Mildred Pierced (19 page)

My .38 was in the glove compartment of my Crosley down at No-Neck Arnie’s. Even if I had it, I was such a terrible shot that both Crawford and I would probably be dead before I got to pull the trigger, and even if I did get off a shot, the chances of my hitting anyone were long.

Then again, killing Joan Crawford might be a bit more than Helter would be willing to take on on her own. My guess was that she was considering calling James Fenimore Sax, if she had any real idea how to reach him.

The gate was open now. Crawford looked at me.

“I’m telling you Sax killed Timerjack,” I said.

“Why?”

“Sax owns the Survivors. Shelly has a will leaving everything to the Survivors. Shelly is about to come into a lot of money, his wife’s and a lot from an invention. My guess is Timerjack knew about it, but Sax had decided to kill Pigeon Minck and pocket everything.”

Helter shook her head. “You’re making it up.”

“Damn right,” I said. “You have a better story? I’m listening. We’re all listening.”

“Let’s just kill them and bury them in the woods the way the Deerslayer taught us,” said Lewis.

“Martha,” Crawford said, “do you think I’m a fool? I know you aren’t.”

“So?”

“We told someone we were coming here,” Crawford said. “If we don’t call him in half an hour with a code word, he’ll be up here fully armed with lots of help and very angry.”

“Right,” I jumped in. “Ask your boys how angry the man they ran into yesterday can get.”

“I need to think this out,” Helter said.

“Let’s kill them,” Lewis repeated.

“Anthony?” Helter asked the craggy man.

“Maybe she’s telling the truth,” he said with a definite British accent.

“About—?” asked Helter.

“Everything,” said Anthony.

“Martha,” Crawford said earnestly. “Oh, Martha. If Sax killed Timerjack, who must have been a fine man, his next step might be to kill you and the boy and, well, all of you.”

“We’re talking about a lot of money,” I said.

“How much?” asked Lewis.

“About half a million dollars,” I said.

“He’s lying.” Lewis lifted his blowgun.

Martha Helter reached out and pushed the boy’s hand down.

“We’ll see for ourselves,” she said.

She was still trying to decide what to do with us when a car came speeding up the road and stopped behind us. John Cawelti and Sloane stepped out with two uniformed officers, each carrying a shotgun.

“What the hell is going on?” Cawelti shouted.

“Trespassers,” Helter said. “These two demanded that we let them in. We were resisting.”

Cawelti looked at the kid with the blowgun, the woman with the knife, Anthony with the gun and the two bruised goons. He wasn’t impressed.

“Lawrence Timerjack,” Cawelti said, looking at the group of Survivors. “He’s been murdered.”

“They just told us,” said Martha Helter.

Cawelti gave me one of his hardest looks. He was deprived of his moment of surprise.

“We have questions,” said Cawelti. “Lots of them—and we’ve got a search warrant.”

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it as he walked past Crawford and me through the open gate.

“We’ve got nothing to hide,” said Helter.

“Everyone’s got something to hide,” said Cawelti. “Right, Peters?”

“Right,” I agreed.

“Like what you and my witness are doing here?” Cawelti said.

“Condolence call,” I said. “You want us to come in with you?”

“No,” said Cawelti. “I want you to get the hell out of here. I want you to tell me where Minck is. I want you to lose your license and do some hard time.”

“For what?”

“I don’t much care.” Cawelti marched toward the cabin with his armed escort behind the group of Survivors.

Back in the car and heading toward the city, I asked, “Your mother’s name was Martha?”

“No.” Crawford lit a cigarette, her hands shaking.

“That business about having to call someone in half an hour was good,” I said. “I almost believed you.”

“Thank you,” she said nervously. “It’s what I do for a living. It’s what all actors do, some of us better than others. We lie on film about who we are. And we lie offscreen about who we are.”

I drove her home.

A man was standing at the open front door. He was in his thirties, about six-one and one hundred seventy-five pounds. He was wearing slacks, a white T-shirt and thick glasses. He looked like he was in good shape.

We got out of the car, and Crawford introduced me to her husband. “Darling, this is Mr. Peters, the detective I told you about.”

