Murder on the Yellow Brick Road (5 page)

I wrote a note to Mrs. Levine and put three bucks in it telling her that it was an out-of-court settlement. Then I leaned back to listen to Shelly's drill as he hummed “Ramona.” Through the window I could see Los Angeles white, flat and spread out. The skyline from my window wasn't much. Since 1906, a municipal ordinance had limited buildings to 13 stories. Someone at City Hall hadn't heard about the law and the City Hall Building was 32 stories high, but most of the buildings in the city were low. The skyline was a series of long, low lines like other American cities threatened by earthquakes and a lack of solid rock under them.

The phone rang. It was almost two o'clock. Shelly answered it and said it was for me. I picked it up, while I fished through my drawers for a stamp to mail the letter to Mrs. Levine. The caller was Warren Hoff. He had news.

The police had a suspect, a midget who had been in The Wizard of Oz. The midget's name was Gunther Wherthman. He had been known to fight with the dead Munchkin, who was now identified as James Cash. In fact, the two little men had been arrested during the shooting of Oz in 1939 when they had a knife fight in their hotel. Wherthman had been cut by Cash, and the police had records showing that Wherthman had threatened to kill Cash. The police had also found three witnesses who had seen two midgets arguing violently before the murder outside the stage where Cash's body was found. The witnessess all described one of the midgets as wearing a Munchkin soldier's uniform. The other midget was described as wearing a Munchkin lollipop kid costume. Wherthman had, according to Hoff, played one of the lollipop kids in the movie. Hoff's report was good.

“I used to be a reporter before I got into this,” he explained.

“Maybe you'll go back to it,” I said.

“It's late,” he said. ‘Once you commit yourself to a bigger income and lifestyle you're hooked.”

It wasn't a problem I'd ever had to deal with.

“Then that's it,” I sighed thinking about the easy fifty in my pocket and slightly regretting the other fifties I might have had.

“Not quite,” said Hoff. “We want you to talk to Wherthman, find out if he's guilty, keep trying to hold back on the publicity. If Wherthman did kill Cash on the lot and both of them were in costume, we'll look terrible.”

“Is this your idea?” I asked.

“Hell no,” gasped Hoff. “I think we should just drop the goddamn thing and let it ride out. M.G.M. isn't going to fold over this. Oz has already had its run. It's not even playing anywhere now, and I doubt if there ever will be a sequel. But Mr. Mayer says there are millions to be made from the picture, re-release and.…”

“And what?”

“Television,” Hoff said sounding embarrassed. “He thinks we'll be able to sell it to television someday.”

Not knowing what television was I didn't say anything, but I grunted in sympathy for Hoff. I agreed with him. I had nothing against putting in another few days work for the money even if I didn't expect anything to come of it.

“O.K. Warren,” I said pulling out an unsharpened pencil. I bit wood away to get to the lead, “I'll put some more time into it. I'll try to get to Wherthman. Who are the witnesses, the ones who saw the two midgets fighting this morning?”

‘One is Barney Grundy, a studio photographer,” said Hoff. He gave me Grundy's office address on Melrose. “The other two are Victor Fleming and Clark Gable. They were coming from breakfast together. If you want to talk to Fleming, I'll find out where he is. Your brother already talked to him and Gable. Gable's going out of town for the weekend, but I'm sure we can track him down if you want him.”

I said thanks and told him he had done a good job, which he had. My praise didn't mean much to him. We hung up.

I didn't know where to look for the midget suspect Wherthman, so I called Steve Seidman at police headquarters. He told me Wherthman had been brought in for questioning, but it was a pretty sure bet they were going to hold him for the murder. As far as the L.A. police were concerned, the case was just about wrapped up and they could turn their attention back to a pair of ax murders in Griffith Park.

Shelly was still working on Walter Brennan when I put on my hat and stepped through my office door.

“I think we've save it,” Shelly beamed, sweat dripping from his hair. The old man in the dental chair was having trouble focusing his eyes.

