Think Fast, Mr. Peters

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “And before the Steistels started to shoot the scene on the roof Lowry got happy and said he was coming into money?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And the money was coming from?” I coaxed.

  “Someone. I don’t really care. It’s all over,” she wailed, putting her head down on her clenched fists.

  Michael reached over to comfort her and then pulled his hand back as it was about to touch Mildred’s finely lacquered hair. He looked at me for a suggestion. I had none for him.

  “Thanks,” I said, getting up.

  Michael looked at me and Mildred with sudden fear.

  “You want some coffee?” he asked pleadingly. He didn’t want to be left alone with his sister, but I wasn’t in the business of rescuing cowardly brothers.

  “Sorry,” I said moving toward the kitchen door. “I’ve got a dentist to save.”

  Mildred sobbed, choked, and said, “Michael, turn on the radio, KNX.”

  Michael jumped up, moved to the white-curtained kitchen window, and turned on the little white Philco. He fiddled with the dial and I walked out without waiting for good-byes. In the living room I grabbed the Buddha.

  When I hit the front door, I heard the voice of an announcer say, “And the makers of Welch’s Grape Juice invite you to join Irene Rich at our new time and new network for the next letter to Dear John.”

  “Over,” wailed Mildred. “It’s all over.”

  I went through the front door wondering if she was talking about her radio show, her marriage, her moment of passion with Lowry, or her husband’s life.

  There was one more piece of business before I closed the shop, turned off the lights, and went home to the bosom of my family in Kansas City, Kansas. I found a phone booth next to a gas station, called Hollywood 5391 and asked for the house detective. The Ravenswood was a little above most of the places where I knew the house man, but in this case I was lucky. Higby was a cop when I was a cop back in Glendale. Higby retired and went to work at the Ravenswood, complete with an assistant. I went to work for Warner Brothers as a security guard till Harry Warner took a dislike to me when, as I’ve mentioned, I punched a Warner B movie cowboy star in the mouth when I was supposed to be guarding him.

  “Higby,” came Higby’s voice, slightly high-pitched, deceptively bubbly.

  “George, it’s Toby Peters,” I said.

  “Toby … God almightly, it’s been five years,” he said.

  “More like six or seven,” I said. “How’re the halls of the Ravenswood?”

  “Mostly quiet,” he said. “What comes up I manage to put down. How you going?”

  “Private investigation. What comes up I patch up.”

  “I hear Phil made captain?” Higby said.

  “Early this year,” I said.

  “How’s Anne?” he went on.

  “We’re divorced, but we keep in touch. She’s fine, visiting her sister back in Ohio. Her second husband died last year,” I said hoping he didn’t ask for details. “How’s …”

  “Amelia,” he supplied. “Fine, kids are fine. We hang up now or you tell me what this is about?”

  “Guy registered in the Ravenswood got himself killed the other day,” I said.

  “Kindem, also known a Pete R. Lowry,” Higby said. “Cops have already checked his room. You on the case?”

  “I’m on it for a client. Think I could take a look at Lowry’s room?”

  “Lieutenant named Seidman’s already been through it,” said Higby. “Seemed to know what he was doing.”

  “Right, he does,” I said. “But I might be looking for something that didn’t mean anything to Seidman. I’ve been on the thing for a couple of days and have some leads.”

  “And someone to protect?”

  “Just the body, not the reputation, George. You can stand at my side to be sure I don’t walk off with the candlesticks and telephones. Give me twenty minutes.”

  A pause, a sigh, and then,

  “If you get here in less than an hour, I’ll give you ten minutes in his room. No relatives have shown up and I can’t see how it can hurt him.”

  “Thanks, George,” I said.

  “Thanks comes in all shapes, sizes, and denominations,” said Higby.

  “Ten bucks and my thanks,” I said.

  “Fifteen and your respect,” he answered.

  “See you in twenty minutes.”

  About eighteen minutes later, after catching Billie Holiday singing the blues on her KFWB show, I found a parking space next to the garden to the right of the Ravenswood. Finding Higby was no problem. He was waiting at the entrance, hands in pockets, tie loose, stomach trying to escape from the shirt about a size too small. He looked older than I remembered him, which shouldn’t have been a surprise.

