“Yeah,” said Phil.
“Give me a try with him,” said Rathbone, “maybe I can keep him going long enough for you to trace it.”
“That’s ten, maybe fifteen minutes, depending on where he’s calling from, but he won’t stay on long enough. O.K. Give it a try. What the hell.” He handed the phone to Rathbone, who said:
“This is Basil Rathbone. Yes, the actor. I’m sorry if you think this is a poor imitation. It’s actually me. I happened to be in the Lieutenant’s office when you called, and I’ve never spoken to a lunatic before. My, my, my you needn’t get insulting. I see. And how will you accomplish this? Grisly. But you don’t even know the Lieutenant. How will you be sure you’re not getting the wrong man? Oh, you do. Yes, Yes. That’s a fair enough description. Must you? So soon? Well, if you must. Goodbye.”
Rathbone hung up.
“Couldn’t keep him on,” said Phil.
“No,” said Rathbone,” but I did discover a few things about him that might help you to pick him up. He is a Canadian who has worked for a doctor or in a hospital or is a doctor; and he knew you, I would guess, about ten years ago. I’d suggest you check anyone you put to prison about ten years ago who recently got out and fits that description.”
Phil started to rise from his chair.
“Levine, Edward Levine,” said Phil. “Sent him up for assaulting a doctor in County Hospital where he was working in ’32.” Seidman came back into the office to indicate that they had not traced the call.
“Forget it,” said Phil. “Check on Ed Levine. May have gotten out of Folsom recently. Check his parole officer, find him and pull him in. I think he’s our man.” Seidman nodded and left.
“The voice could be his,” Phil said. “It’s been ten years, but …”
“He have some special fondness for you, Philip?” I said. Phil looked up at me, and I went on. “Some good kidney chops help him confess? Ah, but you were a wild youth.”
“Get out,” he said. Rathbone and I got out. On the way through the station Rathbone absorbed the sight of drunks, looneys, cops and assorted hangers-on lounging around.
“Fascinating place,” he said, as we stepped into the sunlight.
“Fascinating,” I agreed. “How did you know all that stuff about the guy on the phone, Sherlock?”
“If we are to cement this friendship, Toby,” he said with a smile, “please call me Basil. As much as I enjoy the profit of being Sherlock Holmes and am interested in the process, I fear I am, after thirty years as a Shakespearean actor, becoming identified with a character who may overwhelm my career. I’m getting a bit of a taste of how Dr. Conan Doyle must have felt when he tried to kill Sherlock off. I am, however, not at that point. As to the business on the phone back there, I owe it more to being an actor who spends a great deal of time studying voices than I do to a study of Holmes. I knew he was a Canadian because of the way he pronounced “ou” in words like “about,” “out.” Canadians pronounce these two letters as “oo” as in “too.” Of course a small group of Americans in Minnesota do the same, but the odds were numerically with the Canadian. As to the medical knowledge, the gentleman on the phone described what he would do to Lieutenant Pevsner with an anatomical knowledge that would have been the envy of Jack the Ripper. Finally, the man’s description of the lieutenant was easily ten years out of date. He described a man thirty pounds lighter and with hair just beginning to grey. He had not seen his intended victim for about ten years. Then I put it all together.”
“You could have been way off,” I said, letting him lead me to a blue Chrysler at the curb.
“My dear fellow, I could have been entirely wrong,” he admitted. “Holmes, unlike us poor mortals, always had the fortunate protection of Dr. Conan Doyle, who would affirm almost every bizarre deduction the consulting detective made.”
We got in the car and I gave Rathbone Major Barton’s address, after briefing him on what had happened and getting his assurance that he wanted to come along.
“I called you this morning for the express purpose of accompanying you on some of the investigation,” he said. “Tell me, do American police actually beat suspects, or were you simply prodding the Lieutenant out of some long-standing antagonism?”
“The antagonism goes back more than forty years,’ I said. “He’s my brother.”
“That explains a great deal,” said Rathbone.
“The answer to your question is, yes, some, maybe most cops do use a little muscle to push a suspect into a confession or get some information. Being a cop is a tough job. I used to be one in Glendale.”
“I see,” he said. “The English aren’t all that less barbaric. I’ll make an anti-Holmesian confession to you. About fifteen years ago in England, I had an excellent manservant named Poole, who was an armed robber by night to supplement his income. He kept it up for some time, and I never suspected the fellow, even when they arrested him and he confessed. When he got out after serving his time, Poole told me that he had received nine lashes of the ‘cat’ for having carried firearms during the robberies. The cat, in case you do not know it, is a wooden handpiece to which are attached nine leather thongs soaked in oil. A prison doctor must be present because a single stroke of the lash can lay a man’s back open to the bone. The lashes, according to Poole, could be given at any time, in any combination. They could pull a man out of his cell after a year at three in the morning, give him two strokes and send him back bleeding for minutes or months to await the rest. They’ve done away with the cat now, but I’ve met many who are sorry about its passing. So, perhaps the English are not so much more civilized than the Americans when it comes to treating criminals.”
Major Barton’s home was in Westwood, a small house set back on an untrimmed lawn. I didn’t know if he was there, but I had gotten nowhere trying to reach him by phone, and Trudi Gurstwald plus his phone number in Frye’s wallet had made him my A Number-One Suspect. It was worth a chance.
Barton was home. He answered the door himself and he was in-uniform, or at least partly in uniform. His jacket, tie and shoes were not on and I had the impression we had interrupted him while he was dressing. He was about fifty, a little taller than I and working hard to keep his stomach in by will power instead of exercise. His nose had the red touch of a drinker, and his breath confirmed Hughes’ information.
“Mr. Rathbone,” he said in surprise. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“Good afternoon, Major,” Rathbone said amiably, “this is Mr. Peters. He is working for Howard Hughes, and he’d like some help with something you may be able to assist him with. May we come in?”
Rathbone stepped forward the way he did as Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles movie, and I followed behind.
“I was just on my way out,” Barton said, trying to get ahead of us to cover the mess and bottles in his living room.
“We won’t take a moment,” smiled Rathbone. “I’m sure you want to cooperate with Mr. Hughes’ emissary.”
“Of course,” said Barton. “Just give me a minute to finish dressing, gentlemen. Make yourself at home. Have a drink.”
We went into Barton’s living room, and Rathbone immediately opened a window to let out the stale smell, then sat down comfortably. The room was small, darkly carpeted with a sofa and some chairs. The chairs looked expensive, far from new, and not recently dusted. They were striped black and brown and looked lived in. On the wall was a picture of Napoleon on a horse. The horse was up on his hind feet and Napoleon was looking at me with his sword raised before he joined the battle in the background.
Barton came back in a few minutes, smelling of Sen-Sen and after-shave lotion. But the alcohol still came through.
“Mrs. Barton is out of town for a few days,” he said, having a seat. “Please excuse the condition of the house.”
“This is confidential, Major,” I said, pulling a seat as close to him as I could. “You’re assigned to…”