A Fatal Glass of Beer (14 page)

I got up slowly. I wasn’t late, but it was time I got moving. My back ached. The bed was too soft. I should have moved the mattress onto the floor.

I put on my holster, checked my .38, got into my shoes, zipped up my jacket, turned off the radio, and went to Fields’s and Gunther’s rooms. Neither answered. A good sign. I spotted them in the lobby, engaged in conversation and drinks with some of the farmers. Fields was animated, drink in hand. Gunther sat back silently and glanced at me, making it clear that he wanted me to be careful. I intended to be.

My .38 sat heavily under my arm. There weren’t many people on the street at this hour. A few of the farmers in search of a place to get a late Saturday-night drink. An older couple getting into their car.

It took me ten minutes to get to the park. The directions had been clear. The park was small, but you couldn’t see the street from the fish pond. Not that it mattered. There was no one on the street. A park light stood next to the pond. There didn’t seem to be a lights-out or curfew in Ottumwa. I guess no one seriously thought the Japanese or Germans would have the fuel or inclination to fly to the middle of the United States to drop bombs on small cities and cornfields.

I shifted my gun from the holster to my pocket, took the napkin out of my pocket, and fed the fish. I was early. The fish were mostly big carp. They gobbled the bread, breaking the silence with their splashing. I’d thrown in the last of what I had when I heard the sound behind me. My hand moved casually to my gun.

If I was about to be killed, I’d at least be going out in my best clothes.

He stood in front of me, tall, erect, thin, and older than I had expected. He wore a suit and a knowing smile. John Carradine would play him if they ever made a movie of his life. He looked at the nearby trees and bushes and spoke softly, a touch of something that sounded like fear in his voice.

“Mr. Peters,” he said.

“Mr. Hipnoodle,” I answered.

“The name is Lester Burton,” he said. “I’d like you to accompany me to my room in a hotel other than yours where I can turn over the money, bankbooks, and responsibility to you. Though my life has had but few clear examples of theatrical success, I would prefer that I not be shot at again. I regret that I cannot complete my mission, but I would like to live to perform Shakespeare once more. I’ve always wanted to play Iago but was rejected, even in community theater, as being too tall. I protested that I had a proper lean and hungry look. In any case, there are three more banks to go. They are in Ogallala, Nebraska; Rifle, Colorado; and Panguitch, Utah.”

“Someone’s trying to kill you?” I asked.

“Several times over the last few days,” he said, looking around.

“Man look a little like a chimp?” I asked.

“I never saw the person who discharged his firearm, but I did feel the heat of death.”

“What’s this all about?” I asked.

He moved to the pond and stared down at the fish, reaching into his jacket pocket. I had my .38 out. He handed me an envelope. I took it, put my gun away, and looked at it. On the outside of the envelope was written, “To Bill.”

I opened the envelope and moved closer to the park light to read it. The words were large, clear, and written with a flourish of curves:

My dear compatriot,

By the time you read this I will be imbibing with the angels if I make it to heaven and God is just and rewards my few good deeds. If there is no God, I shall simply and permanently be dead. The possibility exists, I understand, that you too will have joined me by now. However, I am determined to have one last April Fools’ joke. I hope Mr. Burton has led you on a merry chase and has now given you the money and the bankbooks. Since it is yours, you may bury it in the backyard, deposit it in one or two banks nearer your domicile, or give it to the idle poor, an option I feel confident you will not exercise. It has been fun, even when you cheated at croquet. If it is possible to miss someone where I now am, I miss you. Give my best to Greg and the other survivors and drink a round for me.

Yours in eternal mischief,

John Barrymore

I put the note back in the envelope and pocketed it.

“What’s going on? Who are you?”

