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

cheap and do all right.”
    He was telling me more about himself that I needed to know, but I’ve run into a lot of people like that. They’ll give you their life stories and a cup of Hill’s Brothers if you’ll just sit and listen. I’m a good listener. It may be the thing I’m best at.
    â€œAbout yesterday, the morning?” I asked.
    â€œRight,” he said finishing a glass of milk in a long gulp. “I was in the studio to deliver some pictures I’d taken and walked past these two midgets arguing.”
    â€œHow close were you?” I asked. The coffee was bitter, but I kept drinking.
    â€œAbout ten feet,” he said. “Walked right past them. I told the cops. I heard them arguing, and one of them had an accent, a German accent. The other one, the one in the soldier suit, called him Gunther. That’s all I heard.”
    â€œCould you identify either of the midgets again?” I tried.
    â€œNo,” he said finishing his toast and looking around for something else to eat. I though he’d give the plate a try, but instead he motioned to the waitress who knew what he wanted and brought more milk, toast and jam. “Both the little guys were wearing makeup and costumes, and I didn’t really look at them. I was tempted to break them up, but they weren’t actually fighting and it was none of my business.”
    â€œWeren’t you surprised to see them in Oz costumes?”
    â€œNo,” he said with a shake of his head. “I know they still do occasional publicity shots with the midgets. I’ve even taken a few myself for Mr. Hoff. The midgets get a day’s fee for posing and so do I for a few quick prints.”
    â€œDid you see anyone else when you passed the arguing midgets?” I’d finished my coffee and had a refill before I could stop the waitress, who was happy for any excuse to come back to our booth and gawk at Grundy.
    â€œNo, no one else was in sight,” he said. His fresh order of toast was gone and he wiped his mouth with a napkin.
    â€œLast question,” I said reaching in my pocket for money. “What time did this happen?”
    â€œA little after eight, maybe a quarter after at the latest. Hey, I’ll take the check.”
    He reached for the check but I pulled it out of his reach. He had reached fast. He may have had muscles like blocks of wood, but they didn’t slow him down.
    â€œI’m on an expense account,” I explained. “Breakfast is on Louis B. Mayer.”
    He knew how to accept a free breakfast graciously. I paid the moonstruck waitress and walked back down Melrose with Grundy.
    â€œMy car’s down here,” I said. We shook hands.
    â€œIf there’s anything else I can do, let me know,” he said. “And if you ever need any photo work in your business, here’s my card. I’ll work cheap.”
    The card read exactly like his door: “B. Nimble Grundy, Pictures Still and Moving.” It also had his address. I thanked him and watched him jog toward his office-home.
    It was Saturday and Grundy looked like a man who owned Saturdays. The day wasn’t quite mine though. Either Grundy was lying, which wasn’t likely, or the midget who killed Cash had faked a German accent. In which case, why had Cash called him Gunther? The other possibility was that Gunther was guilty. Or maybe Gunther had fought with Cash but not killed him. In which case he had simply lied to me, for which I couldn’t much blame him.
    My leads had almost run out. All I had left was Gable and the hope that Wherthman would remember the name of the other midget who had worked and fought with Cash. Both were slim. Something had to make sense, and I was heading in the right direction or there wouldn’t be two bullet holes in my Buick.
    Judy Garland had told me production was starting on Ziegfield Girl today so I headed for the studio. It wasn’t far from