Now You See It: A Toby Peters Mystery

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I know,” said Blackstone. “She’s waking up.”

  Jimmy looked at Natasha, who definitely was about to wake up. He started to get up with her in his arms. Phil’s gun hand was at waist level now.

  “Jimmy,” Blackstone said. “Please hand her to me.”

  “I wasn’t going to hurt her,” Jimmy said, holding the little girl out to the magician.

  Blackstone rose and took her from him. Phil’s gun was shoulder level and aimed at Jimmy.

  Blackstone backed away and said,

  “Thank you, Jimmy. Now, if you just put the gun down we can help you.”

  “Where’s the satchel?” I asked.

  “I threw it in the garbage,” Jimmy said. “There was no money in it, just folded newspapers.”

  Jimmy looked at the gun in his hand as if he had forgotten it was there. Then he looked over at Pete Bouton and me and then turned his head toward Phil. He saw the gun aimed at him.

  “Jimmy,” Blackstone repeated. “Look.”

  Jimmy turned his eyes toward the magician, who was handing the child to his brother.

  Blackstone held up both of his arms, clapped his hands and a flash of light appeared between them. When the flash ended, Blackstone was holding a duck in his hands. The duck quacked, and Phil fired.

  Jimmy staggered back and looked as if he were about to topple over the roof. I ran toward him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him toward me away from the edge. He fell on his side, the gun sliding across the roof away from him.

  Phil stepped forward, gun at the ready.

  “How is he?” Phil asked.

  “Hole in his thigh,” I said. “Bleeding a lot.”

  “I’ll call for an ambulance,” Pete said, moving to the stairwell with a groggy Natasha in his arms looking over his shoulder at Jimmy. She looked as if she were going to cry.

  “I wouldn’t have hurt her,” Jimmy said, not seeming to feel any pain.

  “I know,” said Blackstone.

  “All those months,” Jimmy said, looking at me. “Never got shot, just the shrapnel in my leg. Now I’m here, and I get shot. Funny, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Funny.”

  Chapter 20

  Place two wooden kitchen matches side by side on a table about four inches apart. Place a quarter on the table just above the opening between the matches. Tell your audience that the coin will repel the matches. Let someone do it. Nothing will happen as they slide the coin between the matches. Then you do it. Lean forward and concentrate. Close your eyes. Move the coin between the matches as you blow gently on the coin without moving your lips. Blow slowly, easily. The matches roll away. Practice. Always practice.

  From the Blackstone, The Magic Detective radio show

  THE NEXT MORNING GUNTHER CAME to my room after Mrs. Plaut had given me her usual wake-up call. This morning we were having broccoli and cauliflower whipped egg delight. I was putting my pants on.

  We had gotten to bed around three in the morning, and it was now a little after seven. I gave serious thought to coming back to bed after breakfast.

  “Gwen is a very nice young woman,” Gunther said, adjusting his tie. “And smart, very smart. Her family is French, did you know?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Gunther. “French. She speaks it quite well.”

  “So you got along?”

  “Splendidly,” he said. “We are having lunch together, if you would like to join us.”

  “You need a chaperone?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  Jimmy had been taken to County Hospital where they pulled Phil’s bullet from his leg. Cawelti was there to arrest him.

  “Nothing’s different between us,” Cawelti had said to Phil and me when we saw him at the hospital. “Don’t expect anything different.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.

  Phil didn’t say anything.

  “Come by the station in the morning. Someone will take your statement,” he said. “I won’t be there.”

  “We’ll miss you,” I said.

  His face was red now, almost as red as his hair.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  His eyes met Phil’s. They held for a few seconds. Then he turned and moved toward the room where Jimmy was being guarded by a uniformed cop.

  “Back to his lovable self,” I had said.

  Phil only said “Good night” and went home.

  At the breakfast table, Emma Simcox and Ben Bidwell were now officially holding hands. Mrs. Plaut came in with a steaming casserole dish, put it down and said,

  “There are two announcements this a.m. One,” she said looking at Gunther and me. “Mr. Bidwell and Emma will be wed on August 16 here. Wine for the occasion will be Virginia Dare. Rhubarb batter pudding will be the dessert. I have yet to decide which of the following patriotic main entrees would best suit the occasion, breaded fried tripe, liver and bacon rolls, individual liver loaves, brains in croustades, or heart patties. All are Woman’s Day recipes. Your input will be duly considered as the blessed day draws nigh. Two,” she went on, meeting my eyes. “I was in a magical act with the late mister. His secrets will not be revealed while I trod the earth and its environs. When I have gone to my reward or punishment, the mister’s notebooks will be forwarded to Mr. Harry Blackstone. Emma will take care of that.”

