“Mr. Peese is my brother,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in years. I’d like to surprise him.”
The clerk looked suspicious and Chandler said, “Mr. Peese’s condition is not hereditary. He is the only one of four brothers who is a midget.”
The clerk waivered, but hesitated. We had him on the brink, and I didn’t want Peese to duck on us.
“I don’t know,” he said. He had a little mustache that looked painted on. He played with it. “Mr. Peese has…”
“A temper,” I finished, faking anger, “and that is inherited in our family.”
I had purposely raised my voice and Chandler took the cue. He stepped forward and pretended to calm me.
“All right,” said the clerk recognizing the familial temperament if not the face and body. “He’s in 909.”
“Thank you,” Chandler said while I stalked toward the elevators.
“Wait down here,” I whispered to Chandler. “Go back and apologize to the clerk for my shouting. Keep him from calling Peese as long as you can.” Chandler nodded and hurried back to the desk clerk, who was watching me. I glared at him while I waited for the elevator. When it came, Chandler was nodding in sympathy to something the clerk had said.
On the elevator, I had a few seconds to consider my approach to Peese. I could make up a story, say I was an agent or theater owner or producer and get him talking, but it might be awkward to work the conversation around to the murder. I could pretend I was a cop or at least give the impression, but if Peese was the kind of character Wherthman and Valentine said he was, he might complain and get my license pulled.
When the elevator groaned to a stop at nine, I decided to hit him with something close to the truth. He might just get mad enough to say something. I couldn’t picture myself muscling a midget, but I might be able to do it. Maybe I could push him to get me mad enough.
I trotted down the hall to 909. Chandler seemed to be doing the job I gave him, but I didn’t know how long he could hold the clerk. I was knocking loud at 909 when I heard the phone ring inside.
“Who is it?” asked a high, petulant voice.
“My name’s Peters,” I said. “I’m a private detective, and I want to talk to you.”
The phone kept ringing.
“About what?” said the voice.
My name didn’t seem to mean anything to him, which implied that he didn’t know anything about who was trying to kill me, and that he probably wasn’t the one who made the call to Shelly about my address.
“Murder,” I said. “The murder of a little man named Cash.”
“Screw off,” he screeched. The phone kept ringing.
“Right,” I said. “I’ll just go the lobby and call the cops. I work for M.G.M., and my job is to keep things quiet, but if you want noise, you’ll find out what noise is when the cops get here and start asking things like where were you Friday morning? How well did you know Cash? What business were the two of you in? Why have so many people talked about the fights you had with him?”
The phone stopped ringing. He had answered it. I put my ear to the door and heard venom spit from his mouth as he said, “Thanks, you mental cripple. He’s here now. Yes, he’s my brother, but how about calling me when they’re down there so I can decide if I want to see them or not. That’s what I pay for.” He hung up.
I pulled away from the door as small footsteps moved toward it. The door opened, and I saw the smallest human I’d ever seen. Wherthman would have stood a head taller if they were side by side. I noticed that, like Wherthman, he was well proportioned. He didn’t look deformed in any way, but he sounded it.
He let out a stream of “fucks” and “assholes” and some colorful additional things about sex and bowel movement. It was a small education.
Peese wore a fancy white embroidered shirt and a soft sweater. I would have spent more time looking at him, but I noticed something else as we stepped into a large room. All of the furniture was scaled down to his size. A door was opened in the wall and I could see into the bedroom. It, too, was scaled down.
He turned and sat in a small dark armchair. His face was childlike, but there was ancient anger on it. He was one of the small, bitter people of the world. Some of them are six feet tall, but their palms sweat; they keep their heads low and turn them only briefly upward as they pass you with the sneer of the cornered animal unsure of whether to bite or cry. He lit a cigar and said, “Sit down.”
I wasn’t sure where to sit. The couch was too small and the little table in the room too fragile looking. He watched my awkward search for a perch and smiled viciously. He puffed at the full size cigar and leaned back.
“You don’t get many full size visitors?” I asked, deciding to sit on the floor. The carpet was dark green and soft enough.
“I get them all sizes,” he said.
“I get it,” I went on, placing my hat on the floor and my back against the wall. “You like full-sized people to feel awkward and clumsy in here.”
“You’re a smart man, Penis,” he said with a grin.
“The name’s Peters, John Franklin. Remember it and I’ll remember not to step on you,” I said, returning the grin. Wherthman had told me that my brother Phil had used that line on him. It had done wonders to ruin Wherthman’s disposition. I wished the same on Peese, but I didn’t get it.
“Well,” he said puffing away, “I feel awkward most of the time in your houses, your buildings. I enjoy having people like you feel foolish.”
He had a point, but I wasn’t going to start giving him points.
“I do keep a few bloated chairs for friends,” he said. Since he didn’t run to a closet to fetch a chair, I assumed I wasn’t in the elite company of his friends. But, after all, we had just met.
“It’s been pleasant getting acquainted with you, John Franklin, and I hate to cut off this stimulating conversation, but I have a few questions.”
“I don’t have any answers,” he puffed. The room was getting smokey and smelled like leftover cow’s breath. I wanted to get out as fast as I could.
“Let’s try,” I said, shifting my weight on the floor. “Why did you kill Cash?”
A cloud of smoke cleared, and I could see his eyes. I wondered if I could defend myself against a knife attack from him while seated on the floor. No knife came out.
“I didn’t kill him,” said Peese. “Didn’t know he was dead. Sorry to hear it.”
“You sound like you’ll never recover from the shock.”
“I’ll get over it,” he answered.
We made a fair act, but I wasn’t sure which of us was Bergen and which was Charlie McCarthy.
“What business were you in with Cash?” I tried.
“We weren’t. I knew him.”
“What business are you in?” I pushed on. He didn’t answer. I wanted to go flat on my back, but that would have made me too vulnerable. “This is a pretty nice place. You live in a fancy hotel, bring in your own furniture, smoke big cigars, wear fancy clothes. A few months ago you were cadging nickels to make the rent in a Main Street flop. Moving up in the world, ain’t you, Rico?”
His face turned red, but it wasn’t going to be that easy to get him. He was still talking, which meant maybe that he knew something. He might be my man or one of them.
“I do some acting,” he said, leaning back and blowing a cloud in my direction.
“Pays real nice, doesn’t it? What’ve you been acting in? Oz finished shooting over a year ago, and that didn’t make you rich.”
He squirmed a little, but not much.
“I don’t have to give you a list of credits,” he said. “You got better questions?”
“You got better answers? What about the fights you had with Cash?” I stood up. I’d lost the battle to try to appear comfortable. He could have that one.
“Who says we fought?” Peese shouted. “We were pals. We didn’t fight.”
“You don’t seem all broken up over the death of your pal,” I said, hovering over him. He looked up, but he didn’t look scared, just mad.
“Who said I fought with Cash?” he insisted.
“Wherthman. Gunther Wherthman,” I said.