The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance (15 page)

I had no answer and none for the rest of his questions either, not yet.

“Why did this Teddy call you? Why is this Alex informing you of his hostility toward John Wayne? What function does it serve?”

“He’s nuts,” I suggested.

“Even the mad have motive,” Gunther responded. “I have translated the works of Adler, Jung, and Freud himself. What does this Alex gain from informing you? Perhaps it is the hope that you will tell John Wayne and John Wayne will be apprehensive, but it would be better to threaten Wayne directly. And why is it that this Alex who knows Teddy, the Alhambra, and, apparently, the value of the contents of the safe, why is it that no one seems to know who he might be?”

I shrugged. Gunther finished the last few dishes. They filled the drainer near the sink. I found a relatively clean towel in a drawer and dried the dishes while he rolled down his sleeves and put his jacket back on.

“We must look at the facts,” he said, returning to his notebook.

“Why?” I asked reasonably.

“Because the facts when arranged properly will present a pattern which reveals the truth.”

“That’s not the way it usually works for me,” I said, moving over to sit on the one worn stuffed chair in the room, careful not to upset the basket of photographs from Mrs. Plaut. Gunther stood at the table.

“The way it works for me,” I continued, “is I put all the facts I’ve got on the table and look at them till I get a pain in the head. They never tell me anything. I always mean to do what you just did, lay it out, keep it neat. But the wires on my notebook always come loose and I can’t find a pencil with a decent point.”

“So, what is it you do, Toby?”

My back twinged. The chair was too comfortable. I got up.

“I just keep gathering facts and hope a voice inside will click in and give me an idea of what to do with them. Then I know what facts to use and which ones I don’t need anymore. There are always too damn many facts. Problem is, the voice never kicks in when I hope for it or wait for it. It only comes when I forget about it. I send up balloons and wait for someone to try to shoot them down.”

“I see,” said Gunther. “And on occasion, you get shot down with the balloons.”

“It’s the only way that works for me,” I said with a shrug, as I wound my watch and reset it to coincide with the big Beech-Nut on the wall. That way it would be almost correct for about three minutes.

“So,” Gunther said. “What is your next step?”

A knock on the door followed by Mrs. Plaut answered the question. She stood, a blue dress up to her neck, her hands on her hips, surveying me with tired patience. Her appearance made Gunther even more erect. Still, he was a good five inches smaller than the landlady.

“Mr. Peelers,” she said. “You spoke nonsense to me on the telephone yesterday night.”

“Two men were about to beat me senseless, break my arms, face, and spirit,” I explained.

“And that is an excuse for rudeness? Mr. Wortman is always polite,” she said with a pleased smile to Gunther, who returned the smile and didn’t bother to tell her that his name was Wherthman, not Wortman.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Plaut,” I said. “It’s been—”

“The photographs,” she cut in. “Ordered, arranged, captioned, integrated with the words. This is a monumental task. And I am not getting any younger.”

“None of us is getting any younger, Mrs. Plaut,” I agreed, “but some things can age us much faster than others.”

“That is sarcasm and irony,” she said, pointing a finger at me. “You’d best knuckle down if you wish to make something of yourself.”

“It’s too late for that, Mrs. Plaut. I am what I’ll always be.”

“The photographs,” she said, pointing at the box near my feet.

“I have a killer to catch, a life to save, money to return to its rightful owners,” I explained.

“Those will pass,” she said, “but history will always be upon us. I hear there will soon be a scrap rubber drive.”

Gunther winced at the transition.

“So I understand,” I said.

“There are messages for you from yesterday,” she suddenly remembered, and reached into the pocket of her dress to withdraw several scraps of paper. “Two men were here looking for you, said they would return. They were gaudily attired and rather large and quite indifferent to history. I attempted to engage them in conversation. They would not be engaged.”

I got up, determined to escape as she went on.

“A police officer named Caldi called.”

“Cawelti,” I corrected.

“Does it really make a difference?” she said impatiently. “I have a busy day ahead. Finally, a man called and said to inform you that he would dispose of the Duke very shortly. His name was—”

“Alex,” Gunther finished.

