Buried Caesars (6 page)

Hammett came into the kitchen and looked up at me. His cheeks had some color in them and he seemed pleased with himself.

“Not the first rube I’ve caught with his hand in the cookie jar,” he said.

“They’re stale—macaroons. Want one?” I said, pushing the jar back and easing my way down with two macaroons in hand.

“No, thanks,” he said, brushing back his white hair. “Someone wanted privacy in here the last few days.”

“The drawn curtains,” I said.

“Drapes, shades,” he said, looking around. “They’re usually open. You can see where the sun bleached out the rug in the front room.”

I bit off a corner of macaroon and asked him what he had told the guards.

“Two ways to go,” he said, crouching to look up at the underside of the kitchen table. “Blend in and get lost or make the lie big. We didn’t have time to blend. I told him I was Lansing’s uncle, that I had recently bought a home down the road, that I had just been hired as the attorney for the Los Angeles Police Department and that I was supposed to meet my nephew here at eleven to discuss redecorating his home.”

“And who am I?” I asked, looking for a place to dump the cookie.

“Interior decorator,” he said. “Your car is being repaired and you’re using your son’s for the day.”

“And they bought it?” I marveled, locating the garbage can under the sink. There was garbage in it, including a few opened envelopes.

“I told them that Andrew would be back soon and that they should tell him I’m here as soon as he arrives,” Hammett went on while turning over the kitchen chairs and checking their bottoms. “I hinted strongly to Arthur that my department was in need of reliable men like him, men with a military background. Arthur has reason to expect a call in the near future from a Lieutenant Flynn.”

I was used to putting my hands in garbage. This time it wasn’t too bad except for the coffee grounds. The envelopes were all from bills.

I led the way back to the staircase and headed up. Something moved in one of the rooms above. All the doors were closed. I pointed to a door directly in front of us at the top of the stairs. Hammett nodded in agreement. We took our time going up the final five steps. At the top of the landing, Hammett put his hand under his jacket and came out with his finger pointed and thumb up in imitation of a gun. I shook my head no. Hammett nodded and looked around. He quickly pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and quietly placed a handful of coins in the center of it. He twisted the handkerchief, tied the end and demonstrated a reasonably good homemade blackjack. The entire project had taken him no more than ten seconds.

“I always carry a pocketful of coins for special occasions like this,” Hammett explained.

When he was ready I moved to one side of the door and he stood at the other with his weighted handkerchief in hand. I reached for the handle, twisted it quickly and pushed the door open hard. Hammett was at my side in the nearly darkened room. Thin slits of sun crept around the closed curtains. Someone was there. We could both hear him.

I found the light switch, hit it and turned, knowing that whatever was in there had spent time adjusting to the darkness but would be vulnerable to a shock of sudden light. The bedroom was empty. The bed was unmade. Pillows on the floor, blanket in a heap.

I pointed to the floor under the bed. Hammett nodded no and pointed to a closed door, a closet or bathroom. We held our breath and I heard a slight movement beyond the door. Whoever was in there had heard me open the door, had probably heard us come in the house. He or they either didn’t have a gun or they did and thought we were armed.

I took four steps to the closed door, pulled it open, a dark screeching ball leapt at my face. I threw up my hands and saw Hammett step forward and swing his loaded handerchief at a naked man just inside the door. I went tumbling backward and tripped on one of the pillows on the floor. The dark ball had hit my face, scratching my cheek and filling my nose, mouth and eyes with something soft and furry.

I grabbed the screeching creature and pushed it away. The cat flew into the corner, landed on its feet and tore out of the room. I tried to get up to help Hammett with the man in the bathroom, but he didn’t need help. The man, wearing nothing but a pair of glasses, was on his back on the tiles of the bathroom floor.

“He’s dead,” Hammett said looking at the body.

“You killed him with a handful of nickels and dimes?”

“Nickels and dimes don’t make holes in a man’s chest,” Hammett said. “I dented the skull of a corpse.”

I got up, touched the claw scratch on my cheek and moved to Hammett’s side to look down at the body. The corpse looked surprised. He lay dead and naked, staring at the ceiling.

“Cat must have been locked in with him,” Hammett said, kneeling next to the body. “I’d say he’s been dead less than eight hours.”

“I’d say I agree.”

