Mildred Pierced (23 page)

“Before midnight,” I said.

“Definitely not poison,” he said, changing the bandage on my shoulder. “Whoever patched you up did a good job.”

“Her name’s Anita,” I said.

“Nurse?”

“Works at a drugstore lunch counter.”

“She’s in the wrong line,” he said. “Never saw a dart wound before. Interesting.”

“Very,” I said.

“I have seen one,” Gunther said. “In the circus in Austria long before the war. Intentionally inflicted in that instance also. Caused the loss of the eye of Herman Salthoffer, an aerialist. He wore a patch after that and claimed a war wound so he could collect a pension.”

“Takes all kinds,” said Doc Hodgdon, helping me on with my shirt. “You won’t be playing handball for a while. Try not to use that arm.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing, Toby,” he said. “Unless you can deliver a late life of relatively good health, quiet tranquillity, and the assurance that I will finish my book.”

“You’ve got it,” I said.

Back in the car, I told Gunther I’d drop him at Mrs. Plaut’s, check for messages and head for my office.

“Shelly might get a chance to call me again,” I said.

“And if not?” Gunther asked.

“Then Sax might try to kill me again.”

“And that is what you wish?”

“Don’t think I have much choice, and if I’m lucky I’ll get him.”

“A trap?” Gunther said enthusiastically.

“As soon as I figure one out.”

“May I ponder it?”

“Be my guest.”

When we got to Mrs. Plaut’s, she said there had been no phone calls, but that didn’t mean she was right. Without her hearing aid, a blockbuster could have dropped three blocks away on Hollywood Boulevard and she wouldn’t have heard it.

“The police were here,” she said. “The disagreeable man with red hair.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I think his teeth are false,” she said.

“You may well be right,” I agreed.

Gunther nodded to indicate that he, too, agreed.

“Mrs. Plaut, your late husband’s pistol,” I said. “You still have it?”

“The Buntline Special? Of course. It was one of his treasures. He once had the honor when he was a boy of firing it at Geronimo. Of course that was after Geronimo was tamed, but the mister was young and impetuous and carried his grudges lovingly.”

“He missed Geronimo,” I said.

“How did you know that?” she asked.

“Because Geronimo died of old age,” I said.

“Indeed,” she said pensively, “were not my mister not but a bit more than a child, I think he would have been chastised severely, his weapon removed and his liberty curtailed.”

“But you have it?”

She had shown it to me once, a long-barreled antique that she kept oiled in a drawer in her sitting room.

“Loaded and always ready for the descendants of Geronimo to seek me out for revenge. The mister warned me that Indians either forgot attempts on their lives immediately or held their hurts in the family forever.”

“Interesting,” I said. “You think I might borrow the gun?”

She cocked her head to one side. “You mean to shoot something with it?”

“It might come to that.” I didn’t mention that the most likely person to be shot when I had a gun in my possession was me.

“You’re after large vermin?” she asked, and I realized she was talking to her boarder Tony Peelers in his capacity as exterminator.

“Very large,” I said.

“Badger, coyotes?”

“Maybe both, maybe something bigger.”

“Then the mister’s gun is just the ticket. I’ll get it and a box of bullets.”

While she went for the gun, Gunther said, “Toby, recall what Dr. Hodgdon said about your arm. Perhaps I should accompany you?”

“I’ll be fine, Gunther. Thanks.”

I pictured Gunther holding the gun, which was probably as long as one of his arms and twice as heavy.

Mrs. Plaut returned with the weapon and handed it to me. The barrel was about a foot long.

“Fully loaded and ready,” she said. “Single action. There are some that say this gun never existed, that Ned Buntline, the famous writer, never gave one to Wyatt Earp. Well, it may be that he did not give one to Marshal Earp, but in your hands is the proof of its existence.”

Then she handed me the box of bullets. The box was red and white, and on it was written in ink “Purchased this day of May 10, 1881.” I put the bullets in my pocket and considered how to hide the gun.

“Wait,” said Gunter, hurrying up the stairs to his room.

“Keep it clean. Shoot it straight and if the creature you kill is of edible ilk, bring him to me.”

“I will,” I said, wondering if badger and coyote were edible in Mrs. Plaut’s culinary world. I didn’t choose to think about humans.

Gunther came back down the stairs carrying his briefcase.

“It may fit in this,” he said, handing it to me.

I slipped the gun in. It just barely fit at an angle. I snapped the buckle.

“You look like an editor now,” Mrs. Plaut said.

“I’m a man of many professions,” I said. “Thanks for the Buntline.”

“No notches in the handle if you kill anything,” she said. “The mister was most particular about that. He would say, ‘People who notch their guns when they kill are fools. They announce their deeds and attract enemies.’”

“I’ll remember that,” I said. “I’ve got a call to make. I’ll be right back down.”

Gunther and Mrs. Plaut stood talking while I went up the stairs, briefcase in my right hand, moving slowly to appease the pain in my shoulder.

At the top of the stairs, I put down the briefcase and went into my pocket for change, found it, and pulled out my notebook.

Phil Terry answered the phone.

“It’s Toby Peters. Is your wife there?”

“No. She’s at Warner Brothers. Script reading with Curtiz. She wasn’t looking forward to it.”

“I’ll call back later,” I said. “Tell her I think I’ve got things taken care of. She’ll understand.”

“I hope the police don’t cause a problem at the studio,” he said. “There are always reporters around.”

“Police?”

“Policeman called a little while ago and asked to talk to Joan. I told him she was at the studio.”

“What did the policeman sound like?” I asked.

“Funny you should ask. British accent. Not much of one, but I’ve done British and … I didn’t know there were Englishmen on the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Takes all kinds,” I said. “He was driving a green Ford?”

“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 shook her head and looked at the sheet of paper I had given her.