A Few Minutes Past Midnight (18 page)

“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.

“If my theory is correct, he shall be there.”

“Why? You think he showed up at the funerals of all those other women? Likes to see them buried?”

“Not quite,” said Chaplin with a distinct twinkle. “Not quite.”

“What time is the burial?” I asked.

“Just before sundown,” he said. “We have a bit of time, but not much. I came by taxi. I assume your car is serviceable.”

“It’s serviceable,” I said.

“Good, then I have one more question.”

“Shoot,” I said.

Chaplin turned his head to the door and asked, “What is that bizarre man doing to that woman?”

“That’s Sheldon Minck. He’s the dentist from the train.”

“Yes, but …”

“It’s better not to think about it,” I advised. “When we go out, don’t talk to him. I’ll tell him later that you’re a mobster.”

“Someone should rescue the woman in the chair,” he said, rising.

“There’ll just be another to take her place in an hour. The world is filled with people who miss all the warning signs, and wind up under his lamp and dull instruments.”

Chaplin held up his hands to indicate that he would surrender to the inevitable. I put my jacket back on, and we went out the door.

CHAPTER

11

T
RAFFIC WAS HEAVY
.
We had a lot of time to talk, and, since Chaplin was in a good mood, he did most of the talking. That was fine with me.

“I have made mistakes,” he said, looking out the window. “I have also made people laugh and cry. I have made a great deal of money and I have, I must admit, been less than delicate in my dealings with women. I take it you are not married?”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“Ah,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t seem to resist the institution, but I’m confident that Oona, who is no impulsive mistake, will be my final foray into matrimony. Are you on good terms with your former wife?”

“Hard to say.”

“I try to retain a cordial but distant friendship with ex-spouses,” he said. “I think Paulette and I will remain on good terms. I hear she’s going to marry Burgess Meredith. Distant, cordial relationship, Toby.”

“I’ll try it,” I said.

We reached the cemetery just before the sun went down. Chaplin put on his disguise and got out of the car in front of the cemetery gate. Down the road beyond the open gate we could see about four cars parked along a gravel path.

“Give me five minutes,” he said. “Then drive in and walk slowly to the gravesite.”

“How do you know this is the right funeral?” I asked.

“I called. There ain’t but one at this hour,” Chaplin said in his Texas accent. “
Hasta la vista.
”

He opened the door, got out, and headed for the parked cars. I watched him walk away in a deliberate stride unlike his normal, faster gait.

I was supposed to follow him in five minutes. I couldn’t be sure about the five minutes so I turned on the radio and listened to a little of Quincy Howe and the news. Roosevelt was hopping around the world and an announcer told me to buy 666 Cold Tablets. I figured that took five minutes. I drove up the gravel path toward the gravesite, the setting sun to my left. I parked behind a big Chrysler four-door, got out, and walked toward the group of people around an open grave.

The casket of Elsie Pultman rested on a stand near the hole. A man wearing a black suit and black hat with a Bible tucked under his arm was speaking in a solemn tone.

“… and what else can we say about this woman? Elsie Pultman was not known as a generous woman, not known as a devout or kind woman, not known as a friendly woman, but she hurt no one, donated frugally to the Red Cross, and spoke well of President Roosevelt. She also saved large amounts of grease in tin cans to support the war effort. Her family and friends have come to bid her farewell and we ask that our Lord take her into his realm with love and understanding.”

I looked around the small gathering. Chaplin stood next to two old women on one side of the grave. On the other, just behind the casket were the two men in work clothes who would be lowering the casket into the grave. A large mound of dirt stood behind them with two shovels next to the pile. A few feet from them stood a tall woman in black with a wide hat and a handkerchief to her eyes. She was a good-looking woman of about forty with large earrings and a wide red mouth. Next to her stood a man about her age with a dark mustache and hair brushed back. He wore a well-pressed suit and a sad look on his downcast face.

I approached slowly. Eyes turned in my direction. I could see Chaplin the Texan looking at the man with the Bible, the grieving man and woman, the old ladies, and even the two grave diggers. I stopped about ten feet from them all.

“You may lower the casket,” the man with the Bible said.

The two workmen did just that, with ropes and expertise. When the casket was in place, the man with the Bible nodded at the man with the mustache who reached down, picked up some dirt, and dropped it on the casket. I could hear the dirt hit the wood. Then the good-looking woman in black did the same thing and stood back.

“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,” the man with the Bible said and stood back.

The old women moved over to shake the hand of the man who had conducted the service and then they moved to the fellow with the mustache, who, it seemed, was being comforted by the tall woman at his side.

I stepped closer as Chaplin went around the headstone and moved to the mourning man.

The sun was almost down now but I could read the engraving on the big gray headstone:

“Elsie Frances Pultman, 1869–1943, In Loving Memory, Jeffrey.”

I didn’t move forward. Chaplin then moved off to talk to the man who had delivered the eulogy. The conversation was brief.

I stood watching while the procession moved away leaving the workmen to fill in the grave. When the mourners were almost at their cars, Chaplin moved to my side.

“I was right,” he said.

“About what?”

“You didn’t recognize them?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Ah, perhaps it’s my years in show business. Makeup and disguise are essences of our craft. The tall, rather handsome woman was Fiona Sullivan,” he said.

“Fiona Sul …”

“Remember, she was a makeup artist,” he said. “My guess is that we just witnessed the usual appearance of Fiona Sullivan. The dowdy spinster look she presented to us was the disguise.”

I suddenly remembered Mrs. Plaut telling me that Fiona Sullivan was considered to be a good-looking woman given to too much makeup.

The cars were pulling away.

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“And there is more not to get,” Chaplin said as we moved slowly toward my car and the sun fell further. “The man with the mustache was Howard Sawyer, or at least he has used the name Howard Sawyer.”