Now You See It: A Toby Peters Mystery (18 page)

“They were gone,” said Wilde.

“There was someone with him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No,” he said. “The lights were on on the set, much as they are now, and he stayed back there in the shadows. But I did see his hands. I got a very good look at his hands. A fencer learns to look at his opponents’ hands.”

“Hands?”

“For scars, bruises, length of fingers, dexterity,” he said. “The man who tried to blackmail me did have a fencer’s hand, his right.”

“You mean you’d recognize the other man if you saw his hands again?” Gunther asked.

Wilde looked down at him and said, “I’d recognize both of them.”

“Let’s get this shot,” came a man’s voice.

“Thanks,” I said.

Gunther and I left the stage and went out the door into the morning. We had an hour to get to Marty Leib’s office. Plenty of time. At least, there would have been plenty of time if a lean blonde guy in dark slacks and a white long-sleeved pullover shirt hadn’t been standing outside the stage door, waiting for us with a gun in his hand.

“Missed you the other night,” he said. “Won’t make that mistake again.”

He had nice teeth and a nice smile to go along with his big gun. It had to be the guy who shot Gwen and me with the pellet gun. I looked around for someone, anyone.

“It’s bad luck to kill little people,” he said, looking at Gunther, “but I’ll just have to chance it.”

The stage door opened behind us. The gunman looked over my shoulder at whoever was coming out the door. He lost his smile and then it came back again.

I turned my head and saw Wilde and the guy he had been sword fighting with. They were both carrying swords and talking. Wilde seemed to be demonstrating something he wanted the other man to do. It took them a beat to look up and see the man with the gun pointed at Gunther and me.

The blonde lost his smile. Gone were his flashing teeth. Two shootings, maybe. But four, including a movie star on a studio lot? Probably not.

Wilde looked decidedly angry as he stepped toward the blonde, who started to back away. The man Wilde had been dueling with on the sound stage matched Wilde stride for stride.

“Hold it there,” said the blonde.

Wilde did not hold it. Sword in his right hand, he moved toward the gunman who looked over his shoulder and then back at Wilde. The blonde fired one shot into the air. No one came running. This was Columbia. People were shooting guns a good part of the day. The difference was that this gun had real bullets, one of which cracked into the brick wall of the sound stage.

Wilde grabbed the sword from the hand of the other actor and threw it to the blonde, who managed to catch it and move between Gunther and me.

“I think you said you knew how to use a saber,” said Wilde with an undercurrent of anger I was glad was aimed at the blonde and not at me.

Wilde ignored the gun as he continued to move forward.

“Don’t be crazy,” said the blonde.

Wilde ignored him, now within ten feet of the man.

“Blackmail, guns, threats,” said Wilde. “You’re not very good with any of them. How are you with a sword?”

“You’re crazy,” the blonde said.

Wilde turned sideways and swished his sword, cutting the air and then hitting the blonde’s arm with the flat of the blade. The gun flew and skittered on the concrete.

Wilde leaped forward with another swish of the sword and a thrust. The blonde decided it was a good time to defend himself. I don’t know anything about fencing or sword fighting, but I’d seen plenty of it when I worked at Warner Brothers. My favorite at it was Basil Rathbone, who invariably died after a thrust by Errol Flynn, though Rathbone was the better fighter.

The blonde was pretty good.

The stage door opened again and Phil Silvers came out.

“What’s up?” he shouted, adjusting his glasses to watch the battle. “Hey, they’re not kiddin‘. I’ll give you six to one on Cornel.”

The blonde was backing up and trying to keep away from Wilde’s pointed jabs.

“The blades are not sharp?” asked Gunther.

“No,” said the actor at our side. “But the points aren’t blunt enough to keep them from doing a hell of a lot of damage.”

Sword blades clanged just like in the movies. I’ll give this to the blonde. He was almost holding his own.

“Ten to one,” said Silvers. “Last offer.”

Wilde lunged forward, swung his sword hard, and knocked the sword out of the blonde’s hand. The blonde was only a few feet away from his gun now. He bent quickly and picked it up.

“That’s it,” he said, panic in his voice. “Stop there or so help me, I’ll blow a hole in you.”

Wilde, sword pointed at the man, stopped.

