A Few Minutes Past Midnight (19 page)

“Who is he?”

“The nephew of Elsie Pultman, Jeffrey,” said Chaplin. “Jeffrey Pultman, her only heir. The late Miss Pultman, I have discovered, was a very wealthy woman.”

“So, he killed his aunt for the money,” I said. “Why did he kill the others?”

“I don’t think he did,” said Chaplin, removing his disguise. “I think he wanted us to think he did. Let’s go over it.”

The cars were gone now. Only Chaplin and I were left in the growing darkness.

“He comes to my door, orders me to stop working on my project about a man who goes around killing women. He plants the idea that he has been doing just that. He also mentions that I should stay away from Fiona Sullivan. I had no idea who Fiona Sullivan might be. He wanted me to find Fiona Sullivan.”

I was beginning to get it.

“So you hire me. I find Fiona Sullivan. She says Howard Sawyer has a room in her house. She sees to it that Gunther finds the hidden clippings that give us a list of dead women.”

“Suggesting,” Chaplin said, “that they are former victims of the mad Howard Sawyer.”

“But,” I said, “they’re not. They’re just clippings he cut about dead women.”

“Precisely, and then when Fiona Sullivan disappeared …”

“We figured she was another victim. And Blanche Wiltsey was just a name he plucked from a phone book.”

“Thus, we, and then the police, believed that Sawyer had not only murdered again, but that Blanche Wiltsey is to be his next victim.”

“Fiona Sullivan’s locket,” I said. “He got it to me to make us think she was dead.”

“There has been but one person murdered by Jeffrey Pultman playing the fictitious Howard Sawyer, and that victim was his aunt.”

We were in the Crosley now.

“Now they’re getting away,” I said.

“No,” said Chaplin. “Seeing you may make our Mr. Pultman very nervous, but he may also reason that you are just following up, doing your job. He has no reason, or none with any certainty, to think that you are aware of who he is. Besides, after going through this elaborate charade, I doubt if he will run off without his inheritance.”

I drove down the gravel path.

“So where is he?” I asked.

“Staying in his late aunt’s house in Venice,” said Chaplin. “The Reverend was kind enough to tell me where I might, as an old friend of Mrs. Pultman, pay a condolence call.”

“It’s time to turn this over to the police,” I said.

“Turn what over?” Chaplin asked. “I walk into the police station.” He mimed opening a door. “Sit in front of a detective.” He pretended to sit, defying gravity. “I smile.” He gave a comic toothy grin. “And then I tell him my story. Does he leap up and say ‘Let’s go grab the vile murderer?’ No, he says, ‘Come back when you’ve got something besides your theory about what happened.’”

Chaplin stood straight.

“So?” I asked.

“So I suggest we pay a condolence call on the grieving nephew. We come up with a plan by which he will provide us with a confession or evidence.”

“Or he decides to kill us.”

“Unlikely,” said Chaplin. “And you are armed.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Immensely,” Chaplin said with a deep breath. “Shall we go?”

On the way to Venice, Chaplin was in a good mood.

“Let’s play one of my favorite games,” he said. “Let us cast our little adventure as if it were going to be a movie.”

Traffic wasn’t too bad. Rush hour was over. That meant traffic wasn’t great, but it didn’t make you want to get out and walk. I didn’t feel like playing any more games.

“I, of course,” said Chaplin, “would play myself.”

“How about Spencer Tracy playing me?”

“I would think more in terms of Nat Pendleton. For Dr. Minck, I would say Lou Costello. Mr. Wherthman gives us little choice but Billy Barty. Mrs. Plaut would need Marjorie Main. And Jeremy Butler. Ah, we would need Mike Mazurki.”

“And Jeffrey Pultman?”

“A tour-de-force bit of casting,” he said. “Buster Keaton. It would rekindle his career.”

I didn’t like any of it, but I kept driving.

“May I?” asked Chaplin reaching for the radio.

“Help yourself.”

He turned the dial until he found something classical featuring a piano. He knew the music and hummed along. When we were a few blocks from Elsie Pultman’s house, I pulled into a parking spot.

“Why are we stopping?” Chaplin asked.

“So he doesn’t see us drive up.”

“But we want him to see us,” said Chaplin.

“Not if he has a gun.”

“Which he will not use,” countered Chaplin with a slight air of impatience. “He doesn’t want to risk losing his aunt’s money. He’ll bluff. We’ll pretend.”

