He Done Her Wrong tp-8 Read online

  Sometime early in the evening, the first guests began to arrive. I tightened my tie, put on my jacket, and came out to see what was happening. The first Mae Wests were fair to middling imitations. The real Mae West was pretty good in her blond wig, a tight dress, and a floppy yellow hat with a white feather.

  My own invited guest arrived after the first batch, and I placed him where he might be most helpful and least conspicuous.

  By nine the place was full of Mae Wests, and Dizzy and Daffy were busy serving drinks and sandwiches. Each guest who didn’t know was told the rules: no smoking and no groping.

  Just before ten I made my way to the real West, who was holding court on the triumphs of Catherine the Great.

  “I was born for that role boys,” she said to the assembled group, resembling nothing that could pass for “boys.” They nodded in agreement as she excused herself and joined me in a corner.

  “Well,” I whispered.

  “Nothing yet,” she sighed. “I’ve got the envelope up my sleeve and maybe something else too.” Her eyebrows went up suggestively.

  “Don’t you think about anything else?”

  “Not in public,” she said, reaching up to touch what was left of my nose. “Remind me to ask you sometime how you got that proboscis.” She sauntered away on the arm of a tall, thin Mae West who had trouble walking on his white high heels.

  The contact came just before midnight, and I almost missed it. The Chinese comic who wanted to be discovered by Mae West, Richard Horn, was telling me about the fight the Chinese were putting up against the Japanese somewhere in Manchuria. It was hard to take him seriously in his costume, but he was serious. So was the signal across the room from Mae West. I pushed away from Hom and made my way through a sea of girdles.

  “I’ve got the book,” she said, holding it up. “He’s got the money. Said he wasn’t through with me. Left by the back door.”

  “What’s he look like?” I said, anxious to move.

  “Like me,” she said. “A bit too much makeup, and he hasn’t got the voice down. Frilly dress, gold with-”

  I was off toward the rear. I knew who she meant. I had spotted the guy earlier. He had looked a bit strange-darting blue eyes and a white beaded purse big enough to hold a manuscript or a packet containing five thousand bucks. But since everyone in the place looked strange, I had filed him away. Now I was after him.

  I danced past a short Mae West who was saying, “Sure I’d do a Gene Autry, if the price was right,” and skipped down the hall.

  There was no one in the back rooms. I went through the kitchen where Dizzy and Daffy were busily making little sandwiches. The monkey was in a cage on the kitchen table chattering at his captors.

  “Someone just go through here?” I said.

  The blond one nodded and the monkey showed his teeth. I went out. There was a slight rain falling, so the sky didn’t give me much help. The kitchen window light didn’t penetrate very far, but the sound of someone moving through nearby bushes gave me a good idea of the direction I wanted. I plunged in, feeling the new suit tear as I pushed through the shrubs. Whoever was ahead heard me coming and took off. I followed the sound and remembered the layout. He was heading for the pool out back. I leaped over the bushes, falling on my face, got up and ran to head him off.

  By the time I hit poolside, the rain was coming down heavily and pinging off the tile edges. Two lights showed the clear bottom of the pool, and I huddled behind a bamboo table and chairs as the sound of someone coming through the bushes grew louder. I could hear someone panting and, I could swear, humming “Three Blind Mice.”

  When the figure stepped into the clearing in front of the pool, I made my move.

  “Hold it right there,” I said showing my.38 automatic.

  Holding it right there was a rain-soaked figure in a wilting hat. Even in the lack of light I could see he was grinning, which gave me a chill the rain couldn’t accomplish. What the hell did he have to grin about? He’d just been caught.

  “Just step forward a few feet very slowly.”

  As he stepped forward, I moved around the pool, wiping rain from my eyes. His makeup was running and I had the feeling I was watching some horror movie or seeing an episode of “Lights Out” come to life. The monster’s face was melting, but the monster was smiling.

