer waiting for me. Did I get any messages?”

  “On your desk,” he said, pouting. “Who’s going to take messages for you in the other office? That’s a service I don’t charge for.”

  “I take messages for you, too. It works both ways, Shel.”

  “I’ll work things out with Mildred,” he said.

  “Fine.” I thought of asking for one of the wake-up pills in the drawer but I was feeling better and a forkful of Shelly’s coffee would probably be enough. I poured a cup and went into my office.

  Before I could close the door, Shelly called, “Just you wait. In a few hours they’ll be waiting in the hall for my translucent teeth.”

  I closed the door and went behind my desk and looked at my messages. One was from Alex, reminding me that he was going to get John Wayne today. It had apparently failed to penetrate Shelly’s consciousness as a potentially important piece of information. A second message marked IMPORTANT was from Mrs. Plaut. About the photographs, Shelly had scrawled. A third message was from Sydney Larchmont. There was a number and a message: Let’s work this out.

  Shelly was still sulking in the chair when I left a minute or two later. Toothless millions had not lined the halls. Someone coughed from the bowels of the Farraday and an echo answered, “Fraud.”

  I made it down the stairs without falling and tiptoed past the first floor, where Madame Carpentier had her sanctum. I didn’t want her to come out, point a finger at me, complain about her lumbago, and tell me that lightning was about to hit me. She took the fun out of life and scared me. I had enough to scare me without the Farraday seer. I also remembered that she had prophesied three bodies, one more than already existed in the case.

  “A policeman did inquire,” said Gunther as I got in the car. “He wanted to know why you had only one headlamp and how long I would remain in the zone.”

  “And you told him?” I asked, pulling onto Hoover.

  “I told him that you had been the victim of a child throwing a rock and that we would be leaving as soon as you came down with a shipment of batteries.”

  “Simple,” I said.

  “Simple is usually more effective than imaginative,” he replied. “That is a concept articulated frequently in the works of Stendahl.”

  “And Henry Armstrong,” I added.

  We listened to the radio and discovered that San Gabriel wine was now seventy-three cents a quart, Hinds Honey and Almond Cream was forty-nine cents, and Rip Sewell of the Pittsburgh Pirates had shut out the Boston Braves 3–0.

  “Want to stop for lunch?” I asked Gunther.

  He looked at me and then checked his watch. It wasn’t much past noon.

  “You are procrastinating, Toby. The solemn task can be postponed, delayed, but it must be faced,” he said like a little father.

  Finally, he agreed that lunch couldn’t hurt, so we stopped at Simon’s Drive-In at Wilshire and Fairfax. It was lunch-time crowded but we found two bar stools at the counter. I had a barbecue sandwich and a pair of Pepsis. Gunther had a tuna club sandwich and iced tea. We both ate slowly and ha
d little to say.

  People around us talked about the war, the food, and busload of guys dressed as Indians who had taken up most of the seats in Simon’s. The Indians were complete with feathered bonnets and war paint.

  “You guys in a movie or what?” a pug with a flannel shirt asked between bites of a hot dog.

  “Yeah,” answered one of the Indians, capturing a ketchup and attacking his burger. “We’re the first wave of an invading army of Comanches. We’re in cahoots with the Japs.”

  The other painted Indians laughed. The pug turned to me and Gunther for support, saying, “There’s a war on and we get smart-asses. My brother and oldest son are somewhere in the Pacific or France and who the hell knows where or if they’re alive and I got to listen to jokes. I think we should teach these cigar store Indians a lesson.”

  “They’re not real Indians,” I said, washing down some barbecue. “Besides, we’re outnumbered. Like the Little Big Horn. Ambushed at Simon’s.”

  “I don’t care how many of them there are,” said the pug, inches from my face. “I say we teach them a lesson.”

  “That’s what George Armstrong Custer said,” I told him, picking up Gunther’s and my check.

  The pug looked at Gunther.

  “What’s he?” he asked.

  “Short,” I said so Gunther couldn’t hear.

  I had a whole series of suggestions and things Gunther and I could do instead of our duty. We could go watch a ship launching at San Pedro or take a ricksha ride around China City for a quarter.

  “Toby,” Gunther said, without looking at me.

  “Okay.” I gave in. I made a phone call. Then we got in the car and drove where we had to go.

  There was a parking space on the street. There were plenty of parking spaces.

  “How do I look?” I asked, getting out of the car.

  “How do you feel?” he countered.

  “Tired, bruised,” I said, zipping up my jacket. “But the teeth are still mine. Stay here and watch the car.”

  Gunther looked properly puzzled as he sat there ready to protect my Crosley, and I crossed the sidewalk and entered the small dark hall. I found the right name. There was no bell. I tried the inner door. It was open. The stairway was dark and somewhere a baby screamed and a woman answered the cry in hysterical Spanish.