The Howard Hughes Affair: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Four) (10 page)

For a man who spent most his time behind a desk, Phil could move pretty fast. He proved it by crossing the small room in two steps, lifting me from behind the desk with his right hand and punching me firmly in the stomach with his left in less time than it takes to cross your eyes.

“I’ve had it, goddamit,” he shouted, standing over me, “I’ve goddam had it with you.”

I liked him better this way, but I had the feeling I had turned on something I couldn’t stop. Seduced, shot at, clubbed, corpsed and beaten by one’s brother in a few hours was enough for any man. So I just stood there against the wall, waiting for his next move.

“It’s simple,” he said, breathing hard. “You tell me about your client and everything else you know, or I stamp on you. You know I mean it.” His finger was inches from my face, and I knew he meant it.

Seidman came in, saw me on the floor and spoke softly to Phil, who kept his eyes on me.

“Problem, Lieutenant?”

“No, Sam Spade here is going to cooperate, aren’t you Sam?”

“No client’s name,” I said, covering my head with my hands and expecting a kick. When Phil lost control, he lost control; a kick was as good as a punch. I wondered how his kids and wife survived, though Ruth had once assured me my brother was a model father and husband and never hit his kids. Maybe he saved it all for the job.

“Lieutenant,” Seidman said.

“All right. All right.” Phil stood up and turned his back to me. “Book him. Suspicion of murder.”

I pulled myself straight and wondered how long my body could take all this attention.

“Phil,” I said with exaggerated calm. “You know I didn’t strangle that guy. He shot whoever strangled him and I’m in one piece, it’s a battered piece, but it isn’t bleeding. And how can strangling be murder when the victim has a gun in his hand?”

“Sergeant,” said Phil, “get him out of my sight and put him in the lockup for a few hours.”

Seidman motioned for me to come, and I considered prodding Phil a little more. I had him back in form and I didn’t want to lose him now, but something in Seidman’s look changed my mind and I followed him.

In the outer office, a police photographer was snapping pictures of broken glass on the floor. The body had been removed, and Shelly was trying to put his tools together.

“That corpse had good teeth,” Shelly said. “Real gold fillings. You don’t see many of them in this neighborhood.”

“I’ve just been arrested,” I said. “For murder.”

“You killed that guy?” asked Shelly, without looking up from his search for something on the floor.

“No, I didn’t. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“Right,” said Shelly, holding his glasses on with the finger of his right hand. Seidman led me out of the office.

“What do you get out of driving him up the wall?” Seidman asked as we walked down the stairs, absorbing Lysol and the looks of a few curious tenants and bums.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just used to him that way. What does he get out of putting lumps on me?”

“Forget I asked,” said Seidman, leading me out of the Farraday Building to a parked black and white police car. “I’ll lock you up for a few hours. Then do us all a big favor and try to stay out of his way.”

“I’ll try,” I said, “but he’s irresistible.”

They threw me in a cell with another dangerous criminal, a little guy in his sixties who was stewed silly at ten in the morning. I sat on the almost clean bunk, holding my head and counting backwards from 100 to keep from noticing the pain in my head.

“You can call me Calvin,” the drunk said, sitting next to me. “Calvin means ‘the bald’ in some language. I looked it up when I was a kid, but I fooled them. I’ve got more hair than my father ever had. Take a look.”

He shook me and I opened my eyes. I had been at 85. Calvin was smiling and tugging at his ample white hair to prove he had it.

“That’s great, Calvin,” I said, “but I’ve got one hell of a headache and …”

“They picked me up on Wilshire this morning,” Calvin continued, ignoring me. “You know why I was drunk?”

“You consumed too much alcohol,” I tried.

“I mean the deeper cause,” he said. “It’s the news. I got up to go to work and turned on the radio and this guy started telling me about someone trying to kill Mussolini, and about Roosevelt asking Japan to explain why they were concentrating troops in Indochina. And Roosevelt says peace depends on an answer. And more kids were being drafted into the army.”

