Murder on the Yellow Brick Road by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

no condition to argue. Butler put me on the floor and rolled me on my stomach. I didn’t go completely over because I was in an almost fetal position. He put his left hand on my spine and his fingers over my kidney. He grabbed my collar bone at the top of my back. The push down and pull up was sudden and without warning. There was a sound like an inner tube snapping and a rush of pain.
    â€œThere,” said Butler, “how do you feel?”
    I started to roll back into my protected fetal position and realized that the bad pain was gone. My lower back still felt sore, but it was tolerable.
    I got up a little shaky, but I knew I could walk and feel something besides pain.
    â€œShot’s working,” explained Shelly, pointing his cigar at me with professional pride. “Take those pills and you’ll be fine for a day or so.”
    Butler said nothing. He just looked tolerantly at Shelly with tiny blue eyes.
    â€œThanks,” I said to both of them and hobbled into my office. There was almost no pain when I got to my desk and picked up the phone. I could hear the door open and Butler leave. Shelly began to hum “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” off key, and I asked the operator for M.G.M. Hoff wasn’t there. I called his home number. He answered.
    â€œHoff, did Cassie tell you about the other midget, the one Wherthman says was chummy with Cash?”
    â€œIt’s Sunday,” he said in apology. “I can’t reach anyone, but I’m sure I’ll know by tomorrow.”
    â€œToday would be nice,” I said. “Work on it. Who’s Wherthman’s lawyer?”
    â€œA guy named Leib, Marty Leib. His office is on.…”
    â€œI need his home number,” I said. “I may not have until tomorrow. Is he listed?”
    Hoff didn’t know, but he had the home number written down. He was a good leg man.
    â€œOne last thing Hoff. Where were you late last night?”
    â€œWhy?” he asked.
    â€œSomeone about your size took a shot at me in a motor court up the coast.”
    â€œWhy the hell would I want to kill you?” he shouted. The anger sounded real, but I’d seen him change personalities almost in mid-sentence.
    â€œWhere were you?” I demanded.
    â€œHere. Right here all night.”
    â€œYou’ve got a witness?” I pushed.
    â€œMy wife,” he said pulling himself together. I could see his hand touching his hair into place. I wondered if he was wearing a purple velvet robe and slippers and holding a copy of the New Yorker in his hand.
    â€œWives have lied for husbands,” I said.
    He didn’t answer.
    â€œYou there, Warren?”
    â€œI’m here. You need anything else?”
    â€œYou owe me another day’s pay and expenses. I’ll send you the bill,” I said, and waited for him to hang up. We played “you first” for about twenty seconds and I hung up.
    I called lawyer Leib, whose bass voice almost knocked me off the chair.
    â€œAh, Mr. Peters,” he boomed. “I wanted to get in touch with you. Our client has a message for you. The name of the other midget, Cash’s friend. It’s John Franklin Peese.”
    I asked him to spell it while I fished around for my gnawed pencil and an envelope to write on. I found the envelope addressed to me by Merle Levine, the lady whose cat I never found.
    â€œI’ll work on it,” I said, and I told him about Clark Gable’s confidence that the arguing suspect was shorter than the victim.
    Leib said that was great, but he was hoping Peese would lead to something better. He wanted to avoid a trial and publicity. Having Clark Gable as the key witness for the defense in what looked like an open-and-shut case wouldn’t do anyone any good. Leib said I should call him at any time, and we hung up good pals.
    The next trick was to find John Franklin Peese, but first I called Andy Markopulis. He told me Woodman and Fearaven were