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

morning. You’ve fought with him in the past. You’ve threatened him. The police found blood, probably his, in your apartment.”
    â€œI have no apartment,” he corrected. “I have a single room in a boarding house. I did not go to the studio this morning. I took a walk early as I always do. Perhaps witnesses could be found who saw me. Several people no doubt did.”
    â€œDo you know any of their names?” I asked. “Anyone you see regularly?”
    He didn’t know any names and couldn’t think of anyone he saw regularly. He couldn’t explain how a witness had heard Cash use his name. He couldn’t explain why someone would be using the costume he wore in the movie. He couldn’t explain how blood got on some of his clothes in his room.
    â€œSo you think you’ve been framed?” I concluded.
    He looked puzzled.
    â€œYou think someone is trying to make it look as if you committed this murder,” I explained.
    â€œYes, of course,” he said. We sat for a few seconds listening to a deep voice outside the office thundering over the general noise. The voice told someone to sit still or lose an arm.
    â€œWhy would anyone want to do that Mr. Wherthman?” I asked.
    â€œI do not know,” he said, “but it is being done.”
    â€œHow well did you know Cash?” I tried.
    Wherthman shifted slightly and slid forward so his toes would touch the floor. His shoes were worn but nicely polished.
    â€œI knew him better than I would have wanted,” he said. “We were forced to live in proximity when the movie was being made. We were placed in adjacent rooms in the same hotel. He was ill-mannered and vulgar. He provoked me because I had an accent, was educated and taller than he. Even with my accent, my English was more precise than his. Precise is the proper word, is it not?”
    â€œIt is the proper word,” I said.
    â€œDid he fight with any other little person?”
    â€œI see,” said Wherthman, “Yes. Perhaps someone of my size is attempting to blame me.”
    â€œI don’t know how many little people there are around Los Angeles,” I said, “but there can’t be a whole hell of a lot and the list of those who knew Cash and the studio well enough to get a costume this morning must be even smaller. Finding a patsy would be a good idea.”
    â€œPatsy,” he mulled, “I thought this was a female name?”
    â€œIt is, but it’s also a kind of slang for someone to take the blame for something you did.”
    Wherthman took all this seriously. I could see him storing it for future use.
    â€œThat would be the Canadian,” said Wherthman. “The one with the nasty temper. He also did not like me and was a confidant of the one called Cash. I think confidant is the right word for they were not friends, but they were much together, sometimes arguing, sometimes fighting. They spoke of going into some business together when the movie was finished.”
    â€œWhat was the Canadian’s name?” I asked.
    Wherthman couldn’t remember. He gave me a vague description, but I needed more. It wasn’t a great lead, but it was something. I asked him to try to remember the name, and he said he would.
    â€œDon’t tell the police anything more,” I said, reaching out my hand. He took it this time. His hand was small but not soft, and his grip was firm even though his fingers barely reached past my palm.
    â€œI will not,” he said standing.
    â€œThey’re going to charge you with murder and book you. Tell them your lawyer will be in touch with them. And I have another bit of advice. Shave that mustache. It makes you look a little like Hitler.”
    His finger went up to his face.
    â€œI did not think of that,” he said. “I have no wish to look like Hitler. I will do as you suggest. Mr. Peters?”
    He had only heard my name once and in a tough situation but