“You have my name,” said Burton, his back still turned. “You have the letter. I was hired more than two years ago by John Barrymore, with whom I had worked briefly in a film of no consequence to either of us. In the course of a lunch break, I gladly confided in him that I could perfectly imitate any signature after seeing it but once. It was a gift. My father had it before me and it earned him considerable money and several years in prison. I gave Barrymore a demonstration. Two days later he presented his plan, his final prank, to me. If he were to die before Mr. Fields, I should wait till just before April fools’ Day, steal his friend’s bankbooks, withdraw all the money, lead Mr. Fields on, and then, when we were back in Los Angeles, appear on his doorstep, hand him the letter you have and a leather bag filled with the money I had collected. Mr. Barrymore paid me more than adequately by leaving me a sum in his will. The family was confused about who I was and why I was left the money, and I explained only that I was an old and dear friend. Two years passed. I began the game. Rather enjoyed acting the role. And then …”

“And then,” I repeated.

“I realized that I was being followed, starting back in Pennsylvania a few days ago,” he said. “I was shot at and was fortunate to escape with my life on two occasions. I regret not fulfilling Mr. Barrymore’s task, but …”

“I understand,” I said. “Let’s go to your hotel.”

“Of course,” he said, turning to face me.

The night was silent and the shot clear, sharp.

Lester Burton tumbled backward into the fish pond. I turned as fast as I could and leveled my gun in the direction I thought the shot had come from. There was no one there. A second shot, this one in my direction, chipped out a piece of concrete from the walk around the fountain. I ran for the cover of the nearby bushes. There were no more shots, but I didn’t move once I got behind a cluster of tight branches. I crouched, gun in hand, breathing heavily. I could see the tall corpse of Lester Burton lying on his face among the curious goldfish.

I waited for about five minutes, maybe more. No police showed up. I came out of the bushes, low and ready, and looked around. I couldn’t see anyone.

I took a chance, holstered my gun, and moved to the pond, where I illegally pulled Burton from the water. There was no chance he was alive. I had seen the splot of blood on his white shirt, the open-mouthed look of surprise on his face. His eyes had remained open.

I double-checked for any sign of life. There was none. I scrambled through his wet pockets. His wallet confirmed that he was Lester Burton. There were four hundred dollars in twenties in addition to his identification. I put the wallet and the money back in his pocket and then I went through his other pockets. A car key on a chain with another key that looked like it belonged to an apartment or a house. And then I found it. A hotel-room key. It was on a chain attached to a dark wooden oval the size of a half dollar. Etched into the wood was the name of Burton’s hotel, the Grand. There was also, in smaller letters, the hotel’s address and Burton’s room number, 213. I dried my hands on my jacket, looked down at Burton, and turned away, mad as hell. I had known the man for no more than three or four minutes. I liked him. And someone had killed him, a man who was doing a job for a friend. Burton could have collected all the money and kept it himself, but it had been clear from our talk that he planned to keep his word to Barrymore. Lester Burton deserved better.

I ran out of the park and onto the street, looking for someone who could tell me where the Grand Hotel was—even a cop, though that wasn’t my first choice. Then I remembered; it was on the same street we were on. My back told me not to run, but my anger told me to ignore my back and get moving, fast.

I passed a few people, key jingling in one pocket, gun in the other, and almost missed the Grand Hotel. It was small, barely a storefront. In fact, it did have storefront windows with the name of the hotel in gold lettering. The lobby was dark. I tried the door. Locked. I tried the key I had taken from Lester Burtons pocket. It worked.

I closed the door quietly behind me, took out my .38 again, and moved slowly to the stairway next to the small check-in counter. There was a dim night-light on the wall halfway up the stairs. I went up slowly. On the second-floor landing were a small corridor light and an illuminated exit sign at the far end. There weren’t many rooms. I moved slowly, ready, and found room 213 almost immediately. The door was closed, but as I turned the knob carefully, I could tell it wasn’t locked.

Two ways I could do this. Slow and quiet, or fast and loud. I went for fast and reasonably loud. I opened the door, went flat on the floor of the room, and searched with the barrel of my gun for the killer. The room was empty. The lights were all on. There was a closed window. The bathroom was dark. I moved to it carefully, but by now I knew he had been there and gone. While I crouched in the bushes near the fountain and went through the pockets of Lester Burton, the killer had gotten here ahead of me.

I closed the door of room 213 and looked around more thoroughly. There was a suitcase packed with clothes. The closet was empty. The giveaway was the absence of the Fields bankbooks and the cash from the accounts—and the trail of bills on the floor. There were two hundreds, four twenties, and a ten. I picked them up and pocketed them.

