Dancing in the Dark

Chapter Eleven: Do Come A-Waltzing Matilda

Cotton Wright was on duty at the Monticello Hotel parking lot. I pulled in, got out, and handed him the keys to the Crosley. He tried to place me and scratched at the metal plate in his head.

“Your head humming?” I asked.

“Lots and loud. You a veteran?”

“Yes,” I lied.

Cotton beamed and pursed his lips, plunging his hands into the pockets of his overalls. “I could tell,” he said. “I’ll park you someplace special. You know I’m a veteran?”

“I know,” I said. “You told me.”

“I did?”

“Not today.”

“The Maginot Line is gone,” Cotton confided, looking around to be sure no one was listening.

“I’ve heard,” I whispered back. “You know Mr. Forbes?”

Cotton held up his right hand and mowed down the fingers one by one. “Always gives me half a dollar,” he said.

“He come here last night?”

“Wasn’t on duty overnight,” said Cotton. “That was Moe Schroeder, definitely a veteran. Mr. Forbes’s car was here when I got here though. Six o’clock in the A.M.”

“See you in a while,” I said, turning toward the hotel.

“Mr. Forbes is not a veteran,” he called after me.

I stored this valuable information and walked the half block to the entrance of the Monticello. The place was just coming alive. A handful of people were heading out for breakfast and another handful were gabbing and dozing in the lobby. They looked like they were waiting for a tour bus.

The fey desk clerk I had talked to the day before was behind the desk, dealing with a guest who complained with both hands. She was frantic about something and the clerk was responding with perfect calm. He saw me cross to the elevator and gave me a nod.

I was alone in the elevator. I checked my.38 and put it loosely in the holster. God protect anyone in the room, including me, if I had to use it. The elevator eased to eight and I got out. It all looked familiar. Room 813 was the last one down the corridor. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I knocked again and the door opened.

Fred Astaire was standing in the doorway. He was dressed completely in black-trousers, shirt, with a red tie and no jacket. He looked both ways down the corridor and pulled me into the room, closing the door behind me.

“Look at this,” he said.

I looked around the room. Standard hotel-suite living room. Big, lots of light-colored old French-looking furniture, a great view. The same room I’d been in before. On the coffee table in front of a Louis-the-something sofa sat the wire recorder Willie Talbott’s and Luna Martin’s call had been recorded on. Someone had beat the hell out of the machine. My guess was the job had been done by a baseball bat or a sledgehammer.

“I see,” I said.

“No, you don’t,” Astaire said, motioning me to follow him to the open door to the left.

We stood in the doorway. The window drapes were up and the morning sun spread like a blanket over the late Arthur Forbes. He was naked and on his back. His eyes were open and seemed to be fascinated by something on the ceiling. I looked up. There was nothing there. I looked back at Forbes’s body. His chest was a wet, dark-red pool. The handle of a knife stuck out of his belly. Forbes’s hands were clasped around the handle.

“Suicide?” Astaire asked.

“Multiple wounds,” I said. “You don’t commit suicide by stabbing yourself six or seven times. It looks like he was trying to get the knife out when he died. I’d say you don’t have to give any more dance lessons to Arthur Forbes.”

I motioned to Astaire to stay at the doorway and went to the side of the bed, being careful not to touch anything. I checked Forbes’s fingers. They were all there.

“What happened?” I asked.

Astaire shrugged and said, “I came. I knocked. The door was open a crack. I stepped in, saw the wire recorder, and then found. . him. You knocked a minute or two later.”

“You touch anything?”

Astaire closed his eyes and tried to think. “Doorknobs, bedpost.”

“Good,” I said, wiping both bedposts with the end of the bedspread. “I think you should quietly get out of here and forget you came.”

“Someone may have seen me,” he said. “I think the desk clerk recognized me.”

“I’m sure the desk clerk recognized you,” I said, looking around for a clue and seeing none. “We lock the door behind us and say we knocked and got no answer.”

“Can’t do that, Toby,” Astaire said.

“You don’t tell lies?” I said, moving past him into the living room and trying to remember if I had touched anything but the wreckage of the wire recorder.

“Not illegal ones,” he said.

“How was Forbes as a dancer?” I asked, looking at Astaire.

“Terrible, why?”

“Three bad dancers are dead,” I said.

“You think someone is killing people who can’t do the fox-trot?”

“No,” I said. “Look, you don’t have to lie. But you don’t have to be here when the police come. We go somewhere. I call the police, tell them where to find Forbes, and you go home or wherever you were going. If the police come to talk to you, tell them we reported the murder and on my advice you went home. You buy that?”

“I’m thinking,” Astaire said.

“Think on the way downstairs,” I said and went to the front door.

“I don’t have to think about it,” said Astaire with a sigh. “I’m calling the police from the lobby and waiting for them.”

“Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug and opened the door to the hallway.

Captain John Cawelti was standing there, his hand up to knock. Behind him was Steve Seidman.

“Captain, we were on the way down to call you,” I said. “Forbes is in the other room, dead.”

“I know,” said Cawelti, touching his center-parted red hair to be sure it hadn’t all fallen out.

He moved past us with Seidman behind him. I mouthed, “Where’s Phil?” Seidman shook his head.

“Your brother is on special assignment,” Cawelti said, looking down at the remnants of the wire recorder. “I wanted this one. Got a call that Arthur Forbes had been murdered and that none other than Mr. Fred Astaire had done him in.”

Cawelti turned suddenly and faced Astaire, who gave the red-faced captain a patient smile.

“Big name? Big publicity?” I asked.

“Me?” said Cawelti. “Would I care about that kind of thing?” He moved to the bedroom and stood for a beat before going in. Steve Seidman stayed with us and whispered, “Cawelti assigned Phil to host a group of small-town mayors wanting a tour and rundown on the L.A. Police Department and its operations.”

It was the very thing Phil hated most and Cawelti knew it.

“Mr. Forbes, him dead,” said Cawelti, emerging from the bedroom with a smile. “Seidman, call the M.E., investigation unit, fingerprints, the usual. And don’t use the phones in here.”

“Right, Captain,” Seidman said, moving to the door and out.

Cawelti was happy. He motioned for us to sit in two of the living-room chairs while he took another. He should have taken us out of the room instead of sitting us down on potential evidence.

“You want to know what the caller told me?” Cawelti asked.

“Man or woman?” I asked.

“I’m in a good mood, Peters, so I’ll tell you. Man, high voice and a handkerchief or something over the phone. Caller said none other than Mr. Fred Astaire himself had murdered the prominent Mr. Arthur Forbes. Story I got was Forbes insisted that Astaire give him and his wife dance lessons and Astaire said he’d rather see them both dead. Astaire came here to have it out with Forbes. Forbes is dead.”

“Caller knew a hell of a lot,” I said.

“You let me worry about that, Peters. How about you tell me how you helped Astaire here kill Forbes and probably kill Luna Martin and Willie Talbott?”

“We got here a few seconds before you,” I said. “You can ask the desk clerk. We found the body and were on the way downstairs to call you.”

“That your best story?” Cawelti asked, looking at both of us as he sat comfortably with his hands folded and legs crossed.

“That,” said Astaire, “is the truth.”

“I can see you on the bottom of the Times front page,” Cawelti said, looking at Astaire. “You know the look they catch you with, your mouth open, eyes wide from the flash.”

“John,” I said.

“Captain,” he corrected.

“Captain,” I amended. “You and I have a long history. We don’t have to make Mr. Astaire a part of it.”

“I’m afraid we do,” Cawelti said with a sigh of false sympathy and a shake of his head.

“Look. .” I began but never got the new ploy on the table because Seidman was back.

“That was fast,” Cawelti said, looking up at him.

“Floor maid was cleaning a room,” Seidman said. “Flashed the badge and told her I needed the phone. Commissioner says no publicity, none on Astaire till we know for sure with a certainty he’s involved. Commissioner emphasized ‘no publicity’ and ‘with a certainty.’ ”

“You called the commissioner?” Cawelti said in disbelief.

“Yes,” said Seidman, “and the M.E. and everyone else.”

“You had no goddamn right to call the commissioner,” Cawelti said, pushing himself out of the chair. His face was crimson again.

“Figured he might want to know,” said Seidman evenly. “He seemed to appreciate it.”

“You,” Cawelti said, pointing a finger at Seidman, “are going to apply for a transfer from the Wilshire.”

“Already did. When you were promoted. And if I don’t get the transfer, I’ve got an offer from the Glendale Police. Good offer. War’s made a lot of departments shorthanded.” It was more than I had heard Steve Seidman say in the fifteen or so years I had known him.

“Get the hell out of here,” Cawelti shouted, losing the last of his cheerful mood.

Seidman looked at me and Astaire and moved out of the suite slowly, closing the door behind him.

“If you were to ask me. .” Astaire began.

“I’ll ask you plenty,” Cawelti said, turning on him. “But I’ll decide what to ask. Nobody is going to step on me, nobody. Not you, not the commissioner, not Louis Goddamn B. Mayer. I tore my way up. I did my job. I’ve got no friends. No family. Nothing but this job and my pride and I’m not going to lose them and I’m not going to let anybody, anybody, step on me. You get it?”

“Got it,” Astaire said, holding up his hands to indicate that he was backing off from verbal battle.

“Peters?” Cawelti said, turning on me.

I didn’t even answer.

“I know a bartender, a clerk at Ralph’s grocery,” Cawelti went on, having lost what little reserve of patience he had held back. “I’ve got a cat and that’s it. What I’ve got, I fought for. I deserve.”

