Her dark suit with a white blouse wasn’t much different from that of Louise the receptionist, but Ann, who was now forty-six, filled it with authority and a full figure.
“Life and death,” she said.
She looked great, dark hair piled on her head without a loose strand, smooth pale skin, full red lips that matched her fingernails, and a barely tolerant look on her face.
“You look great,” I said.
“Thank you. And you look pretty much the same as always.”
“I know a compliment when I hear one,” I said. “And I don’t think I just heard one.”
“Life and death,” she repeated.
I reached back to close the door. She stepped past me and pulled it wide open.
“How are you?”
“Fine.” Her hands arms were folded impatiently across her chest. “Life and death, Toby, remember?”
“Ruth is dying,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, letting her arms drop to her side. “Is she home?” I nodded. “I’ll call her.”
“She’ll like that. She always liked you.”
“And I like her,” Ann said. “Toby, you didn’t come here to tell me about Ruth. You could have done that on the phone.”
“I wanted to see you. That’s the ‘life’ part.”
She shook her head and looked at the ceiling before looking back at me. She was saying ‘not again’ without having to use the words.
“Toby, please …”
“You’ve asked me for help more than once since you left me,” I reminded her. “Now I’m asking you for help. You owe me a few minutes, Ann.”
“All right,” she said, moving behind her desk and sitting down. “You have a few minutes. And don’t close that door.”
“You’re doing well,” I said, looking around the office. “Leather sofa, big desk, nice paintings on the wall.”
She looked at her watch.
“Impulse,” I said.
“What is?”
“Coming here.”
“That’s it?” she said with a sigh.
I shrugged.
“Wanted to see you, hear your voice. I didn’t feel like doing anything but shake your hand and wish you good luck.”
“You did that at the wedding, remember? And?”
“Let’s have lunch, talk. You know.” I said.
“I don’t think so. Are you still seeing Anita …?”
“Maloney,” I said. “Yeah.”
“I like her. I wanted a husband. Maybe she’ll be satisfied with an irresponsible playmate. Don’t lose her.”
I didn’t know what to say.
She stood up again, came around the desk, stepped in front of me, and kissed me. Her smell was the good past remembered. She stepped back.
“Preston and I are having a party next month. His new movie.” she said. “I’ll send you and Anita an invitation. And I’ll call Ruth.”
In other words, she would behave, as always, like a responsible adult. I felt as if my mother, who I never knew, had handed me my school lunch in a brown bag and told me to have a nice day and remember my spelling words.
“What’s the movie? Preston’s new movie?”
“Dark Streets,” she said. “He plays a private detective. If it does well, they’re thinking of turning it into a series.”
The unkindest cut of all.
I left. She closed the door behind me.
I stood in front of her door and reached into my pocket. I pulled out Fiona Sullivan’s two-bird locket and held it in the palm of my hand. I had long ago lost the woman on the other side of the door. I had a feeling I had also lost the woman whose locket I was looking at. I went back down the stairs.
“How did it go?” Louise the receptionist asked, glancing back at the saggy-faced man who was on the phone.
“It could have been better,” I said.
“She’s not going to fire me?”
“No,” said. Ann wasn’t the firing kind.
“Good,” Louise said. “Thanks.”
I nodded and went back out onto Sepulveda. I had gotten my periodic dose of Ann. It made me feel worse, but I needed it. As soon as I could, I’d take Anita to the movies. We’d have a burger or maybe even a steak and we’d go back to her apartment and talk. And that would be good.
My Crosley was wedged in between two big cars. At least they seemed big to me. All cars were big compared to the Crosley. It took me six twists and turns in the space before I could escape without touching the bumper of the car in front of me.
No one seemed to be following me. Sawyer was only one man and he had too many possible targets: me, Chaplin, Blanche Wiltsey, and who knows how many others.
I headed for Fiona Sullivan’s house. I didn’t expect to find her there listening to Schubert and jumping out of her chair to thank me for returning her locket. I don’t know what I expected or hoped for.
The street was quiet. The sky was clear. The thick trees around the house kept it in shade. I parked and went to the door. It was locked. I knocked, waited, gave up, and went around to the back of the house. The kitchen door was locked. I peered through a window, saw nothing, and tried to push the window open. It was locked, but the lock was a loose hook held in by a screw. Trees behind the house gave me cover. I pushed the window hard, loosened the screw, pushed again, and felt the window groan open. I climbed in and closed the window behind me.
The phone was ringing. I had a fair idea of the layout of the house and a clear memory of where the phone was. I walked through the afternoon gray shadows to the living room. The phone kept ringing. I picked it up.
“Peters,” came the voice I had heard on the phone at the home of the deceased Elsie Pultman. He had followed me.
“Yes,” I said.
“You got my gift?”
“I got it,” I said, touching the locket in my pocket.
“Would you do me a favor and give it to Blanche for me? Fiona won’t be needing it anymore.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“You won’t find anything there,” he said. “I took everything I needed.”
“Thanks.”