We all recognized the sound of desperation in the blonde’s voice. He backed away, motioning for us to stay where we were. We stayed. He ducked around a building. Wilde started forward. The gunman, whom we couldn’t see, fired off a shot.

We didn’t follow.

“Is anyone hurt?” Wilde asked, turning to face us.

We were all fine. Wilde nodded, said “Good” and moved through us back toward the sound stage.

“Is he something, or is he something?” said Silvers, looking at Gunther.

“He is indeed something,” said Gunther.

We asked Dave on the way out if he had seen a blonde guy leave the lot. He had. The blonde was driving a prewar black Ford and there was someone else in the car with him.

“Other guy was wearing a hat, pulled over his face, you know? Didn’t get a good look at him. Sorry.”

As we pulled away, Gunther said, “What have we learned?”

“We know what our killer looks like without the beard and turban.”

“If he is the killer,” Gunther said. “Which, if I am correct, is a reasonable supposition but not yet a certainty, in spite of our experience here. Remember, there was a second man.”

“Point taken,” I said. “Wilde can identify him.”

“From his hands,” said Gunther doubtfully.

“I think I trust Wilde on this one,” I said.

“Our gunman displayed a definite lack of verve in his attempt to blackmail Mr. Wilde,” Gunther added.

“He had bigger fish to fry.”

“Blackstone?” asked Gunther.

“Maybe,” I said.

“It seems we are gathering more reasons for Blackstone to have disposed of both Cunningham and Ott.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s find the blonde and that second man.”

“A second man?” said Marty Leib, forty minutes later at the head of his conference table, his hands folded in front of him.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Promising,” said Marty, looking around the table.

To his left sat me, Phil, and Gunther. To his right sat Jeremy, Shelly, and Pancho. At the other end of the table, with his back to the windows, sat Blackstone in dark slacks, a white long-sleeved turtle-necked sweater. His brother Peter wore a white shirt and tie. Peter was shorter. Their hair was combed differently, Harry’s straight back and flat and Pete’s parted on the left. They did look alike from a distance and made up for the parts, but next to each other the differences were clear.

“I’ve …” Marty began and then pointed at Pancho who was writing on a lined spiral pad. “Would you stop taking notes?”

Pancho looked up, startled.

“He needs it for the movie,” said Shelly, looking ill-matched in a plaid shirt and red sweater.

“Alright,” Marty said with a sigh. “I’ll rephrase. It was not a question. It was an order.”

“But …” Shelly tried.

Marty shook his head “no,” and Phil said, “Shelly” in his best cut-the-crap voice.

Shelly responded by reaching under his sweater and pulling a cigar out of his shirt pocket.

“No,” said Marty as Shelly searched for a match.

“Where are we, Germany?” asked Shelly.

“Minck,” said Phil. “I think my son Nate has whooping cough. I’ve been up most of the night so my sister-in-law could get some sleep. I am in a very bad mood. Do you understand?”

Shelly pushed his glasses back on his nose and looked as if he were going to speak, then changed his mind and sagged back in his chair.

“I’ve talked to the District Attorney’s office,” Marty said. “I told them that if Mr. Blackstone were arrested for murder without airtight evidence, his reputation would be severely damaged and Mr. Blackstone would bring suit for one million three hundred and sixty dollars.”

“How did you come up with that figure?” asked Pancho.

“Mr. Blackstone and I roughly calculated lost income,” said Marty. “Roughly. The result was that there will be no arrest yet but there will be an investigation. My best estimation is that the brothers Bouton might well be arrested within the next week if we do not come up with the person or persons who killed Cunningham and Ott. And that is the job of the brothers Pevsner.”

Marty looked at my brother and me. So did everyone else at the table.

“Would you gentlemen like to ask some questions?” Marty asked.

“Is Blackstone on the clock?” I asked.

Marty shrugged.

“I think we’ll ask our questions in our office where we’re not going at thirty dollars an hour.”

“Forty-five dollars an hour,” said Blackstone.

“This case will consume all my time till you come up with the killer,” said Marty. “I’ll tell you what. To show my good faith, you are off the clock until I inform you otherwise.”

Phil and I looked at each other. Phil rubbed his thick right palm across his short gray hair. He looked tired.

“Who turned off the lights last night?” he asked looking at the Boutons.

“Jimmy,” said Pete. “Jimmy Clark.”

