A Few Minutes Past Midnight (23 page)

She turned a little to the right and caught him in our headlights. Pultman stopped, turned toward us, took my .38 out of his coat pocket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. He hit the right headlight. We closed in on him. He shot again. This time he missed partly because he was moving backwards, trying to decide whether to keep shooting or run for the line of trees about forty yards away.

He fired once more without really looking, and Anita pulled next to him. He was panting, makeup smeared on his face. He fired over his shoulder. Nothing. The gun was empty.

“Get ahead of him,” I said.

She did, cutting him off. He stood panting, and I got out of the car. Anita turned the car so that the single headlight was on my back and in Pultman’s eyes.

“You recognized my car back there,” I said.

He nodded “yes,” trying to catch his breath.

“Cannon an actor?”

He nodded “yes,” and managed to get out, “I’ll split it with you. Two ways, right down the middle. All in this suitcase. Count it out right here. You get the necklace. I get the ring.”

“I’m independently wealthy,” I said.

“Peters, don’t be a fool.”

“Can’t help it,” I said. “We’re taking you in.”

“Make sense,” he said, stepping back. “Ask your girlfriend?”

He looked past me at Anita. Anita was out of the car and moving toward my side.

“How much?” she asked.

“About two hundred thousand for you two,” Pultman said. “Well?”

“I just wanted to know how much we were turning down so I could tell my daughter,” she said.

Pultman looked around for somewhere to run. He was worn out. I stepped toward him, trying to hide my limp. He was caught in the headlights, frozen.

I stood in front of him, and he put his hands up to cover his face from the punch he was sure was coming. I plucked my .38 from his hand, put it in my pocket, took the suitcase from him, and grabbed him by the neck.

“We’ve got some people to wake up,” I said.

CHAPTER

13

A
NITA AND
I
drove Pultman to the Wilshire station. He sat next to Anita in the front seat, his hands tied behind his back. I sat in the tiny space behind the seats, my arm draped around Pultman’s neck. He didn’t say anything, and I tried not to look at him. The makeup streaking his face made him look like a hungry zombie in a Monogram serial. Maybe we could get Pultman and Fiona together in the interrogation room at the Wilshire and they could have a little chat and touch up each other’s makeup. But then again it was probably a better idea to keep them apart. I’d have to leave that decision to the police.

We ushered our prisoner to the desk sergeant—another old-timer, this one named Wilson—at a little before three in the morning. My ankle had settled into a steady throb.

“What’s the cat drug in here, Peters?” he asked, peering over the top of his glasses.

“A badly accessorized murderer,” I said. “You want to give Cawelti a call. Wake him up. Tell him I’ve got Pultman.”

“Don’t have to wake him unless he’s asleep in the Squad Room,” Wilson said. “He’s doing a second shift from last night.”

“Dedication,” I said.

“You ask me, he doesn’t like going home alone,” Wilson said in a loud whisper. “I know the feeling.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Anita and I ushered Pultman up the wooden stairs and into the squad room. Even at three in the morning it wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t full, either. Thieves work nights, but your average domestic battle, strong-arm robbery, rape, and murder take place at civilized hours. Criminals need their sleep, too.

Two detectives were at their desks. One was on the phone. The other was John Cawelti looking as if he had just shaved and carefully combed his red hair right down the middle. He sat up and grinned.

“He’s yours,” I said.

“I demand my immediate release,” said Pultman.

“You do?” asked Cawelti, getting up and moving to meet us.

“I’ve done nothing,” Pultman said.

“Except dress up for Halloween on the wrong day and the wrong month,” Cawelti said.

“I was on my way to a costume party,” Pultman said.

“At two in the morning,” Anita pointed out.

Cawelti looked at her, then at me, and smirked.

“This is Anita Maloney,” I said. “Friend of mine.”

I handed him the suitcase. He took it.

“That’s my personal property,” Pultman protested.

“Evidence,” I said. “Papers, probably cash or bonds from Elsie Pultman’s estate. Also,” I said, taking the necklace and ring from my pocket and handing it to Cawelti, “the jewelry he took from Elsie Pultman’s body a few hours ago.”

“That was you,” said Cawelti, looking at me. “I figured. You were the one at the cemetery.”

“Me and Pultman,” I said. “Bring in the caretaker.”

