You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) (15 page)

One of the two women in the room stood up, pursed her lips and said,

“I don’t quarrel with your desire for definition, Dr. Derry, but I fail to see how definitional problems are involved in the issue of Jung’s acceptance of a collective unconscious and Freud’s rejection of it.”

I nodded sagely, looked at Dr. Agabiti as if we both knew the answer and spoke.

“You are absolutely right,” I said. “It is a basic problem. It is something that cannot be reconciled and therefore it is something we accept and build on.”

I punched my fist into my hand for emphasis, expecting someone to rise from the audience and throw a chair at me. No one did.

The next question came from a young man with a Boston accent. His hair was brown and wavy. In five years he’d be fat. I could see he didn’t like Derry.

“Nothing you have said so far, Dr. Derry, has any substance,” he said. “You’ve been evasive. What if I were to say that the case history in your book of Roy Wood’s breakdown revealed clearly that your suggested approach is of no value in affecting a cure?”

“I would simply disagree,” I said.

“And what if I were to say that your refusal to mention the drug used in that case indicates an unethical refusal to share medical knowledge that could help patients? Either your approach is without merit and insufficiently tested, or you should mention now before this body the specific drug you used.”

The assembly thought this was a reasonable request. They had me. I could make up a drug, but they’d know it was a fake, or I could think up some real drug I had seen on Shelly Minck’s shelf back in the dental office. If they believed me, some of the people in the room might try it, and I had no idea what Shelly’s drugs might do to some poor nut.

“Well?” said Boston, his hands folded in front of him.

“The drug is scapalomine,” said a voice in the back of the room. “Dr. Derry doesn’t want to mention it because he and I are still conducting experiments in Capetown.”

Groucho Marx stood up and continued. “I’m the chief of staff at Dr. Derry’s hospital in Capetown, and I suggested that he not give the information, but under the circumstances and with the warning I’ve just given, I think it will do no harm now.”

“Dr.—” Boston began.

“Hackenbush,” said Marx seriously. I expected a roar of laughter or recognition, but there was none. Maybe the doctors never went to the movies. “And now, gentlemen, I’d like to talk to Dr. Derry in the hall for a moment. I know this is unprecedented, but if you’ll just bear with us, I think I can persuade Dr. Derry to reveal something that will be of great scientific interest.”

Agabiti looked confused and gazed around the room. No one appeared to know what to do.

“I don’t think you can convince me, Dr. Hackenbush,” I said somberly, “but I’ll listen. I’ll be right back.”

I hurried quickly through the door with Marx and whispered to him as we got in the hall.

“Where did you get that scapalomine business?”

“It’s true,” said Groucho, “I read this quack Derry’s book and asked some questions out at U.S.C. The drug is probably scapalomine.”

“You read medical books?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m a doctor, aren’t I? Now what were you doing in there?”

I explained about Nitti’s boys as we passed the Andrew Sisters, who looked surprised to see me out so early. There was no one else in the twelfth floor lobby. Everyone was in the various meeting rooms. In one room, there would be a long wait for Dr. Derry and Hackenbush to return.

“My advice as your physician,” whispered Marx, “is to get the hell out of here. Let’s get back to our room and shove you under the bed.”

We pushed the button for the elevator, and Marx kept going through the pantomime of serious conversation. Our chances looked good. Nitti’s men weren’t in the lobby, and they had a lot of territory to cover. A few seconds later I drastically revised our chances. Costello was in the elevator. He stood back against the wall with his hand in his coat pocket. There was no running from him. I nodded toward Costello so Groucho would know, and we stepped in as the doors closed.

I wondered if Costello would shoot Marx, me, and the blissfully unaware elevator operator, or try to get me out where he could handle my demise slowly and painfully. I thought that painful demises were more his style.

He leaned over my shoulder with familiar garlic breath.

“I got a message,” he whispered. “Tonight at eleven, you be at the New Michigan with Marx. Servi will be there. You got the message?”

“I got the message.”

“Good,” he said. “Things don’t go right, I get you.”

Groucho and I rode down with Costello to the lobby and watched him leave with the other two.

He had probably thought Groucho was Chico.

“What was that all about?” asked Groucho as we got back in the elevator.

“My pal Al Capone remembered me,” I said.

9

O.K., I told myself. Assuming Servi does get Chico off the hook, you still have two questions. First, who killed Bistolfi, Morris Kelakowsky, and Canetta? The second problem was tied to the first—how to get the Chicago cops to unlist me as public enemy number three or four and moving up fast. The most obvious solution to problem one was that at least four people were involved in some scheme to cheat the mob and Nitti out of $120,000. The killer was determined not to split that money into smaller chunks. Maybe Killer was worried about my getting too close. That led to an obvious conclusion. Killer might want me dead now unless there wasn’t anyone left for me to get information from.

He might also realize, if he was a member of either Nitti’s or Capone’s group, that as soon as Servi cleared Chico, Nitti might start looking for him.

That got me just about nowhere, so I decided to solve problem number two. I got directions and headed South on Michigan Avenue. The wind knocked over an old lady in a black coat. She didn’t break her fall when the blast of iced air threw a block under her. The wind deserved a fifteen yard penalty for clipping. Instead, the old lady lost about three yeards. She got up, determined. The first and ten looked like it might be the Old Water Tower I passed on Chicago Avenue. I never found out. The old lady was still half a block back, struggling against the blast. I was a foreigner and more determined. Chicago had thrown its best flu at me, and I had made it through almost five days. I adjusted my ear muffs and leaned my way down Michigan, past book shops and fancy women’s stores with stiff-backed mannequins in their windows. In ten minutes, I made it past the
Tribune
Tower and across a bridge over the Chicago river. Ten minutes beyond that I was at City Hall on Clark. When I got to the one-block square lump, I kept my head down, pretending to fight the wind but really keeping my face covered from the cops who were walking in and out.

