Murder on the Yellow Brick Road by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online

a Christmas stocking if you fed him that crap.”
    We looked at each other for a few minutes. Behind us, cops were scurrying around the big, dirty wooden room which was about twenty degrees warmer than the outside. Two were drinking coffee and had their heads close to a thin black kid. The cops’ faces were gentle and they were whispering, but whatever the hell they were whispering was scaring the hell out of the thin kid. A couple of detectives were on phones, and two guys were handcuffed together and sitting on a bench waiting. One of the guys had no shirt on, but he was wearing a tie. He looked content if not happy. The other guy slouched and tried to act as if he had nothing to do with the shirtless smiler. The sloucher had a massive bruise over his right eye.
    â€œYou can see him,” Seidman finally said. He was feeling generous. He had helped crack a murder in less than three hours. It would look good on everyone’s record including my brother’s. Seidman’s face oozed confidence.
    He led me to my brother’s office, and I walked in. The office was a small cubicle in one corner of the big squad room. The noise from the cops and robbers was barely muffled by the thin wooden walls. There was enough room inside for the battered desk, a steel file cabinet and two chairs. On one of the chairs sat a little man whose feet didn’t touch the floor.
    Wherthman wore a light grey suit and dark tie. His hair was dark and slightly mussed. He had a little black mustache and a fresh red bruise on his right cheek. I could guess who put it there. His face didn’t look young, but it was hard to tell. I guessed he was about my age.
    â€œMr. Wherthman, I’m Toby Peters.”
    I put out my hand. He didn’t move his, and I put mine down.
    â€œI told the other policeman that I had nothing to do with this murder,” Wherthman said. His voice was high and his accent was clear and Germanic. Not only did the cops have an assful of evidence against him, he looked like and sounded like a miniature Hitler. With war fever running high and Roosevelt running on a fear campaign to keep us out of Europe, Wherthman would be about as popular in Los Angeles as another earthquake.
    â€œI’m not a policeman,” I said sitting next to him so that the difference between us wouldn’t be quite so ridiculous. “I’m working for your lawyer to help you.”
    He looked puzzled.
    â€œI have no lawyer.”
    â€œYou will as soon as I call a friend at M.G.M.,” I said softly. The room wasn’t bugged, but Seidman was probably standing outside the door to find out what the hell I was doing.
    â€œWhy should anyone at M.G.M. want to help me?” Wherthman said evenly. It was a damn good question.
    â€œThey don’t like publicity,” I explained and before he could question it I went on, “and besides, can you afford a lawyer and do you know one?”
    He said he didn’t know a lawyer and had little money. The pay for Oz was long gone and he had been getting along by doing translations from German for a project at The University of Southern California. He added that he wasn’t German, but Swiss. I didn’t think most Americans would recognize the difference.
    â€œWhy did you kill Cash?” I asked.
    â€œI did not kill him,” Wherthman said looking up at me. “That is what I told the policeman, the fat.…” he groped for a word to describe Phil, but his English failed him.
    â€œPig?” I tried. Wherthman liked it.
    â€œYes, pig. He threatened to step on me. He hit me. Can the police do that? Can they hit someone in this country?”
    â€œThey may not, but they can and do,” I explained.
    Wherthman thought it over for a few seconds and indicated with a shake of his head that he understood the distinction. I was beginning to like him.
    â€œThe evidence is pretty strong,” I said. “You were seen talking to Cash this