A Few Minutes Past Midnight (12 page)

I urged the Crosley through the side streets. The rain slowed a little and then a lot. We could hear thunder. I had my foot to the floor, but it didn’t persuade the car to make a fresh spurt.

When I saw the station, I said, “Time.”

“We have ten minutes, perhaps less,” said Chaplin.

We sputtered into the parking lot and got out. It was California hot and humid. Chaplin abandoned his jar and grabbed his suitcase from behind the seat. We made a dash for it. Chaplin was about seven years older than me and twice as fast. I tried to keep up with him. He raced ahead, clearing a path through the crowd, making sudden turns on one foot, a ballet of motion, with me lumbering behind.

As we ran, a crackling voice on the loudspeaker announced without emotion, “Train Number 431 on Track two to San Francisco has been delayed for twenty minutes. Passengers should all be aboard in five minutes. Remember to buy United States War Bonds and Stamps.”

I saw Gunther in front of us at the gate and he saw us. He held up the tickets.

“You need not run,” Gunther announced. “The train has been delayed. I heard the conductors talking. They are holding departure for someone important.”

“This is Charles Chaplin. Mr. Chaplin, my friend and colleague, Gunther Wherthman,” I said panting.

“Very pleased to meet you,” Chaplin said, taking Gunther’s hand.

“My pleasure accompanies my admiration,” Gunther answered.

“You’ve got Fiona Sullivan?” I asked.

“I do,” Gunther said, leading the way down the platform.

“Jeremy?”

“He was not available. At your request, I contacted Dr. Minck. He is with Miss Sullivan. I took the liberty of reserving two private compartments, which were fortunately available. We must hurry.”

We showed the conductor at the gate our tickets.

We hurried. Gunther climbed onto the fifth car with Chaplin behind him and me in the rear.

“This way,” said Gunther.

We followed. Chaplin stopped and turned to me.

“On the platform, just before we boarded the train,” he said. “I saw him.”

I knew who he meant, but I asked.

“The wet man? Sawyer.”

Chaplin nodded and said, “I believe he got on this train. I believe there were two rather large men with him.”

“Here,” said Gunther. “Compartments six and seven. Dr. Minck is in six.”

I opened the door to six. Shelly sat forward, across from Fiona Sullivan who sat erect and as far away as space would allow. Shelly looked up, blinked behind his glasses, and removed his cigar. Had we been a trio of killers, Fiona would be dead before Shelly stood up.

“Keep the door locked, Shel,” I said.

“I was prepared,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a shiny round metal bar about six inches long and half an inch around.

“What is that?”

“The bottom half of my new protective essential shield tooth cover inserter, P.E.S.T. The top part … let me show you …” He started reaching into another pocket.

“Not now, Shel,” I said. “This is Charlie Chaplin.”

Shelly cocked his head to one side. Fiona Sullivan opened her mouth in disbelief.

Chaplin bowed to Fiona and held out his hand to Shelly, who took it and said, “Nice teeth.”

“Thank you,” said Chaplin. “I try to observe proper dental hygiene.”

“I’ve got something that’ll help,” said Shelly. “A rinse. Use it every morning. Tastes like Smith Brothers cherry cough drops. Protects your teeth from everything.”

“Sounds intriguing,” said Chaplin. “However …”

“We’re going into the next compartment,” I said. “Lock the door. We’ll be listening. Don’t open the door for anything or anyone including the conductor if you don’t hear me with him.”

“I’d prefer being with Mr. Wherthman,” said Fiona Sullivan with more than a touch of panic in her voice as she looked at Shelly, her fingers moving to touch the two silver birds in flight on her locket.

“I shall be back shortly,” Gunther said.

As we closed the door again, I could hear Shelly whisper loudly, “He’s shorter than he looks in the movies.”

Chaplin, Gunther, and I stood in the corridor for a moment waiting for the sound of the lock. It didn’t come. I knocked at the door.

“Who is it?” Shelly asked.

“Lock the door, Shel,” I said.

“I was just about to,” he answered. “A man can only move so fast.”

He locked the door. The three of us went into the next compartment and closed the door.

“The man who’s after Fiona Sullivan killed a woman today, the sixth woman on the list,” I said.

“Pultman, Elsie,” said Gunther.