“No one is arguing with you, John,” I said. “Captain.”

“Come on,” said Cawelti, motioning for us to get up.

We got up.

“We’ll have a nice talk in my office and wait for some results.”

“I really have to. .” Astaire began, looking at his watch.

“I’m getting calm,” Cawelti said, his voice dropping. “Do I look calm?”

“You’re getting there,” Astaire said.

“My old man died at the age of fifty,” Cawelti said. “Stroke. I’m calm. I don’t care what you have to or where you have to do anything. We are going to my office.”

And we went.

We had coffee in Cawelti’s office. When Phil was in here it was bare walls, table, and a couple of chairs, a monk’s cell. Cawelti had decorated. Citations covered one wall, along with photographs of John Cawelti shaking hands with mayors and movie people, including Joe E. Brown, Merle Oberon, Tyrone Power, and the Ritz Brothers. Every cop had photographs like this. Few of them put them on their office walls.

On the wall opposite the desk was an aerial map of the city and a big framed photograph of a man who looked suspiciously like John Cawelti.

“My father,” Cawelti said when he caught Astaire looking at the photograph. “Taught me everything I know. Made it to lieutenant before he died. Hated the sadistic son of a bitch, but he taught me.”

Cawelti drank some coffee. So did Astaire and I as we sat across from him.

We had been through the basics. Forbes’s call to me. My call to Astaire. I even told him about the shots that had been taken at me and I showed him the note I’d found in my front seat. “Anyone can write a note,” he said, hardly glancing at it and throwing it back at me in a ball.

“Not if they’re illiterate,” I said, pocketing the note.

“How’s this fit for a case?” Cawelti said. “Luna Martin was making demands on your client here. He hired you. You got rid of Luna Martin. Willie Talbott had some evidence about Astaire and Luna Martin. You got rid of Talbott. Then Forbes found out, told you to come over, said he was going to pickle a few of your digits, and you got rid of him. The two of you have been present at three murders in the last three days. I call that more than a coincidence.”

“And less than evidence,” I said.

“We didn’t kill anyone,” Astaire said. “This is crazy. If you’d just let me explain. .”

Cawelti took a hurried sip from his coffee, put it down, and held up a hand to stop Astaire.

The phone rang. Cawelti picked it up and said, “Captain Cawelti. . yes. . yes. . and that’s the best you can do? Thanks.”

He hung up and looked at us.

“Arthur Forbes was stabbed seven times in the chest and abdomen, probably with the knife he was holding onto. Can’t tell the exact time of death, but about the time you were both in that room. So, what have I got? Luna Martin had her throat cut. And Willie Talbott was shot with a thirty-eight. You own a thirty-eight, Peters.”

I reached under my jacket, took out my gun, and handed it to him. “They won’t match,” I said.

“And finally,” Cawelti said, laying the gun on the desk in front of him, “Arthur Forbes, alias Fingers Intaglia, takes a knife to the heart. Knife has no fingerprints. Anything either one of you have to say?”

“We want to call a lawyer,” I said.

“Leib?” asked Cawelti.

“Leib,” I confirmed.

“That. .” Cawelti began.

“Careful, John,” I said. “I plan to tell him everything you’ve said.”

Cawelti got up, drained the last of his coffee, and dropped the empty cup in the wastebasket next to his desk.

“You wait here,” he said, pointing to the floor, and off he went.

“You think. .” Astaire began when the door had closed, but I cut him short with a finger to my lips.

I grabbed the pad on Cawelti’s desk, turned it around, and with the pencil I took out of my pocket wrote, “Ten to one he’s listening to us.”

Astaire nodded and I crumpled the note and threw it in the wastebasket.

“Good coffee,” I said.

“Very good.”

“Probably A amp; P Eight O’Clock.”

“Good coffee,” Astaire said again. “Captain Cawelti seems like a decent guy.”

“Decent? He’s the best. I’ve heard he volunteers down at the Mission Street Soup Kitchen on his days off.”

“Really?” asked Astaire. “He really think we killed Forbes?”

“Strangled Luna, shot Talbott, and stabbed Forbes,” I answered. “Multitalented.”

“Versatile,” said Astaire. “Ever try to plant avocados?”

“Can’t say I have. But I’ve got an aspidistra flying in a window box.”

The door burst open. Cawelti stood there.

“I’ve been decent to you,” he said.

“John, we’ve just been saying nice things about you,” I said.

“Make your call to Leib,” Cawelti said. “I’m holding you both on suspicion of murder.”

And he was gone again.

“I’ve got a very good lawyer,” Astaire said as I reached for the phone.

“We don’t want a good lawyer,” I said. “We want Marty Leib.”

