Smart Moves (14 page)

“Through that door,” I shouted.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh!” Shelly sobbed and crawled on his hands and knees through the door. Another shot hit the floor behind me, and I scampered after the puffing dentist and kicked the door closed behind us.

“This isn’t fun. It’s no fun at all,” Shelly said, crawling into a corner of the small room. The door I had pushed closed was thick and heavy. I hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but I had the feeling that it could stop a bullet. Footsteps, more than one pair, came across the floor outside and I aimed my .38 at the closed door. There were no windows in the room, nothing they could break to get a shot at us. Even I couldn’t miss someone coming through the door at this distance.

“The trap,” Povey laughed through the thick door. “We would have preferred to shoot you, but you can remain in there till we dispose of the
Juden
and the
Shvartz
.”

“Someone heard the shots,” I shouted. “The cops will be here.”

“No,” said Povey. “This is a film studio, remember? We will simply wait for a few minutes outside the door, and if the police show up we will tell them we shoot a movie and we are sorry to make noise.”

“Don’t come in here,” screamed Shelly.

“That’s telling him, Shell,” I said, my arms weakening but my gun still pointed at the door. Something clicked.

“This used to be a furrier’s shop,” Povey said. “You are in a small fur vault. And there you will remain. Two mice. No,” he laughed. “A mink and a mouse … I don’t hear you laughing at my joke.”

I shot at the door. The bullet thudded into the steel, ricocheted, and screeched past my face.

“Toby,” Shelly groaned.

“I don’t like you anymore,” said Povey beyond the door. “I don’t like you at all, Peters.”

Someone else spoke quietly to Povey. I could hear the voice, but not the words. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman or even if the words were in English, and Shelly’s whimpering didn’t help. The voice stopped and footsteps moved away from the door. We sat listening. Another door opened, probably the one to the loft.

“Let’s get out, out,” Shelly yelled, getting up.

“It may be a trick,” I said. “One of them may have left. The other one might be out there, waiting for us to step out.”

A light went on. Shelly was standing, his pudgy hand on the cord of a single bulb, dangling from the ceiling. The room was small, empty, and musty. Shelly sneezed. He turned and tried the handle of the door, a bar of metal that shook but didn’t turn. “We’re trapped,” he said, turning to me.

“That’s what he said,” I reminded him. I didn’t get up.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” Shelly sat, rattling the door handle. “Out. O-U-T. Help me.”

“Nothing to help with,” I said. I took off my jacket, put my .38 where I could reach it, and lay down. If I could stay on my back, I might not get a great night’s sleep, but I’d be able to walk in the morning. “Get some sleep, Shell. Turn out the light and get some sleep.”

“We’ll suffocate like …”

“Mice or minks,” I said. “There’s a crack under the door. It’s not sealed. Turn off the light, in case they decide to come back and try again. In the morning, when people come to work, we’ll start making noise and someone will let us out.”

“Nobody will let us … Toby, we’ve got to get out.”

“You work on it, Shell,” I said. “If you get the door open, let me know. If you don’t, turn off the light and try to be quiet.”

He jangled the door handle a few more times, gave up, and sat down, sweating. He reached into his pocket.

“No cigars,” I said.

He put the cigars away and pouted. “It’s all your fault,” he said, pointing a finger at me.

Since we both agreed, I had nothing to add.

“Turn off the light, Shell,” I said and lay back with my eyes closed. He grumbled, moaned, and about ten minutes later turned off the light.

Douglas MacArthur and Koko the Clown came to save us during the night. Koko oozed in under the door. The general came riding through the wall in a jeep driven by a smiling soldier, wearing only underpants. Shelly thanked the soldier and the clown, and MacArthur offered the use of his jeep and driver to save Einstein and Paul Robeson. Koko handed me an oversize fountain pen with a sharp point to use as a weapon. Shelly and I were about to get in the jeep when Mutt and Jeff suddenly appeared with a gun in each hand. “Oh, oh,” said Koko, rolling his eyes. He looked around the room, spotted an inkwell, and dived in.

Rather than be shot by two cartoon characters, I shook my shoulders, ground my teeth, and woke up. Shelly was asleep, his jacket under his head, curled in a ball like an overweight cat. Light crept in under the door. I sat up. Except for the ache in my ribs, head, and groin, where Povey had hit me during our dance after the Albanese shooting, I felt reasonably well. No backache. My face was covered with spikes of beard and my tongue with dried glue. It was time to get back to work. I rolled over and shook Shelly.

