Bullet for a Star

13

The world was white, with a thin crack in it. The crack twisted to a corner, and my eyes followed it. I discovered that the world was a hospital room and I was in bed.

My brother stood next to the bed, his hands folded in front of him. He was looking down at me. His tie was back on, and his shirt was fresh. Seidman stood next to him.

I tried to say something, but my mouth was so dry nothing came out. Phil poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the table next to me. He handed the glass to me and I tried to reach out with my right hand. Nothing happened. I panicked and touched my right arm with my left hand to be sure it was there.

“It’ll be all right,” Seidman said dryly. “They fished a bullet out of your back. Another two inches, and it would have hit your heart.”

“Lucky,” I croaked.

“Maybe not,” said Phil emotionlessly. “Who shot you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to sit up. “It was dark and I was walking down the street minding my own business.”

My idea was to keep Lynn Beaumont out of this if possible and let her have a mother. A father dead and a mother in jail in one day would be more than she deserved, and I knew something that was going to make it even harder on her. Brenda Beaumont hadn’t killed anyone. She had just done some stupid things to protect her daughter. Since most of the stupid things had been done to me, I figured it was my business.

“You don’t know who shot you?” Phil shook his head. He was beyond being angry with me. We were going through the motions. Seidman’s little book was out, and he was taking notes again.

“Phil,” I said, “what time is it?”

“Time for you to start leveling with me, Toby. You are in trouble.” The lack of anger in his words was getting to me, but I needed information. “What time is it?”

“A few minutes after eleven,” Seidman said, “but you’re not going anywhere.”

“Look,” I said getting on my elbow, “I have to get to a phone. Someone is going to die unless I make a phone call.”

“Who’s going to die?” The question was Phil’s.

“Errol Flynn.”

Phil looked at Seidman in exasperation.

“Why is someone trying to kill Errol Flynn?” Phil asked.

“It’s a little complicated,” I said.

“Sure,” Phil jumped in. “We’ll try to understand. Meanwhile you explain why you killed Harry Beaumont.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“You want to try self defense?” Phil seemed to be making a serious suggestion.

“Look,” I said, “I didn’t kill Beaumont or Cunningham or whatever his name was and …”

“Deitsch, but you did throw a lamp at Delamater, who went for a one-way flight out of your window,” Seidman pitched in. “You’ve been piling up too many corpses for a coincidence.”

I tried again.

“Errol Flynn is going to be killed some time after midnight if you don’t let me call him.”

“O.K., you want to call Errol Flynn and save his life. Why don’t you just give us the number, and we’ll call him with your message and save his life. We’ll give you all the credit.” Phil was acting tough and sure, but he knew there was a chance of my telling the truth.

“Call the Beverly Wilshire, and ask for Rafael Sabatini in Room 1504,” I said.

Phil exploded.

“Very funny, you two-bit piece of shit. You buy a certificate and a piece of tin, and you own the world. Well, I’m here to tell you that, brother or no brother, you’re getting nailed for this and you deserve it. Tell him.” His face was red as he turned away and moved to the window.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Harry Beaumont,” Seidman said. “We’re warning you that anything you say can be taken down by me and used in evidence against you.”

I pointed a finger at Phil’s back.

“You self-righteous bastard,” I croaked, my voice cracking. “A man might die tonight because you think I’m playing games with you.”

A frail man in white with blond hair and glasses came in. He looked young enough to be refused a drink in the worst dive in Pasadena.

“What’s going on in here?” His voice was soprano. “I’m Doctor Parry, and I didn’t operate on this man to have him die of shock brought on by you two.”

“This man may be a murderer,” said Seidman. Phil kept his back turned.

“He’s a patient,” said Young Doctor Parry, “my patient. I want both of you out of here, now.”

“Look, doc,” Phil said, turning menacingly. It was a good look, designed to wilt Dillinger, but it had no effect on Parry.

“You have thirty seconds to leave this room.” Parry’s voice was even. “If you haven’t gone, I will file an official report stating that your presence here was a danger to my patient.”

Seidman put his notebook away. Phil and Parry stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Phil moved to the door.

“A uniformed officer is going to spend the night outside this door,” Phil said to Parry. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Phil,” I tried once more, “Call Flynn, believe me. Tell him to get out of that hotel room. Tell him …”

My brother slammed the door and left.

“You’re not as sick as I told them,” said Parry, adjusting his glasses and walking over to me. He turned me over and examined the bandage.

“Thanks, doc,” I said.

“It wasn’t for you,” he said, turning me on my back again. “This is a hospital, not a police station.”

“Doc, you’ve got to make a phone call for me.”

“Not a chance, Mr. Peters. No breaks for them and none for you. That policeman said you might be a murderer.”

“I’m not. I …”

“Forget it. I’ll take care of your health. You take care of your personal problems.”

He went out. It was up to me. I sat up, almost falling on the first try. The nausea passed, but the dizziness stayed with me. I didn’t know how much blood I’d lost, but it was enough to make it tough for me to walk to the door.

I pushed the door open a crack. A big uniformed cop was sitting in a chair against the wall, looking at my door. He didn’t look terribly bright, but he was doing his job.

My clothes were in the closet, at least my pants and shoes were. The jacket and shirt must have been too full of blood to save. Getting my pants on left-handed was the toughest part. I tucked the hospital nightgown in, hoping it might fool a nearsighted lunatic into thinking it was a shirt. The shoes went on without much trouble, but I couldn’t tie them.

