A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

caught Fields’s attention. He examined the policeman leaning into the window as if he might have discovered a worthy opponent.
    “What were you doing in Nepal?” asked Fields.
    “Searching for the elusive Tarabini bird,” said the cop.
    “Find him?” asked Fields.
    “Found him, ate him,” said the cop. “Tasted like chicken. Everything tastes like chicken—rattlesnake, alligator, chickens. You’re W. C. Fields.”
    “I confess,” said Fields. “But I categorically deny having outstanding warrants in Altoona.”
    “Don’t figure you do,” he said. “But I can’t let you sit here parked in front of the bank. Chief comes by, sees you idling here, wonders what a big Caddy has on its mind and where the hell I am. Do my best to avoid the chief. Got two boys in the service. One in the Pacific. One flying missions over Germany.”
    “See that woman?” said Fields, pointing. “Two kids. Think she’s a German spy. After the plans at the bombsight factory.”
    “Bombsight factory?” asked the cop.
    “You don’t even know about it,” Fields said. “You should have a long talk with my barber.”
    “Woman with the two kids is Kitty Sinnet,” said the cop. “Family’s lived here for as far back as her great-grandpa. Her husband’s a commander on a P T boat. Don’t think she’s a spy.”
    “Bismarck probably planted the family here half a century ago in anticipation of the propitious moment,” muttered Fields.
    “Good to meet you, Mr. Fields,” the cop said. “Now, if you’ll move your vehicle …”
    “I’ll do better,” Fields said. “I’ll enter the banking establishment and engage in a transaction of some substance.”
    “That’ll be fine,” the cop said, stepping back as Fields opened his door onto the street and almost into a passing moving-van.
    “Look where you’re going,” Fields shouted, waving his cane. “Man’s driving in an alcoholic stupor.”
    If he was talking to the cop with the two kids in the war, Fields was too late. The cop was gone.
    Gunther stayed in the car as I got out on the curb side and hurried after Fields, who was groping in his pocket for something. When we got across the street, he pulled out his fake clip mustache, attached it to his nose, and pushed his straw hat forward in an attempt to shade his eyes.
    “How do I look?” he whispered.
    “Like W. C. Fields with a silly mustache and his hat pushed forward,” I said.
    “You’re a detective,” he answered.
    “It doesn’t take a detective,” I said. “What are we doing?”
    “Looks as if Hipnoodle isn’t showing up,” he said. “His clue was a sham, a deception designed to throw us off the scent while he went ahead to Beloit or Muscatine. We will enter this establishment and I will remove my assets and consider our next move in the chase.”
    I shrugged. We entered. It was a bigger bank than the one in Lancaster, bigger and newer. Business wasn’t brisk, but there were a few customers at the quartet of barred teller windows on the right. Fields headed straight for a closed wooden door displaying the words, Mr. Cameron Farber, Vice-President, in gold leaf.
    Fields knocked once and entered before receiving a reply. I was at his side.
    The office was small, a lot larger than mine, but small by most human standards. Behind the desk sat a man with a round, pink face, wearing a dark suit. Across from him sat a customer, a woman who couldn’t have been a minute under eighty years old.
    “I must insist on putting an end to this hanky-panky,” Fields said. “Farber, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I know I’m ashamed of myself.”
    “What are you talking about?” asked Farber rising. “What do you want?”
    “Business,” Fields said. “Not monkey business like you. This woman is old enough to be your mother. Have you no decency?”
    “Mrs. Boyston …,” Farber began apologetically, but the old woman held up a hand to stop him as she stood.
    “This is W. C. Fields,” she said.