All this I knew, but I didn't have the heart to tell Alice. Natasha was solemnly exploring her mother's nostrils. Alice paid no attention.
"We're still puzzled by some of his comments," Alice said. "Who am I? Just ask what I am d.o.i.n.g."
"Spelling," I said. "He's Spelling. His name is Spelling."
"How can anyone be expected to figure that out?" Alice said, nestling her nose into Natasha's stomach. The baby giggled.
"Maybe we're not supposed to figure it out till it's too late," I said.
"Then why play the game?" Alice asked.
"To show he's smarter than me, smarter than Gable," I said. "To make us feel that we should have figured it out, when it's too late."
Alice gently put Natasha's head against her neck and patted her back softly to calm the giggling baby.
"He's sick, Toby," Alice said. "I've got to go change Natasha and give her a nap."
"He's sick, Alice," I agreed.
Alice started to walk away and then turned to me, her homely face serious.
"I don't want Jeremy near him," she said.
"I'll…"
"Listen," she said, shifting the baby slightly so she could hold her with one hand while she plucked a sheet of paper from the pocket of her dress. Natasha stirred and did a baby sigh and went quiet again. Alice shook open the sheet and read,
"Blake thought he found God hi the wake of a tiger, the burst of sun, the flower, Shakespeare in the wit of words the recognition of the power of well-put passion.
Pound pounds his Nazi chains against the steel drum of fear while I take issue, take pains to find the postured dignity that holds my hand through doubt and lets me reach back with earthy strength to those I love and say, 'Take my hand for I will hold you fast through time to come and which has past.
We are not first but we'll not be last.'"
"Well?" Alice challenged, folding the sheet with one hand and dropping it back in her pocket.
"Impressive," I said.
"If Jeremy gets hurt, Toby, I'll crush your head with my bare hands. I will."
"I know, Alice."
There was nothing more to say. She and the still-giggling baby vanished into the shadows, and I went back to the stairway and made my way up to the office of Sheldon Minck and Toby Peters.
There were voices beyond the waiting room: Shelly's, though it seemed unnatural somehow. The other voice was a woman's. I opened the door and found Shelly standing next to a girl who stood a good six niches taller than him. She was slender, dark, with a short Louise Brooks haircut and wearing a green dress with fluffy sleeves. She also wore a smile and too much makeup.
Shelly was showing her drawings and trying to keep his glasses from slipping off as he pointed to details with the dead end of his cigar.
"… in your office," he said, pointing back at my office.
She saw me first. Then Shelly's eyes came up, filled with magnified guilt behind the thick lenses. The girl smiled. She was cute, maybe a little empty, but cute.
"Oh, Toby," Shelly said, quickly dropping his drawings on the dental chair. "This is Mrs. Gonsenelli, Violet."
Violet Gonsenelli held out her hand. I stepped forward to take it. It was slender, warm, and definitely did not belong, along with that face and body, in the less-than-spotless offices of Minck and Peters.
"Pleasure," she said.
"Mrs. Gonsenelli applied for the receptionist job," Shelly explained. "I told her the ad was old, but she has some great ideas and she needs the job."
"Husband's in Europe," she explained."Fighting the Nazis."
"Best reason to be there," I said.
"Business is growing, Toby," Shelly said nervously. "Wouldn't be bad to have someone keep track of things, straighten up."
"You were talking about my office," I said.
"Your…" Shelly began, looking at my office door as if he had never seen it before. "Well, it was just a possibility, you know. Violet would need an office and…"
Violet looked confused.
"Mildred," I said. "Mildred gets one look at Violet and she's on the way to Reno."
"This is business," Shelly said with indignation. "Mildred would just have to understand."
"Mildred?" Violet asked.
"Mrs. Minck," I explained.
Violet nodded in understanding. I had the feeling this was not the first job interview foiled by a Mildred Minck.
"Maybe I'd better go," Violet said.
"Wait," said Shelly. "Toby?"
"Your marriage, Dr. Minck," I said. "We can clear out the waiting room for Violet, put in a small desk. Patients and clients can wait in the hall. You put two or three chairs out there and maybe, who knows, if you're lucky, they won't get stolen. You'd better check with Jeremy and Alice to see if they'll let you do it."