Marty wasn’t in his office. His secretary, Charlene, gave me a number where he could be reached when I told her it was an emergency. I looked at the door, expecting Cawelti to return. He didn’t. I found Martin Raymond Leib at the offices of the Clarkborough Advertising Agency.

“How important?” Marty asked.

I told him. And I told him fast. Marty has been known to charge by the minute.

“Not bad,” he said. “Cash up front.”

“Cash up front,” I repeated.

Astaire nodded.

“You say nothing more to the police without me present,” Marty said. “Nothing. Not a word. Don’t even cough and above all don’t fart.”

“Not a fart. Not a word. Not a sneeze.”

“You’ve got the idea,” Marty said and hung up.

One hour and twenty minutes later Astaire and I were in Martin Leib’s Cadillac, heading back to the Monticello for Astaire’s car and my Crosley.

Marty had taken a check from Astaire and pocketed it. He was breathing fast and heavy. “Desk clerk at the Monticello confirms that Forbes called you, Toby,” Marty said, adjusting his tie in a useless attempt to get comfortable. “Even by chance heard a few words of the conversation.”

“Lucky for us,” I said.

“Well,” said Marty, “I doubt if they’ve got nearly enough to get a bill on any of the murders on either of you. I’ll call the commissioner and get him to keep sitting on this.”

“You know the commissioner?” Astaire asked.

Astaire and I were in the back seat. Marty’s neck was too thick and his body too heavy to face us when he answered, “Well indeed, but Rusty and I don’t roll in the same circles. We occasionally deal, though. I’m known as one of the best if not the best shyster in the business. Call to the commissioner is free if I get a personally autographed photo.”

“Consider it done, Mr. Leib,” said Astaire.

“You’re a fan, Marty?” I asked.

“I was bitten or at least kicked in the can by Terpsicore when I was a child. Wife and I are good enough to compete in the ballroom regionals and we’ve got a couple of ribbons.”

I couldn’t imagine all three hundred and fifty pounds of Marty Leib waltzing around a dance floor.

“Weren’t for you,” Marty said, looking at Astaire in his rearview mirror, “Toby would be back in the Wilshire lockup playing ‘Camptown Races’ on a toilet-paper kazoo. I had to walk out on a cash-paying client facing a major fraud charge.”

“Why don’t I give your client an autographed photo too?” asked Astaire.

“Harley is not a dance fan,” said Marty, pulling into the parking lot at the Monticello. “I’m sure he would be close to ecstasy and agreeing to any terms I might have for conducting his defense were he to be given an autographed photo of Rita Hayworth.”

“Man has good taste,” said Astaire. “I’m sure I can manage that.”

Astaire and I got out of the car and Marty rolled down the window to say, “Mr. Peters has my office address. It’s Leib. L-e-i-b not L-i-e-b. And ‘Marty’ not ‘Martin.’ ”

“Got it,” said Astaire.

Marty drove off with a wave.

“I’ve got to get to a rehearsal,” Astaire said, looking at his watch. “Then I’ve got to explain all this to my wife. What are you going to do?”

“Locate my car, grab a sinker and coffee at a diner, and find a killer,” I said. “I’m a veteran,” I told Cotton Wright as he slouched toward us. “So is my friend.”

Cotton saluted, took our stubs, and went in search of our autos.

“Careful, Toby,” Astaire said, touching my arm.

“Do my best,” I answered.

He got in his car and drove away. Cotton brought the Crosley.

“Someone shrunk your car,” he said, easing his way out from behind the steering wheel.

“Rain, maybe,” I said, giving him a half dollar and climbing in.

“Rain doesn’t shrink metal,” he said. “If it did, I’d be one of those pinheads in the circus.”

It made sense to me.

Ten minutes later I was at Mack’s Diner at the crowded counter exchanging smiles with Anita, who brought me a tuna on toast and a coffee.

“Trust me with this,” she whispered, placing the sandwich in front of me.

“I’ll trust you with a lot more,” I said. She patted my hand and went off to a calling customer.

The Negro guy sitting next to me drinking a bowl of vegetable soup piled high with Saltines examined my sandwich without turning his head. Twenty minutes and two coffees later the lunch crowd was thinning out, the Negro had gone, and Anita came over to sit. She wore little makeup and her uniform was a size loose. She caught me looking and said, “Keeps the big hands away.”

“I remember,” I said.

“Came to say the fantasy’s over?” she asked.

“Came to say we should try making it real.”

“Sounds good to me,” Anita said, pushing a stray curl back behind her ear. She cast a glance around the diner to check that no one was looking at us and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. She tasted like coffee. “You’ve got my number?” she asked.

“On a napkin near my heart,” I answered.

“You know, this might be fun.”

“Already is,” I said.

I dropped a dollar on the counter and stopped at the pay phone just outside. I had a stack of nickels and used most of them to reach the number I wanted. When she answered and said hello, I hung up.

I had a long day of driving ahead of me.