Mildred Pierced (18 page)

“Keys?”

Arnie reached deep into the pocket of his overalls and came up with a jangling handful of keys. He examined them, extracted a pair on a ring, and handed it to me.

“It’s filled with gas,” he said. “I’ll need your coupons and two bucks for gas.”

I gave him the two dollars and called out to Junior, “Good to see you back.”

“Roger,” Jr. answered.

Twenty-one minutes later, I was parked in front of Joan Crawford’s house. She answered the door when I rang. She looked more like the movie Crawford, but not exactly. She wore a plain print dress, white with a broad black belt, and her hair was fluffy. She wore enough makeup for a close-up, and she was smoking a cigarette nervously.

“Is it true?” she asked.

“What?”

“That odious little fat man killed someone else last night?”

“Who told you that?”

“An equally odious detective with red hair, bad skin, and bad manners, who had found out—apparently without much difficulty—that Billie Cassin is Joan Crawford. He wanted to know if Dr. Minck had contacted me.”

“Why?”

“He said he thought Dr. Minck might want to kill me to keep me from testifying that I had seen him kill his wife. He was also clearly concerned that that I might change my mind to keep my name out of the newspapers.”

“And you told him—?”

“That I hadn’t seen Dr. Minck,” she said. “And that if I had to testify, I would tell the truth. Mr. Peters, if your dentist wanted to kill me, he could have done so last night. He may be filthy, clumsy, and obnoxiously self-pitying, but he strikes me as no killer. I’ve learned the hard way how to judge people.”

“But you saw him kill his wife?”

She paused and said, “Yes. There was nothing in the newspaper this morning about me, nothing about this second murder.”

“The papers are a day behind and the radio is full of war news. We’ve got a day or so. Ready to go? We’re a little late.”

She looked past me at the two-door coupe.

“It’s an improvement,” she said. “I rode in the rumble seat of one like this in
Our Dancing Daughters.
It wasn’t comfortable. The road was bumpy, and I had to keep laughing with a bottle in my hand and showing teeth.”

“You can ride up front with me,” I said.

“Will this take long?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Who shows up. What they say and do.”

“Cryptic,” she said.

She was wearing her sunglasses now, and no hat. She had a great profile, and I was on her favorite side of it.

I parked on the street next to the park, a short walk to the open field where Mildred had died. It was about five minutes before the time of day she had been shot.

“What are we doing back here?” she asked as we stood on the pathway a few feet from where she said she had stood when she witnessed the death of Mildred Minck.

“Waiting.”

“For what?” she asked.

“For who. Here he comes.”

Scott Kaye, the redheaded school kid, headed toward us on his bicycle. He didn’t slow down when he saw us. In fact, he pumped harder.

“Hold it,” I called when he was about twenty yards away.

He kept pumping. I moved in front of Joan Crawford and held out my hands for him to stop. He veered to the right onto the grass. The grass was thick. It slowed him down, but didn’t stop him. I stepped to my left as he came even with us and shoved him. The bike toppled over, and the kid went sliding on the grass in the general direction of the tennis courts.

“Mr. Peters,” Crawford said. “You could have killed the boy.”

“What did you do that for?” the kid asked, getting to his knees.

I walked over to him and helped him up. “You weren’t going to stop.”

“I’m late for school.” He looked down at the grass stains on his trousers.

“You may not be going to school today,” I said.

“Mr. Peters, I—” Crawford said.

I ignored her.

“When this lady saw the other lady get killed,” I said, “she said the dying woman had her purse open and something in her hand.”

“So?” he said.

“So you went over to the body while this lady went for the police. Dr. Minck was distraught. You picked up the purse and found something in it.”

“No.”

“Yes,” I said. “You did.”

“Okay, I took some money,” he said. “She was dead. I could tell. I would have helped her, but I knew she was dead. You’re going to arrest me, aren’t you?”

“What else did you take from her purse?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he insisted.

“One more chance, and then we go in the station to talk about the money you took and what else you found.

“Okay, okay, I found a gun, a little gun. I put it in my pocket. I’ve still got it. I’ll give it back.”

He reached for the cloth pack attached to his bike, but I got to it first and unbuckled the strap.

The gun was there. Small. I checked the barrel.