  “George.”

  “Toby.”

  We shook hands and I handed him three fives, which he jammed into his pocket. The rest was pure business and small talk about the old days. We went up to Lowry’s room where he opened the door with a passkey and while I searched we talked about the old days, who was alive, who was in the army, who had retired, and who were our favorite bad guys. His favorites were the steady regulars, the repeat housebreakers, car thieves. My favorites were the crazies, not because I was fond of them but because they gave me nightmares. Being with Higby reminded me of the woman with the broken pool cue who skewered her husband and took off after me when my partner and I came in answer to the neighbors’ calls. My partner had to break her arm to stop her because she thought I was the incarnation of her husband, who lay dead in the kitchen. She was one of my favorite crazies. Then there was the machine-gun kid, a fifteen-year-old who taped four of his father’s rifles together, rigged a strip of inner tube to the triggers and filled my squad car and my partner full of holes. When I got the kid cuffed he claimed that it wasn’t his idea, that John Gilbert had come to him in a dream and given him the idea for the homemade machine gun and Gilbert who told him to shoot at the first passing police car. My partner lived and three years later when I checked on the kid in the state mental hospital he was writing long letters to John Gilbert asking the actor to come forward and tell the truth or he would have to get out and punish him.

  Those were the kind that haunted me, the ones you couldn’t figure. I was about to remind Higby of Alphonse the Needler when I found something interesting in the drawer of the desk near the window. The room had been easy to go through, not too much clothing, only a few pictures of Lowry doing his best to look like Peter Lorre, some magazines, and an old leather suitcase in good shape in the closet. But in the desk was an envelope and in the envelope were photographs. There weren’t many of them and they were all family-type pictures, chubby mom looking awkwardly at the camera, stern father with a beard holding his hat under his arm, a pair of boys, one of whom was probably Lowry. My favorite was a shot of Lowry holding a tennis racket and kneeling, his eyes toward the camera. Kneeling at his side was the real Peter Lorre, also holding a tennis racket and smiling. Standing between them was a man who couldn’t be identified because the top half of the picture had been torn off.

  “Steinholtz,” I said, looking through the envelope and drawer for the top half of the photograph. I didn’t find it.

  “Don’t remember him,” said Higby who was fiddling with a brass letter opener in the shape of a scimitar. “Was he a cop or a crazy?”

  “A crazy,” I said.

  “What was the story on Steinholtz?” Higby asked as I slid the photograph into my side pocket.

  “It’s not over. When it is I’ll let you know. I think I’ve seen enough.”

  “Suit yourself, Toby,” said Higby. “Got time for a cup of java? On me. I’ve got all night.”

  “No thanks, George,” I said. “I’ve got some work to do.”

  “The curse of the self-employed,” sighed Higby. “You make yourself work hours you’d quit over in a regular job.”

  I agreed, told him the story of Alphonse the Needler w
hich, I was pleased to see, made him shudder, and left the Ravenswood after some handshakes and lies about getting together soon.

  I drove to Levy’s on Spring, remembering Elisa and looking forward to Saturday night and Carmen, but Carmen had already left for the night. I didn’t eat. I was tired and had to get up early for the Lorre audition, so I headed for home.

  Parking on Heliotrope was no problem. I had no real hope of getting past Mrs. Plaut so I didn’t try tiptoeing, didn’t take off my shoes. She was sitting in the doorway of her room when I came through the front door with Shelly’s Buddha under my arm. She was sitting with a rectangular brown package on her lap.

  “Mr. Peelers,” she said, “I have been waiting for you.”

  She looked at me as if I should have something to tell her but I didn’t.”

  “Mr. Peelers,” she went on, getting no satisfaction or help from me. “Marie Dressler has been shot.”

  “Marie Dressler?” I said stunned.

  “This morning on the very porch you have just traversed,” she said.

  “On your porch? This morning?”

  With this she opened the package in her lap and pulled out the photograph of Eleanor Roosevelt that had been hit that morning when Lowry’s killer had taken a shot at me. The glass was cracked and the hole clear. To emphasize the reality of the situation, Mrs. Plaut put her small finger through the bullet hole.

