To Catch a Spy, page 21
I turned left, heading toward nothing but the edge of the grounds which dropped off to the end of the world. Behind me I heard noise, lots of noise, and gunfire. I was running now. A wrong turn and I’d vanish down into the canyon.
Something suddenly changed. I wasn’t sure what. I looked back and saw that Smith wasn’t following me. She was running back toward the house.
I nearly stepped into a small swimming pool, danced around it, and almost collided with Cary Grant.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But Toddhunter’s right behind me.”
A shot zinged into the night above our heads. From the light of the house, I could see Toddhunter heading our way. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. We had no place to run but the ledge to nowhere, which is exactly what we did.
It was then we started our climb down into darkness. It was then that Grant reached down to help me up and I grabbed his wrist. It was then that the beam of a flashlight in Toddhunter’s hand lit our faces as Toddhunter began prying lose Grant’s grip on the rock above him. It was then that I began to loose my sweaty grip on his wrist and start imagining the headlines in which I would be a small footnote to a front-page story about the dramatic death of Cary Grant.
It was also then that the flashlight beam wavered and the flashlight came tumbling into the darkness past my head, spinning as it fell. About a second later, the flashlight was followed by the hurtling Lawrence Toddhunter, who came close to hitting me and taking me with him into the blackness of the reservoir below.
“Can’t hold on,” I said.
“Just a few seconds longer,” Grant said and pulled me up abruptly.
Someone had taken Grant’s arm and grabbed him back with me dangling below him. That “someone” stood at the rim of the reservoir now, looking at both of us.
“You all right?” asked Phil.
“Alive,” I said.
“Cary Grant,” I added. “This is my brother, Phil. He’s a cop.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Grant. “No, I am elated to meet you.”
Phil moved to take a look over the rim toward where Toddhunter’s body had fallen.
“He’s the one who said he’d kill Ruth and the kids?” my brother said.
“Yes.”
Phil turned and led the way back to the house. The two women were both in handcuffs, being held by uniformed cops. Violet was calming Shelly, who was saying, “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“You sure?” asked Violet.
“No, but I’m fine. That’s what you’re supposed to say. That’s what I’m saying. I’m fine.”
“Can we go now?” Grant asked.
“The FBI will want to talk to you,” said Phil.
“They’ll know where to find me,” Grant said, picking up the briefcase that stood next to the suitcases near the hallway. “My briefcase. You mind?”
“No,” said Phil.
“The FBI might …” Grant started.
“Let them,” said Phil. “Let them.”
EPILOGUE
Anita and I went to the movies. We saw This Is The Army, a Movietone Newsreel, a Time Marches On, and a Donald Duck cartoon, In The Führer’s Face. We had a nice dinner, thanks to a two-hundred-dollar bonus from Cary Grant, who had called me the day after the shoot-out and said that the briefcase contained the material he needed—a list of names he had already turned over to the right people.
The FBI never came to see me. I’m not sure why.
Jacklyn Wright disappeared. Shelly went back to his dental practice with a newfound respect for Violet, who took advantage of having saved her boss’s life by asking him for a raise. This request Shelly immediately granted.
On the morning Anita and I went to the movie and dinner, I had gone through Shelly’s office and heard him telling a dazed little man how he had captured a den of Nazi spies.
A week later at breakfast in Mrs. Plaut’s dining room, the phone rang upstairs. Gunther, who was expecting a call, hurried to get it.
“More avocado pancakes?” Mrs. Plaut asked.
We all politely declined, though I thought they tasted pretty good if you didn’t put the jalapeno syrup on them.
Gunther came hurrying back to the dining room to announce that the call was for me from Shelly. I excused myself and made my way up the stairs. My wounds had pretty much healed. The stitches had been removed from my head, and I had picked up a few extra dollars between cases by filling in for the house detective at the Roosevelt Hotel.
“Hello, Shel, what’s up?”
“I’m in jail,” he moaned.
He began to sob. I’ve heard Sheldon Minck sob before. It’s not a pretty sound, but this time it sounded more genuine than any time in the past.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he cried. “But Mildred’s dead. My dear Mildred’s dead. And they think I killed her.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, Shel. I’ll call Marty Leib and …”
“You don’t understand, Toby. They have a witness who says she saw me do it.”
“Sheldon, who says they saw you kill Mildred?”
“Joan Crawford,” he said.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2003 by Stuart M. Kaminksy
cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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Stuart M. Kaminsky, To Catch a Spy
