The Black Marble

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “I don’t want to be responsible,” Mr. Limpwood cried. “I’m getting out of here.” And he took off in a hurry while Twinkles pulled the box out of the ground with one hand. (It was a cheap pine box and not the walnut that Madeline paid for.)

  The lad used the shovel blade and cracked it open easily. Then he grimaced. “Oh!” he said. “Oh, I don’t think that’s a schnauzer!”

  “It’s a schnauzer,” Valnikov said, with little admiration for Mr. Limpwood’s art. (When there’s no bereaved, save a buck where you can.)

  The young giant was unaccustomed to death in any form. “Tutu was so beautiful!” he said. “I don’t know!”

  “Mrs. Gharoujian said something about a white toenail on the rear foot. Do you remember that?”

  “Do dead things look so …”

  “Yes, they do,” said Valnikov. “Now look at the back foot. You can just reach in there.”

  “I couldn’t,” the kid said, getting pale. “Is her body hard?”

  “Rigor has come and gone,” said Valnikov. “Let’s see.” And he reached in the coffin. “Yes. There is a whitish toenail. I think this might be Mrs. Gharoujian’s Tutu.”

  “But the face!” the young man cried. Then he sat by the grave site and dropped his head. “I loved Tutu.” His eyes were filling. “Millie never cared about her.”

  “Listen, son,” Valnikov said, squatting beside the tearful body builder, “who would be able to positively identify this schnauzer by her markings? Who knew her best?”

  “There are so many guys that come and go at Millie’s,” said the young man. “Everybody played with Tutu. So many guys.”

  “Mrs. Gharoujian mentioned her dog handler,” said Valnikov. “Would he know her markings?”

  “He might.” The kid nodded, taking a look at the contorted mastiff face on the dead animal. “That can’t be Tutu! Is this what death does to you?”

  “Sometimes,” said Valnikov. “What’s the dog handler’s name?”

  “Philo Skinner,” said the lad, looking in the grave. “She got tired of dog shows. Millie gets tired of everything. Maybe it is Tutu. I just can’t say. I had no idea this is what it does! God, I’m sorry!”

  “That’s okay, son,” said Valnikov, patting the enormous shoulder of the young giant. “Thanks for your help, anyway.”

  “Maybe it is Tutu,” the boy said softly, stealing his last glance into the pine coffin at the jutting mastiff jaw.

  Tutu in her final agony took with her to eternity the face of J. Edgar Hoover.

  When they got back to the waiting Rolls, Natalie said, “Buttons, give Twinkles a chance to get himself together. He’ll be out in a minute.”

  “I ain’t in no hurry to get back,” the blond chauffeur shrugged. “No hurry at all.”

  And no wonder, Natalie Zimmerman thought, as she and Valnikov waved to Mr. Limpwood who was calling his lawyer to make sure somebody couldn’t sue him for letting them dig up a stiff schnauzer. His lawyer wasn’t in, so he looked at Valnikov’s business card and called Hollywood Station just to make sure this was an authorized police investigation.

  The phone was answered by Bullets Bambarella, who was back from the tennis match, dead broke, thinking he’d be eating grass in Griffith Park if this kept up.

  “Good morning, Hollywood Investigation, Investigator Bambarella speaking, may I help you.” Bullets gave the rote greeting sullenly, then he listened with only half his concentration. He was worried sick. He took a look at the captain’s door. Thank God the groupie with the neck brace was gone. He knew he’d be facing Clarence Cromwell’s wrath soon enough over this one. Jesus, Clarence, what I gotta do to make up? Marry the broad or what?

  Then Bullets heard something which popped his eyes wide. “Just a second, Mr. Limpwood!” Bullets cried, punching the phone button and putting him on hold. Someone was in lots more trouble than he was! Bullets ran to the captain’s door, knocked, and jerked it open.

  “I ain’t ready for you yet, Bullets,” Clarence Cromwell said with murder in his eyes.

  “But this is important, Clarence!” Bullets cried. “Captain! There’s a guy on the phone. From a cemetery! Guess what Valnikov done! He dug up a grave! Some stiff named Schnozzle! And the mortician wants to talk to you right now!”

