The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  I found the right room and stood waiting with the smell of cooking tortillas around me. I wasn’t hungry. I knocked again and a voice called, “Who is it?”

  “Toby,” I answered.

  “Be right there.”

  It took another five or six seconds for the door to open.

  “Alex,” I said.

  “Yes,” he admitted, and stepped back to let me in.

  14

  The room was small, neat. In one corner was a bookcase. A bed with an old-fashioned quilt covering it stood in the other corner near the window. There was a table with a white salt and black pepper shaker, an ancient sofa, and a matching chair. Another small table held a hot plate. Near the bed was a dresser. It reminded me of my own room at Mrs. Plaut’s on Heliotrope.

  When he turned to face me, Straight-Ahead Beason held a pistol in his hand. The pistol was aimed at my stomach. I walked carefully past him and looked out the open window. It looked down on 14th Street. I couldn’t see my car.

  “Merit Beason figured you’d work it out,” he said, “but it was worth a try. You want a seat, Toby? A cup of coffee?”

  “Coffee would be fine, Merit,” I said. He was fully suited. I imagined him spending long nights in the chair, listening to the radio, reading, hearing the night sounds of the street, ironing handkerchiefs, getting older alone.

  The coffee was on the hot plate. He poured me a cup. I drank with Straight-Ahead seated across from me at the wooden table, pistol aimed at my chest.

  “Good,” I said.

  “Chase and Sanborn,” he said.

  “Want to tell me the tale?” I asked. “You got a little sugar?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sorry.”

  He got up, moved to a small cupboard covered by a piece of flowered cloth, and came out with a sugar bowl. He handed me a spoon and I shoveled in two spoonfuls.

  “I could give it a shot,” I said, “but I’ve got holes to fill.”

  Straight-Ahead sat again.

  “Merit Beason will have to shoot you, Toby,” he said.

  “We’ll talk that through later,” I said. “Tell me a story.”

  “Look around you,” he said. I took a sip and looked around.

  “Merit Beason is not in the chips,” he said.

  “Neither is Toby Peters,” I said.

  “Merit Beason is getting old,” he went on.

  “So is Toby Peters,” I said.

  “You’re kibitzing,” said Straight-Ahead.

  “Sorry.”

  “It went down on Sunday the way it looked,” he said. “Teddy had put away Vance with your gun. Then you and Wayne took off and Teddy tried to talk his way out, talked about big dollars in the safe. Papers that were worth even bigger dollars to the Larchmonts. It’s difficult to be loyal to the Larchmonts.”

  “I’ve met them,” I said by way of agreement.

  “I’ve saved nothing. Lost my police pension by early retirement for injury. Didn’t lose all of it but wasn’t left with enough to live on. The Alhambra doesn’t pay the big dollar either. So, Merit Beason was tempted. Teddy led the way to the safe, opened it, and proved he was right. Ten thousand, the papers. We were looking it over when Merit Beason made a mistake. Teddy grabbed your gun from my pocket and took a shot at the house dick. Old Merit got it back, held on to the papers and money and busted him, told him to hide out in the basement room with the papers, that we’d get him off the murder charge and share the wealth.”

  “Merit—” I began.

  “A moment of madness,” he interrupted. “Might even happen to you some day. Cash and hope in your hand. Dry years ahead and fading memories behind. More coffee?”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Cookies? Mexican bakery down at the corner is good, clean.”

  We went through the ritual of his bringing out the Mexican pastry. They were large cylinders covered in powdered sugar and filled with fruit, damn good.

  “Told you they were good,” he said, pointing at the last one with his gun. “Have another.”

  I did and he went on.

  “Next thing, Merit Beason was in the hospital. Larchmonts’ boys must have found Vance’s body in the hotel. Found the papers and money gone. They got a tip to be on the lookout for you.”

  “A tip?”

  “From Alex,” he said. “Merit Beason respects you, Toby. Merit Beason invented Alex when you came to the hospital. Alex began to take on a life of his own.”

  “Frankenstein monster,” I suggested.

