Mildred Pierced: A Toby Peters Mystery

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Green Ford. Yeah, now that you mention it.”

  I hung up.

  Anthony—or, if I was right, Sax—had a British accent. I called the front gate at Warner Brothers. Claude Herman answered. Claude had been at Warner working the gate long before I went to Warner for my five years there as a security guard.

  “Claude, it’s Toby, Toby Peters. Has a cop come there looking for Joan Crawford?”

  “A few minutes ago,” he said.

  “British accent?”

  “Maybe, now that you mention it. Showed me his badge.”

  “He wasn’t a cop.”

  “Looked like one, had the badge.” Claude, who was nearing retirement, said this defensively.

  “Send security to find him,” I said. “He’s after Joan Crawford.”

  “Well … his credentials looked good, Toby. It’s you who’s on the permanent list of people not welcome on the lot,” he reminded me.

  Harry Warner himself had put me on the list and fired me when I broke the nose of a B-western star who was mauling a very young would-be starlet. The cowboy’s nose couldn’t be covered with enough makeup to keep shooting.

  A kid editor I knew named Don Siegel, who had just started to do second-unit work, had suggested they write in a scene in which the cowboy gets his nose broken.

  “No one wants to see him with a broken nose,” Harry Warner had said.

  Shooting had been delayed three weeks. My firing was immediate. That’s what started me in the private detective business.

  “Claude …”

  “Sorry, Toby. If I call for a pickup on a cop and have to tell them it was your idea, I could lose my pension. You might—”

  I didn’t stop to listen to what I might do. I considered calling the police, but didn’t think I’d get a much better reception there.

  If I strained the Crosley and was lucky enough not to get stopped by a cop—which was likely, since the Crosley couldn’t do more than a few miles over any local speed limit—and if I didn’t get caught running any red lights, I could make it to Burbank in twenty minutes. Maybe. I ran down the stairs with the briefcase, ignoring the pain in my shoulder.

  “Got to go,” I said, running to the door.

  “Take care of yourself, Toby,” Gunther said. “And call me should you have the need.”

  “I will,” I said.

  I made it to the Warner gate in twenty-five minutes. There was a car ahead of me. Allan Jenkins was leaning out of the window smiling and talking to Claude, who was laughing.

  I hit my horn. Jenkins turned to give me a dirty look and recognized me. He had been on the Warner lot as a character actor almost as long as Claude had been a security guard. He pulled into the lot, and I pulled up to the open window of the guard box.

  Claude was a bulky, ruddy-faced sixty-year-old with a tight uniform and cap and a frown.

  “Can’t let you in, Toby,” he said.

  “That guy with the British accent. Has he come out?”

  “No.”

  “He may be trying to kill Joan Crawford right now,” I said. “You’ve got to let me in.”

  He shook his head and I took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” I said. “Any idea where she is? We can call her.”

  “Stage Five,” he said, “but I’m not—”

  I stepped on the gas. The Crosley clattered forward and started to pick up speed. I could hear Claude calling my name plaintively behind me. I’d explain to whoever I had to explain to that I had run the gate.

  I didn’t have a lot of time. I was sure Claude was already calling the security office. However, having worked in it, I knew I could get to Stage Five before anyone from security made it.

  I went past three girls wearing orange tights and peacock feathers circling out from their rear ends. The feathers fluttered as they stepped back out of my way.

  Stage Five was to my right. I drove to it, grabbed the briefcase and got out of the Crosley as fast as I could. I was right outside the door. The red light wasn’t on. I went through the door and looked across the huge empty stage. There was a table and six chairs and a rack of costumes. Michael Curtiz, who had just been assigned Casablanca when I was fired, was standing with a clipboard talking to a girl in a gray suit who was taking notes. He was about my height, had a receding hairline, and was wearing a frown.

  “The next time I want some son of a bitch to do something,” he was telling the girl in his thick Hungarian accent, “I’ll do it myself.”

  They looked at me as I hurried toward them, the Buntline jiggling in the briefcase I carried.

