Buried Caesars (5 page)

“One week and your mouth will look like Gable’s. You have the guarantee of Dr. Sheldon Minck,” Shelly said, leaning back on the sink, cigar in his mouth.

“Day after tomorrow at seven in the morning,” the man said, glancing at me.

“At nine, Sam,” Shelly said with a wave.

The man moved past me through the reception room and out the door. When it closed, Shelly beamed.

“See those duds, Toby? The man has money. Right off the street. Rush job. Mouth’s a mess. Alcohol, drinking. Do you know what he wants?”

“Pain,” I ventured.

“No,” sighed Shelly. “He wants me to put his mouth in shape so he can join the army. At his age.”

“What’s his name, Shel?” I said.

“Sam.”

“Sam what?”

“Sam. I don’t know. I’ll have him fill out a card when he comes back. He gave me fifty bucks cash in advance. Who needs names? But you want names, I’ll get you names. You know where I put those cards?”

He moved to a file cabinet covered by a mess of old magazines, bills, letters that had never been answered, and searched the top of each drawer in the hope that a blank patient card would magically appear.

“Didn’t bat an eye when I told him what it would cost,” Shelly gloated. “Not an eye. Come to think of it, he didn’t bat an eye when I worked on him, and he didn’t want gas. Said he had some lung problems. Can’t take gas. Man’s a class act, Toby. Take my word for it. A banker or something.”

“Lucky he found you,” I said, moving to the door.

“Lucky,” Shelly agreed, finding an ancient dental journal that looked promising. “Want to know where I went yesterday?” he went on, moving to the dental chair.

“Not particularly,” I said, opening the door to the reception room.

“Suit yourself,” Shelly said with a grin I didn’t like. “Suit your very own self.”

I didn’t like his I’ve-got-a-secret smirk, but I didn’t have time to deal with it. I left the office and went into the empty corridor. Somewhere, probably in Madame Sylverstre’s School of Music on the fourth floor, a man was singing scales in a desperate but elusive search for eight consecutive notes. I moved down the stairs slowly, no plan in mind other than to get to Pacific Palisades and do what I had to do.

Hoover Street was crowded with late-morning shoppers, soldiers, sailors and marines in uniform, and young women shoppers carrying packages. The non-package-carrying women would hit the streets just before dark and they would be selling, not shopping.

I turned the corner at Tenth, went halfway up the block and turned into the alleyway. This wasn’t the most direct route to my car. It would have been easier to go out the back door of the Farraday the way I had entered, but I’d heard the slight creak of linoleum when I hit the third-floor landing. By the time I had reached the Farraday lobby I was fairly sure I was being followed. When I turned the corner on Tenth I was certain. I stopped in the alley and waited.

It was Shelly’s patient, Sam.

We stood face to face. I wasn’t sure I could take him. The man was rail-thin and sunken-cheeked, but there was something in his face that made me think this was a man who didn’t know how to give up. He was certainly a man who didn’t back away.

The pad-pad of laceless shoes came behind me as I stood waiting, ready.

“Is he after your limo, Peters?” Zanzibar asked behind me. “If he’s after your limo, I’ll crown him. We got a deal.”

“We got a deal, Al,” I said. “He’s not after my car.”

“Then what’s he after?” Zanzibar Al asked, reasonably.

It was a good question. I let it stand. The traffic moved by us a few feet away, ignoring the drama in the alley.

“What’s he after?” Zanzibar Al repeated. “Geez damn. The world is one hell of a flash sometimes. You know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean,” Sam said, a small smile on his thin lips. “I simply want to talk to Mr. Peters for a minute or two.”

“You could have knocked on my door,” I said.

“Old habit,” Sam said. “I used to be in the business. Pinkerton. I guess I’m not as good a shadow man as I used to be. That, or you’re damn good.”

“Let’s say I’m damn good. It’ll make us both feel better,” I said.

“I feel better,” Zanzibar Al said to himself behind me.