  They said that Captain Hooker’s moan set a new record for police department moaners. He was taken to the hospital with a gas attack severe enough to require an ambulance. Bullets Bambarella loyally accompanied his captain to the ambulance, saying, “Gee, Skipper, if you could just loosen up and fart you’d feel lots better.”

  “Ooooooohhhh,” said Hipless Hooker.

  It didn’t help when Clarence Cromwell phoned the hospital later that afternoon and tried to explain that it was only a dog’s body. The medication they gave Hipless Hooker kept him belching and farting and off-duty all afternoon.

  Which meant that Valnikov’s career was secure another day.

  “So what do you have in mind now, Valnikov?” said Natalie Zimmerman as they drove toward Pasadena on the freeway.

  “I think we proceed on the assumption that the dead dog is Tutu.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “With the responsibility to handle this case,” said Valnikov. “It’s our extortion. First thing to do is be there when he calls at three o’clock. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Natalie sighed. “Maybe we should just turn the case over to Pasadena P.D.”

  “I feel a … responsibility,” Valnikov said. “I want to help Mrs. Whitfield.”

  “It’s only a dog, Valnikov.”

  “The extortionist calls her a bitch,” Valnikov mused.

  “Mrs. Whitfield?”

  “No, the schnauzer. He always says the word bitch, never the word dog like you just did.”

  “So?”

  “He’s familiar with dogs. He uses the right terminology when he refers to Vickie. He knew Tutu would fool them long enough that he’d be home safe before they guessed. He’s a dog lover.”

  “So?”

  “Nothing. Something. I don’t know. Another thing. He said, ‘I’ve never hurt an animal in my life.’ That was important to him.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t think we should let him know Tutu’s dead. When we’re out of possibilities, we can tell him he’s killed Tutu. See how he acts.”

  “You think it was one of Millie’s playmates?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Valnikov nodded. “If we could just get that woman’s undivided attention for fifteen minutes.”

  “Impossible, what with the people, aardvarks and lizards in her bed.”

  “If we could get her thinking, I’ll bet there’re three or four guys who lived with her when she was involved in dog shows. I’ll bet it’s one of those guys.”

  “She’s a chickenhawk!” Natalie sneered. “These kids come and go hourly through her zoo. Sunset Strip one week, Haight-Ashbury the next.”

  “Except that this one’s in town. Only thing bothers me is the voice. That voice, even if he was an actor, that wasn’t a youngster’s voice. And Millie likes boys.”

  “So you think there were two.”

  “Or more,” Valnikov nodded. “Would probably take two anyway. Millie’s former friend takes Tutu from the restaurant. Maybe one or both take the dog into the show and switch schnauzers. Then the other one calls Mrs. Whitfield, the older man.”

  “A dog lover,” Natalie sighed. Her police career had come to this.

  “A dog lover,” Valnikov said. “Yes. Not an ordinary thief. Not a burglar, certainly. Her address is in dog show catalogues, I’m sure. It wouldn’t be hard to find. This is someone who was much more comfortable committing a theft in the presence of thousands of people at a dog show than he would be shimming her back door, or prowling her neighborhood. This wasn’t an ordinary thief, or he’d have stolen the dog from here.” And as he said it, Valnikov stopped by the iron gate overlooking the winding cobbled drivewa
y into Madeline Whitfield’s fifty-year-old Mediterranean mansion.

  “Wow!” Natalie said. “I see why he picked her!”

  “He picked the wrong victim,” Valnikov said, wheeling into the driveway. “She’s almost broke.”

  “How could you be broke and have a house like this? And squander money on a show dog?”

  “That’s what the extortionist can’t understand,” said Valnikov. “It’s a long story.”

  Madeline Whitfield was on the steps when they got out of the detective car. She looked at Natalie curiously and smiled at Valnikov like an old friend.

  “This is my partner, Sergeant Zimmerman,” Valnikov said. “Mrs. Whitfield.”

  “Come in. I’m glad you came early. The waiting is hard.”

  “We’re pretty sure the dead dog was the one belonging to Mrs. Gharoujian,” said Valnikov. “I wish we knew for certain, though.”