I nodded.

“He left the body in her car in front of Mrs. Plaut’s,” I went on.

“Why?” asked Gunther.

Chaplin sat, crossed his knees, and waited for my answer.

“He doesn’t like our helping Mr. Chaplin,” I explained.

Gunther nodded and said, “Insane. Working in the circus I encountered remarkable people. You,” he said looking at Chaplin, “are familiar with circus people. I saw your film,
The Circus.
You have an understanding of the humiliation and elation of the clown, the mountebank, the person who risks his life more to feel alive and meaningful than to gain money.”

“Being in movies is very much like being in the circus,” Chaplin said. “But it pays far more.”

“I knew a man named Davies, mild, gentle, well read,” said Gunther. “One day he rose before dawn and killed four tigers with a crossbow. He didn’t harm the lions.”

“The tigers had attacked him?” asked Chaplin with interest.

“He was not an animal trainer. He was an contortionist. And there was Klaus Muellenberg with the Royal Danish Circus. A nice man, an aerialist, murdered the Flying Schmidts, all five of them with an antique rifle. Gave no reason. Insanity accounts for much that occurs in the world. One need only read the war news.”

It was probably the longest speech I had ever heard from Gunther and I didn’t want to interrupt him. But if Chaplin was right, Howard Sawyer and two large men were on the train probably looking for Fiona Sullivan right now. I explained the situation quickly to Gunther and asked, “Any suggestions?”

“We get Miss Sullivan and leave the train,” said Chaplin. “Then we seek help from the nearest police officer.”

Gunther nodded and I agreed. It was pointless to run to San Francisco if the person you were running from had you trapped on a train.

“Let’s go,” I said and opened the compartment door.

A very big man filled the doorway. He was wearing gray slacks and a gray polo shirt and a determined, unfriendly look on his bronzed face. His hair was nearly white, but his skin was clear. It was the size of his biceps that most impressed me.

My first thought was, why isn’t this guy in the army? My second thought was that there was someone even bigger directly behind him. The bigger man was darker, older, and had a well-trimmed bartender mustache.

“Sit down,” the younger one in the door said with an accent that suggested someplace far away and very cold with reindeer. He stepped inside, his partner behind him.

“I think,” said Chaplin, “you should get out of our way or we’ll be forced to ring for the conductor.”

“Sit down,” the Viking repeated.

“Please clear the entry,” said Gunther, displaying a gun he produced from nowhere.

The Viking looked over his shoulder at the mustached man behind us, then turned back to us and said, “No.”

“If you take another step, I will shoot,” said Gunther.

“Just let us all sit for five minutes,” said the man. “Then we will leave. Which of you is Peters?”

“I am,” I said.

“You, we will break your arm before we leave.”

“Any particular reason?” I asked.

“We are being paid,” he said.

“The guy who paid you is killing a woman in the next compartment,” I said.

“If you touch Mr. Peters, I will shoot you,” Gunther said.

“I believe he will,” Chaplin said.

The Viking shrugged.

“We have already been paid,” he said. “We’ll break no arm. Just remain where you are. Five minutes.”

“We don’t have five minutes,” I said, stepping in front of him.

“Then,” said the Viking, “we shall have to break your arm.”

The door to the compartment suddenly opened. The two men in front of me blocked my view. But suddenly there was only one man. Mustache was gone. The Viking turned around and found himself facing Jeremy Butler. He had about twenty-five years on Jeremy but he was outclassed. Jeremy stepped into a bear hug. The Viking pushed his hands against Jeremy’s head trying to force him back. Jeremy lifted the younger man off the ground and grunted. The Viking groaned in agony. Jeremy let him drop to the floor.

The man was on his hands and knees trying to get past Jeremy to the now-open door.

“The man who paid you,” I said. “Who is he?”

Jeremy blocked the crawling man by stepping in front of the door.

“Don’t know,” the fallen Viking gasped. “We were at the beach, Venice. Just … you broke a rib.”

“Yes,” said Jeremy.

“The man?” I repeated.

“He gave us fifty dollars each,” the man groaned. “And another fifty just before we got on the train.”