“You clean this?”

“No,” he said.

“Then it hasn’t been fired.”

“I’m really sorry,” the kid said. “You gonna let me go?”

“We’re not done,” I said. “You’re the one who found that bolt the other day when we were looking. How did you know where to look?”

“I didn’t, just luck.”

“One more lie, and I turn you in for theft, illegal possession of a firearm and aiding and abetting a murder.”

“I’m only sixteen.”

“Then you should be out on your bike again when you’re forty.”

“A guy came up behind me,” the kid said, caving in. “When I was putting the gun in my pocket. He asked me what had happened. I told him about the lady here going for the police. He told me to go. I got out of there fast, but I saw him toss something into the grass.”

“The bolt you found?”

“I think so. It was in the right place. The fat guy with the bow thing just stood there.”

Three young women pushing baby buggies rolled up the path and looked at us. I smiled. The kid looked down. Joan Crawford showed her profile.

“I’m telling you it is,” whispered one of the mothers.

“It’s not,” said a second.

The third one looked at Crawford and said, “Excuse me. Are you Joan Crawford?”

“Yes,” said Crawford.

“Oh, my God,” said the first mother. “You are my very favorite. Right next to Bette Davis.”

Crawford’s smile reeked of painful insincerity. “Thank you.”

The three mothers, unable to think of anything more to say, continued their pushing. I turned to the kid.

“Can I go now?”

“What did this man look like?”

He shrugged. “Average, I guess. About your size. Hat, rain coat, mustache.”

“What did he do when you left?”

“He was talking to the chubby guy with the crossbow, had his hand on his shoulder. That’s all. I swear.”

“Did you hear him say anything?”

“Didn’t make sense,” the kid said. “Something like Dumpo or Dumbo.”

“Bumppo?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“I’ve got your address,” I said. “We may be calling on you to identify this man.”

The kid picked up his bicycle, straightened the twisted handlebars and wheeled the bike back to the path.

“I’m finding a different way to school,” he said.

“Makes sense to me,” I said.

He looked at Joan Crawford and pedaled off.

“Why was she carrying a gun?” Crawford asked.

“I think she was planning to kill Shelly,” I said. “But someone shot her first.”

“Self-defense,” she said. “I mean, your friend can claim self-defense.”

“He didn’t know she had a gun,” I said. “I talked to him.”

Since the kid had confessed that he had taken Mildred’s money, I had a pretty good idea of how she had gotten to the park, public transportation, probably a cab.

It was the man in the raincoat I had to find. I had to find him before he arranged an accident for Shelly, if he hadn’t done so already. I was pretty sure the name of the man I was looking for was James Fenimore Sax.

“I’ll drive you home,” I said.

“Where are you going?”

“To a nest of Survivors.”

“I’m going, too,” she said.

“These people are crazy,” I said.

“And this person is angry,” she said. “I’ve dealt with crazy people before. I don’t like to be threatened, and I don’t like hiding and, most of all, I don’t like the possibility of losing this role. I was informed this morning that William Faulkner is working on the script.”

I shrugged.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Peters,” she said sweetly. “I don’t care what you think about my going with you. You are being paid to keep my involvement in this ridiculous business from being made public. You are not being paid to protect me from harm. I’ve done a fair job of doing just that for myself for some time. Shall we go?”

“We shall,” I said.

The drive to the Survivors camp was quiet, except for the news. We learned that the Soviets had killed 2,000 Nazi soldiers in their drive into the Ukraine. Fritzie Zivic had lost his fight to Jake La Motta by breaking his hand in the first round, which meant I owed Violet another five dollars. Senator Arthur Vandenberg announced that he was supporting General Douglas MacArthur for president, and the State of New York wanted to electrocute Louis “Lepke” Buchalter, who was in federal custody on a dope-peddling sentence.

When we pulled up at the Survivor camp, Lewis, the kid with the blowgun in his pocket, was standing behind the fence with Anthony. Under Anthony’s jacket was the outline of a gun tucked into his belt.

I parked and got out. Crawford was out ahead of me walking toward the fence. I caught up with her as she addressed them.

“We would very much like to see Mr. Timerjack,” she said with a smile. “It’s really very important.”