“Thought I’d save you some time,” he said. “I’ve changed my mind about you. I’m feeling euphoric. I have a deal for you and Chaplin. He doesn’t make his movie about me and I don’t pay a visit to the lovely little Blanche.”
“That’s up to Chaplin,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what,” he went on. “I throw in a promise. I won’t kill any more women. I’ll stop. Just like that. No more. I’ll disappear.”
“That’s not up to me.”
“Sure it is,” he said.
“The police know all about you now,” I said. “And I made a deal with a cop to turn you in.”
“I wish you hadn’t,” he said. “But still, to show my good faith, I promise you I will not harm Blanche Wiltsey. You can believe me.”
“Why not? You haven’t lied to me in the past.”
“Maybe we’re becoming something like friends,” he said, pleased with himself.
“I’m not smart,” I said. “But I’m stubborn. I don’t give up. I’m going to find you.”
“How?” he asked.
That I didn’t know.
“I have to go. Chaplin drops the project, I disappear. That’s the deal on the table. There is no other. There’s no room for negotiation.”
“One question,” I said. “Since you’re so goddamn smart, what difference does it make if Chaplin makes his movie? You’re going to disappear. No one is ever going to find you, remember?”
“You miss the point,” he said. “I’m writing a book about my adventures. When I’m old I plan to find an agent who’ll get it published and a producer who’ll make a movie. It’s a very interesting story.”
“Then you’ll be caught,” I said.
“Then I’ll be old already and famous. My mother never believed I’d amount to anything. My father shared her opinion. They are both gone except in my me
mory. Their deaths will be in my book. I dispatched them elegantly and with flair. Good-bye.”
He hung up. I had no reason to take his word about anything he had told me. He was definitely nearby. My .38 was still in the holster under my jacket. If I stayed here too long, he’d know I didn’t take his word that he had cleaned everything out. Actually, I believed him, but I didn’t want him to know I did.
I sat in the most comfortable chair in the room with my gun in my hand and waited. I’m not very good at waiting, and I didn’t know how much time was passing. I found an old issue of Life with the Sphinx on the cover and read about how they were sandbagging the neck to protect it from German bombers and tanks. I seemed to remember reading it before. I couldn’t figure out why the Nazis would want to blow off the head of the Sphinx, but there were a lot of things I didn’t understand about the Nazis.
When I finished the article, I went back to the kitchen and climbed out the way I had come in, pulling the window down behind me.
Sawyer had said he wasn’t going to kill Blanche Wiltsey. I believed him on that one too, but I wasn’t ready to take his word. I walked around the building and into two cops in uniforms carrying guns in their hands. I stopped.
“Hands in the air, slow and easy,” said one cop, who was about my age, a little on the thin side in a uniform that sagged. He looked as if he had lost some weight recently. The other cop was bigger, a little younger, and wore a snug uniform and a squint.
I put my hands up. The thin cop stepped forward, reached under my jacket, and took my .38 out of my holster.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “I’ve got my card with me. I’ve got a permit for that weapon.”
“You have a permit to break into a crime scene?” he asked.
“I didn’t break in anywhere,” I said.
“We got a call from a neighbor saying someone fitting your description had just climbed into this house through a back window.”
“You said this was a crime scene?” I asked.
“Blood all over the bathroom?” said the dull-looking cop with the squint. “No body.”
“Felix,” said the thin cop in a distinctly warning tone.
“I’m a friend of the woman who lives here,” I said.
“Neighbor suggested we might want to search you,” said the thin cop, stepping in front of me carefully and starting to go through my pockets.
He came up with a stick of Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum, my car keys, some change, and Fiona Sullivan’s locket. He held the locket up.
“Yours?” he asked. “Or did you pick it up inside?”
“It’s a gift for my girlfriend,” I said.
“Looks old,” he said. “Looks silver.”
“I got it at a pawnshop,” I said.
“Let’s go tell it to a detective,” the thin guy said, handing me my change, gum, and keys, and keeping the locket.
“You know Phil Pevsner out of the Wilshire?” I asked, my hands still in the air.
“Yeah,” said the thin cop.
“My brother,” I said.
“Then,” said the cop, “let’s all three of us go over and see him.”
And that’s what we did. The thin cop rode with me in the Crosley with a gun in his hand. The squinter drove in a patrol car behind us.
They delivered me to Phil’s office door. Before the thin cop could knock, a loud sound of something inside shook the door. We heard a groan. No one in the squad room paid any attention. Such noises were common in my brother’s office.
The cop knocked.
“Come in,” my brother called.
We went in. Phil had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. The jacket was draped over his desk. Sagging against the wall was John Cawelti, shaking his head slowly back and forth.
“What now?” Phil asked, looking at me, his fists doubled.
He wasn’t finished with whatever he had been discussing with Cawelti.
“Found this guy in the house of an assumed murder victim,” said the thin cop, ignoring the redheaded detective trying to clear his head. “Says he’s your brother.”
“He’s my brother,” Phil said. “Whose house?”
“A Miss Fiona Sullivan,” said the thin cop.
Phil looked at Cawelti and said, “We’ll finish talking later.”