  Emma Simcox smiled.

  “Now eat.”

  We ate. It was good. The coffee was hot and strong. The bird in the parlor squawked “Kilroy” over and over. The bird was in his cage. All was right with the world.

  I was in the office less than an hour later. I didn’t meet any tenants on the way in, and I was relieved that I didn’t run into Alice Pallas Butler. Phil wasn’t in. He had said he was taking the day off to be with his family but that I could reach him at home if I needed him.

  The phone was ringing when I unlocked the door.

  “Toby,” said Marty Leib on the other end. “I thought I’d best tell you that I have been retained to represent William Tracy Carson, who is resting comfortably in his hospital bed.”

  “He doesn’t have any money,” I said.

  “His parents do,” said Marty. “His father has a very successful welding shop in Decatur, Illinois. The war has been kind to him.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” I said, knowing there was more.

  “Temporary insanity,” Marty said.

  “Three times?”

  “Why not? War wounds, mental trauma, a hero who worshiped a much-beloved magician. I would like your help in doing some investigation on this. You know the background, and I expect you will be testifying at the trial—if it comes to a trial, which I seriously doubt.”

  “Our fees have gone up,” I said.

  “How much?”

  “You don’t bill us for what you’ve done for us over the past three days and we don’t charge you.”

  “A counter suggestion,” said Marty. “You, or Blackstone, pays my bill, which will be in the mail today, and I do not sue your brother and your firm for excessive and unnecessary violence in shooting my client.”

  “That won’t work,” I said.

  “But it is a nuisance,” Marty said with a sigh.

  “You win, Marty,” I said.

  “I always win,” said Marty. “That’s why I charge what I do.”

  He hung up. I hung my jacket on the coatrack and went to my desk. I didn’t have to look up when the door opened. I knew who would be there.

  Alice stood blocking the doorway.

  “Good morning,” I said, opening the letter on the top of a small pile on my desk. It was an offer to buy two suits at Hy’s For Him for the price of one. “How’s Natasha?”

  “Fine,” she said from the doorway.

  I went to letter number two. It was from someone in Pasadena. I couldn’t make out the name, but there was a phone number. If I read the scrawl right, she wanted to talk to us about find
ing her lost amoeba or ambulance or amulet.

  I half expected Alice to come behind me, yank me from my chair, and hurl me across the room if I was lucky, out the window if I wasn’t. She didn’t move.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “For finding Natasha so fast last night,” she added. “She doesn’t remember any of it, but she asked about the man who told her a story.”

  “Great,” I said, putting down my letter opener and looking at her with my best lopsided smile. “So we’re friends now?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I still don’t like your getting Jeremy involved in your work, but he’s a grown man.”

  He’s at least two grown men, I thought. But I just nodded. Alice left.

  I called Anita and told her what had happened the night before. We agreed to go out for dinner and a movie after she finished work. Before I got off the phone, there was a knock at the door. I didn’t have time to say “come in.” Shelly entered, followed by Pancho. I hung up the phone.

  “Is this great, or is this great?” said Shelly, holding some sheets of paper up to show me the typing on them.

  “What?”

  “The start of the script, Dentist in Disguise,” Shelly said. “Pancho here is a brilliant genius. Look.”

  He placed the pages neatly on my desk and stepped back, chewing on his morning cigar. He looked at Pancho, who let a small smile twitch his thin lips.

  “He worked most of the night on it,” added Shelly. “Did I say he is a brilliant genius?”

  “Your exact words.”

  “We’re thinking of Walter Pidgeon to play me. Or Errol Flynn. He has the touch.”

  “Light touch,” said Pancho.

  “Let me know what you think,” Shelly said and left the office with Pancho still behind him.

  I flipped the title page over on its face and read the neatly typed pages:

  INTERIOR, DAY. OFFICE OF SHELDON PEVSNER Phone rings. SHELDON PEVSNER in clean freshly starched whites is working on a bicuspid filling of a beautiful BLONDE who looks at him with the complete confidence he clearly deserves.

  SHELLY

  Excuse me.

  He touches her shoulder gently, reassuringly, and answers the phone on the wall.

