To Catch a Spy (3 page)

Anita and I had sat together, talking about high school, past spouses, her daughter, the war, and which movie we were going to see on Thursday, her day off. The choice was hers. She said she wanted to see
Thank Your Lucky Stars,
the war-effort musical with Humphrey Bogart, Eddie Cantor, Bette Davis, Errol Flynn, Olivia deHavilland, Ida Lupino, Dennis Morgan, and John Garfield. I told her Davis and Flynn had both been clients of mine. She was impressed.

“You look a lot like John Garfield,” she said, “except for the nose.” Meaning Garfield had one and mine had been smashed pug flat.

“Thanks,” I said.

We danced. A few years ago I had been given a few lessons by Fred Astaire, and, while I still wouldn’t make it to the back-up chorus, I now knew how to find the beat and look respectable on the floor. Anita had a good time.

At ten minutes to midnight, Juanita had risen, clapped her hands, and silenced the gathering by turning off Rudy Vallee in mid-“Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

Juanita was dressed sedately, at least for her. That meant fewer spangles and bangles, a black skirt, and a billowing blouse with a rainbow of colored dots. She announced in her distinct Bronx accent that it was now 1944.

Then she added, “For some of you I see things in the new year. For some.…” She looked at Shelly, who was gazing pitifully into his cup of red liquid, “I see nothing.”

“One or two things for each of the rest of you,” she said.

Juanita looked at Jeremy, Alice, and Natasha and said, “The child will be a scholar. I see her writing books. I don’t know what-the-hell kind.”

Then she turned to Gunther, “Love comes.”

To Mrs. Plaut, she said cryptically, “It will be over soon.”

Mrs. Plaut nodded in understanding.

To Emma Simcox, she said, “He will be back sooner than you expect.”

Bidwell was next. Juanita shook her head and said, “It’s not gonna happen, but you’re gonna make a ton of money.”

It was Anita’s turn.

“She’ll break your heart.”

And then to me she said with a sigh, “You won’t fall. Listen to the man above. He’ll save you.”

As usual, Juanita’s insights into the future meant nothing to me, though she had obviously touched a note with Mrs. Plaut and her niece, Emma.

“That’s it,” Mrs. Plaut suddenly announced. “It’s twelve thirty-seven.”

Mrs. Plaut blessed us all, told me to take Miss Anita home, and ordered her other boarders to hit their rooms.

“Tomorrow is here,” she announced.

Everyone left dutifully except Shelly, who wanted to talk about the Rose Bowl. Washington was the big favorite. He was rooting for USC. Washington had gone through the season undefeated. I doubted that Shelly knew that. In fact, I was sure he knew just about nothing about college football or any other sport. He just didn’t want to go to the hotel room he’d been living in since Mildred had booted him out.

“Time to go, Shel,” I had said, noticing that he must have had more than a few cups of Mrs. Plaut’s punch.

“Going to clean up the office,” he said, as Anita and I helped him up. “New year. Resolution. Right now. Today, before I change my mind. Fresh start.”

“Great idea,” I said. “We’ll drive you home.”

“Going to the office,” he had insisted, his thick glasses slipping precariously down his nose, his breath smelling of cheap cigars and Mrs. Plaut’s punch.

Mrs. Plaut allowed no smoking in her boarding-house. This had been a distinct hardship for Shelly, who was seldom without a thick cigar, even when he was working on a patient.

“I shall drive the doctor home,” Gunther announced.

Shelly smiled.

“Can’t reach the pedals of my car,” he said. “Can’t see over the wheel.”

“We will take my car,” Gunther had said.

Gunther’s car had a built-up seat and special blocks on the gas and brake pedals.

“Take your key, Mr. Gunther,” Mrs. Plaut said, starting to clean up with Emma’s help. “You, too, Mr. Peelers.”

Happy New Year greetings were exchanged for about the fifth time before our quartet went out into the cool Los Angeles night. Anita and I helped Shelly to Gunther’s car and tucked him into the backseat.

I didn’t ask Gunther how he was going to get Shelly into his hotel room. Gunther was strong for a little man, and resourceful.

