To Catch a Spy (24 page)

He had Shelly and Violet.

“Excellent,” he said. “You will see both of these prizes alive, well fed, and only slightly disheveled sometime tomorrow. They will call you. I have no reason to harm them unless you give me one. All you need do is nothing. Provide no information to individuals or agencies. You understand?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Fine, now I expect you will be busy answering the questions of those who are surely listening to our conversation.”

“I’ve got some questions,” I said.

“And I probably have answers,” he said. “But I have no intention of giving them.”

He hung up.

Okay, Peters, I said to myself. In about five or ten minutes the FBI is going to come through the front door, sit you down, and want to know what that telephone conversation was about.

There was a good chance Toddhunter was telling the truth, that he would let Violet and Shelly go. But there was also a better chance that he wouldn’t.

Gunther was in the hall now. I told him quickly about the phone call, and he told me that he would reveal none of our conversation with Jacklyn Wright to the FBI.

There was a knock at the front door. I was wrong about how long it would take the FBI to show up. I ran to my room, closed the door, and went to the window. Dash had finished his tuna and gone back outside. I followed him.

I’d gone out this way once before and almost broken my neck. I had to sit on the window ledge, lean over to the branch of a tree, get a good grip, and swing my legs around the thick branch. Then I had to shimmy down toward the trunk and make my way to the ground, finding branches that would hold my weight.

It was harder this time than it had been the one before. The last time I had been three years younger and not suffering from a sore shoulder, a stitched scalp, and assorted bruises afforded temporary relief by Olivia’s liniment. I didn’t look down. It wasn’t the height that worried me. It was the possibility of seeing a couple of well-dressed men patiently waiting.

I got to the trunk of the tree. Dash was sitting on a branch, watching me with interest. He got more interested when my hand slipped and I almost fell. I grabbed for anything, got a handful of leaves, and pulled myself back to safety. Dash was no longer interested. He dropped to a lower branch and then to the ground.

I made it to the ground, too, and looked up expecting to see someone at my window, but there was no one there. I ran past the big garage in the yard and went over a low fence into the neighbor’s yard. I stepped into a victory garden with a patch of tomatoes. I managed to keep from stepping on the tomatoes and made my way around the house to the street.

There was a big dark car parked in front of Mrs. Plaut’s, but there was no driver. The FBI was still inside looking for me. The Crosley was parked half a block away. I dashed for it, got in, and made a tight U-turn. Even if the agents had been in their car, they couldn’t have made the turn without some skillful maneuvering.

I was gone and I kept driving. My Crosley was too easy to spot if the FBI at Mrs. Plaut’s came looking. I didn’t stop till I got to the Melrose Grotto at 5507 Melrose. I went in, ordered a grilled cheese and a beer, got change for a dollar, and went to the pay phone near the door.

The phone rang a dozen times before Grant picked up the phone. I didn’t know if his phone was tapped, but it probably was.

“It’s Peters,” I said.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“A lot,” I said. “Can you meet me at the same place we met the first night? Don’t mention the name.”

“When?”

“When can you get there?” I asked.

“I’ve got to be at the studio for a meeting,” he said.

“Will seven be all right?”

“Fine,” I said. “But someone might want to keep you company.”

“I’ll come alone,” he said. “Seven.”

“Seven,” I confirmed and hung up.

If Grant was being tailed and couldn’t manage to shake it, I would need a different game plan. I wasn’t sure what it would be.

I was pretty certain the second call I made wouldn’t be tapped. It was to my brother at the Wilshire station. I talked to a desk sergeant whose voice I didn’t recognize and got put through to Phil, who said quietly, “Where are you?”

“I’m about to have a grilled cheese and a beer.”

“The FBI wants to talk to you.”

“I know,” I said. “I promised to call you if I found my friend Joe. I found him.”

Silence from my brother, so I went on.

“There’s a problem. He’s got Shelly and Violet. He says he’ll let them go if I don’t tell the FBI or police where he is.”

“Where is he?”