Cawelti tried to regain some minimal dignity but his wobbly legs weren’t cooperating. He gave me a less than pleasant smile as he staggered past us and into the squad room.
“I wasn’t in the house,” I said. “They picked me up outside the house.”
Phil was looking at his fists.
“He had this on him,” said the thin cop, holding out the locket and my gun.
Phil looked up without any great interest and took the locket and gun.
“I think he took the bird thing from the house,” said the thin cop. “Says he got it from a pawnshop.”
“Leave him here,” said Phil. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I think my partner and I should …” the thin cop began, but Phil cut him off with a shout.
“Get the hell out of here.”
The two uniformed cops got the hell out of the office, closing the door behind them. Phil was looking at the locket now, playing with it.
“You went to her house,” he said, moving around to sit at his desk.
“Yes,” I said.
“You find anything?”
“No.”
“You found this.”
I told him the story of the box in the Square, about Fiona Sullivan having worn the locket when I had last seen her, about the call from Sawyer, about Jeremy and Gunther watching Blanche Wiltsey. I threw in my meeting with Cawelti.
“He just told me about that,” Phil said, playing with the locket. “I don’t give a crap about who gets credit for catching this lunatic. I want him caught. You can tell Butler and Wherthman to go home. I’ll put a couple of men on the Wiltsey kid. Toby, there’s still something you’re holding back.”
“What? I told you about Chaplin.”
“Something else.”
“I need a couple of days,” I said.
“Fine, two days,” he said, looking at the locket. “Two days.”
“Two days,” I agreed.
He put the locket in his top desk drawer, handed me my gun, folded his hands on his desk, and looked over at me.
“Now it’s your turn to get the hell out of here,” he said.
I got out, feeling better about my brother. The last time I had seen him he had been a mellow impersonator I didn’t recognize. In the last few minutes I’d seen the almost total return of the Phil Pevsner I recognized. This was a dangerous Phil Pevsner. This was my brother.
When I got back to my office, Violet told me that, the night before, Al Reasoner had died after a TKO in the tenth round by Freddie Dawson. That, and Shelly’s singing beyond the reception room door, did nothing to brighten my day.
“And Mr. Butler called,” she said. “He’ll call back. Said to tell you if I saw you that everything was quiet.”
“Thanks,” I said and went through the door in time to witness Shelly, bloody pliers clamping a tooth held high, singing out the words to “Mississippi Mud” in triumph.
The woman in the chair, her mouth and eyes wide open in terror, looked up at her tooth. Shelly noticed me through his thick lenses, removed the cigar from his mouth, and said, “Toby, sometimes life is very good.”
“Sometimes it is,” I agreed and ducked into my office, trying to ignore the plea in the eyes of Shelly’s reclined victim.
The window in my office was closed. I moved behind my desk and opened it to a hint of fresh air tinged with the smell of Chinese food and the view of a small open lot behind the Farraday where a rusted and wheel-less old Pontiac sagged on a sea of cracked concrete.
The phone rang. It was Jeremy. He told me Blanche Wiltsey was home. I told him the police were taking over and that he and Gunther were relieved with my thanks.
; “Did you find Dr. Minck?” he asked.
“He’s alive, well, free, and in his office doing his best in his never-ending assault on mankind.”
We hung up. I ignored the six envelopes that had come in the mail and placed neatly on my desk by Violet. None of the letters was personal. They were all attempts to get at money I didn’t have enough of.
I was reaching for the phone, not sure of who I was going to call, when the door to my office opened. A short man with yellow hair showing under his fedora and a pair of round, horn-rimmed glasses on his nose stepped in and plunged his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.
“Recognize me?” he asked in an accent that sounded like Texas.
He started to pull something out of his pocket. There was no place to hide, no place to go, except out the window, and not enough time for me to get my .38 out of my holster.
Charlie Chaplin removed his empty hand from his pocket, took off his hat, wig, and glasses, and unbuttoned his coat.
“Uncomfortably warm,” he said in his own voice as he sat and looked at the walls of my office. “Charming painting,” he said.
“It’s a Dalí,” I said.
Chaplin turned to me.
“Really.”
“I did some work for him,” I explained.
“An odd little man,” Chaplin said smoothing his hair with his hands. “I admire his showmanship.”
I looked at him. He raised his eyebrows and looked back at me.
“You’re wondering about the disguise,” he said. “People seldom recognize me on the street, but I wanted to do something that might deceive even someone who knew me.”
“I was deceived,” I said.
“Good. Very good.” He rubbed his hands together. “I believe I have an idea about our Mr. Sawyer.”
Since I didn’t have any of my own, I sat and waited.
“I may well be wrong,” he went on. “However, it is relatively easy to put to the test. Elsie Pultman is being buried today.”
“Buried,” I repeated.
“Read it in the obituary notice of the newspaper,” he said.
“And?”
“You and I shall attend the graveside service,” he said. “I in disguise, you arriving after me a few minutes later and standing some distance from me showing no sign of knowing me.”
“You think Sawyer will show up for the burial?” I asked.
A Few Minutes Past Midnight Page 14