I didn’t see how an attempt to kill Mussolini necessarily came under the heading of bad news, but I didn’t want to carry on a conversation with a drunk. I had some numbers to get through and some thinking to do. I had a pile of clues to a murder, but I couldn’t figure them out, and besides I wasn’t being paid to find a murderer. I had suspicious characters all over the place and too damn much information. I wasn’t used to all this information. It probably would have given me a headache even without the lump.

“Was there any good news?” I said.

“Yeah, Mel Ott is going to manage the Giants. Ever see him play? One foot up in the air when he bashes the ball.” Calvin got up to demonstrate Mel Ott’s unique batting style. He hit a triple which further cheered him and he sat again to keep me company. “What you in for?” he said groggily.

“Murder,” I said, closing my eyes. “I gutted three drunks on the Strip last night with my bare hands.” I could feel Calvin rise slowly and move quietly to the far side of the small cell. I slept. This time no dreams, no Cincinnati, no Koko.

I got up because someone was shaking me, a cop. Calvin was snoring away in a second bunk.

“You’re out,” said the cop wearily. “Lieutenant Pevsner wants to see you in his office.”

I got up and told him I’d find my way there. He told me I was getting an escort. Ten minutes later I was going up the steps of Phil’s station in the Wilshire District, past the desk sergeant, up the stairs and through the big sour squad room. I had been accompanied by Officer Rashkow, who said nothing because I said nothing. He left me at my brother’s door and I went in.

Phil was behind his desk, and Basil Rathbone was seated across from him. Rathbone rose.

“Mr. Peters,” he said. “So sorry to hear what happened. I hope you’re all right.” He took my hand and held my shoulder.

“Mr. Rathbone has persuaded Captain Rein to let you go,” said Phil, playing with an Eversharp automatic pencil, which he turned over and over and over. “Mr. Rathbone has also refused to tell us what he knows about this and why he is interested in getting you out. Mr. Rathbone knows we are investigating a murder.”

“I also have no information, Lieutenant,” he said sincerely. “I met Mr. Peters a few days ago when he visited a taping of my radio show. I promised to look him up and discovered when I called his office that he had been arrested. Then I simply made a few calls and …”

Phil kept spinning the pencil and nodding his head to show he understood but he didn’t believe.

“Have it your way,” Phil said. “Toby draws bodies like flies to orange pop. I’d suggest you stay away from him.”

“I shall certainly consider your advice,” Rathbone said as if he fully intended to consider the advice. “Now, if we may …”

Seidman stuck his head in the door before we could get permission or move.

“He’s on,” Seidman said.

“All right, I’ll take it,” Phil sighed, staring at the phone. “You two can go. It’s a friend of mine, a crank who’s been calling every day for the last two weeks to threaten me. It makes my day.” Phil picked up the phone and spoke into it staring at me. “Hello. You are? You are? I am? That’s nice to know. Just keep talking. I know you won’t be on long enough for us to trace, but do you mind if we try, just to keep in practice? Thanks.”

Rathbone, who was dressed in a neatly pressed dark suit and matching tie, made a motion, and Phil put his hand over the receiver.

“Yeah,” said Phil.

“Give me a try with him,” said Rathbone, “maybe I can keep him going long enough for you to trace it.”

“That’s ten, maybe fifteen minutes, depending on where he’s calling from, but he won’t stay on long enough. O.K. Give it a try. What the hell.” He handed the phone to Rathbone, who said:

“This is Basil Rathbone. Yes, the actor. I’m sorry if you think this is a poor imitation. It’s actually me. I happened to be in the Lieutenant’s office when you called, and I’ve never spoken to a lunatic before. My, my, my you needn’t get insulting. I see. And how will you accomplish this? Grisly. But you don’t even know the Lieutenant. How will you be sure you’re not getting the wrong man? Oh, you do. Yes, Yes. That’s a fair enough description. Must you? So soon? Well, if you must. Goodbye.”

Rathbone hung up.

“Couldn’t keep him on,” said Phil.