We shook hands. He had a handsome face and a firm grip.

“I know you.” He studied my face.

“I don’t—”

“Pevsner,” he said. “Your father had the grocery store in our neighborhood in Glendale.”

“Right,” I said, still not placing him from anything but some episodes of the
Crime Does Not Pay
short subject films.

“Fred Kormann,” he said. “I used to hang around when you played baseball in the park.”

I looked at him again. Joan Crawford stood, hands clasped smiling.

“Right, I remember you. Little kid who could run like hell.”

“That was me.” He turned to Crawford taking her hands in his. “I got the part.”

“Wonderful,” she said.

“It’s called
Ladies Courageous.
Walter Wanger’s producing. I play Loretta Young’s husband. And I’ve got a good shot at a part coming up in something called
The Lost Weekend.
I’d get to play Ray Milland’s brother.”

“We must celebrate,” she said, kissing him.

He turned to me and I said, “Congratulations.”

“My luck may be changing,” he said. “Now let’s talk about my wife’s.”

“I think it might not be a bad idea for you and your kids to take a few days off somewhere where I can reach you.”

Crawford stepped between us and looked into my eyes with Crawford determination.

“We are not going to hide,” she said. “Phillip can take a few days off and provide all the protection we need. My husband played football at Stanford. The professionals wanted him. He spent most of his youth working in the oil fields in Texas and Oklahoma. He can take care of us.”

Terry adjusted his glasses.

“Not against a gun,” I said.

“Yes, even against a gun,” he said.

“You might lose your job,” I said to him.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “And I’ve started to make a few dollars with some real estate. We’ll be fine.”

Crawford clutched her husband’s arm with a smile of pride.

“We’re in good hands, Mr. Peters,” she said. “Don’t worry about me. Just find Sax.”

“Sax?” asked Terry.

“I’ll explain it,” she said, leading him through the open door.

I waited till they closed the door before driving to No-Neck Arnie’s to give him back his car and get mine. The Crosley’s rear window had been replaced, and something had been used to fill in the hole in my dashboard and paint it approximately the same color as the rest of the dashboard.

“Gave it a tune-up,” Arnie said, looking into the window of the Ford I’d been driving. “Needed it. Bill, with the gas you used, comes to ten dollars and twelve cents.”

“A nice round number,” I said.

“Trade secret,” said Arnie, cleaning his hands at the sink in the corner with something thick and yellow-green. “Customers don’t trust even numbers. They think you’ve rounded them out to your advantage. You want to give me ten even, I can live with it.”

I gave him the cash. Joan Crawford’s money was going fast.

“Where’s Arnie, Jr.?” I asked.

“Got a sort of date,” No-Neck said. “Seeing the widow of a buddy in his outfit. Second time. They have a lot to talk about. He says she’s a nice girl. Got a two-year-old little boy. What the hell.”

He gave me my car keys.

“See you, Arnie,” I said.

“They say the war’s gonna be over soon,” he said as I opened the door to my car. “But Arnie, Jr. says the Japs won’t give up. They think it’s dishonorable. They think we’ll kill all the men and rape all the women. A lot of men are going to die, Toby. I’m just glad my boy’s out of it.”

I waved as I drove out the open door. The car didn’t quite hum, but it didn’t rattle like a defrosting refrigerator, which was a great improvement over what it had sounded like when I had dropped it off. With luck, no one would try to kill me or one of my passengers for at least a day or two.

V
IOLET WAS IN
the office when I got there. She was behind her desk in the reception room.

“Zivic lost,” she announced.

“I know.” I pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Freak accident.”

“Freak, smeak, he lost.” She put the bill in her purse on the desk. “What’s happening?”

“The story is long,” I said.

I gave her the short version.

“Joan Crawford,” she said. “Could you get me an autographed picture?”

“I’ll try. Any calls?”

“Not for you. Appointments for Dr. Minck. Some lawyer who wanted to get a message to him about a contract, something to do with one of those gadgets he’s always working on.”

“The no-snore,” I said.

“That’s the one.”

“Go on home, Violet.”

“Yeah. Is Dr. Minck going to be all right?”

