Read Online Have Gat—Will Travel by Richard S. Prather - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard S. Prather
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information from his files, date of the accident, description, all I needed.
With that information I didn't have to spend much time at the hospital. Half an hour after I'd arrived, a clerk was looking at a card in his hand and saying, "A patient answering that description, shriveled hand and all, was in here on that date. He hadn't been in an accident, however. There's no record of a Lewis Tollman."
"Who's your record of? And what was he in for?"
He looked at the card. "Mr. Arthur Harris. Doctor Zerek's patient. Doctor Zerek was our plastic surgeon."
"When can I see Doctor Zerek?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid you can't, sir. Doctor Zerek died several years ago. He had a bad heart."
"Heart attack, huh? Would you know offhand when he died?"
"Why . . . just a moment." He went to another filing cabinet, fumbled through a drawer and read off a date to me. Then he looked around. "Odd you should have asked. He died less than a month after Mr. Harris was treated by him."
"Yeah," I said. "It is odd."
The next day I arrived back in L.A. When I gave my report to Jim his face got almost chalk-white. He licked dry lips. "That does it. I'll have to make a change . . ." He stopped. "Kind of late, now. God, I wouldn't have believed it. Not him."
That was all he'd say. We had arranged to get together Sunday, today â and now he was dead. If he'd made any last-minute change in the book, I wanted to find out what it was. Gale should know, since she'd typed it all.
S he lived in a big two-story house with her parents and a bachelor brother, Fred, several years older than herself. Fred met me at the door, led me into the front room where Gale sat on a couch. He sat beside her and she looked up at me, eyes puffy from crying.
She spoke dully, but she answered my questions. "There were so many things in the book, Shell. A lot of names and case histories, stories about Communists getting into places where they could hire others, things like that."
"Can't you think of any specific thing that might explain â"
She winced. "No. It was all jumbled, Shell. I never typed more than a few consecutive pages at a time. Maybe from the middle or the end or front, I don't know. It's all mixed up."
"Remember anything about a man named Lewis Tollman?"
"The name sounds familiar, but . . . no."
I looked at her brother. "Fred, did Jim ever talk â"
He interrupted, shaking his head. "I don't know anything about the stuff. Don't want to know."
I turned to Gale. "You haven't the manuscript then?"
"No, I typed the original and a carbon, gave him the final pages last night."
"Final â you mean the book was finished?"
She bit her lip. "Yes. Finally. I'll . . . never forget what he said. I handed him the last ten pages and he grabbed me, and gave me a big kiss. The papers got all wrinkled." Two big tears welled up in her eyes, slid down her cheeks. "Jim looked so happy. He said, 'Sweetheart, that's it, that's the last. Wh-what do you say we get married?'" She sobbed, bent her head forward and cupped both hands over her eyes, shoulders shaking. Fred put his hand on her arm. I got up and left.
B arney goodman opened the front door of his modernistic home on the outskirts of Hollywood, smiled that warm smile of his and told me to come in. After leaving Gale's I'd phoned Goodman, asked if I might see him. I hadn't wanted to go into detail over the phone.
He shook my hand firmly, grinned his boyish grin and said, "This is a pleasure, Mr. Scott. You're the first private investigator I've met. At least â you're not investigating me, are you?"
"No. The main reason I'm here is to find out if Jim Brandon delivered his manuscript to you yet."
We had walked into a paneled den and he pointed to one of two deep leather chairs near each other. As we sat in them he said briskly, "Not yet, but I expect it soon. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day."
"Jim's dead," I said. "And the manuscript doesn't seem to be around. It's gone. I hoped he'd
With that information I didn't have to spend much time at the hospital. Half an hour after I'd arrived, a clerk was looking at a card in his hand and saying, "A patient answering that description, shriveled hand and all, was in here on that date. He hadn't been in an accident, however. There's no record of a Lewis Tollman."
"Who's your record of? And what was he in for?"
He looked at the card. "Mr. Arthur Harris. Doctor Zerek's patient. Doctor Zerek was our plastic surgeon."
"When can I see Doctor Zerek?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid you can't, sir. Doctor Zerek died several years ago. He had a bad heart."
"Heart attack, huh? Would you know offhand when he died?"
"Why . . . just a moment." He went to another filing cabinet, fumbled through a drawer and read off a date to me. Then he looked around. "Odd you should have asked. He died less than a month after Mr. Harris was treated by him."
"Yeah," I said. "It is odd."
The next day I arrived back in L.A. When I gave my report to Jim his face got almost chalk-white. He licked dry lips. "That does it. I'll have to make a change . . ." He stopped. "Kind of late, now. God, I wouldn't have believed it. Not him."
That was all he'd say. We had arranged to get together Sunday, today â and now he was dead. If he'd made any last-minute change in the book, I wanted to find out what it was. Gale should know, since she'd typed it all.
S he lived in a big two-story house with her parents and a bachelor brother, Fred, several years older than herself. Fred met me at the door, led me into the front room where Gale sat on a couch. He sat beside her and she looked up at me, eyes puffy from crying.
She spoke dully, but she answered my questions. "There were so many things in the book, Shell. A lot of names and case histories, stories about Communists getting into places where they could hire others, things like that."
"Can't you think of any specific thing that might explain â"
She winced. "No. It was all jumbled, Shell. I never typed more than a few consecutive pages at a time. Maybe from the middle or the end or front, I don't know. It's all mixed up."
"Remember anything about a man named Lewis Tollman?"
"The name sounds familiar, but . . . no."
I looked at her brother. "Fred, did Jim ever talk â"
He interrupted, shaking his head. "I don't know anything about the stuff. Don't want to know."
I turned to Gale. "You haven't the manuscript then?"
"No, I typed the original and a carbon, gave him the final pages last night."
"Final â you mean the book was finished?"
She bit her lip. "Yes. Finally. I'll . . . never forget what he said. I handed him the last ten pages and he grabbed me, and gave me a big kiss. The papers got all wrinkled." Two big tears welled up in her eyes, slid down her cheeks. "Jim looked so happy. He said, 'Sweetheart, that's it, that's the last. Wh-what do you say we get married?'" She sobbed, bent her head forward and cupped both hands over her eyes, shoulders shaking. Fred put his hand on her arm. I got up and left.
B arney goodman opened the front door of his modernistic home on the outskirts of Hollywood, smiled that warm smile of his and told me to come in. After leaving Gale's I'd phoned Goodman, asked if I might see him. I hadn't wanted to go into detail over the phone.
He shook my hand firmly, grinned his boyish grin and said, "This is a pleasure, Mr. Scott. You're the first private investigator I've met. At least â you're not investigating me, are you?"
"No. The main reason I'm here is to find out if Jim Brandon delivered his manuscript to you yet."
We had walked into a paneled den and he pointed to one of two deep leather chairs near each other. As we sat in them he said briskly, "Not yet, but I expect it soon. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day."
"Jim's dead," I said. "And the manuscript doesn't seem to be around. It's gone. I hoped he'd
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