  “Does that help you?” Madeline asked, and Natalie Zimmerman, a fair detective herself, noticed that Madeline Whitfield held Valnikov’s arm all the way into the sitting room. And that when she said, “I’ll get you some tea, Sergeant,” she fluttered like a pigeon and squeezed his arm.

  Natalie strolled around the room, admiring the view of the Rose Bowl. “How long did you stay here last night?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, how long did you stay here last night?”

  “Uh, well, the extortionist called just after six.”

  “She lives all alone in this big house?”

  “All alone,” Valnikov nodded and his reddening face was not lost on Natalie Zimmerman.

  “If she’d lose twenty-five pounds. And shave …” Natalie smirked.

  “She’s a fine lady,” Valnikov said, a bit too quickly. “She’s loving … of her Vickie. She’s educated. She knows music. You should see her record collection.”

  “Really?” Natalie said. “I thought you were busy with an extortionist.”

  “I … uh, listened to a few records with her.”

  “Did she play? Music, I mean?”

  “And she’s very smart. After all, she’s the one who first discovered that the dead dog was Mrs. Gharoujian’s.”

  “Which we’re not sure of at all,” Natalie reminded him.

  When Madeline returned, she said, “Sergeant Zimmerman, how would you like your tea?”

  “Well, actually,” Natalie said petulantly, “I’d prefer some coffee. Most ordinary cops drink coffee.”

  “Of course,” she said. “It’ll just take a minute.” Then she poured for Valnikov and handed him the cup and saucer, and met his eyes, and smiled demurely, touching his arm before leaving for the kitchen again.

  “Oh, horseshit!” Natalie said to her Friz.

  “Pardon, Natalie?” said Valnikov.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” Natalie smirked. “It’s not my business.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, for chrissake!”

  “Sorry,” said Valnikov, sipping. “Very good tea.”

  “Of course it’s good tea. She probably has it imported from Bombay. From the plantation of a retired rajah, for chrissake.”

  “Sorry,” said Valnikov, wondering why she had him apologizing.

  “Did you ask her to go to the movies?” Natalie smirked.

  “Why, no.”

  “Why not take her to see Deep Throat?”

  “I told you I’d rather not see porno films, Natalie,” Valnikov said. “But if you need an escort and you have to see it again, I’ll be glad …”

  Madeline’s return interrupted Valnikov’s offer and Natalie’s impending outburst. Madeline put the coffee down and said nervously: “What should I tell him? Should I tell him I have the money?”

  “I think it’s time to say just that,” Valnikov nodded while Natalie glared coldly at Madeline Whitfield, unable to fathom this overwhelming anger.

  “I do have money for him, Sergeant. And as we discussed last night, it’s my choice. I’ve decided today that if he’ll promise to release Vickie unharmed, I’ll give it all to him. I’ve managed to borrow and raise twenty thousand dollars!”

  “That’s stupid!” Natalie Zimmerman said.

  “Please, Natalie,” Valnikov said. “Natalie didn’t mean that harshly, Mrs. Whitfield.”

  Now he was apologizing to this dowdy broad for his partner’s manners! Him! A certified dingaling and a drunk apologizing to this Pasadena dog freak about Natalie’s manners! Natalie was ranging from fury to contempt. For the both of them.

  “I can understand that it might be hard for you to comprehend,” Madeline said carefully to Natalie Zimmerman.

  Don’t patronize me, Dame Whitfield. Don’t patronize Natalie Kelso Zimmerman or you’ll be wearing a fat lip under that goddamn moustache!

  “I can’t understand ever giving in to kidnappers and extortionists,” Natalie said. “For solid professional reasons you couldn’t comprehend, Mrs. Whitfield. And I don’t think many people, cops or civilians, could comprehend laying out twenty thousand in ransom for a dog.”

  “Sergeant Valnikov understands,” Madeline said, looking at him with that look again while Natalie muttered to her Friz.

  “I do understand, Mrs. Whitfield,” Valnikov said, patting her hand. Now now. Keep your chin up, Mrs. Whitfield. Now now.

  Natalie Zimmerman felt like screaming. Or getting sick. A nut who shouldn’t even be a cop, and a woman maybe crazier, who’s willing to shell out twenty grand for a pooch, and they’re sitting here patty-caking and feeling smug and condescending toward the one who just can’t understand. The only sane person in the goddamn house. What am I doing here! Why does everything happen to me? The black marble!

