Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on a Yellow Brick Road

He looked puzzled.

“I have no lawyer.”

“You will as soon as I call a friend at M.G.M.,” I said softly. The room wasn’t bugged, but Seidman was probably standing outside the door to find out what the hell I was doing.

“Why should anyone at M.G.M. want to help me?” Wherthman said evenly. It was a damn good question.

“They don’t like the publicity,” I explained, and before he could question it I went on. “And besides, can you afford a lawyer and do you know one?”

He said he didn’t know a lawyer and had little money. The pay for Oz was long gone and he had been getting along by doing translations from German for a project at The University of Southern California. He added that he wasn’t German, but Swiss. I didn’t think most Americans would recognize the difference.

“Why did you kill Cash?” I asked.

“I did not kill him,” Wherthman said, looking up at me. “That is what I told the policeman, the fat…” he groped for a word to describe Phil, but his English failed him.

“Pig?” I tried. Wherthman liked it.

“Yes, pig. He threatened to step on me. He hit me. Can the police do that? Can they hit someone in this country?”

“They may not, but they can and do,” I explained.

Wherthman thought it over for a few seconds and indicated with a shake of his head that he understood the distinction. I was beginning to like him.

“The evidence is pretty strong,” I said. “You were seen talking to Cash this morning. You’ve fought with him in the past. You’ve threatened him. The police found blood, probably his, in your apartment.”

“I have no apartment,” he corrected. “I have a single room in a boarding house. I did not go to the studio this morning. I took a walk early as I always do. Perhaps witnesses could be found who saw me. Several people no doubt did.”

“Do you know any of their names?” I asked. “Anyone you see regularly?”

He didn’t know any names and couldn’t think of anyone he saw regularly. He couldn’t explain how a witness had heard Cash use his name. He couldn’t explain why someone would be using the costume he wore in the movie. He couldn’t explain how blood got on some of his clothes in his room.

“So you think you’ve been framed?” I concluded.

He looked puzzled.

“You think someone is trying to make it look as if you committed this murder,” I explained.

“Yes, of course,” he said. We sat for a few seconds listening to a deep voice outside the office thundering over the general noise. The voice told someone to sit still or lose an arm.

“Why would anyone want to do that, Mr. Wherthman?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said, “but it is being done.”

“How well did you know Cash?” I tried.

Wherthman shifted slightly and slid forward so his toes would touch the floor. His shoes were worn but nicely polished.

“I knew him better than I would have wanted,” he said. “We were forced to live in proximity when the movie was being made. We were placed in adjacent rooms in the same hotel. He was ill-mannered and vulgar. He provoked me because I had an accent, was educated and taller than he. Even with my accent, my English was more precise than his. Precise is the proper word, is it not?”

“It is the proper word,” I said.

“Did he fight with any other little person?”

“I see,” said Wherthman, “Yes. Perhaps someone of my size is attempting to blame me.”

“I don’t know how many little people there are around Los Angeles,” I said, “but there can’t be a whole hell of a lot, and the list of those who knew Cash and the studio well enough to get a costume this morning must be even smaller. Finding a patsy would be a good idea.”

“Patsy,” he mulled. “I thought this was a female name?”

“It is, but it’s also a kind of slang for someone to take the blame for something you did.”

Wherthman took all this seriously. I could see him storing it for future use.

“That would be the Canadian,” said Wherthman. “The one with the nasty temper. He also did not like me and was a confidant of the one called Cash. I think ‘confidant’ is the right word for they were not friends, but they were much together, sometimes arguing, sometimes fighting. They spoke of going into some business together when the movie was finished.”

“What was the Canadian’s name?” I asked.

Wherthman couldn’t remember. He gave me a vague description, but I needed more. It wasn’t a great lead, but it was something. I asked him to try to remember the name, and he said he would.

“Don’t tell the police anything more,” I said, reaching out my hand. He took it this time. His hand was small but not soft, and his grip was firm even though his fingers barely reached past my palm.

“I will not,” he said, standing.

“They’re going to charge you with murder and book you. Tell them your lawyer will be in touch with them. And I have another bit of advice. Shave that mustache. It makes you look a little like Hitler.”

His finger went up to his face.

“I did not think of that,” he said. “I have no wish to look like Hitler. I will do as you suggest. Mr. Peters?”

He had only heard my name once and in a tough situation, but it had stuck.

“Mr. Peters? Do you believe I did not do this murder?”

“I believe it,” I said, “but I’ve been wrong before. I’ll be in touch.”

There was more confidence in my farewell than I felt. Not only had I been wrong before, I’ve been wrong most of the time about my life and other people. The only people who felt any confidence in me were a myopic, sloppy dentist and a Swiss midget.

Seidman was pretending to read a report on a clipboard right outside Phil’s door.

“He says he didn’t do it,” I told him as I walked through the squadroom. The handcuffed couple was still there, and the shirtless guy adjusted his tie as we passed.

“He sticks to that and we’ll wind up with a trial,” shrugged Seidman. “You know who some of our witnesses are?”

I told him I knew.

“Now that’ll really be publicity,” he said. “Might be a good idea if his lawyer or someone…”

“Like me?” I said.

“Someone,” continued Seidman, “suggested that he plead guilty. We have other things to work on, and this can be handled quietly.”

“It’s a thought,” I said. “Thanks for letting me talk to him, and give my best to Phil.”

“I’ll tell him you were sorry you missed him,” Seidman said, getting in the last crack. His white face looked pleased, and I had nothing more to say. As I walked out, the thin black guy between the two cops drinking coffee put his head in his hands and leaned forward. It looked like he was going to throw up.

I stopped at a Pig ’n Whistle on the corner and had a burger and Pepsi. I liked the “Pepsi and Pete” ads the company put out with the two comic cops. When Coke came up with something better, they’d regain my gourmet trade. While I waited for my sandwich, I called Warren Hoff and told him what had happened. He said he’d get a lawyer for Wherthman. I didn’t ask him what the lawyer would tell the little man, but I doubted if they could get the little guy to confess to the murder.

The next step was to talk to the witnesses and try to get a lead on the Canadian midget with the bad temper, so I asked Hoff where I could reach Fleming and Gable. I already knew Grundy’s address. Hoff had the information in front of him.

“Victor will be having dinner at the Brown Derby tonight. He’ll get there around six, and he’s been told that you might drop by to ask him a few questions. Clark is spending the weekend at Mr. Hearst’s ranch in San Simeon. If you want to talk to him by phone, he should be arriving there soon. He drove up.”