Shelly was beaming.
"I don't…" Violet began.
"You don't have to," Shelly said. "You just make appointments, answer the phone, straighten up, learn about the dental business. I tell you what. I'll train you to be a dental assistant. Clean teeth, X rays. A career."
"What about Mrs. Minck?" Violet said, looking at me.
I shrugged.
"I got it," said Shelly, snapping his pudgy ringers. 'Toby hires you. You're his idea. I pay my share of your salary, but…"
"You pay all of Mrs. Gonsenelli's salary and she works for both of us," I said.
"But…"
"And I give you permission to tell Mildred I hired her," I threw in.
"It's a deal," said Shelly.
"I don't know," said Violet.
Violet was cute. Violet could be more than cute. This was probably a rotten idea.
"Forty a month, plus a free white smock," said Shelly. "Good pay, career opportunity. Flexible working hours."
Violet looked at me.
"Can we make it a kind of trial?" she said, looking back at Shelly again. "Till I can ask Angelo."
"Angelo?"
"My husband. I'll write to him tonight"
"Angelo Gonsenelli?" Shelly said to himself.
"Middleweight contender," I said. "Went six rounds with Tony Zale in '42. Zale couldn't put him down."
"Angelo has heart," Violet said, nodding her head.
"And a wonderful nickname," I added. "Mad Angelo Gonsenelli."
"When do I start?" she asked brightly, her bright-red lips parted to show amazingly white and even teeth that would be the envy of any potential patient.
"Start?" said Shelly in a daze.
"Tomorrow will be fine," I said. "Dr. Minck will help you get things in shape."
"Nine?" she asked.
"Perfect," I said.
And Violet Gonsenelli, wife of Mad Angelo Gonsenelli, was out the door, heels clicking as she headed for the elevator.
"You knew," Sheldon said, moving to his dental chair and sitting on top of Ms drawings.
"When I heard her name," I said brightly.
"Cruel, Toby," he said.
"Sheldon, you were about to give her my office. Where the hell did you think I was going to go?"
Shelly adjusted his glasses, looked at his cigar, and shrugged.
"I like your idea about turning the waiting room into a reception area-office."
"Thanks," I said. "Give Mildred my best tonight."
"She hates you, Toby," Shelly said.
"Lucky for you, Shel," I said. "I'm mad about her. I'd steal her out from under you and run with her in my arms all the way to Tijuana if she'd have me." Mildred was odds-on favorite to win the witch-in-the-middle contest, if the May Company sponsored a Halloween event.
"You're being sarcastic," Shelly said, lighting his cigar.
I took a step toward Shelly and said, "I want to know about Spelling."
Shelly blinked at me. "What's to know? A few rules but mostly memorizing," he said. "You got a problem, keep a dictionary on your desk. Sometimes, Toby, you come up with the damndest… what happened to your head?"
He pointed to the small Band-a
id on my forehead. I pulled it off and threw it toward the overflowing white trash can near the sink.
"This morning," I said, "someone you know tried to kill me."
"Mildred?"
"Your patient. A guy named Spelling."
"Good teeth," said Shelly.
"And good aim," I went on. "He shot a man this morning. Stabbed one last night and killed another one three days ago. I think he's also planning to kill me and Clark Gable."
"Just because I made a little mistake with a novocaine injection?" asked Shelly.
"No, Shel, because he's out of his mind. I think he came here this morning to find me, to follow me. I think he's playing a game."
"No wonder his teeth were in such good shape," said Shelly with a stroke of understanding that made no sense to me.
"Shel, I doubt if it win do any good, but I'd like to see your card on Mr. Spelling."
"That's confidential information, Toby," Shelly said seriously. "Patient-doctor, priest-confessional, lawyer-client, that sort of thing."
"Give me the card, Shel, or I'll call Mildred and tell her about your hiring a receptionist who looks better than Rita Hayworth."
Shelly leapt from his chair in indignation and stumbled forward, almost falling to the floor.
