slowly we won’t even have to hurry. And believe me, folks, we have been doing a lot of hurrying tonight. Now, just step out here quietly. You give me no trouble. I give you no trouble.”
We stepped out and the three men in the shadows stepped forward. The one in the middle was the shortest, about my height, and the toughest-looking.
“Name’s Jeffers,” he said. “My cohorts here prefer that I not give their real names. I refer to them fondly from time to time as Hans and Fritz, but I don’t know if they’re open to such intimacy from new acquaintances. You know what I mean?”
The cohorts were big, fugitives from Muscle Beach.
“What do you want?” Bette Davis demanded, stepping in front of me.
“What do I want?” he said with a grin. “Oh, so many things, Miss Davis. One of those big boats with guys in sailor caps who drive it around the world for you and call you captain. Or the complete attention of Ann Sheridan. Or a car like the one you are going to soon have the pleasure of taking a ride in.”
“What do you want?” Davis demanded again.
“Ask Mr. Peters,” said Jeffers. “I think he knows. I think he’s been expecting us to call. Some business we have with your husband. And he knows I am not a man to have my wishes ignored. Do you recall our last encounter, Mr. Peters?”
Even if I hadn’t remembered Jeffers, I could tell from the bruises on his face that he had recently taken a beating or a fall or a picture of Claudette Colbert in the face.
“I recall,” I said.
“Then inform Miss Davis what I want.”
“He wants us to go with him and give him no trouble,” I said. “Remember what Juanita said? I think this is number one for both of us.”
“Number … he wants us to?… He wants?” she said. “I do not care what these Three Stooges want. What I want is for them to go away before we are forced to call the police.”
The three men advanced on us out of the shadows. No guns were showing.
“I’m armed,” I tried.
“You gonna shoot us with a cat?” asked Jeffers.
Hans, the stooge on the right, held up my .38. Fritz, the stooge on the left, held up Mrs. Plaut’s Mah-Jongg case.
“And what,” said Bette Davis, stepping forward, hands defiantly on hips, “do you propose to do if we refuse?”
“Shoot you dead,” said Jeffers.
“In that case,” said Davis, “we will certainly go with you.”
And we did.
C HAPTER F IVE
C omfortable?” asked Jeffers.
Davis was in the middle of the back seat. I was on one side of her with Dash sleeping in my lap. Jeffers was on the other. Hans drove while Fritz leaned over the front seat, holding a Smith & Wesson .32 automatic pointed at my chest.
“Not in the least,” snapped Davis as Hans headed for the Hollywood Hills.
“Not comfortable?” said Jeffers, shaking his head. “Can you beat that, Peters? You know what you’re riding in, lady?”
“A Cord convertible,” snapped Davis.
“A Cord? You are sitting in the back of a Graham-Paige convertible. Only four of them ever made. Amazing vehicle. Lowest center of gravity of any American car, wider than it is high; 120 horsepower, 217.8 CID, supercharged, six-cylinder engine. No chassis. Unit body with a stub frame welded and bolted to the front end.”
“I’m impressed,” said Davis, with a mixture of contempt and boredom.
“You should be,” said Jeffers. “But you’d rather be snotty. No offense here, but I’m not really one of your big fans.”
“Nor, Mr. Jeffers, am I one of yours.”
“Name’s not really Jeffers,” he whispered, putting a finger to his lips. “Stage name. I’m an actor. Used to be an actor. Who knows? Maybe some time … What’s your real name?”
Davis didn’t answer.
“Your name’s Ruth,” he said. “Ruth Elizabeth Davis. I do my research. Important in my business.”
“Your business,” Davis said with perfect contempt.
“He murders people,” I supplied.
“If it’s necessary, Tobias Leo Pevsner,” said
We stepped out and the three men in the shadows stepped forward. The one in the middle was the shortest, about my height, and the toughest-looking.
“Name’s Jeffers,” he said. “My cohorts here prefer that I not give their real names. I refer to them fondly from time to time as Hans and Fritz, but I don’t know if they’re open to such intimacy from new acquaintances. You know what I mean?”
The cohorts were big, fugitives from Muscle Beach.
“What do you want?” Bette Davis demanded, stepping in front of me.
“What do I want?” he said with a grin. “Oh, so many things, Miss Davis. One of those big boats with guys in sailor caps who drive it around the world for you and call you captain. Or the complete attention of Ann Sheridan. Or a car like the one you are going to soon have the pleasure of taking a ride in.”
“What do you want?” Davis demanded again.
“Ask Mr. Peters,” said Jeffers. “I think he knows. I think he’s been expecting us to call. Some business we have with your husband. And he knows I am not a man to have my wishes ignored. Do you recall our last encounter, Mr. Peters?”
Even if I hadn’t remembered Jeffers, I could tell from the bruises on his face that he had recently taken a beating or a fall or a picture of Claudette Colbert in the face.
“I recall,” I said.
“Then inform Miss Davis what I want.”
“He wants us to go with him and give him no trouble,” I said. “Remember what Juanita said? I think this is number one for both of us.”
“Number … he wants us to?… He wants?” she said. “I do not care what these Three Stooges want. What I want is for them to go away before we are forced to call the police.”
The three men advanced on us out of the shadows. No guns were showing.
“I’m armed,” I tried.
“You gonna shoot us with a cat?” asked Jeffers.
Hans, the stooge on the right, held up my .38. Fritz, the stooge on the left, held up Mrs. Plaut’s Mah-Jongg case.
“And what,” said Bette Davis, stepping forward, hands defiantly on hips, “do you propose to do if we refuse?”
“Shoot you dead,” said Jeffers.
“In that case,” said Davis, “we will certainly go with you.”
And we did.
C HAPTER F IVE
C omfortable?” asked Jeffers.
Davis was in the middle of the back seat. I was on one side of her with Dash sleeping in my lap. Jeffers was on the other. Hans drove while Fritz leaned over the front seat, holding a Smith & Wesson .32 automatic pointed at my chest.
“Not in the least,” snapped Davis as Hans headed for the Hollywood Hills.
“Not comfortable?” said Jeffers, shaking his head. “Can you beat that, Peters? You know what you’re riding in, lady?”
“A Cord convertible,” snapped Davis.
“A Cord? You are sitting in the back of a Graham-Paige convertible. Only four of them ever made. Amazing vehicle. Lowest center of gravity of any American car, wider than it is high; 120 horsepower, 217.8 CID, supercharged, six-cylinder engine. No chassis. Unit body with a stub frame welded and bolted to the front end.”
“I’m impressed,” said Davis, with a mixture of contempt and boredom.
“You should be,” said Jeffers. “But you’d rather be snotty. No offense here, but I’m not really one of your big fans.”
“Nor, Mr. Jeffers, am I one of yours.”
“Name’s not really Jeffers,” he whispered, putting a finger to his lips. “Stage name. I’m an actor. Used to be an actor. Who knows? Maybe some time … What’s your real name?”
Davis didn’t answer.
“Your name’s Ruth,” he said. “Ruth Elizabeth Davis. I do my research. Important in my business.”
“Your business,” Davis said with perfect contempt.
“He murders people,” I supplied.
“If it’s necessary, Tobias Leo Pevsner,” said
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