“Great,” I said. “You're a saint.”

On the way down to try to get a word with Wherthman, I realized that Mayer had a few reasons to worry about publicity. The primary witnesses for the case against Wherthman seemed to be the studio's top star and top director. Coming off of The Wizard of Oz and Gone With The Wind, Fleming was almost as great publicity material as Gable. A trial would be front page news for weeks. As far as M.G.M. was concerned, it would probably be better if Wherthman would just confess and plead guilty. Wherthman, however, might not care much about Metro's publicity problems.

Wherthman hadn't been charged or booked when I got to the station. Phil wasn't there, which was fine with me; Seidman was, and he told me that the little suspect was just about wrapped up and ready to be put away.

“A couple of people saw Wherthman arguing with Cash, the dead midget, early this morning,” Seidman explained. “One of the witnesses got close enough to hear them talking. He heard a German accent. Wherthman's got a German accent. The dead guy called the other guy Gunther. We found blood on a suit in his apartment. We're checking it now to see if it matches the dead guy.”

“He sounds all wrapped up,” I said. “Can I talk to him?”

“Why?” Seidman asked reasonably.

“I've been hired by his lawyer.”

“He hasn't called a lawyer. Who's his lawyer?”

“I'm not at liberty to say,” I said seriously.

Seidman smiled and shook his head.

“Phil would have your head in a Christmas stocking if you fed him that crap.”

We looked at each other for a few minutes. Behind us, cops were scurrying around the big, dirty wooden room which was about twenty degrees warmer than the outside. Two were drinking coffee and had their heads close to a thin black kid. The cops' faces were gentle and they were whispering, but whatever the hell they were whispering was scaring the hell out of the thin kid. A couple of detectives were on phones, and two guys were handcuffed together and sitting on a bench waiting. One of the guys had no shirt on, but he was wearing a tie. He looked content if not happy. The other guy slouched and tried to act as if he had nothing to do with the shirtless smiler. The sloucher had a massive bruise over his right eye.

“You can see him,” Seidman finally said. He was feeling generous. He had helped crack a murder in less than three hours. It would look good on everyone's record including my brother's. Seidman's face oozed confidence.

He led me to my brother's office, and I walked in. The office was a small cubicle in one corner of the big squad room. The noise from the cops and robbers was barely muffled by the thin wooden walls. There was enough room inside for the battered desk, a steel file cabinet and two chairs. On one of the chairs sat a little man whose feet didn't touch the floor.

Wherthman wore a light grey suit and dark tie. His hair was dark and slightly mussed. He had a little black mustache and a fresh red bruise on his right cheek. I could guess who put it there. His face didn't look young, but it was hard to tell. I guessed he was about my age.

“Mr. Wherthman, I'm Toby Peters.”

I put out my hand. He didn't move his, and I put mine down.

“I told the other policeman that I had nothing to do with this murder,” Wherthman said. His voice was high and his accent was clear and Germanic. Not only did the cops have an assful of evidence against him, he looked like and sounded like a miniature Hitler. With war fever running high and Roosevelt running on a fear campaign to keep us out of Europe, Wherthman would be about as popular in Los Angeles as another earthquake.

“I'm not a policeman,” I said sitting next to him so that the difference between us wouldn't be quite so ridiculous. “I'm working for your lawyer to help you.”

He looked puzzled.

“I have no lawyer.”

“You will as soon as I call a friend at M.G.M.,” I said softly. The room wasn't bugged, but Seidman was probably standing outside the door to find out what the hell I was doing.

“Why should anyone at M.G.M. want to help me?” Wherthman said evenly. It was a damn good question.

“They don't like publicity,” I explained and before he could question it I went on, “and besides, can you afford a lawyer and do you know one?”

He said he didn't know a lawyer and had little money. The pay for Oz was long gone and he had been getting along by doing translations from German for a project at The University of Southern California. He added that he wasn't German, but Swiss. I didn't think most Americans would recognize the difference.

“Why did you kill Cash?” I asked.