“Phil, I …”

“He threatened to kill my wife and kids,” Phil said. “He’ll pay for that. It’s not a cop thing, it’s a personal one. Besides he’s a goddamn Nazi. The FBI gets him and they lock him up, treat him nice, let him give information for favors, and when the war is over, they let him walk. I don’t want him walking, Tobias.”

“I’m going there to get Shelly and Violet out,” I said. “When they’re safe, do what you want. I’ll give you the address if you promise not to go there till eleven tonight. If I don’t have them out by then, I won’t be getting them out.”

“You have my word,” Phil said.

“Good enough.”

I gave him the address.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“No, you?”

“Ruth’s going back in the hospital Monday,” he said angrily. “I don’t think she’ll be coming out this time.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Come over this weekend. Bring Anita.”

“Sunday,” I said. “We’ll bring the food if I’m not in a federal prison.”

“Sunday’ll be fine.”

I hung up, and moved to the bar, where I ate my sandwich, drank my beer, and listened to Woody Herman on the jukebox. There weren’t many customers at the Grotto this early. It was kind of odd to feel the dark room swinging to the music with no one jitterbugging or even listening, except me and maybe the bartender, who looked as if what he was whistling was not necessarily what the Woodchoppers were playing.

There were a lot of things I could do now. I could go take a look at Toddhunter’s place and see if I could get in. However, he would be looking for visitors and I’d probably be pretty easy to spot on this sunny day.

I could take in an afternoon movie, but there was nothing I really wanted to see. So I headed for Riverside Drive, took it to Griffith Park Drive, and parked in the zoo parking lot. Griffith Park is a 3,761-acre slice of hilly land on the easternmost part of the Santa Monica mountains. The park had originally been part of Rancho Los Feliz. It had been donated to the city in 1898 by its last owner, Colonel Griffith J. Griffith.

I walked up one of the low hills on the zoo grounds and went for my favorite spot, the large primate cages. Two gorillas were having their lunch when I reached them. Both were seated, delicately selecting vegetables from a pile on the floor of the cage.

The larger gorilla looked up at me, half a head of lettuce sticking out of his mouth. His eyes met mine. We were kindred spirits. At least, that’s what I thought.

When there were no other visitors around, I talked to the gorillas or the chimps. The gorillas paid more attention. I leaned on the railing and looked through the bars.

“I’ve had a hell of a day,” I told the big gorilla.

He kept eating, but he looked at me intelligently. I took it as a sign that he didn’t mind if I continued.

“Someone tried to kill me,” I said. “Someone is threatening to kill a couple of my friends. A Nazi. I mean the guy holding them who tried to kill me is a Nazi.”

“That’s how you got all scratched up?” came a raspy voice at my side.

“Yeah.”

The gorilla found a banana and delicately peeled it, still looking at me.

“You think
you
had a bad day,” came a raspy voice again.

A thin woman in a cloth coat too warm for the afternoon had moved up to the railing without my seeing her. Her hair was white and wild. She had clear light blue eyes and a smooth face. I couldn’t tell how old she was. She clutched a big blue purse to her chest.

“I slept in the park, a little shed behind the Greek Theater,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just nodded and went back to looking at the gorilla. He was now staring at the thin woman.

“Look at them,” she said. “Place to sleep every night. Someone feeds ’em. Don’t have to work, worry about where the next meal is coming, where to bed down.”

“They give up their freedom for that,” I said.

She cackled.

“Put me in a cage with a place to sleep and three squares and you can come and talk to me whenever you like about Nazis trying to kill you.”

“I was talking to the gorilla. I mean, about the Nazis.”

She shrugged and leaned her chin on the purse.

“Go on,” she said. “I talk to ’em too. Say, if a cop comes by, don’t tell him I tried to put the bite on you.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

“I’m working up to it,” she said. “Cop comes and real polite ushers me out of the zoo if I’m puttin’ on the bite.”

“We’re just fellow animal lovers,” I said.

“And both maybe a little nuts,” she said. “Nazis trying to kill you. You come back from the war shell-shocked, something?”

“Too old for the war,” I said.

“So was Milton,” she said, “but he volunteered and they took him. Want to know why?”

“Why?” I asked, and the gorilla and I waited for an answer.

