“Added a touch,” said Jeremy.
“I must go back,” Singh said. “Be cautious, Peters. There are those who would like the matter to end here and who would do much to see that it happens.”
The big Indian went back in the house.
“There was no possible victory in there, Toby,” Jeremy said. “If I won, Kudlap Singh might lose his job, his income, the means of support for his considerable family. And he, like me, is not a young man. I had nothing to lose by losing.”
“Could you have beaten him?” I asked, moving to the Buick.
“The danger comes in thinking about the battle in terms of winning and losing,” he said, opening the car door. “You think of the battle as a contest, a test of your skills against those of another. Skills, power, and endurance, all cultivated and, perhaps most of all, an understanding of where you are and what you are in the universe at each moment.”
“You’ve made it much clearer, Jeremy,” I said, getting in the car.
“That was my intention,” he said, sitting.
The front door of the house came open and Fred Astaire leaped from the steps and trotted down to the Buick. He leaned into Jeremy’s open window and said, “Magnificent.”
“Thank you,” said Jeremy.
“That was some of the most inventive extemporaneous choreography I’ve ever seen,” said Astaire with a smile, looking at me.
“Did Forbes or his wife know they were faking it?” I asked.
“No,” said Astaire. “Their only regret was a lack of blood.”
“We could have supplied that,” said Jeremy.
“I’ll bet you could,” said Astaire. “Would you like to teach me some of that?”
“You wish to wrestle?” Jeremy asked.
“No, I wish possibly to develop a dance routine for my next movie based on a fight between two men. But I want it to look graceful and real. Amazing body control. I’d better get back in there and finish hour two. It strikes me that if someone is killing off the third-rate ballroom dancers in Los Angeles, Mr. and Mrs. Forbes could well be next on the list without my help. Oh, yes, I’ll see what I can find out about your two questions, how did Forbes meet Luna and where did Luna live before she moved into the Monticello. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Astaire danced back into the Forbeses’ house and we pulled around his car and drove away.
We listened to “Can You Top This?” for about ten minutes. Peter Donald used his accents to tell a joke about an Irishman and an Italian trying to buy the same shirt. Then Senator Ford deadpanned a joke about a guy called Sandy who lost his shoes in the movie theater. He did all right on the laugh meter. Harry Hirschfield and Joe Laurie, Jr., told jokes that seemed pretty good to me but they didn’t top the contestant’s joke on the laugh meter.
I chuckled. Jeremy showed no emotion.
“It’s funny, Jeremy,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Both of the Forbeses, husband and wife, are in great pain.”
“They threw us out, threatened us with death and dismemberment, and you feel sorry for them?”
“I sense their pain,” he said. “That is quite different from feeling sorry for them.”
“Juanita said three would die,” I said.
“I would not be surprised,” said Jeremy.
And that was all we said till we parked in front of the Farraday Building.
“I wonder what time it is,” I said, looking at my father’s watch, which said it was four-twelve.
“I don’t own a watch,” said Jeremy, opening the door.
“I forgot,” I said, getting out of Jeremy’s car. “I’m tired and it’s been a long day. Good night, Jeremy, and thanks.”
Jeremy drove toward the corner where he made a right and headed for his space behind the building. Three women, arm in arm and giggling, a little drunk, came down the street.
“Have the time?” I asked.
They stopped. They were all short of pretty, but makeup was doing a lot for them.
“Five after midnight,” a pug-nosed blonde in the middle said.
“We’re gonna turn into pumpkins,” said a taller brunette, putting her hand over her mouth.
The other two girls thought this was hilarious. A sure ten on the laugh meter.
“Sherry’s husband and our boyfriends just shipped out on the. .” the blonde started but was cut off by Sherry, saying, “No names.”
“That just slipped out and they just shipped out,” the blonde said.
New laughter.
I left them on the street, looking for trouble or a cab. I couldn’t tell if they’d gotten drunk to deal with their grief or were celebrating their liberty.
This part of Hoover was shut down by midnight. Stores were closed with no night-lights. Even Bowden’s Bar across the street, which usually pushed the curfew, was asleep. I was pretty tired myself.
My car was at the corner where I’d left it, a parking ticket under the windshield wiper. This had been a bad day.
It suddenly got worse.
I opened the driver’s-side door and leaned over to get in the Crosley, which is probably why the first bullet missed and went down the street. I ducked into the car and looked back over my shoulder, reaching for the glove compartment and my.38. The second shot whined off the roof of the car over my head.
There was no one on the street; no one I could see. The third shot shattered my rear window and thudded into the back of the passenger seat. I turned the key, ducked, and destroyed valuable tire rubber in a first-gear escape toward Main Street.
I checked the rearview mirror. Someone had stepped out of the Farraday shadows and was aiming a gun in my direction. I couldn’t see who it was, but I did hear the next shot screech past me. I had my gun out of the glove compartment now, but I didn’t know what I was going to do with it except sleep with it under my pillow.
Juanita had said something about my broken car window. She had also said something about three dancers dying and a fourth dancer. .
The hell with it. I headed home.
Parking was tough after ten on Heliotrope, but my Crosley was small. I fit into a space between a fireplug and an old Ford. My.38 was in my hand and I checked the street to see if I had been followed. It looked safe. Of course, I couldn’t be sure if someone had gotten here ahead of me and was hiding behind the bushes or leaning back into the shadows.
I checked the rear window. Shattered, glass all over the back seat. There was a scratch on the roof that went down to white metal. I couldn’t tell how bad it was since the streetlights were cut for nightly curfew. Tomorrow.
I put my gun in my pocket but kept my hand on it. I can’t shoot straight. The chances of my hitting a target more than ten feet away are small. But I could make a lot of noise if I had to.
Up the white wooden steps of Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse. The door was locked. I took my key out quietly and went in. There was a dim light in the hall. Mrs. Plaut’s door was closed. I started up the steps and heard something behind me, a door opening. I pulled out my gun, turned and sat on the step behind me.
“Mr. Peelers,” said Mrs. Plaut with great exasperation. “That is a weapon in your hand.”
She was wearing her oversized blue-flannel robe, which had belonged to the Mister when he had been alive and treading the byways of confusion with his lovely bride. She was also, thank God, wearing her hearing aid.
“I know, Mrs. Plaut.”
“You meant to shoot Cornelia.”
“Cornelia?”
“My bird. I am aware that you and your cat do not like Cornelia.” Mrs. Plaut had a yellow budgie whose name changed with her depthless whims.
“I was not planning to shoot Cornelia, Mrs. Plaut. I promise you I will never harm Cornelia unless she attacks me in a rabid rage.”
“If that should occur, you have my permission. You cannot, however, make the same promise for your