“Sure. Toby Peters is on the job.”

She smiled.

“I think he’s a little wacky, and I wouldn’t ever let him touch my teeth or Rocky’s, but I like him,” she said.

“So do I.”

She grabbed her purse and got up.

“You’ll get all the lights and everything.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Beau Jack’s fighting Lulu Costantino—” she began.

“I don’t want to hear it. Before you came to work here, one of the few delusions I had was that I knew boxing. You’ve brightened the office but taken away that delusion. Most of it, anyway. I want to hold on to what little I’ve got.”

“I’ll give you good odds,” she said. “Very good odds.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said as she walked out of the door clutching her purse.

In my office, I sat in the chair where I had found the body of Lawrence Timerjack. It didn’t feel any different.

I needed an idea, a lead, a list. I pulled out my notebook to write down things I could do. Ten minutes later, there was nothing on the list, so I called Mrs. Plaut’s. Gunther answered after six or seven rings.

“Hi, Gunther,” I said.

“Have you found him?”

“No. Any luck with Sax?”

“There are thirty-seven people named Sax listed in the greater Los Angeles telephone directory. None of them is named James F. There is a Jerome Sax. I took the liberty of calling him. A woman, presumably his wife, said Sergeant Sax was somewhere in Italy with the First Army. I am calling all the people named Sax and asking them if they know a James Sax. One person has a distant cousin in Canada whose name is James Monroe Sax. I shall keep trying. I shall also go to City Hall in the morning and see if, perhaps, there is a birth record for Mr. Sax in Los Angeles County.”

“It’s worth a try,” I said, hearing the outer door open.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

There was a knock at my door. I told whoever it was to come in. It was Professor Geiger, looking even more like Larry Fine.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked.

“Is this a bad time?” I repeated and really gave the question some thought before I answered, “No worse than any other.”

“I would like to help if I can,” he said. “I feel somehow responsible for getting Sheldon involved with the Survivors. I was already disillusioned with them when I did it, but I felt that he needed something that would give him a little confidence and a little exercise.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” I said, pointing to the chair across from me as I opened a bill and put it on the pile of bills that had been growing on my desk for the past few weeks. When the pile got high enough, I’d push it into the wastebasket.

“Even without Lawrence Timerjack, they are a dangerous group. A group of fools, but fools can be dangerous.”

“I agree,” I said. “Did Timerjack ever mention the name James Fenimore Sax to you?”

Geiger turned his eyes upward, touched his chin, and thought.

“James Fenimore Sax,” he repeated. “I believe I did hear that name. Once when I was in the meeting room by the lake. Timerjack got a call. It was all ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ and several times he did say ‘Mr. Sax.’ I had the impression Timerjack was getting orders, but I’m not sure. When he got off the phone, he told us all to put on our backpacks for a night in the woods.”

“A night in the woods?”

“When there were problems, Lawrence Timerjack liked to spend the night in the cold or heat, fighting mosquitoes and hunting for squirrels, which we had to skin, cook and eat. That, I believe, was the night I decided that if this was survival, I did not choose to be a Survivor.”

“You quit.”

“And went back to working full time on the Aeolian trafingle. It will definitely replace the theremin.”

“You told me.”

“I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his wild hair. “I’m starting to forget things. Wait. I remember something else about this Sax.”

“What?”

He looked at me with a grin. Then the grin disappeared. “I can’t remember.”

“Let me know when you do,” I said.

Geiger left, and I swiveled around and watched the sun slowly falling in the west. I swiveled again and called Anita’s apartment. She answered after one ring.

“Hi,” I said. “You eat yet?”

“No. I was giving serious thought to Spam and eggs.”

“How about dinner and a movie?” I asked. “My mind needs a rest. Just a quick bite and a short movie.”

“My shoes are already off,” she said.

“
Princess O’Rourke
with Olivia de Havilland and Robert Cummings,” I said. “The one where’s she’s a princess and wants to marry all-American Bob and President Roosevelt—”

“I know the movie. I’m tired, Toby. Why don’t you just come over here for Spam and eggs and we’ll listen to
Big Town.
”

“I’m on my way.”