“I have to tell you that I’m totally unprepared for your visit,” the somewhat prissy man holding the gun on Tom said. “I mean, it’s not as if we weren’t expecting you to break in here to get your hands on the files, it’s just that I honestly thought you’d do it at night, which is when most normal people break into places.”
Tom said nothing, watching the man as he slowly edged his way to a large mahogany desk in the corner where he opened the top drawer and fumbled around for something inside.
“Here it is, exactly the thing I was looking for,” he said removing a long, thin silencer and expertly screwing it onto the barrel of his gun. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Clifton Webb, the actor.
“Little did any of us know,” he continued, “that you’d be so courageous as to try it in broad daylight. I really do commend you for your bravery, but it does present something of a timing problem. Oh well, I guess we’ll just have to kill you a little earlier than originally scheduled.”
Tom assumed he was going to let him have it right then and there seeing as he’d attached the silencer. But the man seemed to read Tom’s mind and dispelled him of the thought.
“Oh, don’t worry about this old thing,” he said, referring to the silencer. “I’m just taking a few precautions in case you should become rambunctious.”
“Smart,” Tom said. “By the way, where’s the file on Bradford?”
“Bradford?”
“Yeah, you know, your buddy. Bradford. Or are you going to say you never heard of him?”
“Actually, I wasn’t going to say any such thing,” the man said casually while picking up the phone and dialing a number. “Excuse me a moment, won’t you?”
Tom measured the distance between himself and the man with his eyes and decided not to rush him. In the six or so feet that separated them, there was ample room for this guy to put at least three slugs into him. And he doubted very much he would hesitate.
“Guess whom I’ve got here?” the man said into the receiver. “The editor’s friend, Driscoll. Caught him with his nose in the files.” He then lapsed into rapid German. Tom stood patiently waiting for him to get off the line and even though he couldn’t really understand what was being said, he could sort of guess that the subject of the conversation was his execution and the disposal of his body.
“Which one were you calling, Himmler or Goebbels?” Tom asked when the conversation finally ended and the man had put down the receiver.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the man said, keeping the gun trained on him. “As a matter of fact, the people I just called are on their way over here right now. They’re so excited about seeing you. It’ll be like a reunion. Seems some of them were dreadfully injured when they tried to detain you recently.”
“I guess they were more delicate than they looked,” Tom said. “You have to be a lot tougher if you’re running a sabotage ring.”
“Oh, please,” the man replied. “A sabotage ring. That’s so naive and dramatic. You sound just like someone out of those awful spy serials this studio is so fond of producing.”
“Well, if it’s not sabotage, what is it?” Tom asked.
“I like to think of it as a corrective measure bravely carried out by a small but effective number of dedicated and professional film people in all walks of the industry who feel it is their responsibility to seize, or shall I say, to rescue, the studios from the Semitic faction running them today and to reflect, through the cinematic medium, a purer and truer vision so embodied in the Germanic ideal.”
“Does that mean the end of the cowboy picture as we know it?” Tom asked.
The man ignored him and went on. He seemed to be on a soapbox and probably couldn’t have stopped even if he had wanted to. His eyes gleamed as he spoke.
“Until our goal is realized,” he said, “we shall continue operating as a special arm in the war effort, undermining production whenever possible. Creating wastage in time, money and materials. Exposing highly regarded stars and other Hollywood luminaries for their sexual misconduct and perversions. Dealing with other big stars by other means, usually fatal. Lowering morale and causing general mayhem and confusion in any number of ways. And, oh yes, getting rid of troublesome characters who get in our way such as the talkative Erne Parkin. Of course you knew he had actual evidence, and even photographs, of our operation and was going to the FBI with it?”
“Well, I kinda figured Erne had been up to something like that,” Tom said.
“As a matter of fact, he had enough evidence and names to destroy us,” the man commented. “So naturally we had to silence him.”
“Yeah, well, Erne always did have a big mouth, that’s for sure,” Tom replied. “He was always mouthing off about your Uncle Adolph and what a crazy buffoon he was.”
As intended, Tom had hit a nerve. He could see it on the man’s face. He took advantage of his discomfort. “Somehow, I don’t see your goose-stepping clown of a dictator making his way up Hollywood Boulevard, “Tom continued. “Except maybe on his way to be hanged.”
“Keep it up and I won’t wait for the others to arrive. I’ll finish you off myself,” the man threatened.
Tom knew very little about psychology, but he was aware that this man, who was so cool at first, had a low boiling point and could be pushed over the edge. That’s what he wanted. Without getting killed in the process. If he could goad him to move a few inches closer to him, he had a good chance of overpowering him. Except that he was no high kicker the way Douglas was. Still, it was certainly worth a try.
Remembering the blood-curdling scream Douglas had let out during the ambush on the road, Tom suddenly let out one of his own, not nearly as good as the one Douglas had produced, but effective nevertheless. The man was startled sufficiently enough so that Tom could execute his next move.
This was a well-timed kick which hit the man’s gun with perfect precision, knocking the weapon free and causing him to go after it. He never made it. Tom let him have a chop to the back of the head that sent him sprawling.
“Say,” the man asked from his prone position, “what do you call that stuff you just pulled on me?”
“Oh that. It’s the ancient art of self-defense known as karate.”
“Oh,” he said, and seemingly satisfied by Tom’s answer, promptly passed out.
“Thanks, Douglas,” Tom muttered to himself as he scooped up and pocketed the gun.
Figuring that there could only be a few minutes left before the tough guys would barge in, he decided to take a stab at getting the police involved. He quickly dialed the operator and asked for the Hollywood precinct. Even before the connection was made, Tom knew how stupid he was going to sound. When the desk sergeant got on, Tom pitched right in. “Look,” he said, “I don’t have a lot of time to talk about this, but there’s a group of saboteurs here in Hollywood, and I just knocked one of them out. But there’s going to be a bunch more running in here any minute now.”
“Yeah, well thanks, buddy,” the sergeant on the other end answered predictably. “We get a couple of hundred calls a day from people going on about spies and saboteurs. Why don’t you drop in at the station next week and file a complaint?”
It was obvious that arguing with the cop was futile. Life in Los Angeles these days was a paranoid proposition at best with the general population suspicious of just about everything and everyone. He could understand the cop treating him like just another phone crank. Even to his own ears he sounded like just another phone crank. And if he were to trade places with the cop, he would’ve reacted the same way. Tom put the receiver back on the hook.
He then left the records office and passed the receptionist. Much to his amazement, she was still reading her novel and didn’t look up. The book must have been very engrossing for her to have missed his scream.
The secretary into whose office he had entered earlier was busy working at her desk when he returned for his exit from the building.
“Drop in again,” she said, flirtatiously.
“Thanks,” he said, climbing out the window, “maybe I will.”
He had just lowered himself to the ground and was shielded by foliage when he saw the mugs arrive. The same ones that had tried to get him earlier. He was pleased some of them had broken arms and bandaged heads and weren’t moving quite as fast as they had last time he’d seen them. In fact, they looked downright funny as they piled into the building.
But to Tom there was nothing funny about this. They’d killed Erne and thinking over the information he’d got from the man with the gun, they’d done a lot more damage besides that. And were continuing to do so.
But who’d believe it?