Mildred Pierced: A Toby Peters Mystery

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I have a fool for a client,” he said. “But we knew that when we began. If you find him, drag him back to jail and make it look like he’s turning himself in.”

  “How much did that advice just cost Shelly?”

  “I’m not feeling generous,” Marty said with a sigh. “In my profession, generosity breeds contempt. Twenty dollars. He can afford it. He is probably the wealthiest fugitive in the United States. We are a land of opportunity, Toby.”

  “We are,” I agreed.

  I told him everything I had learned and the conclusion I had come to with Gunther.

  “Sounds plausible, possible, and reasonable,” Marty had said. “It is also unlikely. But the simple possibility gives me something to work with, provided we can get the remarkably elusive Dr. Minck to get his—and I say this with great respect—his fat ass back in jail where he will be reasonably safe.”

  “I’m working on it,” I said. “Time is money.”

  “Indeed it is,” he said. “We’ve just had a forty-dollar phone call.”

  “You said twenty.”

  “I told you I’m not feeling generous.”

  He hung up.

  I went back to Gunther’s room and asked him to keep an eye out for Shelly in case he got away from me and headed for Mrs. Plaut’s.

  “Keep him here if he shows up,” I said, having full confidence that the tiny, well-dressed man with the Swiss accent could handle the overweight dentist. Gunther had been a circus performer. He was small but strong. Seeing him subdue Sheldon the Bulbous would have been worth the price of a good dinner.

  “I will do so,” he said. “But why would he come here? Would not this be one of the places the police might come to look for him?”

  “It definitely would,” I agreed. “But what Shelly lacks in skill as a dentist equals his total lack of common sense. I’m staking out all the likely places he would go.”

  One hour later, after massaging my feet, changing my socks, and having a brief conversation with Dash after feeding him half a can of tuna, I headed to the Pantages Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. The Pantages brought back memories of my ex-wife, Ann. We had gone to the Pantages the week after it opened in 1930, eight months after the market crashed, a crash that took a while to trickle down to us because we had no money invested and none to invest. I was a cop in Burbank. The movie we saw was something with Greta Garbo and Conrad Nagel, or maybe it was Lewis Stone. We had a good time.

  That was then. This was now. I parked and walked half a block to the newsstand across the street from the theater.

  There was a sign on the lamppost, which asked people to please rent rooms to war-plant workers. The city was filled with people working at Boeing, the shipyards, and dozens of other defense jobs. There weren’t enough rooms. I reminded myself to suggest that Mrs. Plaut put an ad in the paper. She had two unoccupied rooms.

  “Toby,” a voice whispered behind me.

  I turned. There stood a prime candidate for the ugliest woman in Los Angeles or the world’s worst-dressed transvestite.

  “Shelly, you don’t look like a woman.”

  “I don’t feel like one,” he said.

  He was wearing a little blue straw hat with something faintly resembling hair sticking out from under it. His face was made up in what looked like an attempt to frighten any children he might meet and cause adults to cross the street to get away from him.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I asked.

  “I’m in disguise.”

  “You’re in costume,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

  “We’ve got to talk,” he said urgently, taking my arm.

  A young sailor and a blonde chewing gum walked past us, nudging each other and looking in our direction.

  “Not on the street,” I said. “The Hollywood Roosevelt lobby. Find someplace to get out of those clothes, wash your face, and meet me there in ten minutes.”

  The Roosevelt was eight blocks away on Hollywood.

  “Can’t,” he said. “I’m wearing a jail uniform under this coat.”

  Lots of people were looking at us now. We were a better show than whatever might be going on across the street at the Pantages.

  “Okay, come on. Walk behind me.”

  I hurried back to my car, opened the doors and waited till Shelly caught up and climbed into the passenger seat. Then I pulled into traffic. So did the green Ford parked five or six cars behind me. I couldn’t see who was driving. I was getting tired and I wondered if the two Mohicans Phil had pummeled had enough fight or determination left in them to come after me.