“No,” said Rathbone,” but I did discover a few things about him that might help you to pick him up. He is a Canadian who has worked for a doctor or in a hospital or is a doctor; and he knew you, I would guess, about ten years ago. I’d suggest you check anyone you put to prison about ten years ago who recently got out and fits that description.”

Phil started to rise from his chair.

“Levine, Edward Levine,” said Phil. “Sent him up for assaulting a doctor in County Hospital where he was working in ’32.” Seidman came back into the office to indicate that they had not traced the call.

“Forget it,” said Phil. “Check on Ed Levine. May have gotten out of Folsom recently. Check his parole officer, find him and pull him in. I think he’s our man.” Seidman nodded and left.

“The voice could be his,” Phil said. “It’s been ten years, but …”

“He have some special fondness for you, Philip?” I said. Phil looked up at me, and I went on. “Some good kidney chops help him confess? Ah, but you were a wild youth.”

“Get out,” he said. Rathbone and I got out. On the way through the station Rathbone absorbed the sight of drunks, looneys, cops and assorted hangers-on lounging around.

“Fascinating place,” he said, as we stepped into the sunlight.

“Fascinating,” I agreed. “How did you know all that stuff about the guy on the phone, Sherlock?”

“If we are to cement this friendship, Toby,” he said with a smile, “please call me Basil. As much as I enjoy the profit of being Sherlock Holmes and am interested in the process, I fear I am, after thirty years as a Shakespearean actor, becoming identified with a character who may overwhelm my career. I’m getting a bit of a taste of how Dr. Conan Doyle must have felt when he tried to kill Sherlock off. I am, however, not at that point. As to the business on the phone back there, I owe it more to being an actor who spends a great deal of time studying voices than I do to a study of Holmes. I knew he was a Canadian because of the way he pronounced “ou” in words like “about,” “out.” Canadians pronounce these two letters as “oo” as in “too.” Of course a small group of Americans in Minnesota do the same, but the odds were numerically with the Canadian. As to the medical knowledge, the gentleman on the phone described what he would do to Lieutenant Pevsner with an anatomical knowledge that would have been the envy of Jack the Ripper. Finally, the man’s description of the lieutenant was easily ten years out of date. He described a man thirty pounds lighter and with hair just beginning to grey. He had not seen his intended victim for about ten years. Then I put it all together.”

“You could have been way off,” I said, letting him lead me to a blue Chrysler at the curb.

“My dear fellow, I could have been entirely wrong,” he admitted. “Holmes, unlike us poor mortals, always had the fortunate protection of Dr. Conan Doyle, who would affirm almost every bizarre deduction the consulting detective made.”

We got in the car and I gave Rathbone Major Barton’s address, after briefing him on what had happened and getting his assurance that he wanted to come along.

“I called you this morning for the express purpose of accompanying you on some of the investigation,” he said. “Tell me, do American police actually beat suspects, or were you simply prodding the Lieutenant out of some long-standing antagonism?”

“The antagonism goes back more than forty years,’ I said. “He’s my brother.”

“That explains a great deal,” said Rathbone.

“The answer to your question is, yes, some, maybe most cops do use a little muscle to push a suspect into a confession or get some information. Being a cop is a tough job. I used to be one in Glendale.”

“I see,” he said. “The English aren’t all that less barbaric. I’ll make an anti-Holmesian confession to you. About fifteen years ago in England, I had an excellent manservant named Poole, who was an armed robber by night to supplement his income. He kept it up for some time, and I never suspected the fellow, even when they arrested him and he confessed. When he got out after serving his time, Poole told me that he had received nine lashes of the ‘cat’ for having carried firearms during the robberies. The cat, in case you do not know it, is a wooden handpiece to which are attached nine leather thongs soaked in oil. A prison doctor must be present because a single stroke of the lash can lay a man’s back open to the bone. The lashes, according to Poole, could be given at any time, in any combination. They could pull a man out of his cell after a year at three in the morning, give him two strokes and send him back bleeding for minutes or months to await the rest. They’ve done away with the cat now, but I’ve met many who are sorry about its passing. So, perhaps the English are not so much more civilized than the Americans when it comes to treating criminals.”