Fala Factor (30 page)

“Pa?” Jane said, backing into Lyle's body as Jeremy took a short step toward her. The body, already off balance, toppled over and into her. She let out a scream and another bullet. This one went through my window, shattering glass into the dark alley.

Dolmitz took the pistol from her and the door opened again. This time Gunther walked in.

“Toby,” he began, finding a small spot of floor in the corner under the photograph of me, my old man, Phil, and our dog. “I know I wasn't supposed to but I heard the shots.”

“Who's this?” Dolmitz demanded.

“Another person you'll have to shoot,” I said.

“Mr. Dolmitz,” Bass pleaded “Let me go and I'll just step on him, squash him.”

“Did you get it?” I asked Gunther.

“I've got it,” he said, “but I—”

“Got what?” said Dolmitz. “What's this, got it? You got a gun, dwarf?”

“Gunther's not a dwarf,” Jeremy corrected. “He is perfectly formed, better, in fact, than you. He's a little person.”

“Look,” Dolmitz said, “I'm not in the business here of insulting people or being polite. What is this thing he's got?”

“Transcription,” I said, easing over so Bass could have a little more space in the corner.

“I see,” said Dolmitz. “You're going to let us hear the real president's dog and I'm supposed to compare it to the little cocker here.”

“Better,” I said. “Gunther's an electronics wizard. I'm going to show you something, so don't shoot.” I opened the drawer to my desk slowly.

“Pa,” shouted Jane. “Don't let him.”

My hand came out slowly with the microphone and I said, “Gunther was in an office recording everything we've been saying in here. Now you've got another problem. First, you've got three people to shoot and only four bullets left in that gun.”

“I shoot the little guy last,” Dolmitz said.

“Second,” I went on, trying to ignore the offense to Gunther's dignity, “you have a record to find in a very big building. There's no percentage in it. Make a deal, put the gun down.”

The lights suddenly went on in the outer office and light trickled in under the door.

“Toby, is that you in there?” screamed Shelly. “This place smells like someone's been eating hot dogs on the floor. What're you—”

Shelly opened the door, reached in, turned on the single overhead light and, mouth open, looked around the room. He took in Bass, Jeremy, Gunther, Jane, Dolmitz with the gun, me, and the corpse on the floor.

“You're busy now,” he said politely. “We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Get in here,” Dolmitz shouted.

“There's no place for him to get,” I observed. “What do you want him to do, stand on the corpse?”

“I'd rather not,” Shelly said, forcing himself in. “Look, I just stopped by to pick up those tickets for the show. I left them—”

“Shut up,” shouted Jane, running her hand through her hair. “Shut up.”

Shelly shut up.

“Mr. Dolmitz,” Bass whispered, but Dolmitz didn't answer.

“This is enough,” Jeremy said after a few beats. “Give me the gun.” He stepped forward one pace, which was all he had room for, his hand out.

“Take it easy, Jeremy,” I said, ready, ribs or no ribs, to go over the desk and for Dolmitz's gun.

Academy looked at me and took a step back away from the huge poet. When he too tripped over Lyle, hell broke loose again. A shot went off, hitting the light bulb, as Jeremy lunged for the fallen Dolmitz and Jane kicked out at Jeremy. Then there was a second shot, which brought an “Oh my god” from Shelly.

It brought something else too. Something filled the space of the broken window behind me and went through, taking the remaining glass with it. I went around the desk, pulled Jane off of Jeremy, and told Jeremy that he had better get up off of both Dolmitz and Lyle. His bulk would mean nothing to the corpse of Lyle but a few seconds of it would mean the end for Dolmitz.

Gunther opened the door to let in light, and Jeremy stood up, holding Dolmitz by the neck with one hand and the gun with the other. He handed the gun to me and we looked around the room. Bass was missing. I knew where he was, but I didn't want to look out the window and down to the alley below. Instead, I reached under the desk, pulled the pooch out, and petted him reassuringly.

We filed into Shelly's office, leaving Lyle behind. I had also left the gun on my desk. I'd retrieve my .38 some other time. I wasn't worried about Jane and Academy while Jeremy was in the room.

“Shel,” I said, “call the cops.”

“Me?” said Shelly, his hand to his chest. He was wearing his best suit. “Why don't I just walk out of here and pretend I never came back? Who would that hurt? I ask you?” He looked around the room for sympathy, but got none.

“I will make the call,” said Gunther, going back into my office.

Jeremy placed Dolmitz in the dental chair and motioned for Jane to back up.

“He's not bleeding, is he?” Shelly said, stepping forward. “I don't want him bleeding on that chair. I just cleaned it,” Then to me: “Toby, this is it. Our deal is off. No dishes, no equal billing on the door. You've violated our agreement here with killers, shooting … Wait a minute. Where's the big guy, the one what was all tied up. He …” And then it struck Shelly. He sat back against the wall and moaned, “Mildred. Mildred's downstairs waiting for me in the car.”

“Just go down and tell her to go to the play alone,” I said gently. “I'll drive you home later.”

Gunther came out, said he had called the police, and went downstairs with Shelly to be sure he'd be back and to help him talk to Mildred.

Jane looked dazed, beaten. I held the dog in my arms and petted it while I walked over to her. Her thin blond hair dangled down her forehead.

“You'll probably be out on the streets before the war is over,” I said. “Your father'll take the big rap. The two of you might even be able to pin it all on Bass, except the Lyle shooting. Bass was tied up downstairs when that happened.”

“The record,” she said looking up. “The little man made a record.”

“No,” I said. “Microphone's not attached to anything. We just made it up.”

Dolmitz, sitting in the dental chair, groaned. He had heard my nearby whisper. “Taken in by the performance of fools,” he said.

