A Fatal Glass of Beer Read Online Free Page B

mogo-on-the-gogo.”
    “Yes, operator. Do you have a listing for a Lester O. Hipnoodle?”
    I waited while she checked and then I nodded to Fields. We had a bingo. I wrote down the phone number and then asked, “May I have the address?”
    She gave it to me and I wrote it on the same envelope.
    “Thanks,” I said and hung up. And then to Fields: “New number. New address.”
    I told him the address and the number and, for one of the few times I was to know him over the next week, he sat completely silent and, for an instant, serious.
    “That is precisely one block from the home I left when I was a boy,” he said. “Hipnoodle is a fiend. He’s not only going to get me back to Philadelphia but into the part of my life spent as a vagabond child, the most illustrious in that city since Benjamin Franklin, and the most unpleasant.”
    “Sorry,” I said.
    He sighed and said, “What now?”
    “Hipnoodle is trying very hard to be found,” I said.
    I picked up the phone again and once more called the operator in Philadelphia, asking for the police. She gave me the number which I wrote on my envelope, and I thanked her and called. A very bored-sounding man answered.
    “I’m calling from Los Angeles,” I said. “I represent W. C. Fields. A man in Philadelphia just sent Mr. Fields a threatening letter claiming he has stolen Mr. Fields’s bankbooks.”
    “W. C. Fields?” the bored man repeated as if this might be a rib.
    “Yes,” I said. “He is sitting right here with me.”
    “Give me the phone number at Fields’s house so we can check this out.”
    I looked at Fields and mouthed, “Your phone number.” Fields gave me the number, which I gave to the Philadelphia cop, plus the address and phone number of the man who called himself Hipnoodle.
    “I’ll turn this over to a detective,” the no-longer-so-bored cop said. “We’ll call you back at Mr. Fields’s number. Tell Fields that Sergeant Roy McFadden is a great fan of his.”
    “I’ll tell him, Sergeant McFadden,” I said and hung up.
    “We’d better get over to my place,” Fields said.
    “You know there’s a good chance Hipnoodle has already skipped.”
    “He’d be a moron if he hasn’t,” said Fields.
    “Do you have the name of one bank he has the book for?” I asked. “A local bank would be easier.”
    “First Federal of Lompoc,” he said. “Secretary made a list of the banks and the names under which I made my deposits.” He pulled out a sheet of paper. “Used the name Quigley E. Sneersight in Lompoc.”
    I picked up the phone again and got the First Federal Bank of Lompoc. A woman answered.
    “I’m a depositor with a problem,” I said. “My name is Sneersight, Quigley E. Someone has stolen my bankbook and I don’t want them to get into my account.”
    “I see,” said the woman. “But how are we to know that you are the real Mr. Snoozeshot—”
    “Sneersight,” I corrected.
    “Sneersight,” she agreed. “If you come to the bank with sufficient identification, we might be able to do something. If, however, someone comes into the bank with your bankbook, presents proper identification, and has a signature that coincides with that on the account, we have no recourse but to honor the transaction.”
    “Can I talk to the bank president?”
    “I am the president,” she said.
    “You think I’ll get the same answer at other banks?” I asked.
    “I would assume so.”
    “Thanks,” I said and hung up. I looked at Fields and said, “I suppose you don’t have identification as Sneersight?”
    “None at all,” he confirmed.
    “If the Philadelphia police don’t find Hipnoodle, we have to get to him before he gets all your money, or we can go to all the banks on your list and try to make the withdrawal, telling them you lost your bankbook. Without identification, that might cause some problems, but I guess we can try it.”
    “We pursue the rascal,” Fields said, rising. “Even if it does mean going back to