  “Whatever,” he agreed. “Idea was to keep you busy looking for Alex, who had a grudge against John Wayne. Then Teddy began to get a little feisty, a little frightened. Not a man to be trusted.”

  “No,” I agreed, finishing off the last pastry and wiping the powdered sugar from my mouth.

  “Had to shoot him,” Straight-Ahead said. “Tit for tat. He had shot Merit Beason.”

  “But Merit Beason shot straighter.”

  “No argument,” he said. “Down at the dock, Alex took those shots at Wayne. Not trying to kill. You figured that.”

  “I began to get the idea, but nothing for sure,” I said.

  A traffic jam on 14th set horns blaring. Straight-Ahead got up, closed the window to cut down on the interference, and returned to the table.

  “Then this morning Alex took the shots at Wayne when you drove up. All show.”

  “Creating Alex,” I helped.

  “Creating Alex,” he agreed. “Fortunately, Teddy had checked someone named Alex into the Alhambra the day before Vance checked out.

  “Merit Beason was playing for time. Couldn’t just run. Merit Beason is too much a figure to hide, too easy to spot. Had to hope Alex could make it through a few days, then Merit could quit the Alhambra in anger over the way the Larchmonts were playing.”

  “Not bad for ad-libbing,” I said.

  “Not good enough,” he said.

  “Where are the papers and the cash?”

  “Box under the bed,” he said. “No need to be too fancy. Not too many places to hide things here anyway. Any other questions?”

  “Give me some time and I’ll think of one or two,” I tried. “You fire that gun and —”

  “No,” he said. “In this neighborhood, shots are as regular as flushing the toilet.”

  “How about another cup to wash down the cookies?”

  “Last one,” Straight-Ahead said. He got up and had to turn to reach the pot. I pulled out my jammed pistol. Straight-Ahead had class. He turned, coffee pot in one hand, pistol in the other, saw my gun, and reached over to pour.

  “More sugar?”

  “I’ll take it black,” I said. “What now?”

  Straight-Ahead didn’t sit.

  “You didn’t shoot. You let Merit Beason turn with a gun in his hand, maybe shoot you. Makes a gumshoe wonder why he isn’t lying dead.”

  “I’d rather take you in,” I said.

  “No. You’re not a fool. No bullets? Gun jammed? Doesn’t matter. Even if you’ve got a working piece there, Merit Beason hasn’t much choice. Been shot once already this week. Might survive another. Cole Younger took more than twenty and died an old man. Can you see this ancient cop doing time? How about the chair?”

  “You’d go with dignity, Merit,” I said. “Better than a bullet.”

  “Don’t see how it would be better,” he said. “Let’s play it out, Toby.”

  He lifted the gun at my chest and I considered throwing my pistol at him. But I knew it was useless. He was an old police horse. I might hurt him but I wouldn’t stop him from shooting.

  “Someone’s outside,” I said. “Waiting for me.”

  “Chance Merit Beason will have to take.”

  “Right outside the door,” I went on, starting to get up. If he didn’t hit me in a crucial place, I might have a chance going for him.

  “Call them in, Toby,” he said. “You’re playing your final chip.”

  “Come in,” I shouted. “He confessed.” />
  The idea was to distract him for a second, half a, second, and go to his left over the table. He couldn’t turn his head. I might survive.

  Instead, the door opened with a kick and Merit in surprise fired a shot toward the sound. Phil fired three quick ones. They all hit Straight-Ahead Beason in the chest. He staggered back, crashed into the closed window, and fell through it, creating an even bigger traffic jam on 14th Street.

  Phil, tie undone, jacket unbuttoned, belly out, walked to the window and looked down to be sure Beason was dead before he put his gun away.

  “That was Straight-Ahead Beason, wasn’t it,” he said. “Used to work Culver City?”

  “That was him. How much did you hear?”

  “Enough,” he said, looking around. “Looks like your place.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Gunther called you?”

  “Yeah,” Phil said, checking the coffee pot to be sure it was hot. People were shouting on the street. Straight-Ahead Beason’s body was drawing more attention in the neighborhood than he ever had alive.

  “There’s a squad car down there. They’ll take care of the remains.”

