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“Why?”
“So you could come back to New York and lend a hand ’til I get things straightened out.”
• • •
“ISAAC, OLD SON,” drawled Texas Walt Hatfield. “Shore Ah’d love to help you out, but Hollywood’s got me tangled tighter than a roped calf.”
Texas Walt Hatfield, another former Van Dorn detective, had become a matinee idol who starred in scores of western movies. His drawl had grown thicker and his choice of words more cowboy-ish, but he was still as lean and lethal-looking as a Comanche scalping knife. Bell had run him down in the Plaza Hotel’s Palm Court. Patrons at other tables were gaping, and several people had stopped by to ask for Walt’s autograph, which he supplied with a powerful handshake for the men and an I’ll-meet-you-later smile for the ladies.
“Ah mean, if Ah could get out of my contract, Ah’d be with you lickety-split.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Bell.
“Heck yes. Ah hanker to get in a gunfight with real bullets.”
Bell nodded discreetly to the maître d’ who was awaiting his signal.
Walt changed the subject. “Ah’m mighty relieved the Boss is hanging on. How you doing running down the varmints who shot him?”
“The Coast Guard’s stonewalling, won’t let me near the crew, so I haven’t had a word from the witnesses, and the cops are stonewalling, being embarrassed they let a killer in the hospital room with a witness they were guarding. But the fellow’s postmortem examination was interesting . . .” He filled Walt in on the Genickschuss.
“You wouldn’t want to try that with a .45,” drawled Hatfield. “You’d have to rustle up the swampers to mop the walls . . . And how’s the fair Marion? Forgive my not asking sooner.”
“She’s shooting a comedy over in Fort Lee.”
“So you got your gal with you! That’s plumb perfect.”
The maître d’ reappeared leading a waiter, who was carrying a stick phone with an immensely long cord.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. There is a long-distance telephone call from Los Angeles, California, for Mr. Texas Walt Hatfield.”
“Excuse me a sec, Isaac. Like Ah say, they’re jest all over me like paint.”
He took the phone, held it to his mouth and ear. “Yup. This is Texas Walt. Who’s there?”
He sat up straight, covered the mouthpiece, and muttered to Bell, “It’s Mr. Andrew Rubenoff. He owns the moving picture studio—Yes, suh, Mr. Rubenoff. Yes, suh. Yes, suh . . . You don’t say . . . Ah see. O.K. Thank you . . . What’s that? Hang on, he’s right here.”
Texas Walt passed the telephone to Isaac Bell. “Damnedest thing. Just let me out of my contract temporarily. Now he wants to talk to you. His name’s Rubenoff. Andrew Rubenoff.”
Bell took the telephone, said, “Thank you, Uncle Andy,” and hung up.
Texas Walt stared. A slow grin creased his craggy face. “Isaac. You son of a gun.”
“I thought you were itching to get in a real gunfight.”
“Is he really your uncle?”
“I just call him that to razz him. He’s an old banking friend of my father’s.”
“Well, you got me. What are you going to do with me?”
“Put you to work.”
They were interrupted again, by ladies wanting Walt’s autograph. He signed their books and dazzled them with a smile. When they had gone, he said to Bell, “Ah hope you aren’t fixing to have me do any masquerading. This old face has gotten too famous to operate incognito.”
“I’m going to hide you in plain sight.”
“How?”