“I think Preston Foster said that in
The Informer
,” I said.

“Who gives a crap,” said Dolmitz.

W
e were the main attraction at the Wilshire station, the big act. The six of us were interviewed individually after an unsuccessful attempt by Phil to talk to us as a group.

When I was led into Phil's new office, he was rubbing his forehead and looking deeply into a metal cup filled with steaming coffee.

“You know,” he said, looking up, “it's going to take us half the night to get this all straightened out.”

His jacket was off and his tie was loose. Somewhere in other rooms the ailing Seidman was talking to Dolmitz, Cawelti was dealing with Jane and Jeremy, and Cunther and Shelly were waiting to give their pieces of the tale.

“Phil, I've got a date tonight and I'd really—”

His hand came down on the desk. Unfortunately, it still held the cup and even more unfortunately, the cup still had some coffee in it. The brown liquid dotted Phil's shirt and soaked his hand. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his palms, and threw the sopping piece of cloth in the wastebasket.

“Ruth can clean that,” I volunteered, standing close to the door for a quick getaway.

“Toby,” Phil said, looking up at me but not moving forward. “You were supposed to hand-deliver a killer, to make this all nice, quiet, neat. And what do I get? Two more corpses and a screwed-up case with too many witnesses. And you want to go off somewhere on a date?”

He moved toward me and I said quickly, “I'll stay awhile.”

He was a foot from me and ready to go to work.

“I'm going to stay calm,” he said after running his right hand over his bristly head of hair. His left fist was clenched.

“That's a good idea,” I agreed.

“Eleanor Roosevelt,” he said. “How the hell am I supposed to keep her out of this? You know what this is going to do?”

“You're a Democrat,” I said.

“I'm a cop,” he said, holding his left fist up to my face.

“Captain,” I said, “this has nothing to do with Eleanor Roosevelt. Some confused political loonies got together and convinced themselves they had the president's dog. Before they could do anything about it, they started bumping each other off and got themselves caught.”

“That's simple, huh?” said Phil. “You think that football team out there is going to go along with that story?”

“Why not? Shelly just wants to go home. Jeremy and Gunther are patriotic, Dolmitz and his daughter will be happy to put most of it on Bass and Lyle, and I've got a date.”

He reached out a hand and shoved me against the wall.

“I've got some bruised ribs,” I said, holding out a hand to keep him back.

“You think the newspapers are going to drop it that easy?” he said, shaking his head.

“How do they find out?”

“Two bodies,” he screamed. “Two bodies. One in your office with two bullets put into it eight hours apart and a tied-up giant with a broken arm who flew out of your office window. You think they might be just a tiny bit curious about that?”

“You'll think of something,” I said.

“The only thing I can think of right now is to smash your face,” he went on.

“That'll make you feel better?”

I reached for the door. Hell, he would probably catch me before I hit the stairway, but I wasn't going to take a session with Phil without giving escape a fair chance. Then the phone rang, a bell announcing the end of round one.

Phil picked it up and said, “What is it?”

Then someone on the other end said something to change his face from rage to bewilderment.

“Captain Pevsner, sir,” he said. “Yes sir, I recognize your voice. Of course. Yes, I understand.”

Then he was silent for a good three minutes, just nodding his head. Finally, he looked up at me.

“Someone wants to talk to you,” he said, holding out the phone.

I took it and said, “Hello.”

“Mr. Peters,” said Eleanor Roosevelt. “I'm back in Washington. I have definite proof that Fala is right here and that the dog you retrieved was quite another animal.”

“I know,” I said.

“I understand that you have been through a great deal of discomfort over this and under the circumstances I've had to inform Franklin. He has just spoken to the officer in charge, and I hope your difficulties are now over. You have my thanks for your efforts and please send me your bill. We must get back to the Peruvian reception now. Good-bye.”

I was about to say good-bye on my end when the voice of the president came over the phone as clear as if it were a fireside chat.

“Thank you, Mr. Peters.”

“You're welcome, sir,” I said, and he hung up, but a demon took me and I went on talking. “No sir…. Yes … I understand.… If it's absolutely essential for national morale of course I will, but I don't know if I'm really qualified to be Mr. Hoover's assistant…. No, I'm flattered but …”

Phil pulled the phone out of my hand, put it to his ear and heard nothing.

“He just hung up,” I said, grinning.

“Get out,” Phil said, giving me an extra shove across the room. “Just pack your jokes and get out, leave the bodies for me, for the adults to take care of.”

“Come on, Phil,” I said, adjusting my windbreaker. “We caught the bad guys.”

“And you're going on a date while I put my career on the line to cover all this up,” he said, getting behind his desk. “What are you risking, junior G-man?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing,” he agreed. “Because you've got nothing to lose. Because you haven't invested in anything.”

“That's the way I wanted it, Phil,” I said, waiting for him to get up and go for me again. He didn't get up.

“I'm going, Phil,” I went on. No answer. He picked up the phone, pushed a button, told Seidman and Cawelti to come in, and waved me away as if I were a fly on a hot day.

Cawelti and Seidman passed me in the hall, the former giving me a look of hatred, the latter ignoring me. I found Shelly, Jeremy, and Gunther in the squadroom, told them to follow me, and we made a package exit that would have been pointed out by tourists if we were on the street. But in the Wilshire Station we were part of an average day.

“And we are free?” said Gunther. “No more questions?”

“No more questions,” I said. “The president thanked us and closed the case.”

“Dolmitz and Jane,” said Jeremy, trying to hail a cab. One slowed down, looked us over, and sped away. “She is really a very good illustrator. Perhaps she can work on the children's book from prison. I don't know the rules.”