“They’ve got his statement. We’ll bring him in for a lineup.” He turned to Pultman and smiled. If I were Pultman, I would not have liked that smile. “You dig up old ladies and steal their jewelry. A noble profession.”

“First he kills them,” I said. “You’ve got a Fiona Sullivan in custody. I think she can put a lid on this for you.”

“I want a lawyer,” Pultman said.

“First we go into a little room down the hall and have a chat,” Cawelti said, taking his arm.

“I’ll give you a statement,” I said.

“Good. You do that, but right now I think Mr. Pultman is going with me to wash up, have a cup of coffee, and talk,” said Cawelti. “I think Mr. Pultman … Jeffrey, is it? Jeffrey and I are going to come to an agreement and wrap this up.”

“You were lucky, Peters,” Pultman said.

“And you were too smart,” I answered. “Too tricky. Too many loose ends. Too many games.”

“I wanted it to be fun,” said Pultman as Cawelti led him away. “And it was. Admit it. It was.”

When they were through the squad room door Anita turned to me and said, “I think he’s nuts.”

“I think you’re right,” I said. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s smart enough to already be thinking of claiming that he’s nuts. Maybe he’ll tell Cawelti that he hears voices that tell him to kill and dress up in women’s clothes. Maybe that’s what I would do if I were wearing a dress and my makeup was running.”

“That kind of thing work?” Anita asked as we moved out of the squad room.

“Almost never,” I said. “But he did enough nutty stuff to make a jury stop and think if it gets to a jury and if he gets a good criminal lawyer like Marty Leib.”

Going down the stairs was harder on my ankle than going up had been. I grimaced. Anita put my arm around her shoulder.

“I guess this means our date is off for tonight,” she said.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Going out for dinner and a movie?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

She drove me to Mrs. Plaut’s and helped me up the front stairs and through the door. We were four steps up the stairs to the second floor when Mrs. Plaut emerged from her rooms, blue robe wrapped around her with a purple sash, hands on her hips.

“Mr. Peelers,” she said sternly.

How is it, I wondered not for the first time, that a woman as deaf as Irene Plaut could sense even a deep breath three rooms away through the walls but not hear someone knocking at her door?

“Mrs. Plaut,” I said, turning to face her.

“You are drunk,” she said, looking at Anita who was still holding my arm over her shoulder.

“No, Mrs. Plaut,” I said. “I am hurt.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My ankle,” I said. “Twisted.”

She reached up and touched her ear. God was on my side. She was wearing her hearing aid, the one I had bought her, the one that spent most days and nights in a kitchen drawer next to her sterling silver.

“Twisted,” she repeated with suspicion. “How?”

“I fell in a grave,” I said.

“And who is this?” she went on, looking at Anita and apparently accepting without question the reason for my injury.

“Anita Maloney,” I said. “A friend in need.”

“She’s not planning to stay the night,” said Mrs. Plaut.

“There’s almost no night left,” I said.

“I’m not staying,” Anita said. “I’ll just take Mr. Peters to his room.”

“Three minutes,” said Mrs. Plaut.

“Less than two,” answered Anita with a smile.

We started up the stairs again.

“You shouldn’t be playing in graves at night,” Mrs. Plaut said behind us. “You shouldn’t be playing in graves at all. My great-uncle, Robert Stillwell, almost died in a grave in Remington, Kansas, during the War Between the States.”

“Write it in your memoirs,” I said.

“I will,” answered Mrs. Plaut. “Breakfast is at 7:45.”

We were at the top of the stairs now. I turned, my hands on the railing.

“I think I’ll skip breakfast,” I said.

“Southern pork fritters and eggs O’Bannion,” she said. “I’ll wake you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Mrs. Plaut stood there, waiting.

“I can make it from here,” I said to Anita. “Take my car. I’ll pick it up in the morning at your place.”

“Don’t wake me,” she said, leaning over to kiss my stubbly cheek.

“Mrs. Plaut is watching,” I said.

“We’ll have to live with the consequences,” said Anita, starting down the stairs.

“You work for a living?” Mrs. Plaut asked as Anita neared the bottom of the stairs.

“Waitress,” Anita said.

