Dead Stick (A Lucas Hallam Mystery Book 2) Read online

  "I'm not convinced that this episode today had anything to do with our other misfortunes," Swan said stubbornly. "But to answer your question, this is the fifth or sixth time we've had something happen to slow down production."

  "How much is this accident today goin' to hold you up?"

  Swan rubbed at the corner of his right eye as he thought. "Assuming that there's not much damage to the plane, it won't cause much of a delay. We'll probably get a few more shots in today, in fact. But if it had crashed and Hank had been killed… Well, it could have taken us several days at least to replace the machine. And there could have been some bad publicity along with it."

  "What were them other accidents that happened before?"

  McGinley said, "Nothing as major as what could have happened today, but they were bad enough. We've had cameras fail, film accidentally exposed, sets damaged—annoyances, but they've got us worried."

  "I still think you're seeing a conspiracy where none exists, Carl," Swan said. "I prefer to believe in bad luck. And it appears we have plenty of that."

  McGinley slammed his palm down on the table, an unusual display of violence from the producer. "Bad luck, my foot! What about Garrettson?"

  "He's a nuisance, I'll grant you that, but he's just a blowhard. You know that as well as I do."

  Hallam leaned forward. "Who's this Garrettson fella?"

  "B. W. Garrettson," McGinley said, looking like the name left a bad taste in his mouth, "is a dyed-in-the-wool bastard."

  "He's the leader of the local Ku Klux Klan," Swan added. "I don't remember what absurd title it is that he holds, but that's what it amounts to. He's been trying to stir up trouble for the studio ever since we started production on Death to the Kaiser!"

  Hallam frowned. "Never had any run-ins with those Klan boys, but I always thought it was colored folks they didn't get along with. Why would they have it in for a war picture?"

  "You saw the reason outside," McGinley said. "When they heard that we'd hired Wolf von Ottenhausen as a pilot and technical adviser, they said we were traitors."

  "The tall fella with the good-lookin' sister?"

  "You're very observant, Mr. Hallam," Swan said. "You picked up on the family resemblance right away. But don't tell me you've never heard of the Steel Wolf?"

  "Reckon maybe I saw the name in the newspapers, but I don't recollect any of the particulars."

  "Count Wolfram von Ottenhausen was one of Germany's leading aces during the war," McGinley said. "He had over sixty confirmed kills and flew in the same flying circus as the Red Baron, Von Richthofen. When we decided we wanted someone to make sure we portrayed the German side of the war accurately, there was no better choice than Wolf."

  "What about that Von Richthofen fella?"

  Swan smiled thinly. "That would be a touch difficult, Mr. Hallam. You see, the Red Baron went down in flames before the end of the war. Count von Ottenhausen was the leading German ace to survive the fighting, in fact."

  "How the hell'd he wind up in Hollywood?"

  "He made some pictures for UFA a couple of years ago and evidently became quite interested in the film business. He claims that he came to America because there were more opportunities for him here."

  "You don't believe him?" Hallam asked.

  Swan shrugged. "I suppose he could be telling the truth. Actually, though, he's not a very good actor. I suspect that he was starting to find it difficult to get work in Germany."

  "How's he been doin' over here?" Hallam didn't have any concrete reason for asking these questions about Von Ottenhausen, other than the fact that he was still trying to get a handle on this situation. He hadn't even decided yet whether there was a case for him to take.

  "Wolf is cooperative, takes direction fairly well, and looks good in costume," Swan replied, again smiling faintly. "That's all we're asking of him. Lorraine has been more of a problem than her brother."

  "She in the picture, too?"

  "We've used her as an extra. Quite a comedown for her, from the spoiled daughter of a noble Prussian family to a bit player in Hollywood. That's not an uncommon occurrence these days, however."

  That was true, Hallam knew. He had run into a couple of crown princes at the various studios, though their paths didn't cross often. Former members of European royalty didn't make too many Westerns. But most of them were glad for the work they did get.

  "So this Garrettson fella thinks you're doin' wrong by hirin' Germans to work on the picture," Hallam mused.

