said Fields, “is his whispering to Eve that she and her hubby might enjoy singing a ditty or two. The unholy practice has been passed down to us for more than five thousand years. I’ve thrown the Chinaman out for singing. And the devil has tricked me into renting a house next to Deanna Durbin. No amount of threats or shouts will get the vapid creature to stop caterwauling on her veranda.”
Gus Belcher shared a small office with three other detectives, each of whom had a desk with a chair in front of it. On the wall was a reproduction of a painting showing the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Behind each desk, notes, posters, and photographs were tacked to the wall. The other three detectives were out. Belcher rose, held out his hand, introduced himself, and we shook all around after we put down our suitcases.
Belcher was around forty, cop physical-profile number two, like my brother, Phil, L.A.P.D. lieutenant. Built like a medium-sized tank, his hair was dark and curly and looked as if he had just been to a barber. Nose almost as flat as mine. Dark face reminding me of a bulldog that had once chased me across the lawn and over the wall around the estate of a gangster. Belcher’s trousers and sports jacket were clean, dark, and they matched. His shirt was starched and his tie was wide, dark-blue and red stripes.
“Not gonna find much here,” he said, sitting down and pointing to the chairs in front of us. We sat. “Hipnoodle—for chrissake, I feel like an idiot even repeating the name. The suspect, as I told you, is gone. No trace. Nothing. See that in box?”
Fields and I looked at the wooden box at the corner of his desk. It was piled high with folders, reports, letters, and notes.
“I’ve got no time to give you any more help unless the suspect returns home and the landlady calls me,” said Belcher. “You want to look for him, be my guest. Go talk to the landlady, look at the apartment, talk to the neighbors, storekeepers. I don’t have the time. Come back to me or Mickey Knox, my partner, if this Hipnoodle actually gets his hands on your money or if he kills somebody or commits a felony in Philadelphia. You get the picture?”
“Yes,” I said.
Fields had said nothing. He sat stiffly, his eyes on the painting of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
“One more thing,” I said. “We’re going to be at a hotel, the …”
“Continental, if it still exists and has a vestige of gentility,” Fields said.
“It does,” said Belcher.
“A Gunther Wherthman, Mr. Fields’s driver, will be arriving in a couple of days. I gave him your number and said you’d tell him where to find us.”
“No problem,” said Belcher, glancing at the pile in his in box and putting on a pair of half glasses he pulled from his inside pocket. When he made the move, I saw the holster and gun under the jacket. We shook hands again and Fields and I took off.
Fields looked at everyone in the corridor as we walked, a look of anxiety on his face which turned to near panic when we passed a uniformed officer or someone who looked like a detective.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as we reached the front door.
“Thought I might run into one of the constabulary that had arrested me as a boy,” he explained. “Probably still warrants out for me for stealing fruit and sweaters.”
The sky rumbled with the threat of rain.
“The police who arrested you are all retired,” I said. “They have to be in their eighties.”
I flagged a cab and Fields got in hurriedly, still clutching his suitcase and the paper bag into which he had stuffed his thermos and fresh bottles. Twenty minutes later we were at the Continental, registered in my name. Fields had conspicuously pulled his hat forward on his head in a vain attempt to hide his face. A few people looked at him. The desk clerk, a thin, suited man with a skinny mustache and a European accent, politely ignored Fields.
We got a suite. Two rooms. Fields got
Gus Belcher shared a small office with three other detectives, each of whom had a desk with a chair in front of it. On the wall was a reproduction of a painting showing the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Behind each desk, notes, posters, and photographs were tacked to the wall. The other three detectives were out. Belcher rose, held out his hand, introduced himself, and we shook all around after we put down our suitcases.
Belcher was around forty, cop physical-profile number two, like my brother, Phil, L.A.P.D. lieutenant. Built like a medium-sized tank, his hair was dark and curly and looked as if he had just been to a barber. Nose almost as flat as mine. Dark face reminding me of a bulldog that had once chased me across the lawn and over the wall around the estate of a gangster. Belcher’s trousers and sports jacket were clean, dark, and they matched. His shirt was starched and his tie was wide, dark-blue and red stripes.
“Not gonna find much here,” he said, sitting down and pointing to the chairs in front of us. We sat. “Hipnoodle—for chrissake, I feel like an idiot even repeating the name. The suspect, as I told you, is gone. No trace. Nothing. See that in box?”
Fields and I looked at the wooden box at the corner of his desk. It was piled high with folders, reports, letters, and notes.
“I’ve got no time to give you any more help unless the suspect returns home and the landlady calls me,” said Belcher. “You want to look for him, be my guest. Go talk to the landlady, look at the apartment, talk to the neighbors, storekeepers. I don’t have the time. Come back to me or Mickey Knox, my partner, if this Hipnoodle actually gets his hands on your money or if he kills somebody or commits a felony in Philadelphia. You get the picture?”
“Yes,” I said.
Fields had said nothing. He sat stiffly, his eyes on the painting of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
“One more thing,” I said. “We’re going to be at a hotel, the …”
“Continental, if it still exists and has a vestige of gentility,” Fields said.
“It does,” said Belcher.
“A Gunther Wherthman, Mr. Fields’s driver, will be arriving in a couple of days. I gave him your number and said you’d tell him where to find us.”
“No problem,” said Belcher, glancing at the pile in his in box and putting on a pair of half glasses he pulled from his inside pocket. When he made the move, I saw the holster and gun under the jacket. We shook hands again and Fields and I took off.
Fields looked at everyone in the corridor as we walked, a look of anxiety on his face which turned to near panic when we passed a uniformed officer or someone who looked like a detective.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as we reached the front door.
“Thought I might run into one of the constabulary that had arrested me as a boy,” he explained. “Probably still warrants out for me for stealing fruit and sweaters.”
The sky rumbled with the threat of rain.
“The police who arrested you are all retired,” I said. “They have to be in their eighties.”
I flagged a cab and Fields got in hurriedly, still clutching his suitcase and the paper bag into which he had stuffed his thermos and fresh bottles. Twenty minutes later we were at the Continental, registered in my name. Fields had conspicuously pulled his hat forward on his head in a vain attempt to hide his face. A few people looked at him. The desk clerk, a thin, suited man with a skinny mustache and a European accent, politely ignored Fields.
We got a suite. Two rooms. Fields got
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