  “Joan Crawford?” I asked.

  Curtiz looked at me and said, “Don’t talk to me while I’m interrupting.”

  “Joan Crawford,” I repeated.

  Curtiz gave me his best withering look and said, “You are that madman who was fired for hitting that cowboy. I remember you.”

  “Is Joan Crawford here?” I repeated.

  “She was,” said the girl. “A policeman came and asked her to go with him.”

  “He had to wait till we finished our reading,” said Curtiz. “Policeman or no policeman.”

  “How long ago did they leave?” I asked.

  “Just a few minutes ago,” the girl said.

  I ran back across the stage toward the door and got out just as a trio of uniformed security guards came running down the wide space between the soundstages. I got in my car and drove hard toward the gate.

  Claude was standing outside his guard box, cap in his hand, looking nervous. I pulled up next to him.

  “Which way did the cop go?” I asked. “He just pulled out of here with Joan Crawford, right?”

  “Toby, I—”

  “He may be taking her someplace to kill her,” I said.

  “Oh crap,” said Claude, seeing his pension flying.

  “I won’t say anything if you don’t,” I said. “Tell them what I did, but leave Crawford out if it. Just tell me which way they went—quick.”

  “Left, a minute or so ago, maybe less.” He pointed.

  “Thanks, Claude, sorry.”

  And I was off. My Crosley was no match for the Ford, but Anthony might not be in a big hurry, might not want to get stopped by a cop and didn’t know I was following him. I sped up looking for the Ford, passing through narrow spaces in the traffic, skidding along the curb at one point to pass an oversized Oldsmobile.

  Then I saw the green Ford. I slowed down, staying three cars behind. He had seen my Crosley before, and there weren’t many like it around.

  We hadn’t gone more than four or five blocks when the Ford made a sharp right turn into the parking lot of a restaurant called Hickory Heaven. There were no other cars in the lot, and there was a big sign on the side of the fake log-cabin exterior making it clear that the place was “Closed Temporarily for Renovation.”

  I drove past the parking lot, watching Anthony drive toward the door of Hickory Heaven. The next place I could turn right was the driveway of a gas station.

  I pulled in and parked on the side of the pumps. Carrying my briefcase, I went inside the gas station, where a woman who looked like Marjorie Main stood behind the counter next to the cash register and looked at me.

  “Call the police,” I said. “Wilshire District. Ask for Detective Seidman. If he’s not there, tell anyone that Toby Peters has Sheldon Minck at the Hickory Heaven restaurant and tell them where it is.”

  “What the hell did you just say?”

  “I’ll write it,” I said, putting my briefcase down on the counter with a clunk and pulling out my notebook. I tried to balance the need for speed with the desire to be legible. I handed her what I had written, which included the phone number to call.

  “You could have called yourself, the time it took you to tell me and write it down,” she said.

  “Right,” I agreed, picking up the briefcase. “Just call. Life and death.”

  I ran out of the station, glancing back to see her pick up the phone while she s
hook her head and looked at the sheet of paper I had given her.

  There was a fence between the gas station and Hickory Heaven. I was in no condition for climbing. I went to the sidewalk, made the turn, and quick-stepped to the parking lot. Briefcase open, I headed for the Ford. I could see it was empty. So, I went to the restaurant door and turned the handle. It was open. I went in.

  There were no lights on but there were enough dust-dancing beams coming through the windows to see past the reception podium in front of me into the restaurant. Most of the tables and chairs were piled in a corner at the back. One table sat in the middle of the room. Behind it, facing me, sat Anthony and Joan Crawford. Anthony had a gun in his hand.

  “Will someone please tell me what is happening?” Crawford asked.

  “Be quiet and you’ll find out,” said Anthony, his eyes and gun on me.

  “You expected me,” I said, moving toward the table slowly.

  “Saw you following in that little fridge of yours,” he said. “Thought it best to get things done as soon as possible. I knew about this place and … by the way, when they reopen, if you are alive, you should definitely try their ribs and mashed potatoes with the house salad and a glass of their Napa cabernet.”

