A Few Minutes Past Midnight (11 page)

“Then,” I said, “call Jeremy. See if he can take a few days off. If he can’t, call Shelly, tell him to go with you. Sneak out, Gunther. Sawyer may be watching the house. Don’t let her leave any notes besides one saying she’ll be gone for a few days. I’ll call Chaplin. We’ll meet you at the station.”

“Shall I purchase the five tickets?”

“Please. I’ll give you the money when I see you at the station.”

“It will be done,” Gunther said.

I hung up and called Mrs. Plaut’s. When she finally answered, I shouted, “Mrs. Plaut. It’s Toby Peters. I have to talk to Mr. Voodoo.”

“Who is it?” she asked.

I screamed my message into the phone.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why? I found a book he was looking for. I want to know if I should buy it for him.”

“What book?”

“
How to Win Friends and Influence People
” I said.

“I’ll get him.”

A few moments later Chaplin said, “Peters?”

“Listen, the guy who came to your door, who threw the knife at you, I think he’s killed five women.”

“Distressing,” he said.

“To say the least.”

“Are these women all single, older, living alone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I see,” he said. “Yes. Our damp night visitor is doing what the character I’m writing my screenplay about is doing. He found out about it somehow and is afraid I’m doing research on him. And I am to assume from this that the Fiona Sullivan I was to stay away from is to be his next victim.”

“I’ve got her covered,” I said. “On a train out of Union Station for San Francisco at eight. Two friends are going with her. But I think I should get you on that train too and out of town for a while. Meanwhile, there’s another woman on our man’s list. She won’t listen to me.”

“San Francisco for a few days is acceptable,” Chaplin said. “Though it is a pity I can’t spend a bit more time with Mrs. Plaut. She is a treasure trove of ideas. You say this woman, this other woman …”

“Elsie Pultman. She has a house in Venice.”

“Elsie Pultman,” he repeated. “Good name for a character. She won’t listen to you?”

“Slammed the door in my face,” I said.

“Perhaps I might talk to her. I can, I am told, be persuasive with women.”

That I knew from reading the newspapers and listening to Jimmy Fiddler.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“The man has threatened me,” said Chaplin. “I shall have to insist.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m in Venice. I’ll pick you up in about an hour or so. I don’t think we’ll have time to get back to Mrs. Plaut’s when we finish. We’ll head for Union Station. So it will help if you’re packed. I don’t want to leave Elsie Pultman alone for too long.”

“I understand. Then perhaps we should end this conversation.”

“Right,” I said.

He hung up. So did I. I got in the car, used some of Mrs. Plaut’s gas ration stamps, and headed for Hollywood.

CHAPTER

7

W
HEN
I
GOT
to Mrs. Plaut’s, Chaplin, wearing tan slacks, a white shirt, and a brown sports jacket, was sitting in the living room with his packed suitcase at his side. Mrs. Plaut sat across from him, a jar of something dark in her hand, saying, “… most welcome should you ever wish to return, Mr. Voodoo.”

Chaplin nodded at me and rose.

“You’ve been most gracious,” he told her taking her hand. “But before I leave I must tell you that I have engaged in a slight deception.”

“You are Charlie Chase,” she said.

“No, I’m afraid not, but I am Charles Chaplin.”

“Carl Kaplan?” she asked. I wondered why there seemed to be a select group of us who Mrs. Plaut failed to hear. “Mr. Kaplan, did you think I would turn you away because you are of the Jewish persuasion?”

“I am not Jewish,” Chaplin said patiently.

“Be proud of your heritage,” she said. “I am. My ancestors are everything, plus six different tribes of Indian with one Jewish peddler thrown in, I think. Here, this is for you, a jar of sweetbreads and minced tongue.”

She handed Chaplin the jar.

“That is most generous of you,” he said.

“Cow tongue,” she said. “Cow brains. So don’t worry.”

“I will savor this generous gift,” he said tucking the jar under his arm and picking up his suitcase. “Adieu.”

Mrs. Plaut smiled, and we went out the door.

“A delightful woman,” Chaplin said. “I may return to her for inspiration from time to time.”

He held the jar in his lap as we drove.

“This movie Sawyer doesn’t want you to make,” I said. “He thinks it’s about him.”