  McGinley nodded. "He and the rest of his sheet-wearing yahoos have paid us more than one visit. Garrettson's threatened to shut us down if we don't stop employing agents of the foreign menace, as he calls them."

  Hallam finished off the beer and set the mug on the table. "Sounds to me like that's your answer. Garrettson must be behind all the fuss you've been havin'. Why don't you just get the cops to handle him?"

  "For one thing," Swan said, "I'm not sure that the police in this town don't agree with Garrettson. For that matter, the whole country has a long memory when it comes to things German."

  Hallam couldn't disagree with that. He'd made a few pictures over at Fox with Charlie Gebhardt, who was a former cowboy from the 101 Ranch and a decorated veteran of a couple of wars. But now he was calling himself Buck Jones because the executives at Fox didn't want to put a German name on a marquee or a lobby poster. Hallam remembered, too, how folks back home in Texas felt about the Alamo and Mexicans. There was no getting around the fact that people had long memories when it came to bad things.

  "You could put a stop to what Garrettson's doing, Lucas," McGinley urged. "He's a bully, just a lot of hot air. I know you could take care of him."

  "Might be I could put the fear o' God into him," Hallam agreed. "But I don't know if that'd stop a fella like him for very long. Some folks, you can't really change their minds."

  "I don't care what Garrettson thinks. I just want him to leave us alone."

  Swan was looking at Hallam with a thoughtful expression on his face. Now, he leaned forward and said, "Don't I know you from somewhere, Mr. Hallam? I mean, I know that you're a private detective, but is it possible that we've met in some other capacity?"

  Hallam grinned. "I do a little picture work now and then. I was a ridin' extra in that Foreign Legion movie you made last year and did a bit in your Revolutionary War picture the year before that."

  With a nod of recognition, Swan said, "I remember you now. I must say, Mr. Hallam, you didn't make a very convincing Arab. You handled your mount very well, though." Swan hesitated, then went on. "Were you on the set when I had that little disagreement with Bill Roland?"

  Hallam's grin grew wider. "I was one of the fellers who held you apart and kept you from killin' one another. Reckon that day was what they meant by creative differences."

  "Yes. Well, what do you say, Mr. Hallam?" Swan hurried on. "I'm still not convinced that we're being harassed by Garrettson and his cronies, but I suppose it's possible. Will you look into the matter for us?"

  "Twenty-five dollars a day and expenses, though I reckon there won't be many of those," Hallam said, making up his mind.

  "Done," Carl McGinley replied quickly, extending a hand to seal the bargain before either Hallam or Swan could back out. "I'll write a retainer check for you."

  Hallam shook his head. "We'll just settle up when the job's done, if that's all right with you."

  "Whatever you say, Lucas."

  The three men stood up, and Hallam said, "While I'm out here, you mind if I poke around a little, ask a few questions of the cast and crew?"

  "It's all right with me," McGinley said, looking to Swan and getting a nod of agreement. "I don't really understand why, though. B. W. Garrettson is our problem."

  "More'n likely. But happen it turns out he ain't. That means you got trouble closer to home."

  "You mean someone actually involved in the production could be trying to sabotage it?" Swan asked.

  "I've seen it happen," Hallam assu
red him.

  "Oh, that's very unlikely, I think."

  "You didn't think we had a problem to start with, Danby," McGinley pointed out. "You handle this investigation any way you like, Lucas. We won't try to tell you your job."

  "Just be sure that your job doesn't interfere with mine," Swan said, a touch of coolness in his voice. He'd cooperate to keep McGinley happy, Hallam knew, but only up to a point.

  They stepped out of the trailer and looked toward the field where the plane had made its forced landing. Several men were rolling it back toward the mock aerodrome. The other airplanes had landed not far away, and all of the pilots except for Wolf von Ottenhausen were clustered together, talking excitedly, no doubt trying to figure out exactly what had gone wrong.

  "Uh-oh," McGinley suddenly said. "Look."

  He pointed a pudgy finger toward the south, where a cloud of dust was boiling up along the dirt road leading to the location.

  "Who the devil could that be?" Swan muttered.

  Three cars drove up, stopping behind Hallam's old flivver. The doors of the vehicles popped open, and men began to climb out. All of them were pretty hefty, Hallam saw. Somehow, he wasn't surprised at McGinley's next words.