“It’s dangerous,” I said, pulling out of the space and continuing down the street.

“I think not, but I relish the idea of walking up to his door and surprising him as he surprised me earlier this week. Perhaps I should douse myself with water and carry a cane?”

“Perhaps we should do some more thinking,” I said, finding a space directly across the street from the Pultman house.

“I have experience with people pretending to be what they are not,” he said.

“And I have experience with people who shoot at me.”

“Then,” said Chaplin getting out of the car, “we shall combine our experience and catch a killer.”

I got out and followed him across the street. He stepped up to the door and knocked.

“Maybe he’s not here,” I said. “I don’t see any of the cars from the cemetery.”

“He may have a garage,” Chaplin said.

He knocked again.

“Someone looked through that window over us,” I said, putting my right hand near my belt where I could pluck out my gun.

Chaplin continued to knock. He tried the door. Something creaked inside the house. Footsteps moved down the stairs and then away from the door.

“Back door,” Chaplin whispered.

We ran around the house, ducking low so whoever was inside might not see us if they glanced out a window. It turned out to be a tie.

Fiona Sullivan was stepping out the door as we rounded the corner.

“Miss Sullivan,” Chaplin said.

She turned, tall, startled. Mrs. Plaut had said she was a good-looking woman. Mrs. Plaut had been right.

“Yes,” she said, trying to keep calm, her hand on the doorknob, ready to duck back in.

“Shall we talk?” asked Chaplin.

“About what?” she asked as if she had no idea of who we were.

“Good,” said Chaplin. “I see how this scene will have to be played. Do you contend that you do not know who we are?”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am Charles Chaplin and this is Toby Peters. You and I met briefly on a train.”

“I don’t recall,” she said.

It was my turn to get into the game. I pulled out my gun and aimed it at her.

“No more,” I said, pretending that I had lost my patience and possibly my reason. “I’m not going to play the sap for you or anyone else.”

That was more or less the line I remembered Bogart saying to Mary Astor in
The Maltese Falcon.

“Now, now,” Chaplin said soothingly, putting an hand on my arm. “I’m sure Miss Sullivan will cooperate.”

“I’m tired of talking,” I ranted. “I’m tired of being run around the park like a windup monkey. I’m giving her five seconds to turn Pultman over or I’m going to shoot her goddamn knees off.”

“What is he talking about?” she asked with a touch of real alarm.

I was getting through to her so I went on. I waved off Chaplin’s hand and he staggered back. I thought he was overdoing it a little, but we’d criticize each other’s performance later.

“He suffered a head wound in the war,” Chaplin said. “When he gets confused … I hear that he ran over a blind man on Hollywood Boulevard who reminded him of Erwin Rommel.”

“Well,” she said, “stop him.”

“No use,” said Chaplin with a deep sigh. “He’ll just shoot me too.”

“I’ll shoot anybody,” I said. “I want answers. I want the world to make sense again. I don’t want boxes with lockets. I don’t want bodies parked in front of my house. Mr. Keen gets answers. The Durango Kid gets answers. The goddamn Shadow gets answers. I don’t get answers, then I get bodies. Lady, say your prayers.”

Chaplin’s back was to Fiona Sullivan now. He was rolling his eyes to let me know that I was going too far, but for the first time I understood how an actor must feel when he’s improvising. I didn’t want applause. I wanted the audience, Fiona Sullivan, to believe.

“I’ve done nothing illegal,” she said, looking at Chaplin for help.

“You aided a murderer,” Chaplin answered.

“I didn’t know,” she pleaded. “Believe me.”

Neither of us believed her, but Chaplin said, “I believe you. He told you it was an elaborate hoax, that he was …?”

She struggled for an answer while I made growling sounds and shifted from foot to foot, refingering the gun in my hand.

“He was trying to frighten his aunt,” she said. “She had a weak heart.”

“He wanted to frighten her to death?” asked Chaplin.

“Yes,” she said.

Her story stunk. I took a step forward. She put her back against the door.

“Where is he?” I said between clenched teeth.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Peters,” Chaplin said. “The lady is cooperating. She had no idea Jeffrey Pultman planned to murder his aunt.”

“No idea at all,” she said, putting one hand to her mouth. “When I found out he killed her, I wanted to get out, but I was afraid of him.”

“And now you are prepared to tell the police everything this monster did?” asked Chaplin.

“Yes,” she cried, looking at me.