  “It went right through,” she said, shaking her head.

  “It would have been a miracle if it had stopped half way,” I said.

  “Who would want to shoot Marie Dressler?” Mrs. Plaut asked, perplexed.

  “Eleanor Roosevelt,” I said.

  “Eleanor Roosevelt would want to shoot Marie Dressler?” Mrs. Plaut asked, looking up at me with eyes wide.

  “No, the photograph is of Eleanor Roosevelt, not Marie Dressler,” I explained.

  Mrs. Plaut looked at the photo again as if she had never seen it before.

  “A remarkable resemblance,” she said.

  “Remarkable,” I agreed, though I didn’t think the two women looked at all alike. I also agreed because I wasn’t sure what Mrs. Plaut found remarkable. Did she still think the photo was Marie dressler who looked like Eleanor Roosevelt, or did she think it was Eleanor Roosevelt who bore a remarkable resemblance to Marie Dressler?

  “But why would anyone want to shoot her? Republicans don’t drive down Heliotrope,” she said, looking deeply into Eleanor Roosevelt’s eyes.

  “They were shooting at me,” I said.

  She looked up and adjusted her hearing aid.

  “At me,” I repeated.

  “I see,” said Mrs. Plaut with relief. “Thank the Lord.”

  “Right,” I said. “Just me, not a photograph.”

  “You can’t know what a relief that is,” she said, putting her tiny right hand on the place where her heart was supposed to be beneath her blue dress. “I’ll get the photograph repaired and put right back where it was with confidence that it will not happen again.”

  “I’m going to bed, Mrs. Plaut,” I sighed, heading up the stairs.

  “I have a list of people we must visit tomorrow,” she called after me, her spirits returned.

  “People …?”

  “Rubber, Mr. Peelers, rubber. We must urge our neighbors to check their garages, attics. We must, according to Joseph F. MacCaughtry, who the president has named to head the general salvage campaign, double our efforts for our boys overseas.”

  “Sunday, Mrs. Plaut, Sunday. I can’t tomorrow. I’m working tomorrow and Saturday,” I said.

  “Then Sunday,” she said, “but remember you might be keeping vital caches of rubber from our boys overseas. A delay of two days might mean lives.”

  “I’ll have to live with that responsibility, Mrs. Plaut,” I said and hurried up the rest of the stairs and down the hall to Gunther’s room. I listened before I knocked. Behind his door I could hear music. I knocked and Gunther called, “Come in.”

  Gunther Wherthman’s room was a display of efficiency. In one corner was a work space, complete with desk and a row of bookcases filled with texts. A folding seven-panel oak divider decorated with scenes of Geneva separated the work space from the sleeping and rest space where Gunther’s neatly made bed stood. Across from the bed was an old brown chair, not too stuffed, complete with ottoman and, to the right, separated from both spaces was the kitchen area, neatly arranged with table, two chairs, and matching pewter salt and pepper shakers.

  Gunther was seated at his desk working in longhand while he listened to one of his Bach records. He had taken off the jacket of the three-piece suit he’d worn that day and had put on a blue robe. Gunther would not take off his suit till bedtime. He glanced over his left shoulder at me as I entered, removed his glasses, and turned down the volume on the machine.

  “Bach,” I said.

  “You are developing an appreciation?” Gunther asked, getting down from the chair.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. You always play Bach.”

  “Not always,” he said. “There is Mozart, Vivaldi, and the Italian operas.”

  “Maybe I am developing something,” I said.

  “Do not be afraid of good taste, Toby,” he said, moving toward the kitchen area. “It will not tarnish your image in the eyes of your friends. Coffee?”

  “No thanks, Gunther, I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m going to eat something and go to bed. What’s tomorrow like for you?”

  Gunther nodded his small head toward his desk.

  “I’ve got some work to do bright and early, and I could use your help,” I went on.

  “It involves Peter Lorre?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I will be most pleased to render assistance,” he said. “Tell me where to be and what I must do.”