  "It's that bastard Garrettson," the producer said. "And it looks like he's brought the whole damned Klan with him."

  TWO

  When all the men had gotten out of the cars, they stalked forward, toward Hallam, McGinley, and Swan. They had spotted the producer and the director and had angry looks on their faces.

  The man in the lead was only medium height, but his thick arms and massive shoulders told how powerful he was. His broad face was flushed a brick red, but whether that was from heat, anger, or heavy drinking, Hallam didn't know. His features were sullen under a thick mass of curly brown hair. He wore the khaki clothes of a laborer.

  The men with him were physically imposing, some of them taller than others but all heavily muscled. Some of them wore suits, but most were dressed like their leader. They looked around the location with glares on their faces, ready for trouble.

  Hoping for trouble, in fact, if Hallam was any judge.

  The leader stopped in front of McGinley and Swan. He ignored Hallam as he scowled at the two moviemakers and snapped, "You boys changed your minds yet?"

  "Look, Garrettson," McGinley began hotly, "I'm getting tired of you and your goons coming in here and trying to intimidate us!"

  Garrettson smiled, but it was a shit-eatin' grin if Hallam had ever seen one. "We're just trying to show you the error of your ways, McGinley. You were the one who started it by hiring those Heinies. When we heard you were making a picture called Death to the Kaiser!, the boys and me thought you knew what you were doing."

  "We're attempting to make a film about the realities of war," Swan put in. "That requires some small balance in the points of view involved. Though I suppose I'm wasting my breath explaining subtleties like that to you, Garrettson."

  Garrettson's big hands clenched into fists. "You calling me stupid, you faggot?" The men waiting behind him stirred, sensing violence and blood.

  Swan started to take a step forward, but Hallam's big hand came down on his shoulder and stopped him. If it came to a fight, Garrettson would take Swan apart. "Just hold on there," Hallam said quietly to the director.

  "I won't allow that man to speak to me in that fashion," Swan replied, his voice shaking slightly with anger. "I can take care of myself, Mr. Hallam."

  Hallam glanced past Swan at McGinley and saw the producer give a quick, minuscule shake of his head. McGinley knew the same thing Hallam did—Swan was no match for the big Klansman.

  "Reckon you can," Hallam told him. "But why don't you let me start earnin' my money?"

  Swan considered for a few seconds, then nodded abruptly.

  Hallam turned to face Garrettson, who was watching him with an appraising stare. The stare turned into a smirk as Garrettson looked past Hallam. "Who's this old geezer, McGinley?" he asked. "Did you decide to hire a bodyguard for you and Swan?"

  Hallam hooked his thumbs in his belt and stood easy. "Name's Lucas Hallam," he said to Garrettson. "You'd be this fella B. W. Garrettson?"

  "That's right. What's it to you?"

  Hallam leaned his head toward the movie company. "You been botherin' these folks. I'd be obliged if you'd stop it."

  Garrettson's eyes narrowed. "Oh, you would, would you?"

  "In fact, I reckon you had something to do with a little accident they had out here a little while ago. Nearly got a man killed."

  "You're mighty free with those accusations, mister." Garrettson took a step closer. "What're you going to do about it?"

  Hallam had seen a lot of bullies in his time, men who thought they were something special with fists or guns. Some of them would back down when they saw you weren't afraid of them.

  Others had to be shown.

  Hallam reached up and rubbed his jaw with one bony-knuckled hand. "Reckon I'll have to pound some sense into that ugly skull of your'n, Garrettson," he said.

  Garrettson's face got even redder. He snarled a filthy name at Hallam and launched a punch, a long, looping blow that would have taken Hallam's head off if it had connected.

  Hallam moved smoothly to the side, feeling the wind of the fist's passage beside his ear. He snapped out the hand he had been using to rub his jaw, driving a wicked jab into Garrettson's face. The punch was more of a distraction than anything else, enraging Garrettson even more. He howled and threw another wild punch.