  “Spoken like a true Survivor,” I said.

  “I was not always as you see me now,” he said with a smile.

  “I gather from this that this man is not a policeman,” said Crawford.

  “He’s not a policeman,” I confirmed.

  “No,” said Anthony. “I’m a man with a simple mission. Peters, you are both to accompany me to the nearest telephone being very, very careful. There we will call Dr. Minck, who is safely watched and waiting. You will get from him the location of the will he wrote in the hotel.”

  “Or?”

  “I’ll put a bullet in the head of Miss Crawford,” he said with a smile glancing at her. “And then another in you.”

  Crawford’s face went pale.

  “And if I get the information from Shelly, you let us go, kill him, and no hard feelings?”

  “Haven’t thought that part through yet,” he said. “But we really don’t need any more bodies cluttering the landscape. It’s money we seek, not mayhem. I’m afraid you’re right about Dr. Minck, though. He’ll have to go. Can’t have him writing more wills and can’t collect if he’s alive. That part’s not negotiable. I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can. Besides, with Minck no longer among the living, we won’t care if Miss Crawford persists in saying she saw him kill his wife.”

  He was lying. After what he had just done and said, there was no way he could let Crawford and me live.

  I considered my options. Go for the Buntline and risk getting Crawford shot, or stall and hope that the woman in the gas station had gotten through to someone who believed her.

  “I’ve got to think about it,” I said.

  He looked at his wristwatch. “Not much to think about. Not much time to do it.”

  “What about Martha Helter?” I asked. “You were going to kill her in the hospital.”

  “Not necessary,” he said. “Got enough from her to know she can’t hurt us.”

  “You killed Lewis, sent her to the hospital, tried to kill me,” I said.

  “Is that a question?” he asked.

  “People have a way of not surviving around and among the Survivors,” I said. “All right if I sit?”

  “Pull up a chair, but I’m afraid it will be a short rest. We have a phone call to make.”

  “Wait a minute,” Crawford said. “I have something to say about this.”

  “I can’t think what.” Anthony gave her a pleasant smile.

  “Suppose I won’t go along with any of this,” she said.

  “Can’t really see you have a choice,” he said. “Peters?”

  “You’re Sax,” I said, changing the subject while Crawford folded her arms and fumed.

  “Not relevant,” he said.

  “Okay, let’s try this one. We don’t go along with what you want. You kill us. You have nothing.”

  “We still have Dr. Minck,” he said. “And though he’s proving difficult to persuade, we really haven’t employed the most deplorable methods yet.”

  The door behind me to the restaurant shot open.

  I pulled out the Buntline as Anthony stood and aimed over my shoulder. Before he or I could shoot, Crawford reached over, grabbed his hair, and scratched his face.

  “Drop the guns,” a voice behind me said.

  I dropped the Buntline on the table, but Anthony pushed Crawford away and sent her tumbling over her chair onto the floor.

  Blood trailing down his cheek, he aimed at Crawford. Bullets shot past me. I heard them, but none hit me. Anthony was blown back, his gun flying in the air. He didn’t scream, just let out an “oooff” sound like an out-of-shape heavyweight taking a solid right to the midsection.

  A uniformed cop ran past me. A second cop faced me, gun in hand.

  “What’s going on here?” asked the first cop, an old-timer with his hat tilted back.

  I moved to help Crawford up. She gave me her hand. She looked dazed.

  “My name’s Peters,” I said. “The lady is Billie Cassin.”

  Crawford was on her feet now.

  “And I still don’t know what’s going on.” the old-timer said, moving to the fallen Anthony. “We got a call on the radio. Said get over here and find Peters and Minck.”

  “You found one of them,” I said.

  “And a hell of a lot more,” said the old-timer. “This guy’s dead. Who is he?”

  “He said his name was ‘Anthony.’ I think he might also be James Fenimore Sax. Cawelti at the Wilshire will fill you in.”