  “What I’m hoping you might consider,” Valnikov said, “is going along with a money drop. But trusting us to handle it for you. I want you to tell him you’ll give him the money tomorrow. Tell him how much you have and that you’ll be able to make the delivery tomorrow afternoon. Then we’ll take over. We have helicopters and surveillance people who’re expert at this sort of thing and …”

  “I don’t know. I think I’d just rather not risk it,” Madeline said softly. “I want to let you catch him but …”

  “I thought that if you trust me, personally, I could coordinate the operation,” Valnikov said. “If you trust my judgment I’ll promise not to let anything happen to scare him off and endanger Vickie. I won’t risk Vickie’s safety. If I’m positive we can take him, we’ll take him. If not, we let the money go. What do you say? Do you trust me?”

  She squeezed his forearm again, this time with both hands and whispered, “You know I do.”

  “Oh, shit,” Natalie muttered aloud.

  “I give you my word I’m going to return Vickie to you. I promise,” Valnikov said.

  Then Madeline got tearful in spite of her best efforts, and Valnikov said, “Here, let me fix you some tea. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. That’s a brave girl. Now now.”

  “It’s a dog.”

  “Pardon, Natalie?” Valnikov said.

  “It’s a dog,” said Natalie Zimmerman to no one. To everyone. “It’s a dog we’re talking about.”

  “It’s an extortion,” Valnikov reminded her. “A felony.”

  “It’s a dog you two are talking about,” Natalie Zimmerman said stubbornly. “You two have never been talking about an extortion. You two are talking about a dog. I’m not running into a burning house to rescue a bowl of goldfish. And I’m not going to sit here and let you two make me so … make me forget that we’re all talking about a dog. A dog! Do you hear me!”

  But they didn’t. Because Madeline Whitfield’s tears had gotten the better of her and she was weeping on Valnikov’s shoulder and Valnikov was patting her and saying, “Now now. I understand. You can be sure that I understand. Now now.”

  At which time Natalie Zimmerman got up and stalked out the front door to pace in the driveway and smoke, and watch the sun set pink and gold on the defunct hotel over the arroyo, over the pictures
que Suicide Bridge.

  Natalie felt a twinge of shame and then a rush of remorse as the anger ran out of her. Jesus, she couldn’t even manage a little bile at a time like this? She was letting a brace of loonies make her ashamed for not being like them? Ever since she had been teamed with Valnikov, nothing made any sense. Before Valnikov, she knew who she was and where she was going. In that short time she’d seen a man shot to pieces, seen a kid’s head painted silver, dug up a dog that was buried next to a goddamn koala bear, or a yak, or whatever the hell. And everytime she tried to tell someone, another mental deficient, like Bullets Bambarella, would do something and they wouldn’t listen to her. Nobody would listen to her. Now, Valnikov was talking about being a party to a money drop of twenty thousand dollars. For a dog. Explain that to the promotion board on your next oral exam, Natalie. Yes, sir, it just seemed like the thing to do at the time. Why did we willingly give the extortionist twenty thou? Because we didn’t have eighty-five thou. If we had eighty-five thou like he demanded, we would have given him eighty-five thou. Because Valnikov and Mrs. Whitfield understood each other, that’s why.

  Natalie scraped her shoes and coughed and made some discreet noises before she went back inside. Just in case the two psychos were relieving each other’s tensions on the floor. Like schnauzers. Like they probably did last night. I understand you, Mrs. Whitfield. Sure.

  When she came back in the sitting room he had his suitcoat off and his tie loosened. Pretty chummy. Pretty goddamn chummy. Impulsively, she stepped back in the foyer and eavesdropped.

  Valnikov was saying, “I’ve thought about it a lot and I truly believe a person can come out of something like this a stronger person.”

  “If I just get her back, Sergeant. If I just …”

  “You will, I promise you,” he said, taking her hand. “And about the other thing. Losing this house. Working. Listen, do you realize that in one year you could pick up enough college credits to get your state teaching credential?”

  “Teaching credential?”