After I took Anita to her apartment and gave her a kiss at the door, I told her I’d try to stop by the drugstore on Monday.

Then I had gone back to Mrs. Plaut’s and made my way to my room and my mattress.

That was then. This was now. Now I sat waiting for Cary Grant, coming to the conclusion that, as drunk as Shelly was, he must have convinced Gunther to bring him to the office. There he had made good on his New Year’s resolution and spent the rest of the night cleaning the office.

A disturbing thought. Shelly might still be lurking somewhere in the Farraday. Maybe he had searched out one of the other New Year’s Day workers, probably Dave Halbermeyer, the child photographer, or Sidney Wyland of Wyland and Associates, Film and Theatrical Agents. There were no Associates. Sidney Wyland was a one-man operation representing bit-player clients—and not many of those.

I heard the door to the reception room open and got up to open my door. Jeremy was moving across the room, his eyes taking in the office which now looked as if a patient might expect reasonably sanitary treatment. That would be a potentially fatal mistake.

“You have a few minutes?” Jeremy asked as I moved back into my office and he filled the doorway. My office was a tight fit for Jeremy.

“Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.”

“I’ll stand,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

He wore dark slacks, a blue long-sleeved pullover shirt, and a serious look—his poetry look. He launched into it.

When camels climb the stairs on padded feet,

and magma from a remote eruption rushes

uphill,

the world has not gone mad with heat,

the God or Gods have not become suddenly

ill.

It is the nature of nature that anything can be.

It is the lesson of the texts from Scripture to

Koran.

There for all who look to clearly see,

there to tell us that there really is no plan.

The key to peace is our ability to accept

that elephants might fly, that ants might sing,

that there is no foundation except

that one never knows what the next moment

may bring.

And in that knowledge we can be made free.

We are bound only by what we do and wish

to be.

“I like the Dumbo reference,” I said, knowing I had to say something.

“It needed humor,” Jeremy said humorlessly, tucking the poem away.

“Humor’s a good thing,” I agreed.

“You think it’s ready for publication? Alice does.”

“It’s ready,” I said. “Deep.”

“It’s what I believe,” he said.

“I can see that.”

“Thank you, Toby,” he said turning. “Dr. Minck’s office is a good example of the essence of my poem.”

“I was just thinking that,” I said as Jeremy departed, closing my door behind him.

It opened almost immediately and I thought Jeremy had returned, but it was Cary Grant.

He was wearing khaki slacks, a white shirt, and a lightweight striped sports jacket. No tie.

“You must be Toby Peters,” he said, reaching over the desk with his hand out. He gave me a small smile showing even white teeth. He looked genuinely glad to meet me, though I’d done nothing yet to earn his goodwill or money.

We shook. His grip was firm.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked, looking around the small office.

“Seems like a good idea.”

“Cozy,” he said, straightening his pants and sitting with his legs crossed. His eyes turned to the painting on the wall.

“Dalí,” he said. “Early. I’m impressed.”

He put on his glasses and examined it more closely.

“An original,” he said with respect.

He was tan, and his dark hair lay neatly in place. I knew a few things about him that everyone knew. I knew he was married to Barbara Hutton, the Wool-worth heiress, whom he never called “Babs.” I knew he had been married a couple of times before, including to Virginia Cherrill who’d played the blind girl in Charlie Chaplin’s
City Lights.
I knew his movies. Anita and I had seen his latest,
Destination Tokyo,
two weeks ago.

“Sorry to get you up so early on New Year’s Day,” he said, in that accent that was so easy to imitate and difficult to perfect. “But, believe me, it is important.”

“I went to bed early,” I said.

“So did I,” he said. “Barbara threw one of her parties. I’m all right with parties in moderation and spaced well apart. In fact, I like them when they’re with close friends and very small.”

“Me too,” I said.

He bit his lower lip and looked down at his hands for a moment.

“I’m avoiding the reason for my coming,” he said.

“Take your time.”

He nodded.

“As I told you on the phone, a friend recommended you,” he said after a long pause. “Peter Lorre. He told me about you last year when we were doing
Arsenic and Old Lace.
”

“Funny movie,” I said.