  Dr. Pevsner.

  SPLIT SCREEN. SHELDON PEVSNER on right. TOBY PETERS on left.

  PETERS

  Sheldon, I need your help again.

  SHELLY

  I’ve got a patient. I’ll come to your office in half an hour. What’s the problem?

  PETERS

  I think someone is trying to kill my client, Blackstone the Magician. It’s got me stumped. Please come as soon as you can.

  SHELLY

  Haven’t I always been there to pull your cases from the jaws of disaster? As the Bard said,

  “Take heed dear heart, of this large privilege;

  The hardest knife ill used doth lose its edge.”

  PETERS

  And thanks again for saving my tooth.

  SHELLY

  It’s what I do.

  SHELLY hangs up. TOBY disappears. We are only in SHELLY’S office. SHELLY walks to patient, smiles. She smiles back.

  SHELLY

  You are complete.

  SHELLY helps her from the chair.

  BLONDE

  That was Shakespeare wasn’t it?

  Their faces are inches apart.

  SHELLY

  On the phone?

  BLONDE laughs at his wit.

  I should really observe that first bite of your renewed smile. Dinner tonight?

  BLONDE blushes. SHELLY kisses her hand.

  BLONDE

  Oh, yes.

  SHELLY leads her to the door. BLONDE exits. SHELLY turns on the radio, finds classical music, and cleans his instruments. The door suddenly opens. A MAN dressed like a sea captain, his cap pulled forward over his eyes, staggers in. Under his arm is a bundle about the size of a large ham. It is wrapped in brown paper and tied with a thin rope. MAN tries to say something, hands the package to SHELLY and then collapses. SHELLY touches the man’s neck to be sure he is dead and then SHELLY puts the package down on his instrument table, unwraps it, and discovers a foot-high white statue of an owl.

  It ended there. I looked at the door waiting for the knock I was reasonably sure would come. It did.

  “Come in.”

  Pancho Vanderhoff came timidly in, his yellow scarf wrapped around his neck.

  “You read it?”

  “I did,” I said, holding the few pages out for him to take.

  “You’re not angry? I mean about the way I depicted you?”

  I smiled.

  “Change the name,” I said. “Or I’ll break both your arms.”

  “But Dr. Minck wants real names,” he said, taking the few pages of script.

  “He’ll have to make an exception in this case,” I said.

  “But he wants to say this movie is based on a true story.”

  “Pancho, you took the last page right out of The Maltese Falcon.”

  “It’s a white owl, not a black falcon,” he said.

  I didn’t answer. He clutched the few script pages to his thin breast.

  “I ran out of ideas,” he said. “And Dr. Minck likes it. He wants to know what comes next.”

  “Peter Lorre walks in with a gun and tells him to please put up his hands.”

  “I’m desperate,” Pancho said. “I’m bereft of ideas.”

  “You’ll come up with something,” I said. “Steal from Shakespeare.”

  A light went on in Pancho’s eyes, a dim light but definitely a light.

  “MacBeth,” he said. “Witches, magic, ghosts. A floating dagger like Blackstone’s floating lightbulb.”

  “My goal in life is to inspire,” I said.

  He thanked me and hurried away.

  I called my brother’s house. His sister-in-law Becky answered.

  “It’s me, Toby. Everyone alright.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Mind if I drop by?”

  “Come over for lunch,” she said.

  “I’ll be there.”

  I finished opening my mail and started to make out the bill for Blackstone. Knock at the door. The magician appeared holding a package in his hands.

  “We’re leaving for San Diego tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “We’ve got two shows to do there, for the troops sailing out. If you have your bill ready by this evening before six, bring it to the hotel, and I’ll give you a check.”

  He placed the package on the desk in front of me.

  “Care to guess what’s inside?” he asked.

  “The Maltese Falcon.”

  “Open it.”

  I did and pulled out an ornate Chinese box about the size of two cigar boxes. I reached over to lift the cover.

  “Stop.”

  I stopped.

  “Open it when I’m gone,” he said.

  He touched his right hand to his forehead in a salute like the one James Cagney gave in The Public Enemy. Then he was gone.

  I opened the box slowly, half expecting white pigeons to come flying in my face, or a rabbit to peek over the side twitching its nose in my direction.

  There was nothing in the blue velvet lined box, nothing but a lightbulb. The lightbulb, though, wasn’t lying on the bottom of the box. It was floating. And then it turned on.