The big problem was wrapping the blankets up. I tore strips of sheet as quietly as possible. In about ten minutes, I had fashioned an unreasonable facsimile of a human dummy. It wouldn’t have fooled anyone within twenty feet of it, but I looked out the window, and the ground was five stories below. As quietly as I could with one hand, I raised the window. Below me was a courtyard. No one was in it. I dropped the dummy out the window. Faint light from the windows of rooms gave it a sickly human look as it fell. I took the water glass and moved to the bathroom door. I threw the glass at the wall and let out as wild a yell as I could into my cupped hands. Then I ducked behind the door of the bathroom.

I heard the cop come running in. Through the crack in the bathroom door I saw him rush to the window and lean out.

His face was white when he turned, and I thought he was going to throw up. If he decided to do it in the bathroom, I was dead. Instead, he pulled himself together and went running out of the door. In a minute or less, he would know there was a dummy in the courtyard, and a dummy in a Los Angeles police uniform looking at it. Before he knew that, I had to be on my way.

There was still no feeling in my right arm and very little in my legs, but I made them work. They got me to the hall. A nurse was hurrying in my direction, her mouth open.

“He went out the window,” I said, holding my face in my hands. She ran into my room.

There was an exit door in front of me, but it was sure to be the one the cop took. He wouldn’t go for the elevator. At least that was the gamble I took. I went looking for the elevator and found it around a corner. Luck was with me. The elevator was on the floor.

The old man didn’t even look at me as if I were dressed funny. He just took me down to the lobby.

About a dozen people were waiting there. I went past the desk.

“Please return your visitor’s pass,” a voice called to me, but I didn’t stop. There was a coat rack in the corner of the lobby. I moved to it and grabbed a plaid jacket that looked as if it might fit me. If the owner were looking, I’d probably lose the use of my left arm, but I was on my way out the door.

A Red Top cab was waiting at the curb. I climbed in and said, “I’m Doctor Gillespie. There’s an emergency, get moving.”

It was a stupid thing to say, but the driver nodded seriously and pulled away. I turned around, and when we were half a block away, I could see the big cop standing at the curb looking both ways and seeing nothing.

There were two dimes in the coat of the jacket. I told the cabbie to stop at a drug store, and I ran in to call Flynn. It was 11:30 and time was running out.

There was no answer at Flynn’s room. I had one dime left. Flynn might be in the hall or out for a sandwich. Either I went to the hotel and tried to get him out of there, or I went for the murderer and tried to keep him from getting to Flynn. I went back to the cab.

“How fast can you get me to Warner Brothers?”

“About ten minutes if I run a few lights.” The cabbie was a moon-faced, fat guy with freckles.

“How about the Beverly Wilshire,” I tried.

“You got emergencies at both places?” He was totally bewildered.

“Right,” I said seriously.

“Maybe about the same time to get to Beverly Wilshire, but maybe less. The traffic’s tough on the strip and …”

“Warner’s, and fast,” I said.

The L.A. speed limit was 25 for business and residential areas. We hit 60. He ran a few lights, but no sirens followed. At one point I thought I heard him chuckle with joy.

“Who’s sick at Warner’s?” he said, “Some star?”

“Who’s your favorite star?”

“Cagney,” he said. “Saw him last night at the Warner Theater downtown. You know how many times he’s played a cabbie?”

“No,” I said. The cab turned a corner and threw me against the door.

“Lots,” said the chubby cab driver. “Is he hurt?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got to get there for an emergency operation.”

“Shit,” said the cabbie, and we jumped ahead. He was going to be part of saving Jimmy Cagney, friend to the cabbie.

“Pull right up to the gate,” I said, as we shot down the street. He did.

“I’m Doctor Gillespie,” I told the guard at the gate. “I just got a call. James Cagney has been injured.”

The guard was a lot sharper than the cabbie.

“Cagney went home hours ago,” he said.

“I don’t care,” I shouted. “He must have come back through the other gate. Now do you want to be responsible for serious injury to James Cagney?”

“I’ll have to call,” the guard said. “No one told me about this.” He looked at me and the fat cab driver suspiciously and moved for the phone.

“That man is endangering the life of James Cagney,” I said angrily to the cab driver. “I’ve got to get to my patient. Stop that guard if he tries to interfere.”

The cab driver was confused, but he got out of the cab. I got out on the other side and moved into the lot.

“Hey, wait,” shouted the guard, dropping the phone and taking a step toward me. He was an average-sized guy. The cabbie was a head shorter, about Cagney’s height and eighty pounds heavier than his favorite actor. The cabbie got a bear hug on the guard.

I turned a corner as soon as I could. Behind me I could hear the guard shouting at the cabbie:

“What the hell are you doing, you goddamn nut!”

My killer was on this lot, and I had about fifteen minutes to find him before he made his way to Flynn. On a good day, in top condition, I could have made the rounds of all the buildings in half an hour, running at top speed. I had come close to it a few times when I worked at the studio.

Knowing the studio was the only edge I had. I knew about where to find my killer, but I was weak and getting weaker. I had to lean against a building and think. Even if I found him I wasn’t sure what I could do in my condition, but a few ideas were coming.

The studio was dark except for the night lights. Some of the offices and editing rooms had lights on, but at a few minutes to midnight, it was nothing like it had been at noon.

My head cleared, and I tried to figure the route, to make it as easy on myself as I could. I tried five buildings and a few stages. I struck it rich-or poor-in ten minutes. There was a light on in the stage where I had talked to Edward G. Robinson and Peter Lorre. It was the same light I had followed when I met Lorre, and he gave me the suggestion that had proved to be right.

Slowly and quietly I moved over and through the equipment and darkness to the office of Spade and Archer. There was a light on in the set, a single small light, but enough for me to see Spade’s desk.

There was a man at the desk opening a drawer. As silently as I could, I moved to the sofa in Spade’s office and sat, just as I was about to collapse. The man at the desk was so busy that he didn’t hear me.

He was my killer and I greeted him. We were old friends.

“Hello, Hatch,” I said softly.