The Devil Met a Lady

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Phil thought it might be a good idea,” he said.

  “He was right.”

  The uniformed cops moved in, one on the stage to round up Wiklund and Jeffers, the other to take Stevens and his weapon.

  “What was that crap about two people being dead?” Seidman asked, stepping next to me.

  Bette Davis exited stage right.

  “Made it up,” I said. “I don’t know where those guys are.”

  “Toby,” Seidman said softly. “You are full of shit.”

  “Wait,” Wiklund shouted from the stage, pulling out of the grasp of the policeman. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to end. I simply won’t tolerate another failure.”

  “Who hired you?” I asked.

  “Never,” he said suddenly, standing erect.

  “Goddamn ham,” Jeffers said behind him, trying to straighten up.

  “Who hired you?” I asked Jeffers.

  “How the hell do I know?” he answered. “King Lear here took care of everything. For all I know, he made the whole goddamn thing up.”

  “It’s over,” Bette Davis said, appearing at my side.

  “Almost,” I said.

  “You are an enigma, Mr. Peters,” she said. “And while Arthur and I are indebted to you, it is my fond hope that we never see each other again.”

  Seidman moved away from us toward the stage, from which a broken Wiklund and a sagging Jeffers were being led.

  “I’ve got one little thing you could do for me,” I said.

  “Besides having Arthur pay you?” she asked.

  “Instead of that.”

  I told her what it was.

  “And the recording? The real one of me and Howard Hughes?”

  “I’ve got it someplace safe,” I said. “If this didn’t work out, I thought we might have to use it. I’m going to go break it and get a few hours’ sleep.”

  “Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to call my husband.”

  “Lieutenant Seidman will get you home,” I said. “Don’t forget tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” she said with a smile. “I will not forget.”

  Dash was sleeping in the Crosley. I didn’t disturb him. I drove back slowly to the Farraday, thinking without thinking. I listened to Artie Shaw from the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago on the radio.

  I had no trouble parking this time. It was late. My plan was to be sure that Alice and Jeremy hadn’t gotten into any trouble helping me, and then to try to track down the person who had killed Niles, Pinketts, and Fritz. There was only one person it could be.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, I didn’t have to put my plan to work. When I put my key into the outer door of the Farraday a figure spoke from the shadows.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “How did you know I’d come back tonight?” I asked.

  “Didn’t, but I’m very patient and very determined,” said Inez, showing me a gun that looked far too large for her hand but which she held with ease.

  “And you want?…”

  “The record,” she said. “My mission is to get those plans from Farnsworth. I believe that he will still be willing to trade them for his wife’s reputation. My mistake, as you well know, was getting involved with that idiot Wiklund. I should have handled it myself from the start, but there are others who insisted … Please open the door and let’s go inside.”

  I did what I was told. The lobby of the Farraday was dark except for the exit signs in the rear of the building and the single night-light on each floor.

  “You killed Pinketts and Gray,” I said.

  “Ah, you found them. Well, their passing will not be mourned,” she said. “Nor, I believe, will that of Grover Niles. Up the stairs.”

  “Can’t make it up the stairs,” I said. “Elevator.”

  “You found the incentive to overcome your agonies when we were in bed,” she said.

  “I was highly motivated. You want to take fifteen minutes going up? We’ll walk.”

  “Elevator then,” she said, and we got in.

  We didn’t say anything else until we got inside Shelly’s office. The place was cleaner than I had ever seen it. Jeremy and Alice had done a great job.

  “Where did you put it?” Inez asked.

  “I didn’t touch it,” I said.

  “The record,” she said. “Now.”

  I turned toward her and scratched my head. “We’ve got a problem here, Inez,” I said. “I give you the record and you kill me. It’s going to be hard for me to believe anything else. So, I’ve got to come to the conclusion that if I’m going to die anyway, I might as well make it a bad day for you.”

  “I won’t kill you,” she said calmly.

  “Why not?”

  “I like you.”

  “Not convincing,” I said.

  “Do you have a suggestion?” she asked.

  “You answer a question and I’ll give you a plan.” I tried moving to sit in Shelly’s chair, the same chair in which Andrea Pinketts had bought a scalpel in the neck from the lady in front of me.

  “Ask.”

  “You killed Niles, Pinketts, and Stevens,” I said.

  “Yes, but that is not a question, and I’ve already as much as told you that I had.”

  “You work for the Nazis.”