  “Now,” I said gently, “just drop the bag and keep on coming with your hands up.” He came. We were about ten feet apart at the edge of the pool when he hissed and dropped the bag.

  “I take it,” he said in a high-pitched Mae West imitation, “that this means we are not friends.”

  “You’ve got a sense of humor,” I grinned back. “I like that in a nut with a foot on his throat. Now, we’re just going to walk very slowly back to the house.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Who are you?” he said, staring at me through soggy mascara. I was sure he had switched to a W. C. Fields imitation.

  “Name is Peters,” I said. “Private detective. Who are you?”

  It was pouring and our voices were muffled. He didn’t answer. The chill hit me and I yelled, “Let’s move.”

  He didn’t move.

  “You want to get shot in drag?” I shouted. “Move. This is a gun. It shoots real bullets and makes holes in people.”

  He didn’t move. I shot twice well over his head into the rainstorm, but he still didn’t move. He had me. It was either shoot him or find some other way to bring him in. He turned his back on me and stooped to pick up the purse.

  I shoved the gun back in my holster under my soaking jacket, leaped for him and slipped, just managing to grab his stockinged ankle before he reached the purse. He went off-balance, fell on his back, and kicked at me with a spiked heel. The heel caught me on top of the head and his voice, this time as Cary Grant, said, “That will be just about enough of that Mr. Peters, if you please.”

  He kicked me again, but I held on as he tried to back away by sliding in the grass on his behind.

  “I’m taking you in,” I said, receiving another kick that caught my neck.

  “We are definitely not friends,” he said, continuing Cary Grant.

  I punched at him as he backed away and hit his kneecap, causing as much damage to my knuckles as his knees. We both groaned.

  I thought I had him. Getting to my feet, I stood over him and reached down to grab his wrist as he arched his back and threw another kick. The kick missed but I slipped, backing away, and tumbled into the pool. When I came to the surface, he, she, or it was there to take a swipe at me with the high-heeled shoe. The swipe caught me over the ear, and I went down, gathering what was left of my strength to get out. I made it in about a thousand strokes with the rain trying to push me under. A soaked wool suit didn’t make it easier.

  As I touched the rim of the pool, something stung my hand. He had circled the pool and was pounding my hand with the shoe.

  In addition to my face, health, and reputation, I was about to lose my life. I let go and pushed back into the pool. Through the water I could see the figure, dripping, holding the shoe and drumming it into his palm, waiting for me to make my next try. Half drowned, I let myself drift back to the other side, knowing what would be waiting for me but having no choice. I managed to kick my own shoes off and drop my gun, which gave me a little hope for the far shore.

  I had always wanted to go out by way of a bullet, a beating, or, at worst, a free flight from the top of a medium-size building. This bad joke, however, seemed somewhat right for me. I waited for the next blow, but it never came.

  Instead I felt myself being lifted out of the water. Either I had died going across the pool, or the only person I knew in the world who was strong enough to lift a fully clothed, 160-pound soaking wet, dead weight out of a pool had turned up.

  “Toby, are you alive?” came the voice of Jeremy Butler in my ear. I had stationed the former pro wrestler and present poet at the front drive of the West house to keep the thief from getting away, but something had bro
ught him to my rescue.

  “Alive,” I gasped. I opened my eyes and looked into his craggy face, enjoying the popping of raindrops off his bald head. “Purse. Money.”

  “I’ve got it,” he said.

  I looked toward the other side of the pool. The thief who had tried to kill me was still there.

  “I’m one of the engineer’s thumbs,” the thief shouted.

  Right, I thought. You’re an engineer’s thumb with a few screws loose in the locomotive.

  “Get him,” I said.

  Jeremy set me down gently, handed me the purse, and ran for the far end of the pool. I slumped down and watched, trying for air. By the time he had reached the corner, the voice of Lionel Barrymore had warned me that “you are on the list now, Peters. On the list.”

  He was gone into the rain and trees before Jeremy could get to him, but Jeremy followed him into the darkness. I lay there, letting the rain hit my face.

