“Toilet.”
“Yes, I must remember that word. It is awkward to say Powder Room when one doesn’t mean Powder Room.”
“Major Barton,” I prodded.
“He looked both ways, closed the door and went down the steps. He had sweat on his head, and he wiped it with his sleeve, though the night was cool.”
She squeezed my hand and looked soulful again.
“Anton was afraid I should tell you and he would get involved,” she said. “I had told him. He said it would be the questionable word of two Germans against that of an American officer. But I had to tell you. If someone finds out we knew and said nothing, and it turned out to be important, we would be in even bigger trouble.”
“Right,” I said. Her eyes were growing moist again and I added, “You’ve been here about half an hour. You’ve got Anton and a cab waiting.”
“Again soon?” she asked.
This time I kissed her first.
“Again soon,” I said and guided her to the alcove, where she tripped against the once-leather-covered chair.
When she stepped into the hall, I locked the door behind her to keep her from a sudden change of mind. I wasn’t worried about her being attacked by any of the neighborhood bums. She could take care of herself.
I figured it was about nine and was about to turn on the radio to find out, when the phone rang.
“Peters,” I said.
“I say this once,” the voice said in sharp Germanic English. It was a man’s voice and it was not a patient voice. “You cease your current investigation. You cease or soon there will be no Toby Peters.”
“Shelly,” I said. “Is this your idea of a joke? Your Hitler is as bad as your Clark Gable.”
“This is no joke,” hissed the voice. “And you would be wise to heed my warning.”
“I don’t know who’s doing your dialogue, pal,” I said, “but it could use a rewrite.”
He hung up before I could. I knew it could have been a gag. But I also knew there was a chance that it wasn’t, so I calmly got my things together, put on my jacket, turned out the lights and decided to go home and sleep on it.
I got as far as the alcove door when I saw the shadow in the pebble glass behind the reversed lettering of Shelly’s and my name. It looked like the shadow’s owner had something in his hand. I stepped back and whoever it was tried the door I had locked behind Trudi Gurstwald.
“We know you are in there, Peters,” came a voice suspiciously like the one on the phone. “We called from across the street. Now open the door and we will have a nice talk without disturbing people.”
His use of the editorial “we” failed to convince me that someone was with him. On the other hand, he seemed to have a gun and mine was in my car’s glove compartment.
“Look,” I said, backing away in the hope of making it to the phone, but the “look” was as far as I got. The figure in the hall put two shots through the window, shattering Shelly’s name and mine. The bullets hit somewhere in the general vicinity of the whitish square where the gum disease chart once rested. I remember thinking we’d have to put the chart back to cover the bullet holes, and then I realized the bullets had come within a hair of hitting my face. The guy with the gun had been waiting for my voice so he could fire toward it. I backed against the wall, reaching for one of the alcove chairs. There was an open square where the window had been and it showed the hall. I saw no one there. But I heard no footsteps. Stupid anger took hold, and I went for the door like a Neanderthal, with chair in hand. Chair against gun. Idiot against achiever.
I opened the door, pushing glass out of the way, and stepped into the hall. Whatever he hit me with, and I think it was the gun, was right on target, low on the skull. I went down, knowing he had suckered me into the hall while he pressed himself against the wall.
I didn’t go out right away. My hand must have automatically dropped the chair and went to the back of my head to keep in the blood or stop another blow. I rolled over on my back and dimly saw a guy above me with a gun. I had never seen him before. He reminded me of a fuzzy version of Ward Bond, and then I was out.
Koko the Clown took my hand and led me into the inkwell where we found ourselves in Cincinnati. He drove me up the side of the hill across the river and out to the suburb in the hills where I lived. Then Koko disappeared. I ran to my two-level house to greet my family, but they weren’t there. I ran outside and they weren’t there. I ran past rows of shacks and no one was there. I was alone in Cincinnati and scared. I was scared because no one else was alive in Cincinnati and because I’ve never been in Cincinnati in my life and I wondered even while I dreamt what the hell I was doing there. I think I also wondered if I was dead. Someone groaned, and Koko reappeared to take my hand. He led me to my car, with the bumper still missing because Arnie hadn’t gotten to it, and drove me back down the hill and out of the inkwell.
Early morning sunlight burnt my eyes and I forced them open. I was still alive, or as close to alive as I usually am. The chair I had taken into the hall was a few feet away. The glass from the broken window of my office was all over the place. The back of my head screamed, and I remembered a warning from Young Doc Parry about not taking any more jolts in the head. I managed to sit up, wondering what time it was and why I was still alive.
The door to our offices was open and so was the door to the alcove. From my sitting position, I could see Shelly’s dental chair, the same chair where Trudi Gurstwald and I had tussled minutes or hours ago. Someone was in the chair, and that made me wonder. If Shelly had a patient in there, he must have seen me in the hall. He was insensitive, but not enough to leave me out there. He’d at least wake me to complain about the broken window.
My eyes focused slowly and I recognized the man in the chair, though there was something strange about him and the way he stared at me. The something was that he was dead and covered with blood. I started to crawl toward him, remembered the glass on the floor and pulled myself up, using the open door. Then I touched the back of my head and discovered that there was no blood, just a massive lump that would end my hat wearing for a few weeks.
I made it to the guy in the chair, the guy who I had thought looked like Ward Bond. He didn’t look like Ward Bond anymore. He looked like a frightened corpse. His eyes were open and his tongue was sticking out. Blood was on his sleeve and he held a gun tightly in his left hand. His right hand rested on top of Shelly’s porcelain work space next to the chair. The junk on it had been swept to the floor, and the marble-colored porcelain was covered with drying blood.
I started to make my way toward the phone when I noticed that his right hand was pointing at the blood on the table. I shook my head clear, let some water trickle onto my hands from Shelly’s sink and splashed it on my face. Then I looked where the dead man’s finger was pointing. In blood he had written something that looked like “unkind.”
It seemed a conservative description of what had happened to him.
CHAPTER SIX
I called my brother and told him I had another corpse for him. He didn’t rant. He didn’t rave. He just said he would be right over. I looked at the phone, wondering if I had reached the right Lieutenant Philip Pevsner, the one who turned purple, lived in rage and took crime and me as a personal affront.
The pain in my head and the knowledge of the character in the dental chair behind me kept me from dwelling on Phil. I flipped on the radio and found it was eight in the morning. Shelly had part of a one-pound can of Ben-Hur coffee he had picked up at Ralph’s for twenty-eight cents. I made some, trying to avoid the guy in the chair. Then, to keep my mind from the pain and funny white spots I kept seeing, I went through the corpse’s pockets, careful not to disturb the position of the body. He had a wallet. The wallet said he was Louis Frye, that he lived in Covina and that he was thirty-eight years old. He had thirty bucks and some change. He also had a telephone number written on a torn off corner of newspaper stuck among the dollar bills. It was a familiar number. I checked it against the list Hughes had given me. The number belonged to Major Barton. I left the number and dollar bills in Frye’s wallet and put it back in his pocket.