Seidman picked it up and said, “Hello.”
He listened for a moment, then held it out.
“It’s for you.”
“Phil?”
“No,” said Seidman.
I took the phone and said, “Hello.”
“I’m sorry,” the person on the other end said. The voice sounded high, maybe falsetto, filtered through a towel or a piece of cloth.
Seidman had already moved to the window and parted the blinds enough to get a look outside. Whoever was calling must have seen us come into the apartment, must have gone for a nearby phone. He or she couldn’t be more than a few minutes away.
“Where’s Rand’s body?” I asked.
Seidman nodded and mouthed, “Keep him talking.”
Then he went out the door and closed it behind him.
“Where it belongs,” the caller said, almost weeping. He seemed genuinely upset.
“And where is that?”
“Keller’s house.”
“Why there?”
“It’s where he belongs,” said the caller. “I didn’t think you’d find the body.”
“You saw me come in here earlier?”
“I followed you. I wanted to tell you to stay away, but how could I? Then you’d know I killed him. And then after that old man showed up … I had to move him.”
“And nobody saw you?”
“I put him in a trunk and … it doesn’t matter. I already called the police and told them to go to Mr. Ott’s. They’ll find the body and the note and the gun and it will all be over.”
“I don’t …” I began, but he cut in.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Wait,” I said. “You were with Rand at Columbia, weren’t you?”
“I had no choice,” the caller said.
“You always have a choice.”
“Yes.” There was a pause. “But sometimes the choice is a very, very bad one.”
“Just one more question.”
He hung up, and so did I. I went out the door and ran toward the street where I stopped and looked both ways. There was a phone booth about two blocks to my left. I could see Seidman running toward it. I started after him.
“Missed him,” he said. “He saw me coming, didn’t even have to run, just got out of the booth, walked to the corner, and turned. When I got there, there was no one.”
“Get a good look?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Dark coat, collar pulled up. It could have been a woman. It could have been Myrna Loy.”
Seidman was a sucker for Myrna Loy.
“I know where Rand is,” I said.
“Lead on,” he said, and we went back to his car.
Chapter 16
Hold up a handkerchief. Show it is plain and white. Hold up a wooden kitchen match. Wrap the match in the handkerchief. Tell the victim to break the match. They break the match. You hand the handkerchief to another person who you ask to shake the match loose. The match is no longer broken. Solution: Slide a match into the hem of the handkerchief before you do the trick. When you have the second matchstick in the handkerchief, hold the handkerchief so that the person breaks the one in the hem. Then, when you shake the handkerchief, the whole match will fall out.
There were two marked police cars in front of Ott’s house in Sherman Oaks. Seidman pulled in behind them, and we went to the door where a uniformed cop stood guard.
The uniformed cop was an old-timer named Ginty. Ginty had seen it all, including us. He didn’t have to see Seidman’s badge. We went in and down the hall of posters to the living room.
Rand wasn’t on the floor. He was seated in an armchair, note in one hand, gun in the other. Cawelti and a uniformed cop I didn’t know were standing over him.
Cawelti turned and said,
“You got him,” Cawelti said.
“What are you talking about?” said Seidman.
“Peters,” he said, pointing at me. “He set up this phony suicide to protect his client.”
“Suicide,” Seidman repeated.
“Phony,” said Cawelti, looking at Rand who looked at me. “He couldn’t shoot himself in the heart at that angle. No blood on the floor. Note’s not signed. Phony. What are you doing here?”
“Called in,” Seidman lied. “Desk said you were here. I was having coffee with Peters at a drugstore.”
“Just pals,” said Cawelti with as perfect a smirk as man could create.
“Talking about Phil,” Seidman said.
“Won’t wash,” said Cawelti.
“Calling me a liar?” said Seidman flatly.
Maybe there’d be a shoot-out at the Calvin Ott corral. Cop against cop. With the uniformed guy, me, and Rand as witnesses.
“Bullshit,” said Cawelti.
“You have some evidence or just bluff?” asked Seidman. “Seems to me if Peters did this he’d do a hell of a better job. This looks sloppy, amateur.”
“Then it was Blackstone,” said Cawelti. “Phony note to clear him of a murder he can’t squirm out of.”
“Can’t we all be friends?” I said.
Cawelti glared.
“You aren’t funny, Peters. Never were.”
“You need a sophisticated sense of humor to appreciate my droll wit,” I said.
“Why does Blackstone want me at the Roosevelt tonight?” he asked.
“Come and see,” I said.
“Message said he would show how Ott was murdered,” Cawelti said. “Maybe he can explain about this guy and Cunningham, too.”
“Be there and find out,” I said. “Should be a good show.”
“Let’s go,” said Seidman.
“I’ve got more questions,” said Cawelti.
“I’ve got a good lawyer, remember?” I said.
“You going to hold him for something?” Seidman asked.
Cawelti clenched his fists and looked at the uniformed cop, who was trying to be invisible.
“Okay, then we’re going,” said Seidman.
On the way down the hall I expected Cawelti to call out something, probably an echo of some old movie, like “You haven’t heard the last of this, Peters.” Or, “We’ll see who has the last laugh” or “You’ll never get away with this one.”