“I did not kill him,” Wherthman said looking up at me. “That is what I told the policeman, the fat.…” he groped for a word to describe Phil, but his English failed him.

“Pig?” I tried. Wherthman liked it.

“Yes, pig. He threatened to step on me. He hit me. Can the police do that? Can they hit someone in this country?”

“They may not, but they can and do,” I explained.

Wherthman thought it over for a few seconds and indicated with a shake of his head that he understood the distinction. I was beginning to like him.

“The evidence is pretty strong,” I said. “You were seen talking to Cash this morning. You've fought with him in the past. You've threatened him. The police found blood, probably his, in your apartment.”

“I have no apartment,” he corrected. “I have a single room in a boarding house. I did not go to the studio this morning. I took a walk early as I always do. Perhaps witnesses could be found who saw me. Several people no doubt did.”

“Do you know any of their names?” I asked. “Anyone you see regularly?”

He didn't know any names and couldn't think of anyone he saw regularly. He couldn't explain how a witness had heard Cash use his name. He couldn't explain why someone would be using the costume he wore in the movie. He couldn't explain how blood got on some of his clothes in his room.

“So you think you've been framed?” I concluded.

He looked puzzled.

“You think someone is trying to make it look as if you committed this murder,” I explained.

“Yes, of course,” he said. We sat for a few seconds listening to a deep voice outside the office thundering over the general noise. The voice told someone to sit still or lose an arm.

“Why would anyone want to do that Mr. Wherthman?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said, “but it is being done.”

“How well did you know Cash?” I tried.

Wherthman shifted slightly and slid forward so his toes would touch the floor. His shoes were worn but nicely polished.

“I knew him better than I would have wanted,” he said. “We were forced to live in proximity when the movie was being made. We were placed in adjacent rooms in the same hotel. He was ill-mannered and vulgar. He provoked me because I had an accent, was educated and taller than he. Even with my accent, my English was more precise than his. Precise is the proper word, is it not?”

“It is the proper word,” I said.

“Did he fight with any other little person?”

“I see,” said Wherthman, “Yes. Perhaps someone of my size is attempting to blame me.”

“I don't know how many little people there are around Los Angeles,” I said, “but there can't be a whole hell of a lot and the list of those who knew Cash and the studio well enough to get a costume this morning must be even smaller. Finding a patsy would be a good idea.”

“Patsy,” he mulled, “I thought this was a female name?”

“It is, but it's also a kind of slang for someone to take the blame for something you did.”

Wherthman took all this seriously. I could see him storing it for future use.

“That would be the Canadian,” said Wherthman. “The one with the nasty temper. He also did not like me and was a confidant of the one called Cash. I think confidant is the right word for they were not friends, but they were much together, sometimes arguing, sometimes fighting. They spoke of going into some business together when the movie was finished.”

“What was the Canadian's name?” I asked.

Wherthman couldn't remember. He gave me a vague description, but I needed more. It wasn't a great lead, but it was something. I asked him to try to remember the name, and he said he would.

“Don't tell the police anything more,” I said, reaching out my hand. He took it this time. His hand was small but not soft, and his grip was firm even though his fingers barely reached past my palm.

“I will not,” he said standing.

“They're going to charge you with murder and book you. Tell them your lawyer will be in touch with them. And I have another bit of advice. Shave that mustache. It makes you look a little like Hitler.”

His finger went up to his face.

“I did not think of that,” he said. “I have no wish to look like Hitler. I will do as you suggest. Mr. Peters?”

He had only heard my name once and in a tough situation but it had stuck.

“Mr. Peters? Do you believe I did not do this murder?”

“I believe it,” I said, “but I've been wrong before. I'll be in touch.”

There was more confidence in my farewell than I felt. Not only had I been wrong before, I've been wrong most of the time about my life and other people. The only people who felt any confidence in me were a myopic, sloppy dentist and a Swiss midget.

Seidman was pretending to read a report on a clipboard right outside Phil's door.