A Fatal Glass of Beer (9 page)

An hour passed. No Hipnoodle. No black Ford. Fields reached for his first drink of the day, a premixed martini from his backseat bar. He drank slowly, scanning the street for suspicious faces. He concluded that all the faces were suspicious.

“See that woman there?” he asked, waving his drink.

A young woman, slightly on the heavy side, held the hands of two children, a small boy on the right, a slightly taller girl on the left.

“I see her,” I said.

“German face,” he said. “Probably a spy, perfect cover. Two kids are probably rented.”

“What would a German spy be doing in Altoona?” I asked.

“They’re everywhere,” he confided. “Besides, there’s a secret bombsight development center in Altoona. That’s what my barber told me. Always trust your barber. Especially when you’re getting a shave. If he’s good enough to run a razor across your neck, he’s good enough to know if there’s a bombsight center in Altoona. Come to think of it, he said Ashtabula.”

None of us noticed the uniformed cop until he knocked at the curbside window next to me. I lowered the window. The cop leaned over, examined us. Fields pretended to ignore him and continued to look out the window at the bank.

The officer was too old for the draft, even if they raised the age to forty-five. His blue uniform was a little baggy and so were his eyes.

“Mind tellin’ me what you’re doing here, gents?” he asked.

“Watching the bank,” I said.

“Mind if I ask why?” he asked, hands resting on the rim of the open window.

“It is your civic duty to ask why,” said Fields. “We could be a bizarre trio of bank robbers—a midget, an ancient juggler, and Mr. Peters, who, I must admit, fits the description of half the felons described each week on ‘Gangbusters.’”

“I know you?” asked the policeman.

Fields’s face was still averted, drink in hand. “Ever been in Nepal?” he asked.

“Yep,” said the cop.

The reply caught Fields’s attention. He examined the policeman leaning into the window as if he might have discovered a worthy opponent.

“What were you doing in Nepal?” asked Fields.

“Searching for the elusive Tarabini bird,” said the cop.

“Find him?” asked Fields.

“Found him, ate him,” said the cop. “Tasted like chicken. Everything tastes like chicken—rattlesnake, alligator, chickens. You’re W. C. Fields.”

“I confess,” said Fields. “But I categorically deny having outstanding warrants in Altoona.”

“Don’t figure you do,” he said. “But I can’t let you sit here parked in front of the bank. Chief comes by, sees you idling here, wonders what a big Caddy has on its mind and where the hell I am. Do my best to avoid the chief. Got two boys in the service. One in the Pacific. One flying missions over Germany.”

“See that woman?” said Fields, pointing. “Two kids. Think she’s a German spy. After the plans at the bombsight factory.”

“Bombsight factory?” asked the cop.

“You don’t even know about it,” Fields said. “You should have a long talk with my barber.”

“Woman with the two kids is Kitty Sinnet,” said the cop. “Family’s lived here for as far back as her great-grandpa. Her husband’s a commander on a P T boat. Don’t think she’s a spy.”

“Bismarck probably planted the family here half a century ago in anticipation of the propitious moment,” muttered Fields.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Fields,” the cop said. “Now, if you’ll move your vehicle …”

“I’ll do better,” Fields said. “I’ll enter the banking establishment and engage in a transaction of some substance.”

“That’ll be fine,” the cop said, stepping back as Fields opened his door onto the street and almost into a passing moving-van.

“Look where you’re going,” Fields shouted, waving his cane. “Man’s driving in an alcoholic stupor.”

If he was talking to the cop with the two kids in the war, Fields was too late. The cop was gone.

Gunther stayed in the car as I got out on the curb side and hurried after Fields, who was groping in his pocket for something. When we got across the street, he pulled out his fake clip mustache, attached it to his nose, and pushed his straw hat forward in an attempt to shade his eyes.

“How do I look?” he whispered.

“Like W. C. Fields with a silly mustache and his hat pushed forward,” I said.

“You’re a detective,” he answered.

“It doesn’t take a detective,” I said. “What are we doing?”

“Looks as if Hipnoodle isn’t showing up,” he said. “His clue was a sham, a deception designed to throw us off the scent while he went ahead to Beloit or Muscatine. We will enter this establishment and I will remove my assets and consider our next move in the chase.”