"Blackmail," he sputtered.
"The card, Sheldon," I said.
Shelly gathered his dignity, adjusted his soiled smock, and moved to the file cabinet next to the cluttered, dripping sink. He opened it, looked at me hi the hope that I would change my mind, and then came up with a card.
"Right here on top," he said. "Chronological system. Latest patient on top."
He pushed the drawer shut and came to me with the card held out.
"Thanks, Shel," I said, looking at the card.
The name he had given was Victor Spelling. There was something vaguely familiar about the address. There was something very familiar about the place of birth. I turned the card to Shelly.
"Read it, Shel."
"Tara, Twelve Oaks, Georgia," he read. Then he looked up. "So?"
I went on reading. According to the card, Spelling was thirty-one, was five-eleven, weighed 190, and had no cavities.
I brushed past Shelly, went to my office.
Behind me Shelly was mumbling, "What did I do?"
I kicked my door closed and picked up the phone. Sara-son at vehicle registration wasn't in, but Grace Smull was.
"Price is up, Peters," she said. "Five bucks. And I haven't got much time."
"Victor Spelling," I said.
I gave her the address. I could hear voices in the vehicleregistration office, but I couldn't make out the words. Grace Smull was back on in about two minutes.
"You have my home address?" she asked.
"In my notebook," I said.
"Read it back to me," she said.
I dug my notebook out of my pocket, flipped through the pages, and found her name right under Ida Sarason. „"Five bucks," she said. "Cash. In the mail today or drop it off."
"I understand," I said.
"First, your Victor Spelling's address is the Carlton Arms Hotel," she said. "Second, he has a nineteen thirty-eight Ford business coupe registered to nun, license plate four-zero-three-eight."
"I hate to ask, Grace, but could you check on registrations for any other Spellings?"
"Five bucks more," she said.
"Five bucks more," I agreed.
"There are four Spellings with motor vehicles registered in Los Angeles County," she said.
"That was fast."
"I anticipated," she said. "You want to hear? You want to complain? Cost you no more to listen. Cost you another five to complain."
"I'm listening."
She gave me the names of the four Spellings on her list and their addresses. She even gave me the year and model of their cars.
"Thanks, Grace," I said. Tell Sarason I said hello."
"Tell her yourself," said Grace. "I tell her and she expects a finder's fee."
"You're all heart, Grace," I said.
"It's a hard world out there, Peters. And I'm alone with a sick mother and a teenager to feed. I save my heart for them. Ten dollars. Cash. In the mail."
She hung up and I took out my wallet, found two fives, dug around for an envelope, and had the payment ready to go in about two minutes. I made a note of the expense in my book and got up to leave. Then I remembered Jeremy's call.
I found Gable's number and called. It rang eight times before Jeremy answered.
"It's Toby," I said. "What's up?"
"He called here," Jeremy said. "Your madman."
"His name, maybe even his real name, is Spelling," I said. "What did he want?"
"He insisted on talking to Gable. Told him that he had killed K.G. and said the puzzle was complete. I'm afraid you were right to be concerned, Toby. It is my conclusion that he plans to murder Mr. Gable."
Then I heard a familiar voice saying, "Let me have that thing." Then Gable was on the phone. "Peters. I want that maniac found and I want to be there when he is. I want to wring his neck with my bare hands."
"I've got some…" I tried, but he was going strong.
"He said things about my… things. The crazy son of a bitch thinks I was responsible for doing something to his father. I have no idea who his father is or was. I want nun, Peters. Now, what, if anything, do you know?"
I told him. About Gouda, Alice and Jeremy's solution to the killer's puzzle, the killer's name-real or not-and his giving the Carlton Arms as his home address for his vehicle registration. I also told him about my meeting with Phil.
"I don't like sitting around here," Gable said. "And I don't want him killing any more people and holding me responsible. You're telling me that the crazy son of a bitch is killing people simply because their initials spell my name?"
"Looks that way," I said.
"Find him, Peters."
"I'm working on it," I said.
"Work fast, Peters. For God's sake, work fast."
