Gumshoe

water.

Days earlier:

This is a story about a very lucky man, me, John L. Peterman, Esq., at your service. Esquire, you ask?—I consider myself an English gentleman—more on that later.

Peterman Investigations, the sign in bold gold letters adorns the frosted glass door of my second story office on Melrose Avenue in Hollywood, California.

Before we get carried away, a little background should suffice. At present, yours truly is self-employed as a private investigator working odd, and I mean odd, jobs— tracing would-be meandering husbands or wives. It's a difficult occupation at best—long hours, low pay, with sometimes unsatisfying results. My current case, however, is much more interesting. You be the judge.

Today, Wednesday, October 13, 1948 is, I think, my lucky day—lucky day you ask?

Well, my supposed turn of good fortune begins today at 10:10 a.m., as I sip a second cup of strong black coffee and puff on a cigarette—the third of six butts I'm allotted each day—trying to quit, you see.

A tall, fortyish, attractive lady enters my humble office. She is a rich society dame for sure; it's written all over her—I have a keen eye for these things. She's wearing expensive clothes, a form-fitting grey tweed business suit, pillbox black hat and a thin black veil trying to hide magnificent dark eyes; a fox wrap surrounds broad shoulders. The mysterious lady steps forward, removes her leather gloves and adjusts her matching shoulder bag.

I snuff out the cigarette and go around my desk to greet her, offering my hand, I'm John L. Peterman, Esq., Ma'am. How may I help you?

Abigail Wilson, she says, switching her gloves to her left hand and taking mine. I would like to hire you, Mr. Peterman, you come highly recommended.

Do tell—please sit down—coffee? I am hesitant to ask who recommended me.

Thank you, black, she says, giving me a curious look. I hold a chair beside my desk for her, I'm always a gentleman.

Being the graceful host, I pour a cup of steaming brew, place it before her and move back to take my seat.

Thank you, she sips the hot coffee, and with a polite smile begins, I umm ... I ...

Take your time, Abigail.

Sir, please address me as Mrs. Wilson, she scolds.

Mrs. Wilson, I say—I enjoy a little tongue-lashing every now and again, please continue ...

I want my husband followed ... he's—um—he is— this is difficult to say—he's cheating on me—I think?

I see.

No, you don't!—I mean, how could you? ... Oh, this is so exasperating; I'm beside myself with doubts ... She sniffs and draws a dainty handkerchief from her purse, dabs her nose and begins to pour her broken heart out to me. Well, you know how it goes with these things. I'm a solemn man—that's true, listening to her tale of woe, offering my sympathies and understandings with nods of displeasure as she continues for the better part of the hour.

I go to her side to console her when emotion overtakes her, I grasp her hand, give my signature, I have everything under control, smile, and pat her hand.

She whimpers and looks down.

I'll get to the bottom of this, rest assured, I say squeezing her soft feminine hand. When would you like me to start?

Immediately! she exclaims, tears dripping down her flushed cheeks.

Okay, I say in a low and understanding voice, pause, then continue, my fees are as follows—twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses and ...

Fine.

Of course, there's a minimum, a one-hundred-dollar deposit—for services rendered, I add, thinking, that her expenses were not a paramount factor.

Cash or check? she sniffs.

I prefer cash, I answer, flashing my most sincere smile.

Mrs. Wilson opens her purse and retrieves several items, among which were a four-by-five black-and-white photo of her alleged philandering husband and two one-hundred-dollar bills, and unfolds a sheet of paper with the all-important list of pertinent information—the supposed dallying man's physical description, work information, etc., and the car he drives, license number too, along with her personal calling card stapled at the bottom of the page—efficient!

She takes a deep breath, tries to compose herself and says, I think he's going to rendezvous with his slut ... um ... I mean, paramour ... this very morning. She gasps for air, taking a second breath and continues, Time is of the essence—you'll have to move quickly!

Johnny on the spot, Mrs. Wilson, I chuckle. I know—bad move, but ...

This is not funny! she chastises.

Sorry.

There's a bar directly across the street from his office—a perfect place to conduct surveillance, she says.