“Someone propped him against the wall,” said Hammett, removing the glasses from the corpse and dropping them in his pocket. “Rigor straightened him. Damned odd. Only seen one standing corpse. That was back in Omaha, a second-story man named Booster Eddie Simms. Booster Eddie had a wild left eye. Damned thing danced all around the place. Couldn’t carry on a serious conversation with Eddie because of that eye. This Lansing?”

Hammett was having a hell of a good time.

“No,” I said. “It’s probably his roommate, Hower.”

Hammett turned back into the bedroom while I examined the body. Four bullet holes, lots of dried blood. Lots of blood on the floor, the walls, the sink. The mirror was bullet-hole cracked.

“It’s Hower,” Hammett said behind me. “Pants and wallet here. Sixty bucks. No robbery.”

“No robbery,” I agreed stepping back out of the bathroom and trying to slow down the thoughts. Thought one: Castle and his men came in. Hower was taking a shower. Castle or one of his men ran into him and shot him. Okay. What did that mean? Why didn’t Castle just make it look like a murder during a breaking and entering? Leave the place a mess, take the money from the wallet? Thought two: Castle, maybe with or without MacArthur’s knowing it, had set me up, sent me here to take the count for Hower’s murder. I didn’t like that thought. Thought three: Lansing killed Hower. Why? I don’t know. Whatever happened, Lansing was gone and Hammett and I were going to be identified by Arthur the gatekeeper and his partner.

Hammett was sitting on the unmade bed smoothing his thin mustache with the nail of his nicotine-stained right thumb.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

“Let’s finish what we started,” he said. “No one’s going to bother us for at least an hour. If you had something bigger than a Crosley, we might consider getting the body out of here. That would buy us time.”

“And obstruct justice,” I said.

“Obstruct the law,” Hammett corrected, getting up. “The law and justice are not always the same. All right. We leave the body.”

For the next twenty minutes we searched. I checked the second bedroom, the closets. He took the dead man’s room and the small attic. I could swear he was humming as we looked. He was humming and I was sweating.

Twenty minutes later we were about ready to call it a wasted morning. We went down the stairs and I reached for the door. From the kitchen, the cat let out a wild wail. Hammett and I looked at each other and moved quickly back into the kitchen.

“I didn’t see any cat food,” I said.

“They probably fed him table food, but I don’t see a bowl.”

I found a can of tuna and an opener and opened the can while the ball of orange and white fur rubbed against my leg. Hammet filled a bowl with water.

When the smell of the tuna hit the cat, he meowed, turned his head and dashed for a space next to the refrigerator. I followed him and found him pushing against the door of a low wooden cabinet. I opened the cabinet door. Inside was a supply of canned cat food. When I picked up the top can, the stack toppled. I shoved the cans back in the cabinet and noticed the loose board. I used a kitchen knife to pry the board up and found a small cloth bag.

Hammett put the bowl of water next to the cat and went with me to the kitchen table where I opened the bag and dumped its contents. There were three stacks of money, neatly wrapped and taped, and there were four letters—all from a Mr. Gerald Pintacki in Angel Springs. Each letter contained only one word. The first, postmarked July 6, read: “Yes.” The second, postmarked August 2, read: “Soon.” The third, postmarked August 29, read: “Ready.” The fourth, postmarked September 1, read: “Saturday.”

I tucked the letters in the inside pocket of my jacket. The hungry cat had gulped down the can of tuna and was rubbing against my leg and purring for more.

Hammett leaned over, picked up the cat and tucked it under his arm.

“We’ll take him,” he said. “Who knows when he’ll eat next if we don’t.”

I considered a protest but let it drop. I had other things to think about. “Fine,” I said.

“Peters,” Hammett said. “This hungry cat was locked in a room with a bloody corpse. Did you see a mark on that body besides the bullet holes? This is a cat of principle, a cat to be admired.”

“I love him,” I said. “Now let’s go.”

Hammett stopped at the front closet near the door. We’d both been through it but he opened it again, rummaged around with his free hand and came up with a blue baseball cap. He banded it to me.

“Put it on,” he said.

I put it on and he handed me the glasses he had taken from the dead man upstairs. I put them on too. I could see, but not very well.

“Look over the tops and let them drop on your nose,” he advised. “The scratch is a problem.”