He hung up and so did 1.1 wasn't through making calls. I tried Wally Hospodar's number in Calabasas. After five or six rings, a woman answered.
"My name's Peters," I said. "Can I speak to Wally?"
"He doesn' live here anymore," the woman said in a decidedly Spanish accent.
"I'm a friend," I said. "I have to reach him. If…"
"Tell you the same thing I told the other one," she said wearily. "He lives someplace downtown L.A. in a bottle of Scotch. Spends his life and his pension in bars."
"Any bars hi particular?"
"Melody Lounge or Gardens. Something like that," she said.
"I know the place. You said someone else called looking for Wally?"
"Yesterday. Day before," she said.
"Thanks," I said.
"You see Wally you tell him something for me?"
"Sure."
"Tell him Angelina loves him and he should not come home."
"I'll tell bun," I promised and the phone went dead.
When I got back into Shelly's office, he was putting his drawings in a neat stack as he searched for some uncluttered place to put them.
"Spelling owes me money for the cleaning," Shelly said. "You think he'll pay his bill?"
"I wouldn't count on it, Shel," I said.
"Dentistry is a risky business," he said, depositing the drawings back on the dental seat.
"Riskier with Violet Gonsenelli sitting in the reception room," I said. "I've gotta go, Shel. I'm going to pick up a couple of tacos at Manny's and I don't think I'll be back today. I'll call you for messages."
"At least when Violet's here, I won't have to take messages," he grumbled.
"Good-bye, Shel," I said, opening the door.
"Wait," Shelly called, peeling off his smock. "I'll take a lunch break."
I noticed two things when we got to Manny's. First, the Dishwasher Wanted sign was gone. Second, the place was crowded. Manny's wasn't that big to start with. Four booths and a counter wi
th a dozen red leatherette swivel stools. Two cops were just getting up from the counter. Shelly and I slid in past them and took their places.
A hand came out and started removing the dirty dishes. I looked up. It was Elmo, strands of hair in place, face shaved, my pullover shirt under his white apron.
"That was fast," I said.
"No time to change my mind," Elmo said, working away. "Job's easy. Keep it clear. Clean it up. You want your two bits back? I can't watch your car and work a job."
"Forget it," I said.
Elmo hurried away with the dishes, and Manny, a lump of a man with a weary look on his face, leaned over to us, his newspaper open to the crossword puzzle.
"I read the papers every day," he said with the rasp of a child of the teens doomed to the results of a bad tonsillec-tomy. "But… thirty-two across, 'Inhabitants of Europe's underbelly,' twenty-seven across, 'New leader of the House of Commons.' Wait. This one I can get, 'Preacher McPher-son.' Aimee Semple. Second wife and me, her name was Ernestina, used to go to the Four Square Gospel Church over on Glendale Boulevard near Sunset, Echo Park. Thousand, maybe two thousand packed in. I remember Sister Aimee saying, 'Where there's sin there's salvation. Ernestina took her to heart. Never got through to me though. Got no imagination. Third and present wife's got no imagination either. Works out better that way."
"How's Elmo working out?" I asked.
"Too soon to tell," said Manny. "Says he's your friend."
"Says right," I said.
"Too soon to tell," Manny said again. "What happened to your head?"
"Patient of Shelly's tried to kill me."
"Java, Manny," a woman called from the end of the counter.
"Comin' up," Manny called back and then to us, seriously, "R.A.F.'s pounding the Nazis in France, Netherlands. You see the Times?' "Not today," I said.
Til have the three-taco special and coffee," said Shelly.
"British stopped Rommel in North Africa," Manny went on, ignoring Shelly. "And Montgomery is counterattacking. Looks good in Africa, Europe, and the Russians aren't doing so good today."
"Java, Manny," called the woman.
"Customers," Manny said and eased away. He hadn't taken my order. Didn't need to. Unless I told him otherwise, he brought me a Pepsi and a pair of tacos.
The guy on the stool next to me hit me with an elbow, apologized, and went back to his business.
Then the raspy voice came behind me over the charter and the radio which Manny had turned on to the news.
Tomorrow Is Another day tp-18 Page 10