The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance (16 page)

Wayne was the first to wake from his daze. He grabbed the man nearest him and went face down on the dock. The third man followed. The last, whom I recognized as Ward Bond, just stood there like a lineman, hands on hips, looking angrily in the direction of the shot.

“What in the Sam Hill is—” Bond shouted.

The second shot tore a piece of the dock at his feet and Bond dove back on the boat and hit the deck. I ran down the shoreline past the dock and jumped down to the rocky beach, my gun in hand.

“Merit?” I shouted. “You see him?”

“On the ridge, parking lot,” came Beason’s voice. Then he stepped out and pointed with his pistol. I thought I saw something behind a Chevy coupe. Merit saw it too and fired. His bullet took a line of paint off the Chevy.

“Cover,” I called.

“Covered,” returned Straight-Ahead, standing straight up, a perfect target, but what choice did he have. His body wouldn’t let him stand any other way. I crouched and went up the slope. I ducked behind the Chrysler Wayne’s crew had come in, took a breath, and stepped out at the sound of footsteps near the wounded Chevy.

I came within a rat’s breath of killing Gunther, who had ducked behind the Chevy.

“He was over there,” Gunther said, unaware of his brush with death. His small finger was pointing down the shoreline to a stack of metal drums.

I leaned over so Straight-Ahead could see me and motioned to the barrels. He waved a hand to show that he understood, and we moved in on the place where I assumed Alex had fired from. I was moving on the high ground, Beason on the low. I kept my back away from the ridge line so I wouldn’t be a target, but Beason, gun at his side, strode right for the drums. It was showdown time and he was doing for real what John Wayne did in the movies. I wondered if Wayne and his boys were watching the show.

I went about fifteen yards past the drums, dropped to the shore behind some rocks, and came from behind as Straight-Ahead advanced from in front. If Alex had been there, we would have had him, but he wasn’t.

“Got away,” I said.

“Like the wind,” agreed Straight-Ahead, holstering his gun. I did the same. There wasn’t much likelihood that Alex had stuck around after Beason had taken a shot at him. He was in no hurry.

“Gunther,” I shouted. “Anybody drive away up there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but there are cars farther down on the street,” Gunther’s small voice came back.

Straight-Ahead and I moved side by side back to the dock, where John Wayne was now standing.

“The son of a bitch tried to kill me,” Wayne said. He had sobered quickly. He was wearing blue slacks and a light blue shirt. The wind was blowing his dark hair and he looked like something out of one of his movies.

“You?” bellowed Bond. “That bullet almost took my right foot. I’d like to get these paws on that bastard.”

The other two passengers looked scared, which is damned reasonable when someone has just shot at you.

Wayne did the introductions and I found out that the other two passengers were Paul Fix and Grant Withers. None of them had seen who had shot at them.

Beason found the hole from the first bullet in the dock bulletin board. The bullet had smashed through the glass and hit a poster of a cruiser over which was written “Build the Cruiser Los Angeles. Buy an Extra War Bond This Month.” The bullet hadn’t sunk the cruiser. It had also come nowhere near Wayne or the small boat.

“Lucky the fella can’t shoot straight,” Fix said.

“That we are,” agreed Bond. “Now who the hell is he and what’s going on?”

I let Wayne do the explaining while Beason, Gunther, and I looked for any sign of the elusive Alex. There wasn’t one. Back with Wayne, we had a quick meeting, with the Wayne entourage contributing the identities of various Alexes they knew. Gunther dutifully recorded each name and whatever they remembered. None of the Alexes sounded very promising, though a few of them were interesting, especially Alex Schwoch, a stunt man who had doubled for John Wayne on a Republic Western in 1935. Schwoch had insisted on doing a belly first slide down a lumber sluice. He had hit bottom, landed on his head, stood up in a daze, and shouted that he was tired of waiting for his drink and would henceforth bring his business to Mooney’s Tavern.

The fellows thought this was a great tale establishing Alex Schwoch’s image and possible motive. The only problem was that Grant Withers was sure the man’s name had been Arthur, not Alex.

Sobered by Alex’s bullets, the Duke agreed to take things easy for a few days and make it a little less trouble to keep an eye on him. He was going to do some tests at a set in the hills just off Coldwater Canyon sometime the next morning, a new Western, part of the agreement with Republic. Wayne was going to produce and he had a location he liked picked out for a gunfight. Other than that he could stay holed up playing cards at Bond’s house.

