Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) Read Online Free PDF

dozen shaves ago, and a tussle with a comb made me look clean if not respectable. I tossed my towel carelessly over my shoulder and tried to whistle the music from the Andy Hardy movies. It usually made me feel better, but I couldn’t remember it. Instead of the happy face of Mickey Rooney, or Lewis Stone, I kept seeing the battered face of Ralph Howard.
    Gunther told me the news of the day while I had my coffee and went through a bowl of Shreddies with milk. I had to be careful with the amount of sugar I put on the spoon-sized shredded wheat since Mrs. Plaut, who might any moment come bursting into the room with some new demand, had most of my sugar ration. Closed doors did not slow Mrs. Plaut, and locked ones delayed her only a moment.
    I had four bottles of Spur Cola I’d picked up a few days earlier and would have washed the toast down with one, but I didn’t want to offend Gunther any more than I had to.
    “I continue to be perplexed by your Li’l Abner,” Gunther said, a perplexed look on his clean-shaven face. “Mammy Yokum has revealed this day in the newspaper that she has no concern for the rationing of gas for she runs her car on ‘corn leavin’s and strong coffee.’ I do not know what these corn leavin’s are, but I doubt if strong coffee could substitute for petrol.”
    Humor eluded Gunther. I explained the joke while I dressed in the same suit I had worn the night before. It was all I really had and I was down to my last fifteen dollars. Gunther nodded knowingly and shook his head to indicate that American humor was a continuing mystery to him.
    “I will clean up the dishes, please, Toby,” he said, neatly piling plates, bowls, and crumbs on his tray. I knew he preferred not to think of my less than sanitary cleaning methods. “Is there some way I can be of service in your investigation of the demise of Mr. Howard?”
    “The dirty little coward who smashed our Mr. Howard,” I said, tightening my tie. “When Jesse James retired he took the name of Howard, and a guy named Bob Ford shot him.”
    “I know of Jesse James,” Gunther nodded seriously. “And what became of this Robert Ford?”
    “Henry Fonda shot him in the sequel,” I said. “I’ll stay in touch, Gunther. Thanks for breakfast.” And out I went.
    Gunther would, neatly dressed, probably spend the day at his small desk translating into English from one of the six languages he knew. Gunther’s business had been booming since the war, mostly with government work. My business hadn’t fared as well. With war and death on a grand scale in ten countries, people were a little less interested in the homegrown one-on-one crime I dealt in.
    Maybe I could stretch out my few bucks for a week or take on a retainer from Anne to help me check on Ralph’s murder. I was going to do it anyway; I had a client. That reminded me. With the five from Joe Louis, I’d be up to twenty bucks, if he paid me. Who said there was no war boom in California?
    When I reached the top of the stairs, it was time for my daily choice. I either ran down and tried to outdash Mrs. Plaut’s curiosity, or I tiptoed in the hope that she wouldn’t hear me. The latter had not worked the night before in spite of her deafness, so I chose reckless abandon. I ran like hell to the door after hurrying down the steps. No Mrs. Plaut behind, no Mrs. Plaut on the porch. The sun was blazing and neighborhood kids were in school.
    I got in my car, hit the dashboard a few times in the hope of jarring the gas gauge into working, failed, and drove down Heliotrope. When I parked at No-Neck Arnie’s garage, Arnie stepped out from behind a Ford hoisted on a jack in the oily rear.
    “How’s it going, Arnie,” I said over my shoulder.
    “Making a dollar a minute,” he called back, which wasn’t far from the truth. The war was making a lot of people rich. A thought insisted on coming forward, reminding me of the security job at Grumman Aircraft. Salary, normal hours, easy work. Jack