  The light from the Pantages marquee caught the windshield of the Ford behind me, and I saw enough of Lawrence Timerjack’s face to know that a new team had taken over.

  “That was a dumb thing to do,” I said as we drove.

  “What?”

  “Escaping.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” he said.

  “Take off that hat and wig and wipe your face,” I said. “I can’t talk seriously to a man who looks like a Marie Dressler impersonator.”

  Shelly took off the hat and made an attempt to clean himself.

  “I was minding my business,” he said. “I went into the washroom and there she was. Big Negro woman. She said a friend was going to save me, and then she handed me the coat and hat and stuff and started to paint my face. She did it fast and told me to go out the door with my head down and go to the right and down the stairs and … I didn’t even get a chance to pee or think. I was just … I don’t know, running. Like Paul Muni in I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang or John Garfield in that other picture.”

  “Dust Be My Destiny,” I said.

  “So, are we going to the Roosevelt?” Shelly asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” I said. “We’re being followed by Lawrence Timerjack. If we stop and get out, I think he’ll try to kill you.”

  “Me?” Shelly asked, his voice rising a few octaves to the level of Rise Stevens. “Why?”

  “Because you are a rich man, Sheldon,” I said as he looked back through the window, squinting in the general direction of the Ford. “And you left a will giving everything you’ve got to the Survivors if you weren’t married to Mildred. Now with Mildred dead and your no-snore gizmo, you’re worth a lot of money to Timerjack. But only if you’re dead.”

  Shelly sat back. There wasn’t much foot or body room in the Crosley. His sulking options were minimal, but he went for one.

  “But I’m a Pigeon,” he said.

  “You were set up, Shel. The woman in the washroom was sent there by Timerjack to get you out on the street where he could kill you before you change your mind about leaving the Survivors your money.”

  “Wait,” He adjusted his glasses. “You think he killed Mildred?”

  “I think there’s a good possibility he had her killed so you’d get her money. Then he’d find a way to kill you.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Shelly shook his head so violently that his glasses fell off. He reached out to grab them before they reached the windshield and missed by about a foot. I caught them and handed them back to him.

  “Lawrence Timerjack is a good man, a hero,” Shelly went on. “I’m a Pigeon. We’re together. Survivors together.”

  “You guys have a song?” I asked.

  “A song? No, should we?”

  “The Boy Scouts have one. So does UCLA. And the U.S. Marines and …”

  “You’re making fun of us,” Shelly said seriously.

  “Good, you noticed. There’s hope for you, Sheldon Minck.”

  I took a slow left at the next corner, giving Timerjack time to follow and the impression, I hoped, that I hadn’t spotted him.

  “Maybe I should just change my will,” Shelly said. “And you tell him I changed it.”

  I passed a slow-moving lug of a Chrysler and put a car between Timerjack and me.

  “Might just make him mad enough to kill you anyway,
” I said.

  “Oh, I get it,” said Shelly with a crazy cackle. “If I don’t change my will, he kills me. If I do change it, he kills me. What do I do?”

  “Go back to jail,” I suggested, looking for the delivery alley next to Bullock’s.

  I looked up at the rearview mirror and stepped on the gas making a sharp right into the alley. Most people who have made a delivery to Bullock’s would tell you the alley dead-ended at the loading dock. Most people would tell you there was a passageway just to the right of the loading dock. Most people would tell you a car wouldn’t fit down that passageway. Most people didn’t reckon with a refrigerator on wheels.

  The alley was clear. Timerjack was about twenty yards behind me. Shelly looked out the front window, braced himself, and screamed. I slowed down and drove into the narrow passage, slightly scraping the passenger side of the car. Shelly closed his eyes. There was enough room for me to keep going, but not enough room for Timerjack and the Ford. He stopped just short of the passage.

