“Sergeant,” said Phil, “get him out of my sight and put him in the lockup for a few hours.”
Seidman motioned for me to come, and I considered prodding Phil a little more. I had him back in form and I didn’t want to lose him now, but something in Seidman’s look changed my mind and I followed him.
In the outer office, a police photographer was snapping pictures of broken glass on the floor. The body had been removed, and Shelly was trying to put his tools together.
“That corpse had good teeth,” Shelly said. “Real gold fillings. You don’t see many of them in this neighborhood.”
“I’ve just been arrested,” I said. “For murder.”
“You killed that guy?” asked Shelly, without looking up from his search for something on the floor.
“No, I didn’t. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
“Right,” said Shelly, holding his glasses on with the finger of his right hand. Seidman led me out of the office.
“What do you get out of driving him up the wall?” Seidman asked as we walked down the stairs, absorbing Lysol and the looks of a few curious tenants and bums.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just used to him that way. What does he get out of putting lumps on me?”
“Forget I asked,” said Seidman, leading me out of the Farraday Building to a parked black and white police car. “I’ll lock you up for a few hours. Then do us all a big favor and try to stay out of his way.”
“I’ll try,” I said, “but he’s irresistible.”
They threw me in a cell with another dangerous criminal, a little guy in his sixties who was stewed silly at ten in the morning. I sat on the almost clean bunk, holding my head and counting backwards from 100 to keep from noticing the pain in my head.
“You can call me Calvin,” the drunk said, sitting next to me. “Calvin means ‘the bald’ in some language. I looked it up when I was a kid, but I fooled them. I’ve got more hair than my father ever had. Take a look.”
He shook me and I opened my eyes. I had been at 85. Calvin was smiling and tugging at his ample white hair to prove he had it.
“That’s great, Calvin,” I said, “but I’ve got one hell of a headache and …”
“They picked me up on Wilshire this morning,” Calvin continued, ignoring me. “You know why I was drunk?”
“You consumed too much alcohol,” I tried.
“I mean the deeper cause,” he said. “It’s the news. I got up to go to work and turned on the radio and this guy started telling me about someone trying to kill Mussolini, and about Roosevelt asking Japan to explain why they were concentrating troops in Indochina. And Roosevelt says peace depends on an answer. And more kids were being drafted into the army.”
I didn’t see how an attempt to kill Mussolini necessarily came under the heading of bad news, but I didn’t want to carry on a conversation with a drunk. I had some numbers to get through and some thinking to do. I had a pile of clues to a murder, but I couldn’t figure them out, and besides I wasn’t being paid to find a murderer. I had suspicious characters all over the place and too damn much information. I wasn’t used to all this information. It probably would have given me a headache even without the lump.
“Was there any good news?” I said.
“Yeah, Mel Ott is going to manage the Giants. Ever see him play? One foot up in the air when he bashes the ball.” Calvin got up to demonstrate Mel Ott’s unique batting style. He hit a triple which further cheered him and he sat again to keep me company. “What you in for?” he said groggily.
“Murder,” I said, closing my eyes. “I gutted three drunks on the Strip last night with my bare hands.” I could feel Calvin rise slowly and move quietly to the far side of the small cell. I slept. This time no dreams, no Cincinnati, no Koko.
I got up because someone was shaking me, a cop. Calvin was snoring away in a second bunk.
“You’re out,” said the cop wearily. “Lieutenant Pevsner wants to see you in his office.”
I got up and told him I’d find my way there. He told me I was getting an escort. Ten minutes later I was going up the steps of Phil’s station in the Wilshire District, past the desk sergeant, up the stairs and through the big sour squad room. I had been accompanied by Officer Rashkow, who said nothing because I said nothing. He left me at my brother’s door and I went in.
Phil was behind his desk, and Basil Rathbone was seated across from him. Rathbone rose.
“Mr. Peters,” he said. “So sorry to hear what happened. I hope you’re all right.” He took my hand and held my shoulder.
“Mr. Rathbone has persuaded Captain Rein to let you go,” said Phil, playing with an Eversharp automatic pencil, which he turned over and over and over. “Mr. Rathbone has also refused to tell us what he knows about this and why he is interested in getting you out. Mr. Rathbone knows we are investigating a murder.”
“I also have no information, Lieutenant,” he said sincerely. “I met Mr. Peters a few days ago when he visited a taping of my radio show. I promised to look him up and discovered when I called his office that he had been arrested. Then I simply made a few calls and …”
Phil kept spinning the pencil and nodding his head to show he understood but he didn’t believe.
“Have it your way,” Phil said. “Toby draws bodies like flies to orange pop. I’d suggest you stay away from him.”
“I shall certainly consider your advice,” Rathbone said as if he fully intended to consider the advice. “Now, if we may …”
Seidman stuck his head in the door before we could get permission or move.
“He’s on,” Seidman said.
“All right, I’ll take it,” Phil sighed, staring at the phone. “You two can go. It’s a friend of mine, a crank who’s been calling every day for the last two weeks to threaten me. It makes my day.” Phil picked up the phone and spoke into it staring at me. “Hello. You are? You are? I am? That’s nice to know. Just keep talking. I know you won’t be on long enough for us to trace, but do you mind if we try, just to keep in practice? Thanks.”
Rathbone, who was dressed in a neatly pressed dark suit and matching tie, made a motion, and Phil put his hand over the receiver.
“Yeah,” said Phil.
“Give me a try with him,” said Rathbone, “maybe I can keep him going long enough for you to trace it.”
“That’s ten, maybe fifteen minutes, depending on where he’s calling from, but he won’t stay on long enough. O.K. Give it a try. What the hell.” He handed the phone to Rathbone, who said:
“This is Basil Rathbone. Yes, the actor. I’m sorry if you think this is a poor imitation. It’s actually me. I happened to be in the Lieutenant’s office when you called, and I’ve never spoken to a lunatic before. My, my, my you needn’t get insulting. I see. And how will you accomplish this? Grisly. But you don’t even know the Lieutenant. How will you be sure you’re not getting the wrong man? Oh, you do. Yes, Yes. That’s a fair enough description. Must you? So soon? Well, if you must. Goodbye.”
Rathbone hung up.
“Couldn’t keep him on,” said Phil.
“No,” said Rathbone,” but I did discover a few things about him that might help you to pick him up. He is a Canadian who has worked for a doctor or in a hospital or is a doctor; and he knew you, I would guess, about ten years ago. I’d suggest you check anyone you put to prison about ten years ago who recently got out and fits that description.”
Phil started to rise from his chair.
“Levine, Edward Levine,” said Phil. “Sent him up for assaulting a doctor in County Hospital where he was working in ’32.” Seidman came back into the office to indicate that they had not traced the call.
“Forget it,” said Phil. “Check on Ed Levine. May have gotten out of Folsom recently. Check his parole officer, find him and pull him in. I think he’s our man.” Seidman nodded and left.
“The voice could be his,” Phil said. “It’s been ten years, but …”
“He have some special fondness for you, Philip?” I said. Phil looked up at me, and I went on. “Some good kidney chops help him confess? Ah, but you were a wild youth.”
“Get out,” he said. Rathbone and I got out. On the way through the station Rathbone absorbed the sight of drunks, looneys, cops and assorted hangers-on lounging around.
“Fascinating place,” he said, as we stepped into the sunlight.