  “Again, not a question,” she said. “But technically incorrect. I am a Nazi—not a German, but a Bolivian. My family will be among those who bring a new National Socialist Party dominance to all of South America when the war is over. More questions?”

  “No,” I said. “That will be fine. John, you want to bring the record out for the lady?”

  The door to my office opened and John Cawelti stepped in with a uniformed cop. Both had guns pointed at Inez. Cawelti also held a record in his hand.

  Inez let out a little gasp and tightened her finger on the trigger.

  “I’ll blow your goddamn head off, lady,” Cawelti said.

  “He’s a charmer, Inez.”

  “Lean over and put the gun on the floor and do it slow,” Cawelti continued.

  Inez leaned over and put the gun down. The cop moved quickly to pick it up.

  “Where are the bodies, Peters?” asked Cawelti.

  “I don’t know, John,” I said as Inez glared fire at me and said something fast in Spanish through clenched teeth.

  “You’re a lying son of a bitch,” he said.

  “But I’m not a killer,” I reminded him. “You heard Inez confess, and Seidman has her helpers.”

  He walked over to me in the chair while the cop cuffed Inez.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Saw you come in earlier,” I said. “Your car is still parked in front.”

  “This record,” he said, holding it up. “What the hell is it and what was it doing under all those dishes in the sink?”

  “Well,” I said, getting up slowly, “I think it’s …”

  And my hand went out, hitting the record about in the middle of the label and sending it flying across the room and into the wall, where it shattered in a hail of black shards.

  “You son of a bitch,” Cawelti hissed, slapping me in the face.

  I took it.

  “Slipped,” I said. “Sorry. It was Kate Smith singing ‘God Bless America.’”

  “The station, Peters,” he said, his face going bright red. “Now. We’re going to have a long, long talk.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Before I opened my eyes the next morning, I knew someone was standing over me.

  The night before, Cawelti had personally taken my statement, making clear that he believed a little less than half of it. Some time after midnight and before dawn he let me go home. I’d made it to my room, yanked the mattress onto the floor, pulled off my pants and shirt, and crawled into bed without washing, shaving, brushing, or thinking. If I dreamed, I don’t remember what my dreams were.

  But I do remember the sense of dawn and someone
over me.

  I opened my eyes and looked up at a man in a neatly pressed gray suit and an old school blue-and-white tie. He was about forty, clean-shaven, with short auburn hair and no smile at all.

  “Mr. Peters,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  I tried to sit up or at least get my tongue to respond as he reached down with an open wallet. One side of the wallet held a small badge. The other side held a card which identified him as Special Agent Raymond Fielding of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  “You been standing there long?” I asked, sinking back against my pillow.

  “Not long, Mr. Peters,” he said politely. “And I won’t take much of your time.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” I said, closing my eyes. “Have a seat.”

  “If you don’t mind,” said Fielding. “I’ll stand.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “The Bureau has, through Federal Agency Proclamation 32.321, assumed jurisdiction over a highly classified investigation into an attempt to compromise the integrity of the United States by a foreign country with which we are at war. There is the possibility that three citizens of the United States were killed in connection with this attempt. The Bureau and its director would, in the interest of national security, prefer that all inquiries regarding this situation of national security be pursued exclusively by the Bureau.”

  “Which means?” I asked, blinking at him and rubbing the stubble on my face.

  “The case does not exist,” he said.

  “Suits me just fine,” I said.

  “The director will be pleased to hear that. Assuming that you would, as have local law-enforcement agencies, agree to protect national security, I have been instructed to give you this.”

  He handed me a small brown envelope about the size and weight of a travel guide.

  “Thanks,” I said, putting the package next to my pillow. “What time is it?”

  “Four minutes before eight,” he said, without looking at his watch. “We trust that you will never discuss this investigation and your connection to it with anyone. Such discussion during wartime can be and will be considered a breach of the Sedition Act.”

  “You always talk like this?” I asked, trying to sit up again.

  He held out a hand to help me and I made it to my feet. “No,” he said. “On my days off I drink a beer or two, go to football games when I can find them, and worry about my brother who’s on a carrier somewhere in the Pacific.”

  “Thanks,” I said, checking myself for the most tender remaining spots on my body. The odor was gone, but the aches were still there and raw.