“But it is not,” said Chaplin glancing at the jar in his lap. “The idea was given to me by Orson Welles. It is based loosely on the true story of Landru, a Frenchman who murdered a number of women, a worthy inheritor of the name Bluebeard. We are, I fear, dealing with a madman.”

“You’re probably right, but it doesn’t help us much.”

The drive back to Venice was slow. The drizzle was back. Afternoon traffic was heavy. Too much time cramped in the Crosley was getting to my back.

Chaplin talked, asked me questions about my work, my background as a cop, and my brother.

“There is a policeman in my movie,” he said. “Dogged, determined, in pursuit of my lady killer, a bit like your brother, perhaps.”

“Does he catch him?” I asked.

“No, when he catches up to our sympathetic murderer, the lady killer pours himself a glass of wine fortified with poison. You see, he plans to commit suicide rather than go on trial. The policeman, unaware that the wine is poisoned, takes the drink, downs it in triumph, and dies allowing our protagonist to continue his life of crime.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I hope and expect it shall be.”

When we hit Venice, Chaplin said, “Not far from here is the location of my first real American film,
Kids’ Auto Races in Venice.
That was before I created the Little Fellow. Times were easier then though far less lucrative.”

I parked in front of Elsie Pultman’s. The drizzle had stopped again. I wished it would make up its mind. Chaplin left his jar of sweetbreads and tongue on the seat, and we walked up to the front door.

The door was open about three inches.

With Chaplin at my side I leaned toward the opening and called, “Miss Pultman.”

No sound. I pushed the door open another inch or two and tried,

“Elsie.”

Another four or five inches and the door was open. This time I knocked and shouted, “Elsie Pultman.”

When nothing happened, I stepped in. Chaplin followed me.

I own a gun, a .38. I seldom carry it. There are many reasons. First, I am a rotten shot. Second, the few times I have taken it with me I’ve either had it stolen, gotten myself hurt, or messed up a situation that could have been better handled without a weapon. There were two or three times when the gun had saved my life or someone else’s, but it was always a gamble. It didn’t really matter at the moment. I hadn’t even considered taking it from the closet in my room at Mrs. Plaut’s.

I kept calling Elsie Pultman’s name as we walked through her entryway. A small table with a telephone on it stood next to the stairs leading up. We moved slowly toward the back of the house which was, like Elsie Pultman, overdecorated.

The wallpaper was pink with vertical and elaborate purple designs that looked like chandeliers. The walls in the small living room we walked into were covered with paintings that suggested no common taste or idea. There were old-fashioned forests, hunting dogs, girls filling jugs of water at a fountain, portraits of women with pulled-back hair and lace collars, a bright poster in red with a cartoonlike man with a hammer and something that looked like Russian written under the anvil he was about to strike.

It went on and on. The furniture included a couple of wicker chairs with unmatched cushions, a settee with material that looked like red silk, and a wooden bench with a back about shoulder high that could have come straight from the Folsom Prison resale shop.

“Eclectic,” said Chaplin.

We moved further into the house, listening for movement.

In front of the kitchen sink was a poker table covered with the rings left by ancient drinks. At the table were two chairs. Next to the refrigerator on a chipped white porcelain table was another telephone.

It rang. We looked at it and each other and let it ring waiting for Elsie Pultman, if she were upstairs, to pick it up or come running down to answer it.

It kept ringing. I picked it up.

“Hello,” I said.

“Put Chaplin on,” came a man’s voice.

“It’s for you,” I said, holding out the phone.

Chaplin pointed to himself.

“Me?”

“He asked for you.”

Chaplin took the phone, and I ran back in the hall to pick up the phone we had passed.

“Yes,” said Chaplin.

“You know who I am?”

“I’m reasonably good at recognizing voices even on the telephone,” said Chaplin. “You’re the man who, I believe, is generally known as Howard Sawyer.”

“That’s right.”

“And,” Chaplin went on, while I tried to stretch the telephone cord far enough so that I could look out the window, “you made an attempt to kill me. It was a very poor effort.”

I didn’t remember a public phone outside Elsie Pultman’s house. I could just get to the door. I kicked it open and looked for one. Nothing there.