  I was driving slowly, but still fast enough to stay ahead of Timerjack if he came after us on foot. I looked into the rearview mirror and saw three figures in the shadows. The doors of the Ford were open.

  Shelly opened his eyes, blinked, then regarded me through his thick glasses.

  “We did it,” he wept.

  Suddenly the rear window of the Crosley—a small patch of glass a little bigger than a license plate—exploded. Something thudded into the dashboard between us. I drove a little faster.

  “It’s a crossbow bolt,” he said.

  I glanced down at the piece of metal embedded in my dashboard.

  “They tried to kill me with my weapon of choice,” he said.

  “Weapon of choice?”

  “That’s what we call it when we pick a weapon for survival,” Shelly explained.

  We came out on a nearly empty street. I turned right and made a quick left at the first corner. We had lost the Survivors.

  “He just tried to kill me,” wailed Shelly.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think the woman or the kid got trigger-happy. I don’t think Timerjack wants to kill you with a weapon that will lead the police back to him.”

  “Then …?”

  “I think they want to make it look like an accident,” I said. “I would. Timerjack’s no Quiz Kid, but he’s not an idiot, either. Maybe someone else is pulling the strings.”

  “What strings?”

  “Telling Timerjack what to do,” I said.

  “How does that keep me from getting killed?”

  “We find him or her,” I said, exhibiting a confidence I didn’t feel. “And while we look, I try to get you out of a murder charge and keep you safe.”

  “Back to jail?” he asked.

  “We’ll give it a day or two. Now I’ve got to figure out where to put you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  THERE IS A school of thought that says the best place to hide something or someone is the one place no one would think of looking. The problem is coming up with the one place no one would think of looking. Some say it’s a place so obvious that it won’t even be considered by whoever is looking. It’s been my experience, however, that both the police and the criminals always look in the most obvious places first. They’d be stupid not to.

  So, when I was sure the green Ford wasn’t behind me, I headed downtown to the Biltmore Hotel on Fifth and Olive. The Biltmore is the city’s largest hotel, E-shaped stone and brick, twelve stories high. I’ve filled in for the regular house detective there and sometimes stood guard in uniform in the Biltmore Art Museum inside the hotel, keeping people from touching the oil paintings and etchings on display. I knew most of the desk clerks.

  Shelly waited in the car while I booked a room under the name Wayne Strunk. The desk clerk, a lean one-legged ringer for Jimmy Stewart, showed no suspicion or curiosity. The lobby wasn’t full but there were some late-nighters, men and women in military uniform, business types, a few good-looking women with the business types who were laughing too hard to mean it. I took the key, put down twenty dollars in advance against the bill, and went to fetch Shelly, now dressed only in his jail uniform. We went through the back entrance and up the service elevator.

  Shelly’s lips were moving all the time. I think he was talking to himself. Then, when the elevator stopped, he began talking to me.

  “I’m a doomed man,” he said.

  “We all are,” I said, leading the way to Room 434.

  “No, I mean, soon,” he said. “Is there a radio in the room?”

  “Yes.” I opened the door. “All the rooms have radios.”

  “I’ll listen to Amos ‘n’ Andy while I write out a new will,” he said.

  “Seems like a good idea to me, Kingfish,” I said leading the way in and turning on he light. “Don’t leave the room.”

  “How can I leave the room? I’m dressed in a blue jail uniform with a number on my back.”

  “Use room service. When room service comes, be wearing a towel. Sign the tab ‘Wayne Strunk.’”

  Shelly nodded in bewilderment. There were still traces of smudged makeup on his face.

  “And take a shower. I’ll bring you a razor and some clothes.”

  “I’ve got a change in the office,” he said.

  “I know. That’s where I’m going. What name are you going to sign on the room-service tab?”

  “I forget.”

  “Wayne Strunk. Write it down.”

  He moved to the night table next to the bed and wrote the name on the pad of paper.