  Fielding reached down for the package he had brought, put it back in my hands, and left, closing the door behind him. I opened the package and found a neatly framed certificate of thanks for my contribution to safeguarding the freedom of the United States. The certificate was signed by J. Edgar Hoover. I put it on the dresser and climbed carefully into my pants.

  I made it to the bathroom, shaved, washed, brushed my teeth, and leaned over to examine myself in the mirror. The hair on my chest was turning gray. My hair was still thick, though I could use a haircut, and my nose was still flat against my face and lacking in bone support.

  “You are a mess, Tobias,” I told myself, and that gave me the courage to go back to my room, have a glass of milk and some Hydrox cookies, and dress. I had one decent white shirt I had been saving—a birthday present from last November from Gunther—a two-by-two English broadcloth from Macy’s that went for $2.19. My pants could have used a pressing and new pocket linings, but, all in all, I was almost presentable.

  Mrs. Plaut was nowhere in sight and I made it to my car without a problem other than the shock to my ribs when I went down the front steps. Getting into the Crosley was no fun, but I made it, stopped at a flower stand on Hollywood Boulevard, and hit the hospital about eight-thirty.

  Bouquet in hand, I made my way up to Ruth’s room and started through the door before anyone could stop me. I stopped myself. Bette Davis was sitting next to Ruth, holding her hand and talking quietly. I let the door close part way and listened from the hall.

  “I am deeply indebted to your brother-in-law and your husband,” Davis said. “And I wanted very much to meet you.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Ruth said.

  “Well,” said Davis with great sincerity, “when I heard your name was Ruth, I felt a kinship. My real name is Ruth Elizabeth Davis. And my mother’s name is Ruth.”

  “I know people say this to you all the time,” said Ruth, “but I really am a fan. I can give you lines from Dangerous, Marked Woman, even Satan Met a Lady.”

  “Please,” said Davis with a laugh. “If you spare me the memory of Satan Met a Lady, I will solemnly promise you a walk-on in my next film.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” said Davis, taking Ruth’s hand in both of hers. “Promise. Get well and put on a few pounds and you will be on screen for posterity.”

  Ruth began to cry and I closed the door.

  I sat on the chair outside the room with the flowers on my lap and made up my bill for Arthur Farnsworth. It came to a little over three hundred bucks, including gas, phone calls, doctor bills, bribes, socks, food, gas, pajamas, toothpaste, and daily charges. Before Bette Davis came out of the room, I tore it up.

  When I heard the door open, I stood up.

  “Thanks,” I said, handing her the flowers.

  “For me?” she asked. She was wearing a dark dress and a little hat with a hint of veil.

  “For you,” I said. “I’ve got another one coming for Ruth.”

  “I have in some ways misjudged you, Toby Peters,” she said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

  “Mutual,” I said.

  “I like that woman,” she said, gesturing with the bouquet toward Ruth’s room.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “I plan to keep in touch with her.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “And thank you,” she answered, smelling her flowers.

  A nurse coming down the hall recognized her and nudged another nurse who pointed to Bette Davis. Davis pretended not to notice and walked slowly, royally, to the elevator and out of my life.

  In March, Ruth left the hospital. If you ever see Hollywood Canteen, look for her in the crowd scene doing the jitterbug with a gum-chewing sailor. She’s the skinny smiling blonde in the white dress and the ribbon in her hair.

  On August 23 that summer, a hot, humid Los Angeles day, Arthur Farnsworth was in town for a few days. He picked up a stole for Bette at Magnin’s and then went to Hollywood to talk to Davis’s lawyer, Dudley Furse, about a possible real-estate purchase.

  As he walked past a cigar store carrying a briefcase, the owner and two customers heard a piercing scream and looked out of the window. They saw Farney fall straight backward, his head hitting the sidewalk. People rushed to help as Arthur Farnsworth went into convulsions, bleeding from the nose. His briefcase, which may have contained some of the secret work he was doing, couldn’t be found.

  Days later, the empty briefcase was returned to Bette Davis by a young boy who said he had found it half a block from the place where Farnsworth fell.

  The autopsy report, which was lost soon after the inquest, included the statement by Assistant County Surgeon Homer R. Keyes, that, “A basal skull injury probably caused this man’s death. It didn’t result from the fall but instigated it.” Keyes went on to say that the blow was probably caused by the butt of a gun or some other blunt instrument.

  All this took place a few months after I got a call from Clark Gable, who wanted me to … but that’s another story.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any inf
ormation storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1993 by Stuart Kaminsky

  cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

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