  “And that?” the cop asked, pointing at the Buntline with his pistol.

  “An antique,” I said. “Family heirloom. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a permit to carry a gun.”

  I started to reach into my jacket. The second cop pushed my hand away and did the reaching. He came out with my wallet and found my card.

  “He’s a private investigator,” he said. “Like he says.”

  “Go to the gas station next door,” I said. “The woman there will tell you I was the one who told her to call the police.”

  “So,” the old-timer asked again. “Kindly tell me who the hell I just killed. I haven’t put a bullet through anyone since Verdun.”

  “He … it’s a long story,” I said.

  “Best told to a detective,” he said.

  Crawford looked at me with large, pleading eyes.

  “You happen to know Lieutenant Phil Pevsner?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” the old-timer said warily.

  “He’s my brother. He’s at County Hospital. You can reach him through the nursing station on the sixth floor. He’s on a case.”

  “He knows all about this?” asked the cop.

  “Give him a call,” I said.

  The old-timer nodded to the younger cop watching me, and the younger cop put his gun away and headed for the pay phone next to the door.

  “Can I get you a drink of water or something, Miss …?”

  “Cassin,” she said, sitting at the table again. “No, thank you.”

  “You look a lot like—” the cop said, as I jumped in.

  “Faint,” I said.

  The cop turned to me. “What?”

  “The lady looks like she’s going to faint,” I said, raising my voice.

  On cue, Crawford closed her eyes and conveniently dropped her arms and head on the table.

  “I’ll go in the kitchen and get her some water,” I said not knowing if the water was turned on.

  “All right, all right,” said the cop, touching Crawford’s shoulder. “Hurry up.”

  When I came back with the water, the younger cop was just getting back.

  “Lieutenant Pevsner says we should wait right here,” he said. “He’s on the way. Said not to report this until he arrives, is what he said. And do
n’t question either of these two.”

  While I gave Crawford some water, she winked at me without cracking a smile and the younger cop added, “Ted, you sure he’s dead?”

  “It’s the coroner we’re going to call, not an ambulance,” said the older cop. “When the lieutenant gets here. Go to the gas station next door and see if there’s a woman there who’ll confirm what Peters here says.”

  The young cop hurried away and the three of us who were still alive in the room sat down to wait. I thought I smelled the faint aroma of barbecue. It smelled good, but I didn’t think I’d be taking Anthony’s advice about returning to Hickory Heaven when it reopened.

  CHAPTER 18

  WATCHING PHIL WORK John Cawelti was the highlight of my year. Of course the year was just a little over a week old but I was sorely in need of a highlight.

  We sat in the interrogation room at the Wilshire Station. Neither Cawelti nor Phil wanted to go into Phil’s office. The two of them faced each other across the small table. I sat in the corner, a fly on the wall, a speck in the dust, a private eye watching silently. I was a catalog of near-biblical anonymity.

  Cawelti began the battle with a careful attack. He knew Phil’s flash-point anger, had seen my brother’s fists drive hard, his face red with uncontrolled anger. Phil usually reserved his anger for criminals and his kid brother, but Cawelti was definitely catching him on a bad day.

  “What are you doing, Phil?” Cawelti asked evenly.

  “Looking across the table at a putz,” Phil answered, just as evenly.

  “Come on,” Cawelti said. “We’ve got a problem here, a couple of dead people, one shot by a cop, a woman in the hospital, and a fugitive dentist.”

  “You’ve got a problem,” Phil said. “Not ‘we,’ ‘you.’ I’m officially retiring.”

  “Effective in two weeks, DeVilbus tells me,” Cawelti said.

  “I’m touched,” said Phil. “You’re sorry to see me go.”

  Cawelti hesitated, thought, face starting to turn red.

  “Truth? I’m not sorry to see you go,” he said. “You know it. I know it. You don’t like me. I don’t like you and your smart-ass brother over there.”

  I smiled politely.

  “You know my wife died,” Phil said, looking at his fingernails, which I knew from experience was a dangerous sign.