  “And don’t call anyone,” I said.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me to lock the door?” he asked. “The detective always says, ‘Lock the door and keep it locked. Don’t let anyone in except me and the room-service guy.’”

  “Right,” I said. “Lock the door. Keep it locked and don’t let anyone in except me and the room-service guy.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Try to save your life,” I said, and went out the door.

  There were some advantages to having Shelly out of jail. No hearing. No arraignment. No need for Joan Crawford to appear in court. I had bought a little time.

  My plan was simple. Get Shelly some clothes and a razor. Save Shelly. Stay away from Lawrence Timerjack.

  Parking at eleven in front of the Farraday was no problem. Getting to our office with only the night lights and the glow of the three-quarter moon through the skylight was no problem. I walked up slowly, hearing nothing but the echo of my own footsteps. I used my key, got in, went through the reception room and into Shelly’s office, where I turned on the light. His change of clothes was on the left in the closet near the windows. He had a shirt, pants, socks, shoes in need of polish, and an almost-yellow jacket that didn’t go with the pants. I gathered what I thought he needed, dropped it on the dental chair, and went to my office to get my spare razor.

  When I turned on the light, I found Lawrence Timerjack in the chair behind my desk. He was looking at me with his good eye. His hands were at his sides, his mouth partly open, his forehead dotted by a crossbow bolt protruding from a hole from which blood had dripped down along his nose and over his lips.

  I sat in one of the chairs usually reserved for clients and looked at him for a long time before thoughts began to come in no particular order.

  How had he gotten in here?

  Where were his pals?

  Who had killed him and why?

  What was he doing in my office?

  What was I going to do next?

  First thought: Call the police. Second thought: Bad idea. Third thought: Open the window and heave the body out. Fourth thought: The police would identify Timerjack, make the connection to Shelly, and come looking for their escaped suspect, who would now be considered armed with his weapon of choice and extremely dangerous.

  I didn’t hear the door open behind me, not at first. When I did, I tried to get up and turn. There was no room to jump or
hide.

  “I heard noises,” Jeremy said.

  He was wearing a blue robe with a thick blue sash. His almost-bare chest was covered with corkscrew white hair. He looked at Timerjack and then at me. There was no expression in his look, but there was a question in his eyes.

  “May I ask?”

  “I didn’t kill him,” I said.

  He waited for more.

  “And neither did Shelly,” I said. “Shelly’s been with me. This is Lawrence Timerjack. Until he took a bolt between his eyes, he was the head of Survivors for the Future and probably the one who set Shelly up for Mildred’s murder.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “Get his body out of here. The building’s empty. I’ll pull my car up to the back door. I’ll take him somewhere.”

  “You get the car,” Jeremy said. “I’ll bring the body.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said.

  “The will is free. Friendship welcomes opportunity.”

  I grabbed Shelly’s clothes, got the Crosley and drove around the back into the alley which was a wild lot of rocks, bricks, abandoned auto parts and broken glass of every shade and sharpness. I knew the way through this minefield.

  Getting Timerjack’s body into the passenger seat was only a slight problem—not because Jeremy had trouble with the weight of the corpse, but because of the size of the seat.

  “I’ll go back upstairs and see if there is anything to clean up,” he said.

  I drove to Pershing Square and parked on Olive next to a familiar clump of bushes. The street was empty. I hurried around, opened the passenger-side door, and dragged Timerjack’s limp body out.

  There wasn’t anyone near the Beethoven statue when I dragged him through the bushes and looked into the open space around Ludwig. I sat Timerjack on the bench facing the composer, balanced him with arms draped around the back of the bench, and scatted back to my car.

  When I got back to the Biltmore, I knocked at the door to Shelly’s room.

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  “Mrs. Aimee Semple McPherson,” I answered in falsetto.

  He opened the door.

  “Toby, you’ve got my clothes.”

  He was wearing the hotel robe. His face was clean and his hair—what little of it he had—was sticking out in a jumble of small clumps around his ears.