Mrs. Wilson, let me handle the details, I say, gazing at the list she gave me, Harshberger and Sons Construction and Engineering—oh, just down the street on Melrose—how very convenient.

He usually takes an early lunch—goes out about eleven-forty-five for a quick bite. Ah—um—I'm sure that's when he ... she stumbles with her words.

I see. Well, I'll contact you later ... I begin.

Mr. Peterman, she says, the reason I suggested the bar across the street was because I have a confidant on the inside—an accomplice, if you must ...

Please, I'll handle all surveillance activity.

She's a person that I trust implicitly—she'll alert me when Arnold leaves the office and, in turn, I'll alert you!

"Mrs. Wilson, let me be perfectly clear—leave your friend, accomplice, whatever out of this—it's too important and personal to share with outsiders—we do not, and I repeat, do not want this investigation to be compromised by an amateur—okay!?" I exclaim.

She stands, clasps her hands over her face, and begins to sob. Well, chivalry exists—I come to her side, take her into my arms in a firm embrace—she is tall, at least six feet in three-inch pumps and me? Not so tall—five-nine in socks, maybe five-ten and a half with my lifts on—thank God, I'm wearing them at this particular moment—vain, I know—what can I say?

Now, now, I console, leave everything to me—go home and try to rest, I'll be in touch.

You're too kind, Mr. Peterman, thank you, she sniffs as I release her.

I walk her to the door. I'll get my car and be on the case in a few minutes—please, just go home, Mrs. Wilson.

She walks in a slow pace down the corridor, glances over her shoulder, trying to give a brave smile.

I check my watch—11:20 a.m.—the phone rings, Peterman Investigations.

Johnny! my excited fiance exclaims, Let's have lunch.

Can't sweetheart—on a case—'gotta go—call you later, I say. Love you.

Love you, too, she giggles.

Joanie, my beloved, it's complicated—I'll have more on this delicate subject later. A thirty-two-year-old virgin—yikes—it's a long story.

I grab my keys, hat, camera bag and the all-important pertinent case information from my desk and am on my way—yes, a star-studded day, at least in my mind. A quirk in my personality—I can't help it, I give my case subjects celebrity names—being here in Hollywood with movie stars floating all around—it gives me something to ponder as I'm sitting on endless stake-outs—occupational hazards for us private dicks. I compare these personalities with everyday people—the people in question—my clients and contacts. It gives me relief from boredom while plying my trade as a top-notch investigator. Mrs. Abigail Wilson brings actress Mary Astor to mind.

No time to be glum—minutes later, I tool down Melrose in my 1937, faded-black Chevy business coupe. A brand new maroon Buick convertible, top down, whizzes by heading in the opposite direction. It's driven by none other than the purported womanizer, Mr. Wilson. I make an illegal but fast U-turn and follow in hot pursuit. See, being observant, I spotted the Buick first and then the wind blowing in Arnold Wilson's blond hair—chalk one up for me.

Our suspect is driving fast on his westward jaunt, making one traffic light only to stop at the next. Hurry, hurry as he goes to join a lover—supposed lover—for all I know he could be off for a game of golf with an important business associate—the weather here in the Southland is perfect in October for such activities.

I stay three car lengths behind the impatient Arnold— don't want to be spotted—I read mystery stories and enjoy watching detective movies—Humphrey Bogart is my favorite gumshoe—The Maltese Falcon comes to mind.

The impatient Mr. Wilson is bouncing in his seat trying to see what's holding up the traffic. Me? Well, I'm just along for the ride—a two-hundred-dollar ride at the moment. He moves when the light changes and, after several turns, pulls into a parking lot next to an older red-brick four-story office building on Pico Boulevard—one that has seen better times. I make a mental note of this— my memory is good, but I carry a 3 x 5 wire-ring notebook and pencil for such entries.

I drive past the building and park facing east—a moment later Mr. Wilson appears from the side of the building walking at a brisk pace and goes into the main entrance. I'm being as discrete as possible, in pursuit, as I pause just inside the door to observe Mr. Wilson standing alone, he's facing forward as the elevator doors close—I watch the floor-indicator dial above the elevator door until it points to '3' and stops. I locate the staircase and, with the speed of a track runner, leap up the stairs, two at a time, and alight on the third floor landing ... breathless.