  Dodging that one, Hallam stepped in and buried his other fist in Garrettson's stomach. Breath puffed out of Garrettson's lungs as he doubled over in pain, but the burly Klansman had the presence of mind to lunge forward. His head butted into Hallam's middle, shoving him backward. The two men's feet tangled, and Hallam felt his balance going.

  Both of them sprawled in the dirt.

  Hallam rolled to the side as Garrettson's hands grabbed at him. He didn't want Garrettson getting those arms around him in a bear hug; Garrettson looked like he could squeeze the life out of a man in a matter of minutes. As he eluded Garrettson's grasp and surged back onto his feet, Hallam saw that they were surrounded now. The cast and crew of the picture were watching from one side of the battle, while Garrettson's men waited eagerly on the other side. Hallam was a little surprised that the other Klansmen hadn't turned this into a full-scale riot, but he guessed they were holding off until they saw what their leader was going to do.

  Garrettson climbed to his feet and charged like a maddened bull once again. Hallam felt a twinge of pain in his right knee as he spun out of the way. That knee had given him trouble for years, but it had never stopped him from fighting when he had to.

  Right now, he had to. This fight had gotten personal in a hurry.

  Hallam was waiting when Garrettson lunged at him again. He ducked under the punch the other man threw, put his shoulder into Garrettson's middle, and heaved up. Garrettson flew through the air over Hallam's back, landing with a crash in the dirt. He rolled over almost immediately and came up on all fours, but then he had to stop, head hanging, his torso heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

  Garrettson lifted his head after a moment and hauled himself to his feet. As he did so, one of his men stepped forward and pressed something into his hand. Hallam's eyes narrowed as he saw the metal tire tool gripped tightly in Garrettson's fingers. The weapon changed things.

  "You come at me with that thing and this ain't a friendly fight anymore, son," Hallam rasped.

  "It never was friendly, you old fool!" Garrettson started forward, lifting the tire tool.

  It was funny how loud the click of a pistol being cocked could be, even in the middle of a fight.

  Count Wolfram von Ottenhausen leveled the German army revolver at Garrettson and said, "I believe you should drop that and leave, before I'm forced to shoot you."

  Garrettson stopped in his tracks, obviously torn in his emotions. Caution warred with rage, and he shook from the in
ternal struggle.

  "I can handle this," Hallam said sharply to von Ottenhausen. "I fight my own fights."

  "Be my guest," the count said coolly. "If this barbarian is foolish enough to continue once he's dropped his weapon, so be it."

  Garrettson looked at his men, then at McGinley and Swan. "You bastards want a bloodbath, you're liable to get it!" he said hoarsely.

  Hallam had felt this kind of near hysteria in the air before. If the German shot Garrettson, his men would go crazy and attack the movie company, and then a lot of innocent people would wind up getting hurt. He muttered, "Oh, hell," and stepped forward.

  The move put him between Garrettson and von Ottenhausen. Before Garrettson could move, Hallam swiped his left hand at the tire tool, driving the weapon to the side. His right fist shot up, the knuckles crunching into Garrettson's jaw and snapping his head to the side. Garrettson's eyes rolled up, his knees buckled, and he pitched forward onto his face, out cold.

  Shaking his throbbing fist, Hallam glanced over his shoulder at the count and growled, "Put that damn gun up!" Without watching to see if von Ottenhausen did as he was told, Hallam turned back to the Klansmen, who were moving forward threateningly.

  Hallam bent over and grabbed Garrettson's collar, hauling the man to his feet and shoving him toward his followers. "Get him out of here," Hallam told them in cold tones. "This's all over."

  Two of the men caught Garrettson before he could fall again, and one of them said angrily, "The hell it is!"

  "You push it and somebody's goin' to get killed." The menace in Hallam's voice was simple and direct.

  The Klansman who had spoken glared for a moment longer, then jerked his head toward the cars. "Let's get out of here," he said to the others. "B.W. may need a doctor."

  They piled back into the cars, taking Garrettson's limp body with them, and a moment later the big vehicles disappeared into clouds of dust, just as they had arrived.

  Hallam examined his right hand, hoping he hadn't broken a knuckle. He had about decided that he hadn't when McGinley and Swan came hurrying up to him.