  “Thanks, Phil,” I said, stepping toward him.

  He grabbed me by the collar and threw me back against the table. “Thanks? What kind of shit are you shoveling? You call me, get me running here, and push me to kill someone who didn’t have to be killed,” he said. “I’ll sleep all right but I don’t like your playing Jesus H. Now we’ve got a cleanup and paperwork, and Tobias, you are too damn old to be playing cops and robbers.”

  I got up from the table and shrugged. “We’re both playing cops and robbers.”

  “I’m not playing,” he said, stepping toward me again. I backed away. “I’m for real. I’m the man with the badge.”

  “I concede,” I said, and Phil stopped.

  “I’m going downstairs. You sit down and stay seated till I get back and don’t touch anything or I’ll break every damn finger on both your hands. That’s a promise.”

  He stepped out the open door. No one had gathered in the hall. The baby was crying louder than before.

  Phil may have heard enough to clear me of a pair of murders but he hadn’t heard about the box under the bed. If he had, he wouldn’t have left without it. I went for the box, found it, a worn rough wooden gift fruit box, and took it into the hall. I went up the stairs to the top floor, found a ladder to the roof, and went up with the box under my arm. The overhead door opened easily. Kids must have used it a lot. I climbed through and looked around the pebble-covered roof. There was a pigeon coop in one corner. I scurried over and shoved the box under it. There was just enough room. Then I hurried back down the ladder. Someone was coming up from below. I ran down the stairs and got back to Straight-Ahead’s a dozen steps before Phil.

  “Come on,” he said.

  I came on. Gunther drove the Crosley to the Wilshire Station and I went back with Phil.

  There was nothing to say on the ride. I didn’t want to think about Merit Beason. I had liked him. I had a feeling I’d be seeing him in mirrors in a few years. There was a lot to say when we got to the station. Gunther talked. I talked.

  “So where’s the file from the Alhambra safe? Where’s the money?” Phil said. The stenographer, a broom of a woman, paused and waited for an answer.

  “Probably hid it somewhere,” I said. “Some locker. Someplace in the Alhambra. Who knows? You may never find it.”

  The stenographer took it all down dutifully. Phil looked at me suspiciously.

  “That’s it,” he said when I was done. “That closes it. I’ve got slicers, rapists, lunatics out there. This one is closed tight. Get out, Toby, and take the midget with you.”

  Gunther got off the chair with dignity. He had run into Phil before. Something about Gunther got to Phil. Gunther had learned to take it. You learn to take a lot when you’re three feet tall.

  I asked for my .38. Phil told me it was evidence in a murder. I’d probably never get it back. We drove to Heliotrope in silence and I parked.

  “I’ll change for the wedding,” Gunther said, stepping out of the car.

  “Wedding?”

  “Miss Palice and Mr. Butler. This afternoon,” he reminded me.

  Gunther needed no changing, but I did. I was prepared to strangle Mrs. Plaut if she tried to stop me. She stood on the porch waiting as we walked up. She wore a clean white dress, with lace around the collar and pearls around her neck.

  “Mr. Peelers, I left messages for you all about,” she said.

  “I’ve been busy catching a killer,” I explained. Gunther eased past her and into the house, but she stepped in front of me.

  “You are always catching a killer or being caught by one. That is no excuse. We have work to do.”

  “Tomorrow,” I reminded her. “All morning tomorrow.”

  Gunther came back out, a package in his hand. He handed it to me. I handed it to Mrs. Plaut.

  “The wedding is not mine,” she said. “I was married to the mister in eighteen and ninety-one.”

  “Open it, please,” I said.

  She opened it. “What is this?” she said.

  Gunther cleared his throat. She didn’t hear. I pointed down at him and she turned. He handed her the written material that went with the hearing aid.

  “Amazing new Aurex,” she read. “Brings hearing to ninety-five percent of even the most difficult cases. Mr. Peelers and Mr. Wortman, are you suggesting that I am unable to hear?”

  “Maybe a little,” I said. “You, yourself said—”

  “I’m not lying,” she said indignantly. “The Plauts, the Wainwrights, every branch of the family has had the hearing of a hawk.”