  I told him what to do. He stood with his tiny hands in the pocket of his robe, listened, and made a few suggestions that made sense to me.

  “See you in the morning, Gunther,” I said.

  “Wait,” he called and hurried to his refrigerator. He pulled out a plate covered with foil and brought it over to me. “A pâté,” he explained. “My own recipe.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll eat it and get to bed.”

  Back in my room, I turned on the light, took off my jacket, put Shelly’s Buddha and his glasses on my dresser, and went to my kitchen table. I didn’t pause to compare my room to Gunther’s.

  If it weren’t for Mrs. Plaut’s frequent intrusions, I’d need Frank Buck to lead a safari through the mess. I found a few not-too-stale slices of Wonder Bread, dropped Gunther’s pate on one of them and smeared a healthy glob of mayo on the other. I ate the sandwich, washing it down with a half-full bottle of milk. It wasn’t bad but the sandwich wasn’t enough. I had some milk left, so I got down the oversized Terry and the Pirates bowl my nephews had given me for my birthday, emptied the last of my Puffed Rice and Shredded Ralston into it, and poured on the rest of the milk. I ate slowly, going over my plan for the next morning. It wasn’t much of a plan, but I had a full stomach and the memory of Elisa in my office. I also had a client and enough money to buy cereal and milk and pay for my room.

  I laid out my clothes for the morning, pulled the mattress off the bed onto the floor as I did every night, turned off the lights, and fell asleep listening to the faint sound of Gunther’s Bach records through the wall.

  If I were right, I’d have Shelly free and a killer nailed within forty-eight hours. If I were wrong, I could get a few people killed, including me. It could have been worse. I could have been young enough to get drafted.

  12

  Morning came with a knock on the door and the last fragment of a dream. The dream had something to do with Elisa Morales or Potter and the photograph I’d found in Lowry’s room at the Ravenswood. I had a sense that I had tried Elisa’s head on the body in the photograph but it didn’t fit. I wondered as I sat up if I had tried the heads of the rest of the people involved.

&n
bsp; “What, what?” I called looking up blearily at my Beach-Nut gum clock.

  The early Friday morning sunlight caught the glass covering the clock face. I rolled to the side to see the time. Six-fifteen.

  “Toby?” called Gunther. “It is time.”

  “Come in,” I said, chewing on the morning grit in my dry mouth.

  Gunther entered, elegantly garbed with a small white fedora and carrying a half-sized cane.

  “You look spiffy, Gunther,” I said sitting up and scratching my stomach through my undershirt.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You have a sword in that cane?” I asked. “Or is it a one-shot rifle?”

  Gunther examined is cane without a smile and answered, “It is simply a cane, which I believe is appropriate for this weather. Do you find it somehow threatening or sinister? That was not at all my intent.”

  “Forget it, Gunther,” I said, biting my lower lip and feeling the stubble of overnight against my teeth. “I’m still waking up.”

  Gunther checked his pocket watch and suggested that I had best hurry and that the washroom was empty and would probably remain so till Mr. Hill the mailman got up at six-thirty.

  “Now, you know what to do?” I asked.

  Gunther looked slightly offended.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’m counting on you.”

  “And I shall not fail you,” he said. “But please, Toby, exercise caution, as will I.”

  “I will, Gunther. See you later,” I said.

  Gunther left and I got up after testing my back. I worked my jaw and found the spot where Elisa had ladled me. It wasn’t too bad. My various other vulnerable spots didn’t scream out as I adjusted my underwear, grabbed my toothpaste, a not-too-dirty towel, and razor and staggered out of my room toward the washroom.

  The shower was warm, not hot, and it came out in a reluctant trickle rather than a spray, but it was enough. I washed, shaved, and sang the Wildroot Cream Oil song. When I got out of the tub, I cleared the mirror over the sink and brushed my teeth. The face in front of me still looked tough, but I thought I saw a softness in the brown eyes that I didn’t like. It wasn’t that I denied that softness. I just didn’t like the idea that it showed. I made some tough faces in the mirror. I tried Barton MacLean, Jack LaRue, Jack Dempsey, and Henry Armstrong but I couldn’t convince myself. I settled for Max Baer.