The place was called “Aloha Palms,” but there were no palms. There was a kind of lobby with a desk. Beaumont bypassed the desk and the man behind it and went for the stairs.
My suit was new, my stomach was full, and I was anxious to meet Harry Beaumont in a nice quiet place for a talk. I walked into the lobby of the “Aloha Arms” slowly, looking around as if everything had a slight odor. The guy at the desk pretended not to see me. He went on listening to Baby Snooks on his radio. He was young and skinny, with plastered down hair and a bad complexion. He also looked a bit stupid. I flashed my tin, a private investigator’s badge I bought for a quarter three years earlier.
“Pevsner,” I said, “Homicide.” I leaned forward over the desk. Fanny Brice had just finished playing bridge with Robespierre, her little brother. She had placed him between two chairs and walked over him. The clerk didn’t smile. I didn’t smile.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Man who just walked in here,” I whispered, “who is he, and what room is he in?”
“Mr. Simmons is in Apartment Fourteen.” He touched a pimple.
“Did he kill somebody?”
“Sorry, I can’t talk about it. Does he have many visitors?”
“I don’t know about days,” said the kid, “I’m nights. I haven’t seen him with anyone during the nights. He’s only been here a few weeks. Can I tell Mr. Siska about all this? He owns the Aloha Arms and …”
“Let’s keep it between you and the Homicide Bureau for now,” I said, reaching over to pat his shoulder and give him a wink. Siska might be a lot brighter than my acned friend, and I didn’t want my description given to Homicide.
Baby Snooks screamed “Daddy,” and I headed for the stairway.
Beaumont’s room was at the end of a hall on the second floor. I wrapped my hand around my keys and made a fist. Then I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder. Nothing. The door was locked. There was another door at the end of the hall. Outside the door was a fire escape.
What looked like a window to Beaumont’s apartment was about four feet from the fire escape. The window looked as if it were open a crack.
I couldn’t quite reach the window, but it was only a short jump. I was less worried about the fall than the possibility that Beaumont might be inside, hear me and greet me as I pulled myself in.
There was no one in sight and it was growing dark. I climbed over the rail, held my breath and made the leap. The window went up easily and no one cracked me in the head, but it wasn’t doing my new suit any good.
I pulled myself into a small bathroom and got to my feet as soon as I could. No one came rushing into the room, and I could see beyond the open door that the lights were out.
Beaumont might be waiting for me. I looked for a weapon and settled on a jar of Molle shaving cream. The apartment was empty. Beaumont wasn’t under the bed or in a closet. I had either missed him in the hall or he had grabbed something and ran down the fire escape.
It was a nice apartment, three rooms with maid service. It didn’t even look lived in. I turned the lights on and searched. It was an easy place to search, but it took time. I was checking everything. Beaumont may have made it down the fire escape with my gun, Adelman’s money and the negative, but he might have left one or all of them here. On the other hand, he might never have had any of them.
Fifteen minutes later I had found nothing. I was looking under the rolled up carpet when I heard footsteps in the hall. I started to get up when the door opened and a gun came through.
I was on my knees. It seemed a bad way to go, and Beaumont had every legal right to put a few bullets in my face. I was breaking and entering. There was nothing within reach to throw.
The gun that came through the door was attached to an arm which was attached to a familiar body and face.
Three men walked in.
“You gonna sing Mammy?” asked the man with the gun.
I got off my knees. The man with the gun was my brother. Seidman was behind him followed by the clerk from downstairs.
“That’s him,” said the clerk with a pleased grin. He looked as if he wanted to jump up and down with excitement. “Said he was a homicide detective and showed me that fake badge.” He sneered at me with his pimpled face. “Didn’t fool me for a second. I called Mr. Simmons right away and warned him. Probably saved his life.”
“You did a fine job, Mr. Plautt,” said Seidman. “Now don’t you think you should get back to your desk?”
“He tried to talk to me about Baby Snooks,…” Plautt continued, but Phil interrupted him through his teeth.
“Go downstairs, Mr. Plautt.”
Plautt gave me another look and went down the hall. We could hear him pause and shout back:
“If there’s a reward, I get it.”
Phil slammed the door.
“You couldn’t even fool that half wit,” my brother said, flopping into a chair. Seidman leaned against the wall and folded his hands.
“Get off your knees, you asshole,” shouted Phil.
I got up putting my tale together.
“Listen, Phil, I …”
“No story, Toby, none, just answers. This guy Simmons has you on breaking and entering as soon as we find him. I’ve got you on impersonating a policeman.”
“I didn’t impersonate a policeman,” I said. “I simply told the guy two words: ‘homicide’ and ‘Pevsner.’ I am investigating a homicide and my name is Pevsner. I showed him a private investigator’s badge.”
Phil rubbed a big hand over his tired face and put his gun away.
“That is the dumbest defense I’ve ever heard.”
“You gave the impression that you were a police officer,” said Seidman. “That’s the same thing as identifying yourself as one.”
“Who’s Simmons?” asked Phil softly, his head coming up from his hand. Phil was most dangerous when he talked softly.
“He may be the guy who killed Cunningham,” I said. “I got a tip and followed him here.”
“Why didn’t you call us?” said Phil.
I walked over to where he was sitting and kept talking.
“No time. I don’t think Simmons is his real name, and I don’t think he’ll be back here. When that jerk desk clerk called him, I think Simmons took off with the gun he used to kill Cunningham.” I left out the possibility of the negative and the $5,000. I wasn’t too sure about the gun either.
My eyes were fixed on Phil’s to see how much of this he was taking in, and how much he believed. He tooked tired and let out a massive sigh before the back of his hand came up and caught me on the side of the head. I was moving away from it when it hit me. I had been half expecting it. I staggered a few feet, bounced off a wall and tasted blood. Seidman looked on emotionlessly.
“Let’s go,” said Phil, pulling himself up from the chair. I followed him out the door, and Seidman went behind me. There was no blood on my new suit. Phil handed me a handkerchief over his shoulder, and I put it against my mouth.
“You mind if we just leave my car in the lot around the corner,” I said. “I’ve already picked up two tickets in front of police headquarters.”
As we went through the lobby, Plautt, the desk clerk, grinned happily.
“So you see, Sergeant,” I said back to Seidman, loud enough for the clerk to hear, “I couldn’t reveal myself as an F.B.I, agent, not where Nazi spies were involved.”
I thought I caught a slight smile on Seidman’s face. Plautt’s jaw dropped.
Seidman drove through neon streets, and I sat in back of the unmarked car with Phil. Phil said only one thing and then looked out the window.
“We picked up one of the guys who broke into your place, Fagin. We want you to make a positive identification and file charges.”
“Then you’re not arresting me for breaking into Simmons’ place and impersonating an officer?”
“Drop it, Peters,” Seidman said, from the front seat.
I shut up. It was nice to be driven somewhere for a change.
The man who looked like a mailbox was sitting in Phil’s office, guarded by a uniformed cop. Fagin and the cop were in a hot discussion about whether L.A. could support a pro football team. Fagin said yes, the cop, no.