  “Sorry,” I said, reaching out to take the Aurex back. She didn’t give it to me. “I’ll consider this,” she said instead. Then she turned and went back into the house.

  “Worth a try,” I said to Gunther.

  “We have done what can be done, as Goethe said,” Gunther added. We went inside. Gunther hurried up ahead of me to get ready for the wedding. I went up more slowly, nursing an aching body and a tender nose. When I got to the top of the stairs and took a step toward my room, Mrs. Plaut called up, “Oh, Mr. Peelers. You have some visitors in your room. Your sister and brothers have come for the wedding.”

  It was too late to run. Besides I wouldn’t have made it. Lyle opened the door and aimed a pistol at me. I moved forward and went into my room to find Sydney at my table with Adrienne standing behind him. Sutker, a fresh dressing on his broken nose, was ripping up furniture. My clothes were on the floor, my refrigerator open.

  “Papers?” said Sydney, as Lyle closed the door behind us. Lyle and Sutker were wearing bright purple. They looked at me with less than brotherly love.

  “Papers?” repeated the greatly irritated Adrienne. “You expect a reasonable response from that? Threaten him, Sydney.”

  “Adrienne,” he said, smoothing his hair. “Of course I was going to threaten him. If you deprive me of style, how am I to earn respect?”

  “I’ve got the files,” I said.

  They all stopped and looked at me.

  “They’re not here,” Sutker said.

  “They’re not here,” I agreed. “And you’re not getting them. I’ve got a deal for you. You’re out of the extortion business and I don’t turn those files over to the police.”

  Lyle prodded me urgently in the right kidney.

  “Don’t irk me, people,” I said. “I have a friend who has orders to send the file to the police if I get seriously hurt. And I don’t respond well to torture. It makes me very angry.”

  Lyle stepped in front of me and said, “I’d like to make you angry.”

  “No,” Adrienne Larchmont said behind him.

  “No,” agreed Sydney belatedly.

  “Do I keep looking or what?” asked Sutker.

  “You can stop looking,” said Adrienne Larchmont.

  Lyle stepped out of the way and she approached m
e.

  “The money?” she said.

  “Goes back to a victim,” I said.

  “Can we trust this man?” asked Sydney, who got up and joined her. They were looking into my eyes for answers. My eyes didn’t have any answers.

  “If he betrays us, we simply return and deal with him,” she said, her dark eyes fixed on mine. “It was time for us to move on anyway. We’ve exhausted our welcome in California. It’s time for us to move south.”

  “But Adrienne,” Sydney pleaded.

  She walked past me and out the door. Sydney followed without looking at me. Lyle and Sutker went next, and then I was standing alone looking at my mess. They had even rearranged Mrs. Plaut’s packet of family photographs.

  The hell with it. I left things the way they were, closed the refrigerator, and got ready for the wedding.

  15

  I still had $147 of John Wayne’s fee for services but I didn’t have time to buy a new suit. The old gray seersucker, a little the worse for wear and the only one I had left, would have to do, along with the brown-and-white shoes from Macy’s, which polished up reasonably well in spite of the beating they had taken in Coldwater Canyon.

  “We are ready, Mr. Peelers,” Mrs. Plaut shouted from below while I was trying to tie my blue-striped tie to hide the spot left by my bloody nose. It worked reasonably well if you didn’t notice that the tie was a little short in front and long on the downside.

  “Coming right up,” I shouted as I came through the door. “Got a phone call to make first.”

  I looked over the railing at Mrs. Plaut, with her neatly wrapped wedding present, and Gunther, who stood patiently at her side carrying a large gift box, and then I called John Wayne. It took three calls to find him at Republic.

  “It’s over,” I said when he came on. “You were a decoy. There was no Alex. Remember Merit Beason?”

  “Fella with you at the hotel and the dock and Coldwater with his neck all messed up?”

  “He did it. It’s a long story with a couple of bodies,” I said. “Beason’s dead. Case is closed and you’re safe. I’ll send you a full report in writing and a refund.”