“She’s lying,” I cried. “Let me kill her. My head hurts.”

“Take one of your pills, quickly,” Chaplin said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small purple bottle with a prescription label. He opened the bottle, poured a round gray tablet into his palm and opened his mouth to demonstrate what I should do. I opened my mouth wide. He popped the tablet onto my tongue and I gulped it down. What the hell had he given me?

“Miss Sullivan,” Chaplin said. “I have no doubt the police will hold you in no way responsible. You have been a poor victim forced to cooperate to save your life. No jury would convict you.”

Right, I thought, no jury of chimpanzees.

“Where is he?” I said, reaching up to touch my head.

“You’d best tell us,” Chaplin said.

“He went to the lawyer’s office to finalize papers,” she said, looking at my gun waving from side to side.

“And who might his lawyer be?” asked Chaplin.

“Alexander Fuller of Leib, Johnston, and Fuller in Culver City.”

Marty Leib was my lawyer. I had never met Fuller or Johnston. The phone was ringing inside the house. Fiona Sullivan pushed open the door and disappeared. We ran after her. By the time we got through the kitchen, she was on the phone in the front hall weeping.

“Jeffrey,” she cried. “They’re here. They’re going to kill me if I don’t …”

I grabbed the phone from her. She backed up with a scream. Chaplin took the phone from me and said, “Pultman, I’m afraid the performance is over.”

I kept the gun aimed at Fiona Sullivan, who slumped back against the wall, her mascara and makeup running because of her tears. Chaplin held the phone away from his ear so I could listen.

“You were the old man at the cemetery,” he said calmly.

“I was,” Chaplin admitted.

“Is Peters there with you?”

“He is,” said Chaplin. “I’m afraid you’ve killed your aunt for nothing.”

“No,” he said. “For everything. I’ve got the papers. I’m at the bank now waiting for a cashier’s check from the president. I’ve sold everything for half of what it’s worth, which means I’m walking out of here with three hundred thousand dollars.”

“You weren’t planning to come back here for Miss Sullivan,” he said, looking at Fiona who was wiping her face with her sleeve. She now looked a bit more like the woman I had seen in her home and on the train.

Chaplin shook his head to show her what Pultman’s answer had been.

“No,” she said. “No.”

“I’m a man of many names and faces,” Jeffrey Pultman said happily. “In a few hours, I’ll be wearing one of them and moving somewhere where I can enjoy good food, the company of lovely women, and the delicious pleasure of the show I’ve staged.”

“Jeffrey,” Fiona shouted, pushing away from the wall and trying to get her hands on the phone. She didn’t seem to care about the mad Toby Peters with the gun anymore.

I held her back. She clawed at my face. Chaplin went on calmly, “Well, I’ve learned through bitter experience that one must accept defeat with good grace and applaud a fine performance.”

“Thank you,” I heard Pultman say. “Coming from you that’s a compliment I’ll remember. I am, as you have guessed, an actor.”

I shoved Fiona away, having a serious instant in which I actually considered shooting her in the foot.

“And a fine one too. May I suggest Mexico?” Chaplin said.

Pultman laughed.

“You may suggest,” he said, “but I’m keeping my destination to myself. You understand.”

“I do indeed,” said Chaplin.

“The president is coming back now. He’s holding what looks like a check in both hands. Good luck with
Lady Killer.
”

Pultman hung up. Fiona got past me and grabbed the phone.

“
Jeffrey
,” she shouted. “Jeffrey.”

“He’s gone,” Chaplin said with a deep sigh. “I’m afraid the police will have no one but you to hang.”

“No,” she said, dropping the phone. “Jeffrey wouldn’t …”

“He just did,” I said, resuming my normal tone.

“If you help us,” Chaplin said. “If we can catch Pultman and you testify against him, I think you can be reasonably certain of a very light sentence.”

“Or none at all,” I threw in.

“Quite possibly,” Chaplin agreed. “Can we get you a drink?”

She nodded “yes,” and Chaplin led her into the living room where he went to a liquor cabinet we had seen when we had been here before. He opened it and said, “Port, sherry, a Dewars?”

“Dewars,” she said. “No. Make that port. I’ve never tasted port.”

“I like that,” said Chaplin, pulling a notebook out of his jacket pocket and writing something. He looked at what he had written and read it, “I’ve never tasted port.” Then he turned to me and said, “That would be a perfect line for a man who was being offered a last drink before his execution.” Then he put the notebook back in his pocket.