“I can do better,” the man on the phone said. “I’ve done better.”

“I’m familiar with your list,” Chaplin said. “Though I’m convinced at this point that you are insane, I will, for my own satisfaction, tell you that your exploits did not inspire the script on which I am working and that, until you gave me the name, I had never heard of Fiona Sullivan. In short, you are either very stupid, simply insane, or have a great desire to get caught.”

“Elsie Pultman isn’t there,” the man said.

“I see. Where is she?”

“You’ll know soon.”

“Enlightening,” said Chaplin.

“Fiona Sullivan is next,” the man said.

“We shall endeavor to keep that from being true. Now, shall we set a time and place to meet? I think you would be a valuable source of information for my project.”

“I’m not a fool,” he said.

“You are certainly not on the level of Albert Einstein or even Rudolph Hess,” Chaplin prodded.

“Leave that house. Go back home. Forget about all this and you live,” the man said.

“Ah, I’m afraid it is too late for that,” said Chaplin. “I’ve decided that it necessary to stop you and I will do what is required to attain that end. Now, unless you have something of interest or value to add …”

“Peters,” the man said. “I know you’re listening. You’ve been looking for me. Now I’m looking for you.”

“Then,” I said, “we’re looking for each other. How about telling me where we can meet and make us both happy.”

“Soon,” he said.

“Elsie Pultman,” Chaplin repeated.

“Number seven. I think I’ll be a good citizen now and call the police. You are in Miss Pultman’s house without her permission. Imagine the headline:
CHAPLIN ARRESTED IN HOME BREAK-IN.
”

He hung up.

Chaplin came into the hall. We searched the downstairs and the upstairs, closets. No Elsie Pultman.

“What now?” asked Chaplin.

“We’ve got a train to catch,” I said.

“I don’t see how running to San Francisco is going to help us find this madman.”

“It’ll get you and Fiona Sullivan out of town, and maybe, with a little help from the police, I’ll find him or he’ll find me.”

“That plan offers little comfort.”

I picked up the phone and dialed. A man came on and gave his name as Sergeant Weitzel. I asked for my brother. He came on quickly.

“Phil, one of the women on that list I gave you is missing. She may be dead.”

“Elsie Pultman,” Phil said. “She is dead, strangled.”

“How …?”

“I got a call,” my brother said. “A man told me where to find the body. I sent a car. We found her. Like to know where?”

“Yes,” I said.

“In a 1938 Ford, two-door, blue. Car’s registered to her. It was and is parked in front of your boarding house.”

“Mrs Plaut’s?”

“That’s where you live,” he said evenly. “I think he’s sending you a message.”

“It looks that way,” I agreed. “What now?”

“We find him,” said Phil. “We stop him. Maybe he falls down a flight of stairs accidentally before we book him.”

“What did you find out about the other five women?” I asked, ignoring the last remark.

“We’re working on it. I’ve got a very bad headache, Tobias. I suggest you get to my office fast.”

“Fiona Sullivan’s next,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“The killer just told me.”

“Where is she?” Phil asked. “And where are you?”

“I’m getting her someplace safe,” I answered, ignoring his second question.

“That’s not your job. You get her killed and …”

“You didn’t believe me before.”

“Now I’ve got a dead woman on your doorstep. Get in here.”

“As soon as I can, Phil. Good-bye.”

I hung up. The Venice police were probably on the way to the house in which we were standing. In fact, I was surprised that they weren’t already here.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Elsie Pultman’s dead.”

We went through the front door, down the steps, and got into the Crosley just as the faint sound of police sirens came through the fickle drizzle.

Canned sweetbreads and tongue in his lap, Chaplin looked grim as I urged the car to do its best. We were heading for Union Station.

We hit rush hour and heavy rain and the Crosley sputtered.

“What is that sound?” asked Chaplin.

“Valves,” I said.

“It sounds like a fuel mixture problem,” said Chaplin.

“You’re disputing the word of No-Neck Arnie,” I said.

“Forgive me,” Chaplin answered. “I would certainly not wish to dispute the word of someone named No-Neck Arnie. You say the train is at eight?”

“Right.”

“And,” he said looking at his watch, “the current time is 7:10.”