Stuart Kaminsky - Bullet for a Star

“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.