Grant said, finishing his first taco. “Funny, I’ve worked all my adult life and most of my childhood working on being recognized. Standing out in a crowd has its disadvantages.”
“I know,” said Gunther. “I have learned that one must stand the stares with dignity.”
“No one ever gives me a second look,” I said. “Part of my charm. I’ll follow up on the cards. Meanwhile …”
“Hold on,” Grant said, holding up a hand and opening his mouth to speak.
He was interrupted by a loud roar from beyond the door. He looked at the door and back at me.
“I think our sleeping giant just woke up,” Grant said.
The door to my office flew open and the giant stood there, looking at each one of us, his eyes stopping at Cary Grant as if he recognized but couldn’t quite place him.
“Where is he?” asked the Mountain.
“He?” I asked.
“Dr. Minck,” he said. “He pulled the wrong tooth. Now he’s gone.”
“Have a taco,” I said, holding out the bag. Mountain took one and then slammed the door. If he intended, as I thought he did, to take on the Los Angeles Mangier, it wouldn’t be much of a match.
“He stands out in a crowd,” Grant said.
“So,” I said. “Here’s what I suggest we do.”
Gunther and Grant looked at me.
“Volkman,” I said, writing his name on an envelope on my desk. It was the back of a telephone bill I hadn’t yet opened. “Gunther, can you?…”
“Just a minute,” Grant said. “Have you got a photograph of this Volkman?”
I didn’t, but I knew where to get one.
“It occurs to me,” Grant continued, “that he might have been using a different name. If we can get a photograph we can show around.…”
“I’ll get a photograph,” I said.
I told them Volkman’s address and said I’d take care of it.
“Almost four-thirty,” Grant said, looking at his watch. “Gentlemen, it has been an interesting afternoon, but we’ve got to keep moving. You don’t know how important it is to find George Hall and, if it still exists, the list of names Bruno Volkman was going to give me.”
Grant got up, shook Gunther’s hand, and looked at me as he reached for the door.
“Call my number any time,” he said. “Say you’re Sam Gronik of RKO. Find George Hall, Peters. A lot of lives may depend on it.”
And he was gone.
Gunther and I looked at each other for a few seconds.
“I shall continue the search for George Hall,” he said, climbing down from his chair.
“I’ll follow up on the cards in Volkman’s pocket and get a photograph of him,” I said. “I’ll call you at Mrs. Plaut’s when I have something.”
CHAPTER
8
I turned my chair and looked out of the open window toward the Pacific Ocean. I couldn’t see the ocean from my window, just the tops of buildings. Through a space between two other office buildings I could see traffic on Arapahoe Street. I was counting cars when my door opened and Violet came in.
Violet was trim, young, dark, and pretty, which was why Shelly had hired her. She was also smart.
“He wants to see you,” she said.
“Shelly?”
She nodded.
“Tell him to come in.”
“He’s hiding. From that big guy whose tooth he pulled,” she explained.
“Where is he?”
“Across the street at Tony’s,” she said. “He told me to close up and go home. So I’m closing up and going home.”
“He really pull the wrong tooth?” I asked.
“You’re asking me? I’d say it’s six to four he did,” said Violet.
I went over to Tony’s, which was right across Hoover and about three doors to the left. Tony’s has a couple of neon signs in the darkened window, one for Falstaff beer and the other for Gobel beer. The Falstaff sign had a flickering “r” that had been threatening for years to give up and turn the place into the Falstaff “Bee.”
It was still early, so only the regulars and a handful of soldiers and sailors in uniform with nowhere else to go were at the small bar or talking at one of the
“I know,” said Gunther. “I have learned that one must stand the stares with dignity.”
“No one ever gives me a second look,” I said. “Part of my charm. I’ll follow up on the cards. Meanwhile …”
“Hold on,” Grant said, holding up a hand and opening his mouth to speak.
He was interrupted by a loud roar from beyond the door. He looked at the door and back at me.
“I think our sleeping giant just woke up,” Grant said.
The door to my office flew open and the giant stood there, looking at each one of us, his eyes stopping at Cary Grant as if he recognized but couldn’t quite place him.
“Where is he?” asked the Mountain.
“He?” I asked.
“Dr. Minck,” he said. “He pulled the wrong tooth. Now he’s gone.”
“Have a taco,” I said, holding out the bag. Mountain took one and then slammed the door. If he intended, as I thought he did, to take on the Los Angeles Mangier, it wouldn’t be much of a match.
“He stands out in a crowd,” Grant said.
“So,” I said. “Here’s what I suggest we do.”
Gunther and Grant looked at me.
“Volkman,” I said, writing his name on an envelope on my desk. It was the back of a telephone bill I hadn’t yet opened. “Gunther, can you?…”
“Just a minute,” Grant said. “Have you got a photograph of this Volkman?”
I didn’t, but I knew where to get one.
“It occurs to me,” Grant continued, “that he might have been using a different name. If we can get a photograph we can show around.…”
“I’ll get a photograph,” I said.
I told them Volkman’s address and said I’d take care of it.
“Almost four-thirty,” Grant said, looking at his watch. “Gentlemen, it has been an interesting afternoon, but we’ve got to keep moving. You don’t know how important it is to find George Hall and, if it still exists, the list of names Bruno Volkman was going to give me.”
Grant got up, shook Gunther’s hand, and looked at me as he reached for the door.
“Call my number any time,” he said. “Say you’re Sam Gronik of RKO. Find George Hall, Peters. A lot of lives may depend on it.”
And he was gone.
Gunther and I looked at each other for a few seconds.
“I shall continue the search for George Hall,” he said, climbing down from his chair.
“I’ll follow up on the cards in Volkman’s pocket and get a photograph of him,” I said. “I’ll call you at Mrs. Plaut’s when I have something.”
CHAPTER
8
I turned my chair and looked out of the open window toward the Pacific Ocean. I couldn’t see the ocean from my window, just the tops of buildings. Through a space between two other office buildings I could see traffic on Arapahoe Street. I was counting cars when my door opened and Violet came in.
Violet was trim, young, dark, and pretty, which was why Shelly had hired her. She was also smart.
“He wants to see you,” she said.
“Shelly?”
She nodded.
“Tell him to come in.”
“He’s hiding. From that big guy whose tooth he pulled,” she explained.
“Where is he?”
“Across the street at Tony’s,” she said. “He told me to close up and go home. So I’m closing up and going home.”
“He really pull the wrong tooth?” I asked.
“You’re asking me? I’d say it’s six to four he did,” said Violet.
I went over to Tony’s, which was right across Hoover and about three doors to the left. Tony’s has a couple of neon signs in the darkened window, one for Falstaff beer and the other for Gobel beer. The Falstaff sign had a flickering “r” that had been threatening for years to give up and turn the place into the Falstaff “Bee.”
It was still early, so only the regulars and a handful of soldiers and sailors in uniform with nowhere else to go were at the small bar or talking at one of the
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