“Mildred,” he groaned. “It’s Sunday.”

I shook him again.

“Mildred,” he cried. “Not in the middle of the night. You promised you’d wait till …”

His eyes opened and he sat up. His glasses were at a crazy angle, and his mouth was open as if he had awakened in Oz. “I don’t want to be here,” he wailed.

“Let’s see what we can do about it,” I took out my gun, holding it down to the bottom of the door and shooting out into the loft. I waited ten minutes, while Shelly complained about missing breakfast, his dental meeting, a change of underwear, and his toothbrush. Then I shot again. Something or someone stirred. Voices in doors beyond doors or from the street. About three minutes later I could hear the outer door to Columbia Films open. We put our heads down to the floor and yelled, “Here, we’re in here.”

A few seconds later the metal door opened, and we looked up at a tiny man in a grey suit and vest. “Who’re you?” he asked.

“Actors,” I said. “We got trapped in here last night after a shooting.”

“Actors?” the little man said, patting back his thin white hair. “I’m Al Singer, the agent. You got representation?”

We got up off the floor and moved past him. “No,” I said.

“I can get you a booking, maybe two, three weeks in Miami,” he said, following us. “I need a gangster type and a fat second banana for Phil Silvers’ act. It’s an emergency. What do you say? Train fare, twenty bucks a night, may make you a regular part of the show if they don’t find the two schlemiels who ran out on Phil.”

Shelly limped and I ached to the door.

“Think it over,” Singer said behind us as we went down the stairs. “Name’s Al Singer. I’m in the book.”

I dug into my pocket for my notebook and found it as we walked to Second Avenue. People, cars all over the place.

“I need a toilet,” Shelly said, looking around. He spotted a small quick-fix restaurant and headed for it. The place was half full, and the clock on the wall said it was almost eight. Shelly went for the toilet and I went for the phone.

“What’ll it be?” the guy behind the counter called.

“Bowl of Wheaties and a coffee for me,” I said, pulling out a pocketful of coins and losing some on the floor.

“Eggs, ham, coffee,” shouted Shelly, going into the toilet.

I got the operator and had her give me the number in Princeton. No one answered at Einstein’s. I tried the number across the street. Archer answered.

“I thought you were in New York,” I said, looking at the counterman, who was pointing to the two seats he was holding for Shelly and me.

“We’re back here,” he sighed. “Orders from headquarters. The kids are in the big city. We’re scientist-sitting again. What do you want?”

“I ran into Povey last night. I thought you were going to pull him in?”

“Don’t tell anyone, Peters, but sometimes even the FBI doesn’t find someone in a city of five million in four or five hours.”

“Povey said he was going to get Einstein and Robeson,” I said, “I had the feeling he was on his way to one of them last night.”

“We put some people on Robeson last night,” Spade said. “Einstein’s safe across the street with his numbers. I can see the place from here.”

“Then why doesn’t he answer the phone?” I asked.

The counterman looked up over a customer and motioned to me that my Wheaties were served. Shelly came out of the toilet and made his way to his eggs. “You need toilet paper in there,” he told the counterman.

“I’ll go see,” said Spade, and he hung up.

I hung up too and hurried to Shelly. “Put that stuff in a sandwich,” I said, scooping a few mouthfuls of milk and Wheaties into my mouth. “We’re going to Princeton.”

“I’m too old to go back to school,” Shelly said wearily. “I’ve already gone to Utah State Dental.”

“Let’s go, Shell,” I said, taking a few more spoons of cereal and gulping down some coffee.

A guy sitting to the right, trying to read his paper, looked at us out of the corner of his eye and decided not to make an issue of our boorish manners.

“Put my friend’s stuff in a bun,” I told the counterman.

“What’s the hurry?” the man said.

“We’ve got to save Albert Einstein from Nazis,” I explained.

“Gotcha,” said the counterman, moving Shelly’s plate in mid-bite. “That’ll be eighty cents for the two of you.”

“I’m not going,” said Shelly, pulling his plate back. “I’ve got a dental conference here, remember?”

“Suit yourself, Shell. I’ll see you later.”