I shrugged. We entered. It was a bigger bank than the one in Lancaster, bigger and newer. Business wasn’t brisk, but there were a few customers at the quartet of barred teller windows on the right. Fields headed straight for a closed wooden door displaying the words, Mr. Cameron Farber, Vice-President, in gold leaf.

Fields knocked once and entered before receiving a reply. I was at his side.

The office was small, a lot larger than mine, but small by most human standards. Behind the desk sat a man with a round, pink face, wearing a dark suit. Across from him sat a customer, a woman who couldn’t have been a minute under eighty years old.

“I must insist on putting an end to this hanky-panky,” Fields said. “Farber, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I know I’m ashamed of myself.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Farber rising. “What do you want?”

“Business,” Fields said. “Not monkey business like you. This woman is old enough to be your mother. Have you no decency?”

“Mrs. Boyston …,” Farber began apologetically, but the old woman held up a hand to stop him as she stood.

“This is W. C. Fields,” she said. “Professional misanthrope. Supposedly humorous rudeness is essential to his less-than-respectable trade.”

With that, she walked past us, closing the door behind her as she left.

“I’ve been bested by a cop and an ancient harridan in Altoona,” said Fields, moving toward the desk. “My mood is sinister. You drink?”

“Well,” said Farber. “I …”

“Top drawer, left,” said Fields. “Saw your eyes move. Steady yourself and we’re on to business. I can always deal with a man who’s had a healthy snort in the a.m.”

Farber looked at me and opened the drawer. He removed a half full bottle.

“Rum,” Fields said, focusing on the bottle. “I’m a martini man myself.”

Farber poured a healthy dose of his rum into a paper cup, put the bottle away, downed the drink in one gulp, and dropped the cup in a wastebasket.

“Farber,” said Fields. “I wish to withdraw my funds from this worthy establishment.”

“Of course,” said Farber, looking more in control of mind and body than he had before his drink.

“Deposited a sum of nine thousand dollars and fifty cents,” said Fields. “That was back in nineteen twenty-two. With interest, I calculate that the sum is now close to eleven thousand.”

“Quite likely,” said Farber. “I hesitate to say this, however, but one of my responsibilities is to examine the accounts on which there has been no activity, deposit or withdrawal, within a year’s time. I don’t recall a W. C. Fields account.”

Fields consulted a folded sheet of paper, which he extracted with the flourish of a presidential candidate about to make a speech.

“Used the name Hopencrotch,” Fields said. “Sidney Barchester Hopencrotch.”

Farber shook his head and smiled.

“You’ve made a mistake,” he said.

“Many,” said Fields. “But it’s best not to admit them.”

“Mr. Hopencrotch withdrew his funds this morning,” he said.

“Couldn’t have,” Fields said. “My compatriot and I, with the aid of a small midget who dresses better than Doug Fairbanks, Jr., have been watching the door of this bank since it opened. The man who could have claimed to be Hopencrotch never came out.”

“Tall gentleman in his late forties,” said Farber. “Deep voice. Straight back. Nice smile.”

“Sounds like the culprit,” Fields said.

“Mr. Hopencrotch came to the bank almost a month ago,” he said. “I spoke to him personally. He made a respectable deposit in his account, several thousand dollars, and then said he was thinking of entering the banking business. Said he was tired of traveling. Said he would return in about a month and would appreciate a brief apprenticeship, unpaid, if that were possible. I told him that it was irregular but it could be arranged. He called yesterday and asked if he could come in today. He was here on time, at eight, with the other employees.”

“He’s here?” I said.

“No,” said Farber. “Shortly after opening, he informed a teller that he had a family emergency and had to withdraw all of his cash immediately. Miss Ochmonic had no choice. He had his bankbook, with a recent deposit, and his signature was an exact match for the one in the bankbook and on our deposit slips.”

“We were watching the front door,” I said.

“Mr. Hopencrotch asked to leave through the employee exit because he had parked in the back,” said Farber. “I let him out myself and he promised to return soon with a large deposit. The account is still open. He left almost two hundred dollars.”

“How long ago did he leave?” I asked.

“Ten, fifteen minutes,” said Farber, glancing at his desk drawer. “It was all very fast. Family emergency, you know.”

Fields removed his mustache, pocketed it, and examined Farber before saying, “You let the son of a bitch steal my money.”