I couldn’t figure Sam. My first thought was that MacArthur or Castle had sent him to keep an eye on me, but he could have done that without going through a session with Shelly. Besides, I had the feeling that I had seen him …

“Hammett,” I said.

“Hammett,” he agreed.

“I’ve seen your picture in the
Times
,” I said.

“I had a black mask as a kid,” Zanzibar Al said. “I forget the precise reason for it.”

“Not for some time,” Hammett said. “May I suggest we go somewhere less awkward?”

“I’ll give you a ride,” I said. “My limo is parked back here under the watchful eye of Zanzibar Al.”

I stepped back, to reveal Al, whose right cheek twitched in embarrassment.

“Pleased to meet you,” Al said.

“And I you,” said Hammett.

I dipped into my pocket, came up with two quarters and dropped them in Al’s waiting hand. It was more than double what I usually gave him, but the fee was being paid by the General.

Hammett said no more as we moved to my car and I opened the door.

“Never been in one of these,” he said as he climbed in.

“You’re in for a rare treat,” I said.

We drove past Al, who waved at us with the fist that still clutched the quarters.

“You can get two bottles for that money in San Francisco or Spokane, if you know where to go,” Hammett said, looking straight ahead. “And I know where to go.”

“Where can I take you?” I asked. “And why did you follow me?”

“I’m staying in the Kingston on Beverly,” Hammett answered. “Dr. Minck gave you the right information. Last week I went to the Whitehall Street induction center in New York City and attempted to enlist. They turned me down. No surprise. I’m forty-eight years old. I’ve drunk as much or more than your friend Zanzibar. My lungs are shot from tuberculosis. The scars showed in my X-rays. Hell, I’m a disabled World War I veteran. I convinced them that I had stopped smoking and drinking, which I have, and that my lungs are all right, but they rejected me because of the teeth. So …”

“You got on a plane, came to Los Angeles and picked the first dentist you ran into,” I said, heading west toward Sunset. “You couldn’t do it in New York?”

“Something like that,” he agreed. “There’s a woman in New York who might succeed in talking me out of this. I wanted to get as far from New York as possible. When I go back I’ll need to be sober, have a healthy mouth and be inductable before I have to deal with Lillian.”

“You could do better than Sheldon Minck,” I said.

“Perhaps, but I could also do worse,” he said. “I think I picked him because his was the only package I have ever encountered which included a dental office and private investigation agency, and I’ve encountered some strange businesses.”

“And you need a private investigator?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’ve been in the business.”

“I know,” I said. “Then …”

“Let’s say I’m offering my services for a few days while Dr. Minck gets rid of some teeth and gives my mouth some semblance of health, at least cosmetic semblance.”

He paused to let me take it in, and it was a lot to take in. The man at my side had written stories, books, movies. I’d seen the movies, read the books.

“I’m no Sam Spade,” I said.

“No one is, quite,” he said. “He’s the devil’s version of me at my worst and best.”

“And I’m no Continental operative, though I probably look more like him,” I went on.

Hammett inspected me.

“No, Jimmy Wright, a Pink back in Baltimore, came the closest,” Hammett said.

“So what is it? You want me to play Nora to your Nick?”

“I considered spending a few days with my wife and daughters,” he said, “but it’s been too long and … if I go back to the hotel I’m likely to start smoking and remembering what a drink or two can do to get you through elastic hours. I don’t write anymore, not real stuff. If I can keep busy for two or three days and get back to New York sober and in reasonable shape, I can talk them into letting me enlist. The plain truth is that the U.S. Army in the middle of its worst war may be the only thing that can save my life. There’s an irony there that doesn’t escape me.”

I looked his way. He looked out the window.

“Forget it. It was a bad idea,” he finally said. “A whim. I don’t usually go for them.”

“Wait a minute,” I came back, assuming he was talking about giving me a hand and not about joining the army. “I could use some help on a case. Just follow-up and tracing.”