  From in front of the house the sound of a starting car engine crashed through the storm. I clutched the purse to my chest and turned my head. A half-dozen dripping Mae Wests were walking toward me. The thief, I thought, had multiplied and returned to finish me off. Then I saw Jeremy break through the sextet.

  “Got away,” he said.

  “I’ve got an itch that tells me I’d better find him or he’ll find me,” I gasped. Then I passed out, still clutching the white purse to my chest.

  The party was over when I woke up. Actually the night was over, too, and the sun was shining into the room at Mae West’s where I had been gently put to bed by Jeremy, who sat in a corner reading a book. I was wearing a pair of purple silk pajamas several dozen sizes too big, probably Dizzy or Daffy’s.

  “Jeremy.”

  He put his book away and moved to the bed. He was still dressed in the black sweater and pants of the night before.

  “Doctor saw you last night,” he said. “He was one of the guests. Said you would probably be all right, but that you should go in for X rays today. I’ll drive you.”

  “No X rays,” I said, sitting up with all the pain of a hangover. “I’m afraid of what they’ll find in the past. Besides, I’ve had more X rays than are good for a person in one lifetime.”

  “The arrow that kills one often comes from one’s own arrow sheath,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, reaching for his arm to help me up.

  “An African proverb,” he said, helping me. “I’ve been studying African poetry. When the war ends, I think there will be a great deal of poetry from Africa.”

  “My pants,” I said. He handed them to me, torn and only enough left of them to cover me till I got home. The jacket was a crumpled mess.

  “Shoes are still a little soggy,” he said. “Gun is in your glove compartment. I got it from the pool, cleaned and oiled it.”

  I took off the pajamas but hadn’t started to dress when Mae West came in wearing a purple silk robe with big white flowers on it. She didn’t hesitate or even turn her head at the sight of a naked private eye.

  “The world has used you for one big punching bag,” she marveled. “I’ve never seen a body like that.”

  “I’m leaving it to Walter Reed Hospital for research on human abuse.”

  “I’ll bet each one of those scars tells quite a story,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning back against the door. “I can see you’re no gymnophile.”

  Too tired for modesty, I gave up on the idea of locating my shorts and painfully pulled on my trousers.

  “Half of them were presents from Phil,” I grunted, putting on my shirt and crumpled jacket. “The rest are souvenirs.”

  “The ones on your stomach?” she said.

  “In one side, out the other. One is the gift of a woman who will remain nameless, and the other from a crooked Chicago cop I don’t want to talk about.”

  I slumped back against the bed, and Jeremy reached down to grab my arm in case I fell. Mae West stepped forward to help.

  “I want to extend my thanks,” she said, “and whatever else you might want extended.”

  “Now now,” I said, taking a few deep breaths. “How about thirty bucks expenses and the cost of a new suit, twenty-two-fifty.”

  “Done,” she winked.

  “Nope,” I said, trying to stand and finding that I could actually manage it. “Don’t think this is going to be done till we cage that nut. He said something about a list. Do you know what he was talking about?”

  “Haven’t the slightest,” she said, letting her robe open slightly.

  “Said he was an engineer’s thumb,” I went on.

  Both Mae West and Jeremy looked blank.

  “Never mind. I have a feeling he’ll find us.” I took a few steps and found that it was possible. “I think I’ll drive back to L.A. with Jeremy. Can you have someone bring my car and drop it at my place?”

  “One of my boys will do it,” she said.,

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure. Come back and see me sometime.”

  I looked at her from the doorway.

  “You really use that line.”

  “Thought it would give you something to tell the boys about,” she laughed.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said as we made it through the house to the distant chattering of the monkey.