“Alice is correct,” said Mrs. Plaut. “Am I to assume that Duke is a family pet that you are having disposed of or are you planning more dead bodies? I will tolerate no more dead bodies, Mr. Peelers. We have an agreement on that.”

“We do, Mrs. Plaut,” I said, moving toward the door, but she cut me off with a step.

“Saturday we do the photographs,” she said.

“Saturday,” I agreed.

Satisfied at last, she left.

I fumbled in my pocket for some change and the phone number in my notebook. Gunther handed me four nickels and I hurried into the hall and to the pay phone near the head of the stairs. I plunked in a nickel and dialed while Gunther stood six feet off. After five rings someone answered.

“My name is Peters,” I said. “I’m doing some confidential work for Mr. Wayne. He said I could get in touch with him through you. Tell me where the boat is supposed to dock and—”

“Duke told me who you are, Peters,” came the voice. “He’s not on the boat. He’s back in town. You can reach him at the Roosevelt Hotel, where he’s having a business conference with Republic. But if it’s not an emergency—”

“It is. What room is he in?”

I got the number, thanked the man, hit the phone cradle, and called the Roosevelt, asking for the right room number. A woman answered and I told her I wanted to speak to John Wayne. She said he was busy. I told her to give him my name. About ten seconds later, Wayne was on the phone.

“Peters,” he said, “how’s it going?”

“I thought you were safe on some boat in the ocean catching barracudas and drinking beer.”

“Coast Guard turned us back,” he said. “Jap subs were spotted off San Diego yesterday, or they thought they saw Jap subs. Then I got this Republic call and—”

“Teddy’s dead, the one in the room at the Alhambra. The one you hit, and this Alex guy claims he’s going to get you. You’ve got to go someplace safe for a few days while I—”

“Nothin’ doing,” said Wayne. “Listen, mister. Our boys are dying, people are dying all over the damn world. Do you read newspapers?”

“I read—”

“That goddamn Hitler killed twelve hundred Czechs today in some place I never heard of called Lidice. He killed them because someone assassinated Reinhardt or Reingold or something Heydrich, the monster he set up to step on the Czechs. I’m sitting here safely making movies and going on boat trips and people are getting killed every day. I’m not hiding. I’m goddamn mad. I don’t know who the hell this Alex is but I’d be happy if he takes a look-see for me. I’d be obliged to meet him. I’ve got a big family to feed and I am not hiding. You find this Alex before he finds me, if you can. If you can’t, then I’ll just have to take my chances the way thousands of our boys are doing it every day.”

“It’s your life,” I said.

“That it is,” he agreed. “When we finish up here in about an hour, some friends and I are going over to a friend’s boat moored at Harris’s Marina in Santa Monica. We’re going to stay just off shore doing some fishing and drinking. Boat’s called
Mad Anthony.
You’re welcome to come.”

I declined the invitation, told him I had the money he had sent, and said I’d stay in touch. Then I hung up and turned to Gunther.

“Can I be of service?” Gunther offered. “I am well ahead on my current assignments and would welcome the opportunity to assist.”

I couldn’t turn him down. I put in a call to Straight-Ahead at the Alhambra. The clerk on duty told me that Straight-Ahead wasn’t due in till evening. I had no trouble getting Straight-Ahead’s phone number from the phone company.

Another nickel from Gunther got me through to the house detective.

“Merit Beason,” he answered.

“Merit, Toby. How are you feeling?”

“The police are searching for you, Toby. We were right The bad guys have somehow suggested that you did Teddy in last night.”

“I’ll live with it, Merit,” I said. “Our Alex has made another threat on John Wayne. I know you didn’t get a decent look at him, but is there a chance you’d recognize Alex if he walked past you?”

“There’s a chance that Merit Beason would recognize the man who shot him,” Beason said. I imagined him sitting straight up in bed, eyes fixed on the future.

“Are you up to a few hours of parking and watching?”

“The bullet missed the ticker,” he said. “It’s beating like a new Elgin watch. Where’ll it be?”

I said I’d pick him up, and a few minutes later Gunther and I were heading for Santa Monica in the Crosley. The car was about right for Gunther. Instead of being cramped in the backseat, he had plenty of leg room.