Jeremy stepped out of the way. The man crawled out and the four of us moved into the corridor. Mustache was staggering toward the end of the car holding his neck in both hands as if he were trying to keep his head from falling off. The Viking was right behind him, trying to stand.

“Alice told me I should come,” Jeremy explained, as we moved to the next compartment.

“I’m glad she did,” I said, knocking at the door.

“Who is it?” asked Shelly.

“Me, Toby.”

“Toby who?”

“Shel, open the door.”

“Does someone have a gun or a knife in your back?”

“If they did, could I tell you? Open the door. We have to get off the train.”

“Give me a password,” Shelly demanded.

“Like what?”

“My receptionist’s name.”

“Violet.”

“Violet what?”

“Gonsenelli,” I said.

The lock was pulled back and the door opened. Shelly was alone in the room. The door to the toilet was open. Fiona wasn’t inside.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“She needed a Bromo Seltzer,” he said. “She went back to the dining car.

“Shelly, I told you … forget it.”

He joined us in a run through the train, five odd looking men single file providing a free show for the people in the three coaches we passed through. There was no one in the dining car but a few waiters sitting at a table smoking and drinking coffee.

“A woman come in here a few minutes ago?” I asked.

“No,” said one of the waiters.

“What’s beyond this car?”

“Baggage,” said the waiter. “Door’s locked. No one came through here.”

“She’s gone,” said Chaplin.

“He has Miss Sullivan,” said Gunther.

“She said she needed a Bromo,” Shelly nearly whimpered.

Outside the window, a conductor shouted, “All aboard.”

“So,” said Shelly, “does this mean we’re not going to San Francisco?”

I led the procession to the end of the car and pushed open the door. I climbed off with the sound of Shelly’s voice behind me saying, “Wait. I’ve got to get my suitcase.”

We didn’t wait. There were people on the platform but no Howard Sawyer, no Fiona Sullivan. We ran to the gate and looked around the crowd in the station.

“You see a man and woman just run through here?” I asked the ticket checker. “The woman probably looked scared, about this high.”

“Didn’t notice such,” said the man, adjusting his glasses and looking back at Shelly down the platform waddling toward us.

“What now?” Chaplin asked.

I didn’t have the slightest damned idea.

“We go to the police,” said Gunther.

“I go to the police,” I amended. “Jeremy, you have someplace Mr. Chaplin can stay for a few days? I don’t think he should go back to Mrs. Plaut’s.”

I was thinking about Elsie Pultman in the car on Heliotrope.

“Several vacancies, one furnished on Lankershim, very nice,” Jeremy said.

Jeremy had taken a cab. So had Shelly and Gunther. We moved to the cab stand outside the station.

“I nearly forgot,” Jeremy said, reaching into his pocket and coming up with a neatly folded sheet of paper. He handed it to me. “Read it when you have time.”

“I’m sorry,” I said to Chaplin.

“No need to apologize,” he said. “I’ve not had this much excitement since I fell out of the balcony in Manchester when touring with Fred Karno’s troupe. Landed on a stout woman who survived and provided me with a look of astonishment I’ve attempted to duplicate in character actresses ever since. Find Miss Sullivan, Mr. Peters. And stop this lunatic.”

They piled into a cab and drove off.

I went back inside the station and made a phone call. Then, I went to my car, drove to the booth, paid my way out, and headed toward my appointment with Phil. I turned on the radio and heard the familiar bonging of a grandfather clock.

Bong
… “it” …
bong
… “is” …
bong
… “later” …
bong
… “than” …
bong …
“you” …
bong …
“think. Lights Out.”

I listened to the story about two Nazis who drop into England by parachute to blow something up and find themselves in a castle where they kill their British hosts, who come back to life and act as if nothing has happened. They kill the British again, but they come back. This goes on till one of the Nazis cracks and blows up the place along with himself and his fellow Nazi.

It was heartwarming. Just as it ended I parked in front of the Wilshire Station. Lights out.

CHAPTER

8

T
HE SQUAD ROOM
was almost as busy at night as it was during the day. Actually a lot of criminals like to work a normal day. It makes them feel as if they had a respectable profession like everyone else. Some criminals even have families, wives or husbands and kids. Some.

Phil was in his small office in front of his desk. His tie was loose. He needed a shave and had a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked at me when I walked in and then at the wall in front of him.