“Under the circumstances …” Farber began, but I was already dragging Fields toward the door. We left the bewildered Farber standing behind his desk with an apologetic look on his face.

“The ravages of alcohol,” said Fields with a sigh.

“I thought you said you could trust a man who drinks,” I said.

“Not rum,” he said. “Drink of charlatans and pirates.”

We hurried through the lobby, past the woman with the two children who Fields had pegged as part of a multigenerational German conspiracy, and out onto the street. The trail was worse than cold, but we had no choice. I motioned to Gunther, who followed us in the Caddy down the driveway to the bank’s parking lot in the rear. There were seven cars. None familiar. We were about to give up when Fields moved to the rear door of the bank. Taped to it was a piece of cardboard, neatly printed in black: Coshocton, Next Stop.

“Man’s a torturing fiend,” said Fields, tearing down the cardboard.

“Where’s Coshocton?” I asked.

“Ohio,” said Fields. “Bend in the road. Played in the Elks Hall there in the general vicinity of nineteen-nineteen. Appreciative audience, as I recall, balanced the stuffed head of an elk on my nose while telling jokes and juggling beer bottles.”

The parking lot adjoined a tree-lined alley. I watched Gunther maneuver the big car around to let us in and aim for the entrance. I was reaching for the door when a shot spat through the air and split Fields’s cane. The bottom half of the cane twirled in the air. Fields caught it, ducked next to the car, and looked in the general direction from which the shot had come. Trees, fences, buildings, cars, plenty of places to hide. The second shot seemed to come from a little farther away, as if he were moving back. Gunther was on the floor of the car. Fields and I were doing our best to keep the car between us and the gunman.

“There,” shouted Fields, pointing far down the alley.

I looked where he was pointing. A man darted across the alley from behind a tree. He was carrying a gun and running fast. Well, not exactly running, loping.

“It’s the Chimp,” said Fields. “I knew it.”

My vision’s not perfect but it’s good, certainly good enough to recognize Fields’s driver from Los Angeles; but at this distance, Fields was just guessing. All we could see of the man was that he was the Chimp’s size and build. We got in the car and Gunther sat up.

“Knew I couldn’t trust him,” Fields said.

“But he wasn’t Hopencrotch or Hipnoodle or whatever he’s going to call himself in the next town,” I said. “Hopencrotch is tall, thin, good-looking.”

“Accomplice,” said Fields.

It sounded reasonable.

“What’s his real name?” I asked as Gunther pulled out of the lot. The three of us looked both ways when we hit the street, expecting a dark Ford or a primate-shaped man with a gun.

“Chimp,” said Fields, reaching for a drink. “All I’ve ever called him. I’ll call my secretary and get his name.”

“We should report this to the police,” I said.

“We should get our asses to Coshocton, Ohio,” Fields replied.

Gunther, driving with one hand, looked down at the U.S. road map in the passenger seat. Gunther could read a map. Actually, Gunther could read almost anything.

“No nonsense this time,” Fields said. “We will beat our tall enemy and the Chimp to Coshocton, get my money, and stay two steps ahead of him and catch him in the act. Foot to the floor as soon as we’re out of city limits, my diminutive conspirator. We’ll beat their black Ford to the bank by hours.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Why tell us where they’re going next and then try to shoot us?”

“The human mind,” said Fields, “is a ball of mush held together by the glue from horses’ hooves. There are rare individuals who can actually use as much as five percent of the organ’s capacity. Try to fathom the human mind and you’ll find yourself in the room next to mine the next time I sign myself into that sanitarium.”

Gunther drove, swiftly and smoothly. I was hungry. So was Gunther, but Fields insisted that he would buy us a lavish early dinner after we visited the bank in Coshocton. We ate crackers and olives, which Fields had in large supply, as he leaned with dignity over into the front seat to find New York on the impressive radio built into the dashboard.

A voice came on, speaking a language that I didn’t recognize.

Fields sat back.

“The news in Yiddish,” he said. “Every day in New York. Twice a day, maybe more.”

“You understand Yiddish?” I asked.

“A little,” he said. “Fanny Brice said I was a quick learner when we were in the Follies. Couldn’t make up my mind whether I loved or hated the woman. She was too damn funny.… Rommel,” said Fields suddenly, catching the name on the radio. “He said something about Rommel.”