I left him with the check and heard him order another egg as I hit the street. The first cabbie said he wouldn’t go to Princeton. The second one gave me a flat fee of fifteen bucks. I told him it was a deal, handed him the cash in advance, and sat back, wondering if Einstein would be alive when I got to New Jersey.

10

By the time we pulled up in front of the Einstein house in Princeton, the expenses for transportation on this case had caught up with my advance. If Einstein were still alive, I’d need more money and a new notebook. The old one was full, and the spiral had just given up any hope of holding onto the few remaining pages.

“You want I should wait?” the cabbie said as I handed him some change.

“No thanks. I’ll catch the bus back.”

“You want some advice?” he asked as I closed the door.

“Why not?” I said.

“Shave,” he said. “Neighborhood like this they’ll think you’re some kind of bum.”

“Thanks,” I said, and ran up the steps to Einstein’s house. I rang the bell, knocked at the door, rang again, tried to see through the windows. No dice. I went around the back of the house and looked through the big window of Einstein’s study. He wasn’t in there. I tried the back door and wasn’t surprised when it was locked. I was surprised at how easily I opened it with my penknife. If the FBI was watching this place, how come I was getting into it so easily without even trying to hide?

“Hello,” I yelled, pistol out, as I walked through the kitchen, trailing dirt from the garden. No answer. I opened the refrigerator and took out a couple of carrots and half-empty quart bottle of milk. Alternating chomps on the carrots and gulps of the milk, I went through the house looking for Einstein’s body. I was coming down the stairs in the front hall when a key clinked in the door. I sat down, .38 in my lap, popped the last piece of carrot in my mouth, washed it down with a gulp of milk, rubbed the stubble on my chin, and waited while the door opened and Mark Walker walked in. He was moving quietly as he stepped in. He didn’t see me for maybe ten seconds, which was a little surprising.

“What’s up, Doc?” I said, remnants of carrot still fresh in my teeth.

“Ah,” Walker gasped. He didn’t look or sound like Elmer Fudd. “Mr. Peters … I … what are you … where is …?”

“I am dirty and hungry and he is not here,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to pick up … some things from Professor Einstein to take to the Institution,” he said nervously. “They’re in the study.”

“Hold on, Doc,” I said, getting up, milk bottle in one hand, gun in the other, face a Brillo grey. “No one touches anything till we see the great man.”

“You don’t think …” Walker began, his hand going to his chest.

“Usually I don’t, but I’m working hard on it right now. Let’s not argue here. I spent the night on the floor of a fur vault with a snoring dentist and bad dreams. The guy who locked me in that vault told me he was on his way here to turn Einstein into a martyr or meat sauce. So, don’t touch anything and don’t irritate me. I don’t have the tolerance or the intelligence to deal with either one.”

“It’s Saturday,” Walker said, looking at me and adjusting his jacket and tie. “Professor Einstein is probably out on his boat.”

“Boat?”

“He sails a boat?”

“What else does one sail?” Walker asked reasonably, while I tried to imagine the fuzzy-haired scientist with a yachtsman’s cap on his head and wearing a navy-blue jacket with gold buttons embossed with little anchors. I couldn’t do it. There was a phone on a small table at the foot of the stairs. I put the milk bottle down, riffled through the pages, and found the number I was looking for. The operator connected me with the house across the street, but Spade and Archer didn’t answer. No one answered. I hung up.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Get me to him fast.”

“But …”

I finished off the milk and motioned him to the door. “Now,” I said, and he believed me.

We drove through Princeton and into farmland. Black-and-white cows paused in their chewing to look stupidly at us as we shot up the two-lane road in silence. I passed the time by rubbing my thumb over my chin and not thinking. Thinking had never really worked for me. My plans usually fell through, confused me. Blundering ahead, trying to touch all the bases twice, and sticking my head up every once in a while to draw the bad guys into taking a wild shot or two had been my method in the past. So far I’d survived with it. So I decided that the best thing to do was find Einstein, get him out in the open, watch for Povey, and hope for help from the FBI.

Walker said, “Here,” about five seconds before he turned into a side road, and I looked for the lake between the trees. We shot through the thin forest and into a parking lot next to a golf course, beyond which was the lake. Walker had said it was a little lake. It looked about the size of Manhattan to me. Little boats with sails lulled around in the stiff breeze and they all looked the same.