“That’s how I made my living,” he said. “I’ve been beaten, clubbed, knifed and shot at. I finally gave it up and turned to writing full time when I got my skull dented on a case, couldn’t stop coughing blood and almost lost touch with what passes for the real world. Dent’s still there in the noggin to remind me.”

“What the hell,” I said. “No salary and the food’s on me. Might even get Shelly to give you a discount.”

“No need,” he said. “I may be emotionally and physically bent but I’m far from financially broke.”

A
ndrew Lansing did not live in the poverty belt of Los Angeles County. Life would have been much easier if he had. No, Andrew Lansing lived in an enclosed Pacific Palisades development with a high gate, a guard and, probably, large dogs with big teeth. It made one wonder where Andrew Lansing got his money before he ran off with MacArthur’s political war chest.

I drove past the driveway and came to a stop a block beyond. I laid out the situation for Hammett and told him only what I had to tell him, that I had to get through that gate, find the house of Andrew Lansing, and get any information I could on where he might be.

“Lansing’s run off with some money, a lot of money,” I said. “And some papers that are worth something, particularly to the wrong people.”

Hammett nodded, stone cold, and said, “Come back to the gate in five minutes. They’ll let you through and we can drive up to Lansing’s house.”

“You’re sure about that?” I said.

“Reasonably,” he said.

“What’ll you say?”

“I’ll improvise,” he said, getting out of the car.

I watched him walk back toward the gate in my rearview mirror. As he walked he stood straighter. By the time he hit the gate his shoulders were squared. He was into whatever character he had taken on.

I looked at the wristwatch my father had left me. According to the battered timepiece it was two-twenty. The watch always ran, but no matter how many times I reset it, it had a will of its own. I flipped on the radio and found Vic and Sade on KNX, which meant it was after ten-thirty. Uncle Fletcher was telling Sade that it was time for a family reunion, and Sade was telling Uncle Fletcher that Vic would be against it. Just then Rush came in excitedly claiming that the Gooch cat was stuck in the mailbox.

I figured five minutes had passed. I made a U-turn and headed back to the iron gate where Hammett, animated and looking a lot healthier than he had ten minutes earlier, stood chatting with one of two gray-uniformed guards. Hammett was nodding sympathetically. He spotted me and waved me forward. I rolled down the window.

“Floyd,” he said. “Mr. Lansing’s house is number six just beyond the far turn at the left.” He handed me a key. “You go get started and I’ll join you in a while. Arthur and I have a few things to talk about. Arthur was in the Rainbow Division during the last war.”

“That a fact?” I said, looking at Arthur, a potato of a man. He nodded in agreement.

I drove on before the other guard, who was more the celery type, started to get suspicious. Number six was easy to find, a white stone building surrounded by trees with a good view of the ocean through a clump of trees. The next house was about thirty yards down the road, which looked recently paved. I parked in front of the house, walked to the door and opened it with the key Hammett had handed me. I left the door unlocked so Hammett could get in.

The house was dark. The drapes and curtains in every room had been closed. The furniture was all new, modern stuff with lots of chrome. The walls in the Hying room were dark wood, with paintings of women tastefully spaced along them.

The women looked fine. I didn’t care much for the furniture. The house wasn’t big but it wasn’t small either. I moved through the first floor, checking the living room, dining room and kitchen. I opened drawers, turned them upside down, turned the paintings around, unscrewed the bases of the lamps so I could look inside and, in general, did a pretty thorough job. Major Castle and his men had apparently done a good job of going over the place and putting everything back. The only clear sign of someone else having gone over the place was the fact that the screws in the bases of the lamps came out too easily, as if someone had recently turned them.

I kept looking. The refrigerator was well stocked. Fancy cheeses, wine, juices, eggs. I opened everything and pulled the ice cube trays out to be sure nothing was in them but ice. The shelves were filled. I pulled down boxes, opened them, and sampled the contents of a jar of honeyed wheat germ. I had climbed up on the sink and was considering an assault on a jar of semi-stale cookies on a high shelf when I heard the front door open.