“He’s not here,” said the kid.

The man with the gun whispered in the boy’s ear. The boy nodded and said to Crawford, “You’re the one who saw Pigeon Minck kill his wife.”

“I am,” she said sadly. “A tragedy.”

“You’re going to testify that you saw him do it?” the kid said.

“I’m afraid so,” she said with wide, moist eyes.

“Maybe you
didn’t
see it,” the kid said.

The older man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Lewis shrugged him off.

“Unfortunately,” she said, “I did.”

“Pigeon Minck can’t go to prison,” the boy said.

The cabin door opened behind the scratched green Ford parked in front of it, about forty yards away, and Helter, the woman with the knife, came out with the Mohicans Phil had pummeled the day before.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” I whispered to Crawford.

She wasn’t having any. She gave me a look that said it’s-too-late-now and turned to face Helter who was almost at the fence.

“You’re not welcome,” Helter said to me.

“I’m sorry,” said Crawford. “I don’t know your name. Mine is—”

“Joan Crawford,” Helter finished. “And you’re the one who says she saw Pigeon Minck kill his wife. I hear someone told you you made a mistake.”

“Mistakes are possible,” Crawford said. She smiled again. “We would like to see Mr. Timerjack.”

I didn’t know what role she was playing, but I was clearly only a supporting player waiting for my cues.

“Why?” asked Helter.

“To discuss the situation,” Crawford said.

“He’s not here,” Helter said.

“Then, perhaps Mr. Sax is around.”

Crawford put her hand to her forehead to shield out the sun and scanned the house and nearby woods.

“Who?”

“James Fenimore Sax,” Crawford said.

“We don’t have a Survivor with that name,” Helter said. “I’ll tell Deerslayer Timerjack you were here. If he wants to call you, he knows where you are. We all know where you are.”

Two things were clear. They didn’t know Timerjack was dead. They had all been told that it would be better for the Survivors if Shelly were on the street. I stepped in.

“You really back each other up,” I said.

“Loyalty,” said the kid. “Rule One.”

“And you think Timerjack wants Pigeon Minck out of jail because he wants to protect him?”

I looked at the goons, whose bruises from the day before were turning a combination of purple and yellow.

“Yes,” said Helter. “Out here he can survive. Inside prison …”

“He escaped,” I said.

This came as no surprise to any of them.

“And those two used that car to try to kill him,” I said, pointing at the Mohicans. “You say you want him to survive and you try to kill him.”

Helter looked at the Mohicans. One of them whispered in her ear. What she was hearing didn’t make her comfortable.

“You’re mistaken,” she said to me.

“Timerjack is dead,” I threw out.

The kid winced. The woman blinked. Anthony, the guy with the gun under his jacket, started to reach for it. The two bodyguards looked at each other.

“You killed him?” asked Helter taking her very big knife from the sheath on her hip.

“No,” I said. “He was shot in the head with the bolt from a crossbow.”

“Minck,” she said.

“No, he was hiding. My vote goes to James Fenimore Sax,” I said.

“No,” she said.

“I think your founder may not feel the same loyalty toward you and Mr. Timerjack that you feel for each other,” said Crawford.

“I’ve got to think,” Helter said. “I’ve got to keep alert to every word and footstep.”

“Rule Two,” said Lewis, whose cheeks were now pinker than ever.

“Well?” I asked.

Helter stood there, knife in hand. Lewis had his blowgun out now, and the craggy man had drawn his pistol.

“I think you both better come in here,” Helter said, her eyes moving from side to side as she tried to think. She wasn’t a leader.

“You don’t want to do anything that will get you in trouble,” Crawford said. “Miss—?”

“Martha Helter,” the woman said, her thoughts racing, pain in her eyes.

“Martha,” Crawford repeated. “That’s a beautiful name. It was my mother’s name, you know.”

“No,” said Helter, trying to think. “I need some time to … Both of you come in. Anthony, open the fence.”

The craggy-faced man tucked his gun away and opened the fence. This wasn’t the way I wanted it to go. Once we were inside, it wouldn’t take Helter long to realize that she could be facing a kidnapping charge. Then she would have to decide what to do with us. Since survival—hers, not ours—was her creed, I didn’t like our odds.