I left the room, closed the door, and went down to the lobby. The guest register was on the counter. I turned it around and squinted at the names of those who had registered that day. Room 213 was Lester Burton. There were three other men. Names I didn’t recognize and none that sounded like Fields-style humor. Burton had given an L.A. address and listed his profession as “thespian.” The other men had all registered as sales representatives with home addresses in Chicago, Lincoln, and Milwaukee.

My guess was that one of them besides Burton had just checked out and was driving toward Ogallala, Nebraska. I could be wrong. He could be heading home with a satchel full of cash, but my guess was that whoever it was wouldn’t be able to resist getting it all. He had killed for this much. Had tried to kill Fields. Had warned me to stay off the case or die.

If I was wrong, the killer had gotten away with murder and a lot of cash, so, really, I had no choice but Nebraska.

I went back to the lobby of our hotel.

Fields was holding court for a circle of five farmers. Gunther was half asleep but he perked up when I came in and smiled, happy that I was in one piece. Fields did not appear to notice my entrance. He was deep into his narration, which I picked up on as I approached.

“The secret,” he said, “is in sowing the seeds by the light of the full moon. Works every time. Crops are healthy and plentiful. Don’t care if we’re talking corn, oats, farfel, or Liberian plantains. The secret was given to me by a Chinese tiller of the soil several hundred kilometers north of Chungking. Now I share it with my friends. It’s the only way I plant.”

Now Fields spotted me. He excused himself with a flourish and a smile and followed me and Gunther up the stairs to my room. When we were inside I took out the two hundred and ninety dollars and handed the bills to Fields, along with the letter from John Barrymore.

Fields pocketed the money and read the letter slowly while Gunther looked up at me questioningly. When he was finished, Fields handed the letter to Gunther, who read it and handed it back to Fields, who folded it slowly, returned it to the envelope, and tucked it carefully into the inner pocket of his jacket.

I told them everything that happened and they both listened quietly, asking no questions.

“The Chimp,” Fields said. “If he had a neck, I’d choke the primate to death when we catch him.”

“Nebraska?” I asked.

“Nebraska,” he confirmed. “If that’s where he’s going, he’s got a start on us.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Gunther said. “The bank won’t be open.”

“Besides, Burton was an expert forger,” I said. “Our man may have a little trouble in Ogallala. Let’s say four hours’ sleep and we’re on the road?”

“Four hours,” Fields agreed.

Gunther nodded his agreement.

“Who drives?” Gunther asked.

“You,” said Fields in a definitely disheartened voice I had not heard from him before. “I’m going to drink a toast or two to Jack Barrymore in my room and I may want to snooze in the car on the way to Ogallala.The damn Chimp isn’t getting away with my money and spoiling Jack’s April Fools’ prank. To our rooms, gentlemen. In four hours we’re back on the road.”

My favorite book is One Hundred and Thirteen Birdcalls and How to Simulate Them.

Fields was tired. We all were tired. Gunther drove in early-morning darkness while I dozed off an hour here, a half hour there. Fields, hands folded on his belly, head back, snored like a red Los Angeles trolley car revving up for a busy day.

Gunther had closed the sliding window between the front and back seats and listened quietly to the radio for company as we drove down Highway 34 through Osceola, Creston, Council Bluffs, and then out of Iowa and into Nebraska, bypassing Omaha as the sun broke clear over miles of cornstalks on both sides of the two-lane highway.

Every time Gunther tried to tune in some music, Fields snorted angrily in his sleep and Gunther changed the station. The news, no matter how good or bad, seemed to soothe the sleeping Fields.

According to Elmer Davis, the Nazis were accumulating something called “heavy water” to be used in a weapon with hidden atomic power. A heavy water plant in Rukan, Norway, was burned and bombed to the ground by saboteurs.

Almost in his sleep, Fields mumbled, “Knew water was dangerous. Avoid it at all costs except for baths.”

Somewhere outside of York, Fields woke up. It was a slow process, involving looks around the car, examinations of both me and Gunther as if we were strangers, and a look of near horror at the sea of corn outside the window.