We drove the few blocks to my office, and Chandler turned his head to soak in the smell of Lysol and the atmosphere. I introduced him to Shelly, who was working on a regular customer, a kid who looked like Alfalfa in Our Gang. Shelly was trying to straighten the kid’s teeth or kill him in the attempt.
I told Shelly that Chandler wrote detective stories, but Shelly had never heard of him.
“You got an overbite problem there, Ray,” Shelly said, pointing his cigar at Chandler and looking over the top of his thick glasses. “I’ll take a look when I finish with my friend here.”
“Some other time,” said Chandler with a smile.
“Suit yourself,” shrugged Shelly, making it clear the loss was Chandler’s. The kid in the chair was sitting with his mouth wide open. I motioned to him to close it. Shelly breathed on his mirror and wiped it clear on his dirty coat before turning to the kid, whose mouth flew open as if it were hinged.
“Landlord’s a writer,” said Shelly probing the kid’s mouth. “Writes poetry. You should meet him. He used to be a wrestler.”
“I used to think I was a poet,” said Chandler. The sad look started to cloud his face, and I hustled him into my office.
I picked up the phone and asked the operator if there was a directory listing for John Franklin Peese. She said there wasn’t which didn’t surprise me. There were a few ways to try to track down Peese. I could try theatrical agents in the hope that he was in entertainment, but it was a longshot. I could also ask my brother to see if Cash, the dead midget, had an address or number for Peese in his effects. If they knew each other, it was possible. But I doubted if Phil would give me the information.
I pulled out a phone book, sat Chandler at my desk, and told him to start at the A’s and call downtown hotels. I’d go back from the Z’s. When we hit the M’s, if we did before we got a lead, we’d talk it over. I told him we’d consider Downtown as a rectangle bordered by Alpine, Seventh, Figueroa, and Alameda. If we didn’t hit anything in that square we’d consider spreading it out or giving up on the idea.
“If they ask, say you’re the police,” I said. “If they want your name, make one up, but remember what it is. If they say they have no one named Peese, then say you’re a cop even if they don’t ask and find out if they have any midgets registered.”
He nodded and plunged eagerly into the book while I went out. I could hear him saying, “Alexandria Hotel?” when I closed the door. It might turn out to be one hell of a phone bill, but M.G.M. would pay it if I had to itemize every hotel called. There was a pay phone in the hall, and I left Shelly humming when I went to it with a pocketful of nickels.
Two of the first five hotels I called thought I was pulling some midget gag.
About fifteen minutes later, when I was about to give the operator the number of the Natick Hotel, Chandler hurried into the hall, looking both ways.
“Got it!” he yelled. I hung up and moved to his side.
The hotel was a big one downtown. Peese was registered under his own name and was in his room. Chandler had not asked to speak to him. He had thought fast and said he wanted to mail something to Peese and was confirming his address.
We got in the Buick, cut across the Figueroa, and went the few blocks downtown. While we drove, I told him about a case I’d been on in which I’d spent two weeks looking for a runaway husband who turned out to be hiding in a crawlspace in his own basement. Chandler smoked, listened and said more to himself than me, “Funny thing, civilization. It promises so much, and what it delivers is mass production of shoddy merchandise and shoddy people.”
There wasn’t time for much more conversation, and I had the feeling that a full day’s talk with Chandler in his present mood would send me running for the night watchman’s job my brother wanted me to take.
I found a space on the street, and we walked to the hotel. It had a doorman who recognized Chandler as a potential customer and accepted me as a character. I told Chandler to let me do the talking, and we crossed to the desk. There were two clerks, and one stepped forward with a slight smile.
“Yes?” he said.
“John Franklin Peese,” I said. “His room, please.”
The clerk looked at me and Chandler.
“I’ll announce you,” he said, and I put up a hand to stop him.
“Mr. Peese is my brother,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in years. I’d like to surprise him.”
The clerk looked suspicious and Chandler said, “Mr. Peese’s condition is not hereditary. He is the only one of four brothers who is a midget.”
The clerk waivered, but hesitated. We had him on the brink, and I didn’t want Peese to duck on us.
“I don’t know,” he said. He had a little mustache that looked painted on. He played with it. “Mr. Peese has…”
“A temper,” I finished, faking anger, “and that is inherited in our family.”
I had purposely raised my voice and Chandler took the cue. He stepped forward and pretended to calm me.
“All right,” said the clerk recognizing the familial temperament if not the face and body. “He’s in 909.”
“Thank you,” Chandler said while I stalked toward the elevators.
“Wait down here,” I whispered to Chandler. “Go back and apologize to the clerk for my shouting. Keep him from calling Peese as long as you can.” Chandler nodded and hurried back to the desk clerk, who was watching me. I glared at him while I waited for the elevator. When it came, Chandler was nodding in sympathy to something the clerk had said.
On the elevator, I had a few seconds to consider my approach to Peese. I could make up a story, say I was an agent or theater owner or producer and get him talking, but it might be awkward to work the conversation around to the murder. I could pretend I was a cop or at least give the impression, but if Peese was the kind of character Wherthman and Valentine said he was, he might complain and get my license pulled.
When the elevator groaned to a stop at nine, I decided to hit him with something close to the truth. He might just get mad enough to say something. I couldn’t picture myself muscling a midget, but I might be able to do it. Maybe I could push him to get me mad enough.
I trotted down the hall to 909. Chandler seemed to be doing the job I gave him, but I didn’t know how long he could hold the clerk. I was knocking loud at 909 when I heard the phone ring inside.
“Who is it?” asked a high, petulant voice.
“My name’s Peters,” I said. “I’m a private detective, and I want to talk to you.”
The phone kept ringing.
“About what?” said the voice.
My name didn’t seem to mean anything to him, which implied that he didn’t know anything about who was trying to kill me, and that he probably wasn’t the one who made the call to Shelly about my address.
“Murder,” I said. “The murder of a little man named Cash.”
“Screw off,” he screeched. The phone kept ringing.
“Right,” I said. “I’ll just go the lobby and call the cops. I work for M.G.M., and my job is to keep things quiet, but if you want noise, you’ll find out what noise is when the cops get here and start asking things like where were you Friday morning? How well did you know Cash? What business were the two of you in? Why have so many people talked about the fights you had with him?”
The phone stopped ringing. He had answered it. I put my ear to the door and heard venom spit from his mouth as he said, “Thanks, you mental cripple. He’s here now. Yes, he’s my brother, but how about calling me when they’re down there so I can decide if I want to see them or not. That’s what I pay for.” He hung up.
I pulled away from the door as small footsteps moved toward it. The door opened, and I saw the smallest human I’d ever seen. Wherthman would have stood a head taller if they were side by side. I noticed that, like Wherthman, he was well proportioned. He didn’t look deformed in any way, but he sounded it.
He let out a stream of “fucks” and “assholes” and some colorful additional things about sex and bowel movement. It was a small education.
Peese wore a fancy white embroidered shirt and a soft sweater. I would have spent more time looking at him, but I noticed something else as we stepped into a large room. All of the furniture was scaled down to his size. A door was opened in the wall and I could see into the bedroom. It, too, was scaled down.
He turned and sat in a small dark armchair. His face was childlike, but there was ancient anger on it. He was