I made a stop before we went to Straight-Ahead’s. First, I went to a pawn shop on Sepulveda where I had done some business before. I also made a deal on something I wanted to give Mrs. Plaut. That set me back another ten.

“I would especially like to be of service to Mr. Chaplin,” Gunther said as I searched for Beason’s address on 14th Street. I couldn’t see Gunther. His head was below the sight line of my seat. “When I worked in the circus during that difficult period of my early days in this country, I retained my sense of dignity only by bearing in mind the image of Mr. Charlie Chaplin’s tramp. Dignity, tradition, skill. I modeled myself after the character of Chaplin, as did so many others. I should like to think that I could repay him in some way for his inspiration.”

“We can repay him ten grand worth if things work out,” I said, finding Beason’s place. He was standing in front of the place as ramrod-still as a cigar store Indian, a little out of place in the shabby neighborhood. His apartment building had never seen better days. It looked as if it had been built knowing it was a loser.

I was a little worried about Merit making the fit since he couldn’t duck his head, but he knew how to maneuver his way into tight spots.

I introduced Gunther and brought Merit up to date as we headed for Harris’s in Santa Monica. We got there ahead of Wayne and his pals and found the
Mad Anthony
docked along with four other boats.

“We’ll spread out here and keep out of sight,” I suggested. Straight-Ahead was looking out the front window and not at me. Since he couldn’t nod, he gave a simple “Yes.”

“And afterward,” I went on, “we follow Wayne in shifts. I’ll stay with him through the day, but I’ll need relief at night.”

“I shall relieve at night,” Gunther volunteered. “I am conrversant with firearms. You can allow me the use of your weapon.”

“Check,” I said. “If you’re up to a few hours in the morning, Merit …”

“Merit Beason will be on the job,” he said. “There they come.”

We all looked out the window as a car pulled up near the dock and four men piled out. One of them had apparently told a joke. They were all laughing as they walked down five stone steps and onto the wooden dock. I was parked about three car lengths behind them in a small lot for the marina. Through the window we could look down at the bubbling ocean and anyone who approached.

I recognized the three men with Wayne, though I didn’t know their names. They were all movie actors, gangster types, and they already had had enough to drink to keep them happy and their minds off the war for the rest of the day.

When they were on the boat, Merit and I got out of the car. Gunther agreed to stay and keep his eyes open from the slope. I went up the coast along the shore about twenty yards and Straight-Ahead, looking like a lead soldier, paced down the coast and out of sight around a bend. For the next hour, we sat watching as the fishing boat pulled out and anchored about a hundred yards from shore. The sound of voices carried on the wind over the water. The Duke and his buddies laughed, fished, told jokes. We waited.

After another hour, a man in a yachting cap spotted me and walked over. He had a pipe in one hand and wore white pants and a white shirt.

“Can I help you?” the commodore said. He had graytinged sideburns. He should have been battling Chinese pirates.

“No,” I said from the wooden barrel I was sitting on. “I like to just sit here and meditate.”

I guess I didn’t look like the meditating type.

“Meditate?”

“Rest my mind and soul,” I said. “This is a troubled world and these are troubled times.”

“I see,” said the commodore, examining his pipe to see why it wasn’t working. “That’s my ship there,
The Sahara.
I thought you were looking at it.”

“I was looking through it to the sea, to infinity,” I said with a grin. “I’m a poet.”

“A poet?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m trying to get in touch with the muse, so if you’d just get your ass out of here and let me get to it, I’d be very grateful.”

He looked like a commodore but he wasn’t built like one. He turned and walked away with his dead pipe, heading for his ship. During the third hour of our wait, he popped his head up five times to see if I was still there. I was. He never took
The Sahara
away from the dock.

Somewhere in the fourth hour, the
Mad Anthony
headed back for shore. The boys aboard were whooping it up and a few of them had some trouble negotiating the short leap from the deck to the dock. None of them carried any fish.

I stood up, stretched my legs, and was taking a step toward the parking lot when the shot came. I didn’t see what, if anything, it hit, but I looked at Wayne and his four cronies, who were standing straight up, their eyes toward the shore.

“Get down,” I shouted. “Get down.”