“Honest living,” said Mrs. Plaut with approval. “I waited tables in Prescott, Arizona, for almost two years. Hard work. Rough talk. Bottom pinchers. Good tips. Long hours. Sore feet. I must inform you that sometimes Mr. Peelers is a scamp. At his age he should have chosen a steady job.”

Anita looked up at me and said, “Maybe he’ll pick one when he grows up.”

“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Plaut.

I went to my room, opened the door, flicked on the light, and managed to drag out my mattress and unroll it.

Dash sat watching me.

“Hungry?” I asked.

Dash, as usual, said nothing. I hobbled to the refrigerator, got some milk out, rinsed his bowl, filled it, and found a can of Spam. I opened the can, scooped some of it out, and put it on a plate for Dash who approached, smelled it, and started to eat. I put what was left in the refrigerator and staggered to the light switch.

That was all I remembered till Mrs. Plaut burst through the door at, according to the Beech-Nut clock on the wall, seven in the morning.

“Breakfast,” she said.

I groaned.

“You have half an hour to shave, shower, put on clean clothing, and be at the table.”

She closed the door and disappeared. I sat up. I was still wearing Anita’s ex-husband’s clothes. Somehow I had taken my shoes off. My ankle was numb. My mouth felt like someone had scrubbed it with dry steel wool. I managed to get on my one good foot and one bad one and to kick off the clothes I was wearing. I found my ancient robe in the closet, put it on, and headed for the shared bathroom, hoping it wasn’t occupied. It wasn’t. Twenty minutes later, I was at Mrs. Plaut’s table eating pork fritters, eggs O’Bannion, and drinking coffee.

Emma Simcox, Ben Bidwell, and Gunther all looked at me and waited. Mrs. Plaut had obviously said something about my early morning arrival with Anita.

“I fell in a grave,” I explained.

“None of my business,” said Bidwell, the one-armed car salesman. The customer was always right at Mad Jack’s in Venice.

Miss Simcox smiled and bent her head.

“Toby, did you …?” Gunther asked.

“We got him,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Doing anything for lunch?”

“I have an article to finish, Hungarian, very interesting. Something about using the sun as an energy source for automobiles instead of gasoline.”

“Won’t work,” said Bidwell, the auto expert. “Mark my word. When the war is over, no one’s gonna be interested in anything but cheap gas and fast cars.”

“I shall mark your word,” Gunther said politely. “I will be ready to lunch at one if that is not too late.”

“Fine,” I said.

“Pork fritters are great,” said Bidwell.

Mrs. Plaut was not wearing her hearing aid this morning.

“Everything,” she said solemnly, nibbling a slice of toast, “is fate. We simply trust in the Lord, do our best, and join the war effort.”

“Amen,” said Emma Simcox.

“Amen,” I added.

Westinghouse in the other room cackled something. It didn’t sound like “amen.”

After breakfast, I called for a cab and waited on the porch under Mrs. Plaut’s framed autographed photograph of Eleanor Roosevelt. The sun was shining today. I should have gone to Doc Hodgdon for my ankle. I could do it later. First I had to pick up my car and get it to No-Neck Arnie.

Forty minutes later, I had managed to drive the one-eyed Crosley into Arnie’s.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Someone shot the lamp out with my gun,” I explained.

“I’ll take a look,” he said. “Give me ten minutes. You can wait around or give me a call.”

“I’ll call,” I said.

I made my way slowly toward the open garage door.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Fell in a grave,” I said.

“Got a pair of crutches in the office,” he said. “When Nick fell in the grease pit the first time. I’ll get ’em. No charge.”

He came back with the crutches and handed them to me.

“Thanks, Arnie,” I said.

“Stay out of open graves,” he said and headed for my Crosley.

I waved a crutch at Manny as I passed Manny’s Taco’s. Manny waved back, showing no curiosity that I could see about my crutches. I continued on my pilgrimage to the Farraday Building. If my ankle had been up to it, I might have ducked Juanita, who was coming through the Farraday door humming something. I continued.

She didn’t look any more surprised at my crutches than Manny.

“Was I right?” she asked.

I thought about her prophecy in the elevator when the whole thing had started. She had been right about everything but, as usual, it hadn’t done me any good.

“Anything else to tell me?” I asked.

“You don’t have to see a doctor. Your ankle’s not broken. Just a sprain. Don’t take the tape off for two days.”