Did I mention luck? Well, luck was with me—I take the hallway on my right and move with caution down the darkened corridor to the end. Some work is in progress, as the flooring is covered with a drop cloth. It's quiet for an office building, but it is lunchtime. I stop at the last door on my left where I hear telltale sounds—laughter and girly giggles coming from inside. I try the door, finding it locked. I am prepared for such obstacles; I get my lock pick set from my inside breast pocket and, with two picks, in just a few seconds, slip inside.

The sparse office seems to be empty, but sounds emanate from my left, a second room, door ajar, so I tiptoe toward the jubilation and the laughter to peek inside—it pays to wear rubber-soled shoes.

The blinds are drawn making viewing the goings on of the adventurous couple difficult.

Oh, Arnold—oh Arnold—you animal, an excited lady's voice rings out after a few manly grunts.

I move back, get my flash camera and step inside the room calling, Mr. Wilson!

Lo and behold—Lord Almighty!—a sight to see in the flash from the camera, as the couple engaged in an odd coupling turns to the sound of my voice. I'm thinking— smile, you're being photographed. I make a turn and a quick exit, take the stairway up to the roof and wait. I set the camera back into the bag, remove my hat and lift the bag over my head, setting it down on the roof. I'm perspiring from the recent activity. I take a few deep breaths, don my hat and sunglasses—not a very effective disguise, I'm afraid? Several minutes later, I move to the parking side of the roof and peer over the edge just in time to view the illustrious lover, Mr. Arnold Wilson, getting into his Buick. He's in a great rush as he peels rubber, screeching a hasty exit from the parking lot, zooming away. I haven't decided what celebrity name to lay on him.

I feel that the lady in question will soon follow so I grab my camera bag and suit jacket and make a hasty rooftop retreat. My jacket hangs over the camera bag as I take the elevator down—it stops on the third floor—an attractive young woman—a flaming redhead enters, face flushed crimson—voila—the vixen. She doesn't make eye contact, good, she did not recognize me—as I mentioned before—luck is with me!

Outside, with a quick step, she heads for the parking side of the building. I, in turn, go to my Chevy and climb behind the wheel. On a whim, I make a quick decision, as she appears driving a blue, 1941, Plymouth two-door sedan and heads west—I make another illegal U-turn and follow her to her digs several blocks away. How easy could this be? She parks in front of a newer, small apartment building—it's two stories, one row of units above the other. I pass her, make another of my U-turns on this pleasant morning—I hope the authorities do not catch me! I'm positioned directly across the street, a good spot from which to observe the tantalizing young woman.

She's sitting there, probably contemplating her next move. I get out and walk to the sidewalk, lean on my passenger side door with my right foot resting on the running-board, and light my fourth cigarette—it's been a busy morning. I'm enjoying my smoke, puffing away, nonchalant—why do I like this hazardous activity so much—smoking or spying? I enjoy watching women, fascinated by their gestures—call me odd. The young woman is in the process of painting fresh makeup on her lovely face. After a meticulous application of lipstick, rouge, eye liner and mascara, she departs the Plymouth, going through the ritual of smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. Amazing, what an exquisite woman, I think to myself, as this youthful beauty heads up the driveway on spiked heels, a balancing act no man would dare—the tall, slim damsel steps over to the mailboxes next to the stairway. The noonday sun sparkles on her shoulder-length red locks which she swishes from side to side.

Now I'm wondering, what she's up to? Fresh makeup—another John waiting—perplexed am I? She opens and retrieves her mail and with grace, takes the stairs, on her rise to the second floor, hips swaying— erotic and sexy. My eyes follow her to the last apartment on the landing; she enters and closes the door. Should have snapped a photo of the lady—damn. She's a Rhonda Fleming or Maureen O'Hara lookalike.

It's all in the details—I'm sure you've heard. I take my notebook from my jacket pocket and spend the next ten minutes relaxing, jotting down important information: addresses, the license number on the Plymouth, and times of preceding events—it helps to keep things straight. With that accomplished, it's time