On the way back to town in the Crosley, Gunther, Straight-Ahead, and I said very little. We had failed to catch Alex, who was obviously damned resourceful or lucky. He had managed to find Wayne at the Roosevelt, follow him to Santa Monica, and get a couple of shots off at him.

We trailed Wayne’s car to be sure Alex wasn’t following him. Merit adjusted the mirror, Gunther looked out the rear window, and I checked anything that passed us. We were sure no one was on the trail.

I dropped Straight-Ahead off at his apartment building on 14th after he declined an offer to lunch with me and Gunther.

“Few hours rest and Merit Beason has to be back on the job,” he said, awkwardly getting out of the Crosley. “Let me know where to pick up Wayne tomorrow and I’ll stay with him through the morning.”

“I can get—” I started, but Straight-Ahead lifted a hand as he moved away.

“Wound’s healing fine,” he said. “This is time number two for Alex getting the best of Merit Beason. There won’t be a third time.”

Two dark men got out of the way as the house detective walked straight to the door and into the unnamed building. Then I headed for Spring Street, found a space, and treated Gunther to a late lunch at Levy’s. Gunther had the chicken noodle soup and chopped liver plate. I had the corned beef with a sour pickle on rye, with lots of ketchup.

The voluptuous Carmen was on duty at the cash register as I knew she would be, the silent, elusive, and ample Carmen.

“Carmen,” I said as I paid the bill. “How about Monday? Boxing, a movie;
The Gold Rush
is at the Hawaii on Hollywood.”

“I’ve seen it,” she said without looking at me as she plunked down my change.

“Everyone’s seen it,” I said. “It’s worth seeing again. I’m working for Charlie Chaplin. I can tell you things about him that will make it a new experience.”

Her massive bosom heaved in disbelief under her yellow blouse.

“He is, indeed, in the employ of Charlie Chaplin,” Gunther said.

Carmen leaned forward to see where the voice was coming from and I saw as much of Carmen as I had ever witnessed.

“Carmen,” I gulped when she sat back. “I know I’ve been less than responsible in the past, but believe me—”

“No fights, wrestling,” she said.

“Wrestling’s a fake,” I said. “Jeremy will tell you. It’s a show, a sham.”

Carmen was unmoved. A couple behind us reached over Gunther to pay their bill.

“Wrestling and a real dinner,” Carmen insisted. “No tacos. No hot dogs. Chinese.”

“Chinese food and wrestling,” I agreed. “It’s a date. I’ll pick you up at seven at your place.”

“Three dollars even,” Carmen told the couple behind us, and Gunther and I left Levy’s.

My social calendar was filling rapidly. Alice and Jeremy’s wedding on Friday. Dinner with Doc Parry and Doc Hodgdon on Saturday. Chinese and wrestling with Carmen on Monday. If I could stay alive and out of jail, it looked like a promising weekend.

Since Gunther wasn’t in a hurry, we stopped at the May Company and picked up a pair of brown-and-white shoes for $6.95 before I returned Gunther to Heliotrope. I didn’t park in front of the house because John Cawelti’s car was across the street and John was in it. I dropped Gunther at the corner with the box I had purchased for Mrs. Plaut. He reminded me that he was ready for future service. I thanked him and watched him walk down the street, package under his small arm, suit still neatly buttoned.

The two little girls who had a persistent lemonade stand a few doors from Mrs. Plaut’s tried to strong-arm Gunther into a purchase. They were both bigger than he was but they didn’t know Gunther’s commitment to cleanliness. He bought no lemonade.

I pulled into a driveway, turned around, and headed back downtown, beginning to worry about what the Crosley was doing to my back.

Lyle and Sutker played it smart this time. Someone had probably laid it out for them. They got me when I stepped out of No-Neck Arnie’s garage. Arnie had assured me that Vance was still safely on ice and I had decided to make my way back to the Alhambra in search of the Larchmonts. I was crossing Olympic when they came up on each side of me. Fortunately, they had changed shirts. The new ones were light blue with pictures of seals on them. Each seal was balancing a yellow ball.

“Someone wants to see you,” Lyle said.

I had a pretty good idea of who that might be.