I touched the tender line under my left eye where the cat had left his mark.

“I’ll try to maneuver Arthur and his friend to right side of the car so they won’t see it,” Hammett went on. “Did something like that with Tiffany Jack Rourke in Butterfield, Kansas. Corrupt little town. Lucky to get out with our lives.”

“What about you?” I asked. “What’s your disguise?”

“Too late for that. He’s already had a good look at me. Besides, you live in this town,” he said. “If things go right, I’ll be out of California and in the army in less than a week. I know how to stay out of sight for a few days. I have another idea or two. Let’s go.”

He stepped forward, stroking the cat, and waited for me to open the door. I did, pulled the baseball cap forward and hurried to the car, the glasses low on my nose so I could see over them.

Hammett got in the Crosley next to me and we headed for the gate. Arthur and his buddy were standing around and talking. Both were on the passenger side of the car as we approached.

“Stop right in the driveway,” he whispered, putting the cat on the floor.

I stopped, pushed the glasses up in front of my eyes and waited while Hammett leaned out of the open window.

“Arthur,” he called. “My nephew didn’t show up and I’ve got to get to a meeting. Tell him I’ll call him tonight, and don’t you forget you’ll be getting a call from my assistant, Ryan.”

“I won’t forget, Mr. Lansing,” Arthur said amiably.

“And Arthur,” he went on. “Do you know a pair of men living near my nephew, brothers, named Samuels or Lemuel, something like that?”

“Can’t say I do,” said Arthur, looking puzzled.

“Odd,” sighed Hammett. “They stopped by. One tall older man, gray hair, thin, about six-two, old suit. The other fat, bald?”

“Doesn’t sound familiar to me, Mr. Lansing. You know these guys, Bill?”

Bill didn’t know these guys. Hammett waved and smiled and whispered for me to drive on. I drove about ten yards slowly, pushed the glasses away from my eyes and stepped on the gas. A block later I took off the glasses and threw the cap behind the driver’s seat.

“That will give the police two descriptions of a pair of men seen lurking near Lansing’s house,” said Hammett. “Let’s find a phone and give them a third.”

We stopped at a gas station on Washington Boulevard just off the highway. While a kid who looked like he was six filled the Crosley, Hammett and I went into the station. The cat stayed in the car, hiding under the driver’s seat.

“I’m feeling better already,” Hammett said with a grin, breathing in the slightly smoggy air.

There was a phone in the station. It was reasonably private but I stood watch while Hammett called the Pacific Palisades police. His Italian accent was the best I’d heard.

“Police?” he asked. “My name is Manfriedo and I justa see two men coming out of this house near where I work. They look like they in one bigga hurry and my partner, he say, ‘No one home at Mr. Andrew Lansing’s house. Who they?’ So I calla you. I think maybe they rob the place.”

Hammett paused, automatically reached into his jacket pocket where he probably usually kept his cigarettes, changed his mind and nodded his head.

“Sure. One man he young like my son Gino who’s fighting the Nazis somewhere. I don’t know. About thirty maybe. Yellow hair, almost white. Thin man. The other guy? He’s tall, maybe six foot, built like a wrestler. Nose like a bird. That’s all I see. No, wait. They got in one of those little cars like Willie the Milkman has, a Hillman, a brown Hillman. Sure …” He paused and began to scratch the mouthpiece of the phone with his fingernails. “Something’s wrong with thisa phone. I call you back after work if I get a chance. You check on Mr. Lansing’s house. I’m worried he’s …” And Hammett hung up.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Starved,” Hammett said, rubbing his long fingers together.

I paid the kid and we got back in the car, drove up Sunset to Pico and headed east. We stopped for lunch at a place Hammett knew called Al Sandy’s on La Cienega. Hammett tucked the cat under his arm and led the way into the restaurant. It was a little late for lunch so the place wasn’t crowded. It would have taken a lot of people to fill Al Sandy’s. The place was long, narrow and dark with a low ceiling that sagged every few feet. The tables were covered with red and white checked tablecloths, some of them reasonably clean.

In the farthest corner, a group of old men were arguing in a language that sounded like it might be Greek. The waiter, gray haired and wearing a white apron over his round belly, nodded at Hammett and continued to chew something the size of a baseball.