“The kid with the limp?” Phil asked.

Pete and Harry both nodded.

“The light switch is behind the curtains near the door. Jimmy was behind the curtain two hours before the doors were opened. He waited for the cue from me,” said Harry. “Turned off the lights. Counted to three. Turned on the lights. Pete clapped to draw everyone’s attention while Jimmy counted to five and turned off the lights again for a count of two before he turned the lights on again.”

“We rehearsed it in the ballroom yesterday morning for more than an hour,” said Blackstone. “Timing and misdirection are crucial ingredients in a successful illusion.”

“Right,” said Phil. “But who turned off the lights and did pretty much the same trick when Ott was stabbed?”

“I don’t know,” said Peter.

Harry shrugged.

“Maybe Jimmy saw someone by the lights,” I said.

“Let’s ask him,” said Phil.

Marty remained stone silent, looking at his manicured thumbnails.

“It was deeper,” said Gunther.

Everyone, including Marty, looked at Gunther.

“Deeper than what?” I asked.

“The knife,” said Gunther. “When the lights came on and Ott was on his face, the knife was in so deep.”

He demonstrated with his small fingers.

“When we returned after chasing that young man, the knife was in like so.”

Gunther demonstrated again.

“So,” said Phil. “You’re telling us that, after Ott was killed, someone snuck back in and pushed the knife in deeper just to make sure?”

“I don’t know,” said Gunther. “But it was deeper. Of that I am certain.”

“Why take the chance?” asked Phil.

“I do not know,” said Gunther. “I am only reporting to you what I observed.”

The Bouton brothers were whispering at the end of the table. Pete said something. Harry nodded and whispered back. It was Pete’s turn to nod.

“What?” asked Phil.

“We may have an idea,” said Harry.

“About what?” asked Phil.

“About how Calvin Ott was murdered,” said Peter.

“Well?” asked Phil.

“We’ll have to work it out before we say anything more,” said Harry, touching his mustache. “We’re not certain.”

“Are we finished?” asked Marty, looking at his many-jeweled watch. “Anyone have anything more to say.”

“Did you rescue the bird?” asked Gunther, looking at Jeremy.

“The bird is fine,” said Jeremy. “I’ve returned it to Mr. Leib.”

“And I’ve told my secretary to get it back to the magician I bought it from,” said Marty. “Now I suggest that you …” he looked at me and Phil, “find that second man who was with Cunningham and talk to this Jimmy Clark about what or who, if anything or anyone, he saw behind that curtain.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I,” said Marty, “shall be making the life of Detective John Cawelti miserable and the District Attorney of this great county of Los Angeles angry and miserable. In short, I’ll be stalling and earning my fee. Gentlemen.…”

Marty rose heavily, adjusted the white flower in his lapel, nodded, and waited while we all left his office.

As soon as we hit the landing, Shelly lit a cigar and said, “You get all that?” to Pancho, who nodded.

“Guys,” said Shelly, examining his cigar and pausing dramatically. “Pancho is a very gifted writer, a man of great talent, but his imagination can’t be stifled by the dull facts.”

We all looked at Pancho, who pulled his scarf around his neck as if a cold front had leaped over a bunch of states from Canada and landed on his skinny body.

“So?” I asked.

“I believe Dr. Minck is informing us that Mr. Vanderhoff plans to take liberties with the truth,” said Gunther.

“The truth,” said Shelly with a wave of his hand that shifted a cloud of smoke and disposed of the need for facts. “My role in ongoing events will be …”

“Enhanced,” said Pancho.

“We’re going,” said Harry Blackstone. “We have some things to do and then we’ll be at the theater for tonight’s performance.”

“Let’s go talk to Jimmy the Kid and ask some people about this blonde guy Cunningham was working with,” I said.

Phil nodded.

“And how can we be of service?” Gunther said.

“Jeremy,” I said. “If you can spare the time, you might keep an eye on Blackstone’s back. Whoever killed Cunningham and Ott might be looking for number three, our client.”

“I shall,” said Jeremy solemnly.

“Whertham,” said Phil. “Think you could do some leg work on Ott, see who he hung out with, or who hung onto his wallet? Might be a few people out there who didn’t like him.”

“He did not appear to be a likable individual,” said Gunther. “I shall begin immediately.