’29 called
“Too bad,” I sympathized. “Anything else I should know about tonight?”
“Just be prepared for any-thing.” I could swear her eyes roamed down my pants. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve got to do my exercises. Rollo will show you to a room where you can listen to the radio, take a nap or a bath, and look at yourself in the mirror till lunch. One final question.”
“Thirty bucks a day and expenses,” I said, “but this one is on the house.”
“Thirty bucks a day it’ll be,” she said. “I don’t take things on the house. The house always decides it wants payment in trade. Besides, that wasn’t the question.”
“Sorry,” I said, rising with her. She looked deeply into my eyes as she stepped in front of me.
“How is Phil doing?”
“He’s a cop with a family, a lot of bills, and a big stick.”
“I know all about the big stick” she said.
“He uses it to break heads,” I said. “Like Teddy Roosevelt.”
She shrugged and walked slowly out of the room. With her departure the temperature dropped suddenly and the monkey came scurrying in. He was a small thing who paused to show his teeth when I reached down to bar his way. I changed my mind, and massive Rollo came lumbering in pursuit.
The rest of the day I checked out the grounds, made one important phone call, and listened to Dizzy and Daffy galumpfing after the monkey. I leafed through a book on yoga, one on life after death, and another by Sigmund Freud.
Sometime early in the evening, the first guests began to arrive. I tightened my tie, put on my jacket, and came out to see what was happening. The first Mae Wests were fair to middling imitations. The real Mae West was pretty good in her blond wig, a tight dress, and a floppy yellow hat with a white feather.
My own invited guest arrived after the first batch, and I placed him where he might be most helpful and least conspicuous.
By nine the place was full of Mae Wests, and Dizzy and Daffy were busy serving drinks and sandwiches. Each guest who didn’t know was told the rules: no smoking and no groping.
Just before ten I made my way to the real West, who was holding court on the triumphs of Catherine the Great.
“I was born for that role boys,” she said to the assembled group, resembling nothing that could pass for “boys.” They nodded in agreement as she excused herself and joined me in a corner.
“Well,” I whispered.
“Nothing yet,” she sighed. “I’ve got the envelope up my sleeve and maybe something else too.” Her eyebrows went up suggestively.
“Don’t you think about anything else?”
“Not in public,” she said, reaching up to touch what was left of my nose. “Remind me to ask you sometime how you got that proboscis.” She sauntered away on the arm of a tall, thin Mae West who had trouble walking on his white high heels.
The contact came just before midnight, and I almost missed it. The Chinese comic who wanted to be discovered by Mae West, Richard Horn, was telling me about the fight the Chinese were putting up against the Japanese somewhere in Manchuria. It was hard to take him seriously in his costume, but he was serious. So was the signal across the room from Mae West. I pushed away from Hom and made my way through a sea of girdles.
“I’ve got the book,” she said, holding it up. “He’s got the money. Said he wasn’t through with me. Left by the back door.”
“What’s he look like?” I said, anxious to move.
“Like me,” she said. “A bit too much makeup, and he hasn’t got the voice down. Frilly dress, gold with-”
I was off toward the rear. I knew who she meant. I had spotted the guy earlier. He had looked a bit strange-darting blue eyes and a white beaded purse big enough to hold a manuscript or a packet containing five thousand bucks. But since everyone in the place looked strange, I had filed him away. Now I was after him.
I danced past a short Mae West who was saying, “Sure I’d do a Gene Autry, if the price was right,” and skipped down the hall.
There was no one in the back rooms. I went through the kitchen where Dizzy and Daffy were busily making little sandwiches. The monkey was in a cage on the kitchen table chattering at his captors.
“Someone just go through here?” I said.
The blond one nodded and the monkey showed his teeth. I went out. There was a slight rain falling, so the sky didn’t give me much help. The kitchen window light didn’t penetrate very far, but the sound of someone moving through nearby bushes gave me a good idea of the direction I wanted. I plunged in, feeling the new suit tear as I pushed through the shrubs. Whoever was ahead heard me coming and took off. I followed the sound and remembered the layout. He was heading for the pool out back. I leaped over the bushes, falling on my face, got up and ran to head him off.
By the time I hit poolside, the rain was coming down heavily and pinging off the tile edges. Two lights showed the clear bottom of the pool, and I huddled behind a bamboo table and chairs as the sound of someone coming through the bushes grew louder. I could hear someone panting and, I could swear, humming “Three Blind Mice.”
When the figure stepped into the clearing in front of the pool, I made my move.
“Hold it right there,” I said showing my.38 automatic.
Holding it right there was a rain-soaked figure in a wilting hat. Even in the lack of light I could see he was grinning, which gave me a chill the rain couldn’t accomplish. What the hell did he have to grin about? He’d just been caught.
“Just step forward a few feet very slowly.”
As he stepped forward, I moved around the pool, wiping rain from my eyes. His makeup was running and I had the feeling I was watching some horror movie or seeing an episode of “Lights Out” come to life. The monster’s face was melting, but the monster was smiling.
“Now,” I said gently, “just drop the bag and keep on coming with your hands up.” He came. We were about ten feet apart at the edge of the pool when he hissed and dropped the bag.
“I take it,” he said in a high-pitched Mae West imitation, “that this means we are not friends.”
“You’ve got a sense of humor,” I grinned back. “I like that in a nut with a foot on his throat. Now, we’re just going to walk very slowly back to the house.”
He didn’t move.
“Who are you?” he said, staring at me through soggy mascara. I was sure he had switched to a W. C. Fields imitation.
“Name is Peters,” I said. “Private detective. Who are you?”
It was pouring and our voices were muffled. He didn’t answer. The chill hit me and I yelled, “Let’s move.”
He didn’t move.
“You want to get shot in drag?” I shouted. “Move. This is a gun. It shoots real bullets and makes holes in people.”
He didn’t move. I shot twice well over his head into the rainstorm, but he still didn’t move. He had me. It was either shoot him or find some other way to bring him in. He turned his back on me and stooped to pick up the purse.
I shoved the gun back in my holster under my soaking jacket, leaped for him and slipped, just managing to grab his stockinged ankle before he reached the purse. He went off-balance, fell on his back, and kicked at me with a spiked heel. The heel caught me on top of the head and his voice, this time as Cary Grant, said, “That will be just about enough of that Mr. Peters, if you please.”
He kicked me again, but I held on as he tried to back away by sliding in the grass on his behind.
“I’m taking you in,” I said, receiving another kick that caught my neck.
“We are definitely not friends,” he said, continuing Cary Grant.
I punched at him as he backed away and hit his kneecap, causing as much damage to my knuckles as his