I headed for the mayor’s office, not that I expected to get in to the mayor, but because I needed information I could get there. A receptionist sat inside the door marked “Mayor.” She looked young, red-haired and Irish. Her teeth were small and her smile long gone for the likes of me.

“Yes sir,” she said.

“I’d like to see the mayor’s secretary,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?” she said, looking past me for someone who was expected.

“No,” I said, “but I have only one question and I’m a busy man.” I looked at my watch. “If Chicago won’t help me, Detroit will.”

She was unimpressed, so I went on.

“I’m from Metro Goldwyn Mayer studio,” I whispered. “We’re thinking seriously of shooting a picture here next year about the Chicago Fire—a big thing, millions of dollars.”

She was suspicious, but she couldn’t afford to make the kind of mistake that might happen if she kicked me out.

“Did you see Mr.—”

“No,” I said with a patient smile. “I saw no one. This is to remain strictly confidential until I get some reassurances from the Mayor’s office directly.”

She could have asked why I was telling her, but she didn’t look that sharp. She wasn’t.

“Let me check, Mr.—”

“Pevsner,” I said. “Tobias Pevsner. If you’d like to call Mr. Mayer’s office, I’ll be glad to give you the number, Miss—”

“Kelly,” she said with a small smile.

I had discovered from the directory in City Hall that the Mayor’s name was Kelly, but I didn’t think it was the moment to note the coincidence.

“Kelly,” I mused. “A good name for a lovely young lady. You remind me very much of Vivien Leigh. Hey. Viv will be starring in the Chicago picture and she’ll have a younger sister. Ever done any acting?”

Her mouth dropped and closed.

“A little, in a school play,
Arsenic and Old Lace.
I played the girl.”

I pulled out my black expense book and gnawed pencil.

“Your first name?”

“Maureen, Maureen Kelly.”

I wrote an expense item for a fifty cent breakfast and closed the book. She left and I looked around the bare little office with a single window facing nothing. It was a dreary place, and the man Maureen Kelly led out to see me fit perfectly. He was a prune of a man, pinched in by what must have been an enormous, tight rubber band under his jacket. Bowel movements must have been torture for him. His words fit the image—brief, clipped darts of words that traveled straight and allowed no echo.

“Yes,” he said.

“Pevsner,” I said, not bothering to extend my hand. My plan was to one-up him on bad manners and efficiency before he could get the chance. “I haven’t much time so I’ll be brief. I want to know if the City of Chicago will cooperate in the making of
A Song in the Fire.
If not, we’ll shoot it on the lot and use Detroit for the exteriors.”

“I see,” said Prune, giving the evil eye to Maureen Kelly. “And what will this cost the city?”

“Cost?” I said, looking at him in disbelief. “Why should it cost? We’re prepared, in fact, to make certain guarantees for housing, publicity, food contracts, local talent, security.”

“I see,” said Prune, trying to smile and failing. “Well, perhaps I can arrange a short meeting with the Mayor.”

“Well,” I said. “It’s either now or not at all. I’m on a very tight schedule.”

“Well, give me just a few minutes to check,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“A few minutes is about all I can spare.”

The prune went through a door marked “Private” and Maureen Kelly smiled at me—a pale smile from a child of the city made anemic in the molehill of City Hall.

“Can I get you anything?” she said. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” I said. “Coffee.”

She went through a second door, and I moved quickly to the one Prune had gone through. I could hear him talking inside, but I couldn’t make out the words. I put one hand on the door and turned the handle slowly and gently till it was open a thin crack.

Prune’s voice came through clearly.

“Late thirties or early forties, hair greying at the temples, about my height, with a flat nose. No I don’t think he’s dangerous, and I don’t know how he got past Alex. No. Of course not. He’s in the reception room of the Mayor’s office. That’s right. No, I do not know what you’re waiting for. Get up here fast.”

As he put down the phone I closed the door and turned to find Maureen with a steaming cup in her hand. My grin was enormous.

“Hold that for me just one second,” I said. “I have to find the men’s room.”

I lowered my hands and moved leisurely but distinctly to the outer door, closing it behind me on the image of the slightly bewildered Maureen Kelly. There were a few people in the tile-floored hall. The sound of footsteps and the shaft of light from a single window made it feel like an old drugstore. I hurried to the stairway and went up half a flight. The footsteps from below were heavy and slower than they should have been. Leaning over the rail, I saw three blue uniformed cops come up and run down the hall toward the mayor’s office with guns drawn, ready to blow away intruders and complainers.

I went down behind them with one hand on the rail, going two steps at a time. When I hit the main floor I lifted my collar, regretted giving my scarf to the kid on the West Side, and walked to the nearest exit. A cop stood in the street looking toward me. I retreated back into the cool echoes of the hallway. The cop from outside came through the door. In the few seconds it took for his eyes to adjust to the grey electric light, I opened the nearest door, went in and closed it behind me.

I was in a small office with two men. A thin guy in a white shirt with a big Adam’s apple leaned over a guy at a desk who looked like a cop. The guy at the desk was short, stocky but not fat, with serious dark eyes. He was about my age, and wearing a neat, dark suit. His clothes reminded me of the uniforms Catholic kids had to wear in high school. His eyes met mine and I knew he was going over the description of the mad chopper killer. Instead of turning away and rushing into the possibility of a waiting cop outside the door, I smiled and stepped forward with my hand out.

“My name’s Derry, Charles Derry,” I said. “From Cleveland—Maple Heights, really. Looking into some investment possibilities. Contacting politicians, people around City Hall.”