      
11

I
sat in the backseat of the Chrysler with Lyle, the gun in his hand bouncing with every pit in the road. Sutker, whose nose was covered with bandage and tape, drove silently. We went south on Avelon, made a turn on Rosecrans, and wheeled into a small, apparently nameless dead-end street in Compton. There were some reasonably nice looking two-story houses on the street, including one at the end facing a small open airstrip. We parked and got out.

Having nothing to say to Lyle and Sutker, I followed them into a two-story brick house. There should have been a mom, a dad, and two kids inside. Instead there was Adrienne Larch-mont in a dining room seated at one end of a big table, her hair tight, dress black, her look determined. Seated behind the table and facing me was a man in his fifties, tall, a bit thin, gray hair combed neatly back, a small nose, and smaller eyes. He lacked only a monocle for his Conrad Veidt imitation.

Lyle stepped to one side to block the door, and Sutker took up residence on the other side. All we needed were some candles for the man behind the table to induct me into his fraternity.

“Here he is,” said Lyle.

“We can see him,” said Adrienne Larchmont.

“I know,” said Lyle, explaining. “I was just being … polite.”

“Larchmont?” I guessed, taking a step forward toward the man. The room still smelled of something from lunch, probably pork. I had the feeling this had all been set up for me, Monogram serial stuff or a Columbia B picture.

“I am Sydney Larchmont,” the man agreed, folding his hands on the table.

“Ask him about Chaplin,” Mrs. Larchmont said.

“I’ll ask him, Adrienne, as soon as I establish a relationship here,” he said. “Kindly give me some credit for knowing how to conduct myself in situations such as this. Mr. Peters, we are in a somewhat awkward situation.”

“All right if I sit?” I asked.

I had broken Larchmont’s train of thought. He looked at Lyle and Sutker.

“He asked if he could sit,” said Mrs. Larchmont.

“I’m well aware that he asked if he could sit,” Larchmont said. “I am not deaf. He may not sit.”

“Oh God,” groaned Mrs. Larchmont.

“Adrienne,” Larchmont said, looking at her. “You are only undermining my authority in this situation. I want to impress Mr. Peters with the seriousness of his position. That is difficult to do if you undermine …”

Adrienne Larchmont looked around the room for someone with a backbone and intelligence to sympathize with the burden of stupidity she had to bear. She looked at me and I shrugged a what-are-you-going-to-do shrug.

Larchmont tried to take control again but he didn’t know where he was going.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Mr. Peters?” he asked.

“Make up your mind Sid-Ney,” Mrs. Larchmont said. “First you’re going to treat him like a Turkish prisoner and now you’re offering him wine.”

I checked Lyle and Sutker. They seemed to have heard the Larchmonts at it before. They stood with folded arms and vacant stares.

“Adrienne,” Sydney whispered, though we could hear him clearly. “You said that I shouldn’t—”

“Get on with it,” she whispered back.

It was like being interviewed by the dark side of Fibber McGee and Molly. I knew how Mayor LaTrivia must have felt.

“Let me help,” I said. “You want to know if I know where your money and papers are. I don’t know, and the way I figure it, the money isn’t yours. It belongs to Charlie Chaplin, at least he has a claim on it. My guess is that a lot of people have a better claim on it than you two.”

“Now just a—” Larchmont began.

“Why did you kill Teddy?” I demanded, placing my hand on the table and leaning forward like a trial lawyer.

“I—we didn’t kill—” Larchmont stammered.

“Sydney,” Mrs. Larchmont said slowly, “he is in our house, our guest. Lyle and Sutker are right there. He should answer our questions.”

“I know that, Adrienne,” Larchmont said. “Let me use my own methods. Peters, you will answer the questions, not ask them. We didn’t kill Teddy. We want only to recover that which has been stolen from us and we want no further trouble from Mr. Chaplin. It is you who killed that Vance man at our hotel. It is you the police are seeking for the murder of Longretti. Mr. Peters, you are jeopardizing our business.”

“Sydney,” Mrs. Larchmont said, this time with the patience of a teacher talking to a child she has had to discipline so many times that tranquility carries its own sarcasm. “You didn’t ask him anything. You made a speech.”

“Are you married, Mr. Peters?” Larchmont said, wiping his brow with an unlined white handkerchief and looking at me.

“I was. Not anymore. Didn’t get along with my wife,” I said. “My fault. She thought I would never grow up. She was right.”

Larchmont smiled. I guessed he was envying my unwed state.