“Please return your visitor’s pass,” a voice called to me, but I didn’t stop. There was a coat rack in the corner of the lobby. I moved to it and grabbed a plaid jacket that looked as if it might fit me. If the owner were looking, I’d probably lose the use of my left arm, but I was on my way out the door.
A Red Top cab was waiting at the curb. I climbed in and said, “I’m Doctor Gillespie. There’s an emergency, get moving.”
It was a stupid thing to say, but the driver nodded seriously and pulled away. I turned around, and when we were half a block away, I could see the big cop standing at the curb looking both ways and seeing nothing.
There were two dimes in the coat of the jacket. I told the cabbie to stop at a drug store, and I ran in to call Flynn. It was 11:30 and time was running out.
There was no answer at Flynn’s room. I had one dime left. Flynn might be in the hall or out for a sandwich. Either I went to the hotel and tried to get him out of there, or I went for the murderer and tried to keep him from getting to Flynn. I went back to the cab.
“How fast can you get me to Warner Brothers?”
“About ten minutes if I run a few lights.” The cabbie was a moon-faced, fat guy with freckles.
“How about the Beverly Wilshire,” I tried.
“You got emergencies at both places?” He was totally bewildered.
“Right,” I said seriously.
“Maybe about the same time to get to Beverly Wilshire, but maybe less. The traffic’s tough on the strip and …”
“Warner’s, and fast,” I said.
The L.A. speed limit was 25 for business and residential areas. We hit 60. He ran a few lights, but no sirens followed. At one point I thought I heard him chuckle with joy.
“Who’s sick at Warner’s?” he said, “Some star?”
“Who’s your favorite star?”
“Cagney,” he said. “Saw him last night at the Warner Theater downtown. You know how many times he’s played a cabbie?”
“No,” I said. The cab turned a corner and threw me against the door.
“Lots,” said the chubby cab driver. “Is he hurt?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got to get there for an emergency operation.”
“Shit,” said the cabbie, and we jumped ahead. He was going to be part of saving Jimmy Cagney, friend to the cabbie.
“Pull right up to the gate,” I said, as we shot down the street. He did.
“I’m Doctor Gillespie,” I told the guard at the gate. “I just got a call. James Cagney has been injured.”
The guard was a lot sharper than the cabbie.
“Cagney went home hours ago,” he said.
“I don’t care,” I shouted. “He must have come back through the other gate. Now do you want to be responsible for serious injury to James Cagney?”
“I’ll have to call,” the guard said. “No one told me about this.” He looked at me and the fat cab driver suspiciously and moved for the phone.
“That man is endangering the life of James Cagney,” I said angrily to the cab driver. “I’ve got to get to my patient. Stop that guard if he tries to interfere.”
The cab driver was confused, but he got out of the cab. I got out on the other side and moved into the lot.
“Hey, wait,” shouted the guard, dropping the phone and taking a step toward me. He was an average-sized guy. The cabbie was a head shorter, about Cagney’s height and eighty pounds heavier than his favorite actor. The cabbie got a bear hug on the guard.
I turned a corner as soon as I could. Behind me I could hear the guard shouting at the cabbie:
“What the hell are you doing, you goddamn nut!”
My killer was on this lot, and I had about fifteen minutes to find him before he made his way to Flynn. On a good day, in top condition, I could have made the rounds of all the buildings in half an hour, running at top speed. I had come close to it a few times when I worked at the studio.
Knowing the studio was the only edge I had. I knew about where to find my killer, but I was weak and getting weaker. I had to lean against a building and think. Even if I found him I wasn’t sure what I could do in my condition, but a few ideas were coming.
The studio was dark except for the night lights. Some of the offices and editing rooms had lights on, but at a few minutes to midnight, it was nothing like it had been at noon.
My head cleared, and I tried to figure the route, to make it as easy on myself as I could. I tried five buildings and a few stages. I struck it rich-or poor-in ten minutes. There was a light on in the stage where I had talked to Edward G. Robinson and Peter Lorre. It was the same light I had followed when I met Lorre, and he gave me the suggestion that had proved to be right.
Slowly and quietly I moved over and through the equipment and darkness to the office of Spade and Archer. There was a light on in the set, a single small light, but enough for me to see Spade’s desk.
There was a man at the desk opening a drawer. As silently as I could, I moved to the sofa in Spade’s office and sat, just as I was about to collapse. The man at the desk was so busy that he didn’t hear me.
He was my killer and I greeted him. We were old friends.
“Hello, Hatch,” I said softly.
14
Hatch jumped about a foot.
“Toby, what are you doing here?” His voice was friendly, but he knew something was in the air.
“I used to run the midnight check,” I said. “I had a pretty good idea of what your route would be. I wanted to catch you before you went off duty.”
Hatch stood up, his bulk blocking out the light behind him. He was a dark mass in front of me. I thought about my friendly inkwell, but I fought it off.
“Why did you want to catch me?” he said. “Mr. Adelman told me about Mr. Flynn. I was going to head there as soon as I finished. He’d be …”
“Dead within ten minutes of your getting to him,” I said.
“Dead? Mr. Flynn? Me?”
He took a step toward me.
“Right. You want to go over the whole thing, Hatch, so we can decide what we’re going to tell the cops, or do you go on screwing things up.”
He stood over me. I still couldn’t see his face, but I could bet he was holding onto the friendly uncle grin.
“Toby, you look sick. Let me get you to a doctor.”
He reached a big arm down to me, and I could feel his fingers dig into my remaining good shoulder.
“Forget it, Hatch, it’s all over.” I twisted away from him. “Brenda tried to kill me tonight. She missed. She’s not as good a shot as you, but then you were shooting at men at close range, except for Flynn, and you missed him.”
“Toby …”
“Shit, Hatch, I knew as soon as I saw the photograph in Brenda’s room, the family photograph. You’re Harry Beaumont’s old man, and Lynn is your granddaughter.”
“Well, yes,” he stammered, “but …”
“But you killed your own son.” I had to keep him off balance. Maybe I could get him as weak emotionally as I was physically.
Hatch gave in. He moved back to the desk and sat. His big hand went to his face and pushed his guard’s cap back. The light was still behind him. His voice sounded as if he might be sobbing.
