“O.K.,” I said, standing up and putting down the cup. “I think we should call the police. Someone tried to kill me yesterday, too.”
She got up suddenly and looked shocked. I was touched.
“What happened?” she asked, stepping toward me.
“Someone took a couple of shots at me and obviously missed.” She took my hand. It was time to work up more sympathy.
“They may try again,” I said.
“Did you see who did it?” She was looking into my eyes, clearly concerned and interested.
“No, but I’d like it to stop. So I’m going to try to get some police protection for Judy and do my damndest to find out who killed Cash and is trying to make Judy and me a duo of death.”
I’d heard that “duo of death” phrase in a Captain Midnight show and always wanted to work it into a conversation. This was the first chance I had. I pushed my hat back further on my head and took Cassie’s hand in mind. I was glad she wasn’t wearing her tape measure.
“I’ll call the police and tell them what’s happened. It might give them second thoughts about Wherthman being the killer. Then I’d better track down Clark Gable and check his version of what happened her yesterday morning.”
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked. We were close enough together to exchange comments on our mouthwash, except I didn’t use any. I hoped my dental sample smile lingered till noon. Hers did.
“Yes, there is,” I said softly. “Find Hoff. Tell him that Cash was chummy with another midget, maybe even went into business with him. See if he can find out who it is. Wherthman is filling his time trying to come up with the name too. It may not be a lead, but it’s worth a try.”
She agreed and volunteered to do some checking on her own. She had worked on Oz for a short time and knew the names of a few of the midgets. I said thanks and lingered. She kissed me. It was a little more than motherly, but not enough to make anything out of.
“Be careful,” she said, and I promised I would be.
She went off to look for Hoff and I picked up the phone. I didn’t need to talk to Hoff right now, but I needed information and action. I called Andy Markopulis, the guy I knew who worked for M.G.M. security. He was at home building a patio with his kids. It was so wholesome I couldn’t even make a joke about it. I explained the whole set-up to him and asked him to assign a couple of people to take off their uniforms and keep an eye on Judy Garland for a while. He said he’d assign two good men named Woodman and Fearaven. I didn’t know them, but Andy knew his business.
Then I called my brother.
“Well?” he asked. “And if you ask me how Ruth and the kids are, I’ll find you and punch your heart out.”
“Someone tried to kill me and Judy Garland,” I said.
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit,” I said. “I’ve got bullet holes in my car windows.”
“Bullshit,” he repeated.
“For Chrissake, Phil, why would I lie?”
“It’s an asshole stunt to get that little Nazi turd you’re working for off the hook. Someone’s trying to kill you and Garland. Wherthman’s in the can, so it can’t be him. That’s the picture.”
“So I shot bullet holes in my car windows?”
“Why not? That hunk of junk isn’t worth ten dollars. It’s about time you shot it and put it out of its misery. It reminds me of…”
“One of dad’s old heaps,” I finished. “Maybe that’s why I like it.”
He was quiet for a few seconds.
“How did they try to kill Garland?” he asked, but his voice showed he was humoring me.
“Poison,” I said. “Someone left a water pitcher full of poison in her dressing room at the studio this morning. Someone noticed that it smelled funny.”
“Where’s the poison now?” he asked.
“They poured it out.”
“That’s a hell of a story, Tobias. Even if there was a pitcher of poison, which I doubt, you could have put it there, made sure she didn’t drink it and then arranged for it to be conveniently dumped out before the police arrived. You’ve done worse.”
He was right. I had done worse and was kind of proud of it, but this wasn’t one of the times. I decided not to tell him about the phone calls to Garland and me from the unaccented man with the high voice. He wouldn’t believe me.
“You’re wrong, Phil.”
“I’ve got a wave of ax murders waiting and no time for you. Now hang up and get a job as a night watchman.”
“You’re a whale, Phil,” I sighed. “A goddamn whale with an eye on each side of your head. You try to juggle two separate images and miss what’s right in front of you. Someday you’re going to swim into an iceberg.”
I hung up. Then I talked to the long distance operator and asked her to connect me to the William Randolph Hearst Ranch in San Simeon. I didn’t have the number. I began to think I’d have to track down Hoff and get the number when I was connected to someone. It was a man who said, “Can I help you?”
I said he could if this was Bill Hearst’s place, but I didn’t say Bill and I didn’t say place. I told him Clark Gable was expecting a call from me. He told me to wait, and there was some buzzing and clicking on the line. This time a woman’s voice came on, and I repeated my message.
She said Mr. Gable and some other guests were on a picnic and wouldn’t be back for three or four hours. I asked if someone could bring him a message and she said he was about ten miles away. Then she told me to wait. I waited, considering my next move. In a few minutes she came on.
“Mr. Gable left a message for you,” she said. “If it’s not inconvenient, you can come up here and see him this evening or call him tonight.”
For a few good reasons, I decided to take the trip to San Simeon. First, I liked to be face to face with someone I’m talking to on a case. A facial expression or a move of the body might lead me somewhere. In addition, telephones demand action and business and hate silence. They don’t give you much time to think, and I needed time to think. Going to San Simeon would give me some time and I had no other leads to follow. Getting out of town would also put distance between me and the guy who took the shots at me.
I drove off the lot, waving to Buck as I left, and checked my watch. It was almost noon. I beat the crowd to the Gotham Cafe on Hollywood and had an order of their special potato pancakes and sour cream to fortify myself for the trip. Then I was on my way.
In half an hour with the pistons churning, I shot past Calabassas to the coast highway, and in a few minutes I was on El Camino Real, the Royal Highway. According to my Glendale high school days, the road along the ocean that stretched from San Diego to San Francisco was staked out in the 1780s or so by the Spanish. The Spanish were afraid the French or Russians would claim the land along the coast first. France had picked up a big chunk of land between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains. Russia was coming south across the Berring Sea and down the coast from what would eventually be Alaska.
The first big push to stake out the royal road stopped at what became Los Angeles. The whole point of the road was to set up a link between the Franciscan missions in California. The last long trek between Los Angeles and Monterey was done by a force of sixty-seven men under a Captain Portola and a Franciscan priest named Father Crespi.
I drove over the road at about 55 or 60, which was all out for the Buick, and wondered what Crespi and Portola would have thought about the gas stations, beaneries, writing on the rocks, and garbage. The missions were now tourist stops and the road paved with good intentions.
A long, dark cloud going as far as I could see along the coast and into the horizon kept me company for over 100 miles.
The car radio kept me company, too. I heard the news two or three times. The presidential campaign was over and everyone thought Willkie had taken the lead. Roosevelt said he was running because he could keep us out of the war. A writer named H. G. Wells had given a talk at the Ambassador Hotel in L.A. He wanted Americans to support Britain’s war effort against the Germans.