  My brain proved it was still connected when I remembered to tell Jeremy to pull the groceries out of my trunk. I dozed off during the ride back to Hollywood, where Jeremy got me to my room on Heliotrope without being spotted by my landlady Mrs. Plaut. He deposited me gently on the mattress on the floor. The mattress was there to give added support to my back, which first went out in 1938 when I was given a bear hug by a massive Negro who was annoyed because I tried to keep him from getting to Mickey Rooney at a premiere.

  I thanked Jeremy, convinced him to leave me, and looked around the room to be sure it was there and I was still alive. The sofa with Mrs. Plaut’s white doilies was within reach, and I could see the table with three chairs, the hot plate, sink, small refrigerator, rug, the purple blanket I was lying on with God Bless Us Every One stitched in pink, and the Beech-Nut gum clock I got once as payment for returning a runaway grandma to a guy who owned a pawnshop on Main.

  The other boarders were probably at work. I woke to hear the patter of small feet outside my door. The door had no lock. Mrs. Plaut didn’t like them.

  “Toby?” came a slightly high voice with a distinct accent.

  “Come in Gunther,” I said, not trying to sit up.

  Gunther came in. He is a little more than three feet tall, Swiss, and speaks a dozen or so languages. Always nattily attired, Gunther sits in his room translating foreign books into English for clients ranging from the government to publishing houses.

  “You are injured again,” he observed, standing over me.

  “I am injured, Gunther,” I agreed. “Beaten in a swimming pool by a guy dressed like Mae West.”

  “I see,” he said. Gunther had no sense of humor. Some of our best conversations concerned my attempts to explain the humor of something he was trying to translate.

  “I’ll make some coffee.”

  While he bustled and put away the few groceries I had picked up, I tested my body. He took out the box of Shred-dies, a bowl, and the last of a bottle of milk. I love cereal. Picked it up from my old man who’d get up in the middle of the night for a bowl. Last time we got together before he died back in 1932, the old man and I talked over a bowl of Little Colonels. We talked about the supermarkets that had driven his small Glendale grocery out of business. We talked about my brother and about how I hadn’t become a lawyer.

  “Ready,” announced Gunther. I got up slowly and walked with some strength to the table. I was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and no shirt. Gunther did a reasonably good job of hiding his disapproval, but not good enough. I tested my legs again, made it to the closet, put on a white shirt with only slightly frayed cuffs, and struggled into a pair of cotton pants.

 
; “Gunther,” I said, walking to the table where I dropped three large spoons of sugar on my cereal. “The madman I met last night was talking nonsense or giving me a clue. He said something.”

  Gunther nodded and carefully sipped his coffee without leaning over.

  “Something,” he repeated.

  “Said he was an engineer’s thumb.”

  “Yes,” said Gunther, putting down his cup.

  “Yes, what?” I asked, pouring the milk and digging in with a spoon. The milk was threatening to turn sour.

  “I have translated a story of this name,” he said. “Into Polish for a publisher. It is a Sherlock Holmes story.”

  “O.K. So how can someone be an engineer’s thumb?”

  He touched his small lower lip and thought seriously while I finished off my cereal and coffee and had another round of both.

  “I shall make some inquiry and attempt to answer that question,” he said, dabbing his unstained mouth with a paper napkin. He excused himself with dignity, indicating that he would be back to clean up for me.

  I did the cleaning up while he was gone, though I knew he preferred to do it himself.

  By the time I had dragged myself to the community bathroom down the hall, allowed fifteen minutes for the water to trickle in, bathed, and made it back to my room, Gunther was waiting for me. He was rewashing the dishes.

  “Ah, Toby,” he said, turning the water off and facing me. “I have discovered your mystery. The Engineer’s Thumb is a Sherlock Holmes group that meets monthly at the Natick Hotel. The current president is a man named Lachtman, an insurance claims adjuster for First Federal of California. All this I learned from an editor who used to be a member of this group.”

  We sat around talking about the world for an hour or so before Gunther excused himself to get back to work. I headed for the hall phone with the change I could muster to try to track down Lachtman and maybe move a few steps closer to the madman who had tried to kill me and whose list I was on.