“Yes, but I wasn’t happy with it. Too much, too broad. It should have been Jimmy Stewart instead of me. I told Capra but … I’m avoiding again. I’ll get to it. Peter said you could be trusted.”

“Says ‘Confidential Investigations’ right on my door.”

“Yes, but, no offense, there are a lot of things on doors and cards and in letters and conversation that bear little resemblance to reality.”

“Your choice,” I said. “You want references?”

“I’ve checked your references with a few people you’ve worked for. They said you could be trusted. Well, I’m going to trust you. I’d like to hire you for a job. Only a few hours. Tonight.”

“Don’t you want to know my fee?”

“I’m sure you’ll be reasonable,” he said.

We sat silently for few seconds while he considered how to tell me.

“I should have rehearsed this,” he finally said, “but here goes. Do you have a gun?”

“Yes,” I said. “A thirty-eight.”

I didn’t tell him that it rested in the locked glove compartment of my Crosley and that I seldom touched it. I was a lousy shot. When I had been a cop in Bur-bank, I almost shot my own partner in the only shoot-out I’ve ever been in. I had shot one person with that .38 since I’d become a private detective, and that had been up close and not what I had planned. The gun had also been used once to shoot me. I shared none of this with Grant, just sat there trying to look tough, competent, and confident.

“Good,” said Grant. “I don’t think this is going to be dangerous but …”

“But …” I picked up.

He sighed.

“I’m going to give you a small bag,” he said, “and tell you a place to take it tonight. You’ll meet someone who will give you something. You take it, give him the bag, and meet me somewhere.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he said.

“Mind some questions?”

“Probably,” he said, “but it makes sense that you’d have them. Go ahead.”

“Why don’t you just make this exchange yourself?”

“The person or people I’m dealing with said I shouldn’t.”

“And it might be dangerous?” I asked.

“It shouldn’t be,” he said. “You give them the bag. You get the package. Do you want to know what’s in the bag and the package?”

“I’m curious,” I said.

“Money will be in the bag, Mr. Peters,” he said, leaning forward. “Quite a lot of money. And the package will contain certain documents. Compromising documents.”

I sat silently.

“No,” he said. “I’m not being blackmailed over some crime or sexual indiscretion. It’s more important than that. That’s all I can tell you except that nothing illegal is going on. It’s a simple transaction. I’m paying for something, and I expect to get what I pay for. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

“All you’re willing to tell me.”

“All I’m willing to tell you,” he agreed. “So, have I hired a confidential investigator?”

“Since this is a one-night rush job, let’s just say two hundred dollars, flat fee.”

Grant pursed his lips.

“Your price has gone up,” he said with a smile.

“I’m going into this in the dark with a bag full of money and people you don’t trust.”

“Point taken,” he said, reaching into his jacket and removing his wallet. “I assume you won’t mind cash.”

“I won’t mind cash. I’ll give you a receipt.”

“No receipt, no written bills,” he said. “No record of this.”

“Suit yourself,” I said as he handed over four fifty-dollar bills.

I was suddenly wealthy. I owed No-Neck Arnie twenty-seven dollars. I’d stop by his shop and pay him if he was in. It was only two blocks from the Farraday.

“I live in Pacific Palisades,” he said. “I’d meet you there, but it might be a bit awkward. The place is full of Barbara’s assistants, butlers, and maids. My wife and I … never mind. There’s a bar in Santa Monica, a little place on the beach called Wally’s.”

“I’ve seen it,” I said.

“The owner’s a friend of mine. Can you be there at ten tonight? I’ll give you the bag and tell you what to do next when you get there.”

“I’ll be there at ten,” I said.

“Fine,” Grant said, standing and holding out his hand again. We shook for the second time. “I’m counting on you, Peters.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” I said.

We went into Shelly’s office and were greeted by the sight of Sheldon Minck slouched down in his dental chair, his clothes as messy as the room was clean. He needed a shave. He needed a bath. He needed serious fumigation and a fresh cigar. His glasses were on his forehead.

“I did it, Toby,” he said, looking around the office. “A new beginning.”

“You did a great job, Shel,” I said.