The Devil Met a Lady by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

down across from him in a straight-back chair with a padded cushion.
    I put Dash on the floor. He padded off to explore the room.
    “Mr. Peters?”
    “Pepsi,” I said, sitting a few feet from Davis in a matching straight-back chair. “Nothing for the cat.”
    “Inez,” said the man without looking back. “A Pepsi for Mr. Peters.”
    “I’ll have a rum collins,” said Pinketts.
    The man in the overstuffed chair glanced in Pinketts’s direction with annoyance.
    “Yes, my dear, a rum collins for our friend Mr. Pinketts.”
    Inez stopped playing with her ring and moved through a door next to the book-lined wall behind her. She looked relieved at the chance to escape.
    “Now,” said the man in the overstuffed chair, putting the book he was holding carefully on a perfectly shined table at his side. “We can talk.”
    “Don’t tell me,” I said. “You got so tired of the noise from the Hollywood Canteen keeping you up that you decided to kidnap Bette Davis.”
    The last time Davis and I had seen the man in front of us was on the stoop of a house near the Hollywood Canteen. He was the older guy, the defense worker who had told me he couldn’t sleep and that he had a son in the army. He was the guy who had said he spent each night waiting for a glimpse of stars so he could pass the information onto his son. He was one hell of an actor.
    And then I remembered what Juanita had said, that we’d both met the man who would kidnap us. And that he had worn a mask.
    “As reluctant as I am to recapitulate, Mr. Jeffers and his helpers have been following you since I contacted Mr. Farnsworth by phone yesterday. We were aware of your meeting at Levy’s and we kept an eye on you while we discovered a bit more about your less-than-illustrious history. Dismissal from the Glendale Police Department. Dismissal from the Warner Brothers security staff. Divorce. Impecunious circumstances. We followed you. When you contacted Mr. Pinketts, who had initially informed us that you had knowledge of the notorious record and would make an ideal go-between, we decided to have another talk with him, and he graciously decided to cooperate with us once more.”
    Pinketts shrugged a what-choice-did-I-have-amigo shrug.
    “This,” the man in the overstuffed chair said, “enabled us to anticipate your visit to Grover Niles, an unsavory creature whose loss should trouble few. Though I did not in fact commit the deed, I am quite willing to take on responsibility for his demise and face judgment for it before my maker, if the ultimate irony transpires and, indeed, there is a maker.”
    “The Hollywood Canteen,” I reminded him.
    “Of course,” he said. “Forgive me. I digress. We watched you searching for a parking space. I got out of the car, hurried to the front of the house in front of which you were parking, and assumed a role. My performance was, I gather, at least adequate.”
    “I’d rate you road company Maid of the Ozarks ,” I said.
    “Underweight Sydney Greenstreet,” said Davis.
    “I’ll accept that as praise,” said the man. “My life in the theater was extensive and unrewarding. Blithering foils to Frank Fay and Skeets Gallagher. My reviews, when anyone bothered to note my performance, were patronizing. I would eventually have faded into lesser character roles until I could no longer keep the lines straight between Shakespeare and Moss Hart.”
    “A sad tale lacking sound and fury trying to signify something,” said Davis.
    “Yes, my life was a farce,” said the man as Inez returned with a tray, upon which sat my Pepsi in a glassful of ice, another glass with what looked like Pinketts’s rum collins, and a tumbler of beer. “I wanted tragedy and I found myself living a life of farce. I fled from comedy and turned to dealing in magic, spells, blessings, curses, and ever-filled purses.”
    “Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Davis dryly. “I thought you were above comedy.”
    “Please,” he said, “it is not that