“Because he had a special skill, my Milton, which is something I don’t got. Milton knew barometers, thermometers, all kinds of meters. Worked for the city. Not this one, Newark, New Jersey. Then he got himself killed on a ship somewhere and left me
bubkas.
”

She looked at me.

“Is that a sad story?”

“Very,” I said.

“Sad enough to make you kick in a few bucks?” she asked.

“Sad enough,” I said, pulling out my wallet and fishing out two singles.

She took them and plunked them into her purse.

“That’s one of my better stories,” she said. “Depends on the customer which story I use. True story is even too sad for me to tell myself. Won’t tell that one for five, even ten bucks. Rather starve. This is the point where you tell me you gotta go. You’re late for something.”

“I’m not late for anything,” I said.

She was looking at the gorilla again.

“Got any kids?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“Good,” she said. “You lose ’em, you lose your heart. Know what I mean?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Gorillas,” she said, looking back at the two animals. “They look so smart. Like they’re thinking, working out some big problem. You think?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” she repeated and ran a hand through her wild hair. “Listen, I gotta go get something to eat. It’s been good talkin’ to you.”

“Same here,” I said.

“And stay away from those Nazis. They’re bad news.”

She walked away, a slight limp. I watched her head down the hill, her eyes toward the ground. I looked at the gorilla. He was watching her too.

“You could have offered her a carrot,” I said.

He picked up a green pepper and popped it into his mouth. A couple with two little kids was coming up the hill toward me. The woman with the wild white hair and cloth coat stopped them. I wondered what story she was telling them.

CHAPTER

15

I got to Wally’s at six-thirty. Wally, behind the bar, recognized me and nodded toward the back booth near the washrooms. Grant wasn’t there yet.

“What’ll it be?” Wally asked as I sat down.

“You got soup?”

“Clam chowder,” he said. “Or Mexican bean.”

“Chowder.”

He nodded and wandered off. I had my .38 in my pocket. It felt solid.

I was finished with my chowder and working on my second beer of the day when Cary Grant appeared and sat across from me. He was wearing gray slacks and a gray turtleneck shirt with a flecked sports jacket.

“Well?” he asked.

“You sure no one followed you?”

“I’m sure someone started to,” he said. “But I’m also pretty sure I lost them in the hills. Tell me what’s going on and where you got those scratches.”

I brought him up to date. He listened quietly and nodded at all the right places.

“Amazing,” he said, sitting back.

“I’m going to Toddhunter’s to try to save my friends,” I said. “You stay here. I’ll call if something goes wrong and I can get to a phone. Then you can …”

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“I’m going with you,” said Grant.

“I don’t want to be responsible for getting Cary Grant killed.”

“And Cary Grant doesn’t wish to get killed. But this is something I want to do. You sure there’s no other way?”

“We can wait, let Toddhunter get away, and hope he lets my friends go.”

Grant shook his head “no.”

“We can call in the cops and the FBI and raid the place,” I said.

“Which might get your friends killed.”

“Might,” I said.

“All right, when do we go?”

“When it’s definitely dark.”

Grant ordered a drink and asked me about myself. I told stories for about an hour and a half, and he encouraged me. I considered another beer but didn’t go for it. I don’t take alcohol well, but I do take aspirin well and popped some and a couple of the doc’s pills into my mouth.

Grant asked Wally if we could leave my car in his parking lot for a while.

“Long as you want,” Wally said. “Nobody’ll bother it. Leave it all night if you like.”

Grant drove. His car was a black Cadillac that smelled new and felt like it was barely moving when he hit fifty miles an hour going onto the canyon road.

“We should have a plan,” he said.

“We should,” I agreed.

“I mean, something besides ‘let’s climb a wall, run in, save your friends, and hold Toddhunter for the FBI.’”

Since that had been my plan, I just said, “Uh huh. Let’s see what the place looks like when we get there. They might have dogs.”

“Yes,” he said. “I wouldn’t care for that.”

The driveway to Toddhunter’s house was to our left as we made our way to the top of the road heading toward the San Fernando Valley. The driveway was clearly marked with a sign, black numbers on a white background, topped with a cute wrought iron outline of a girl in a bonnet pouring what was probably milk for a waiting dog.