A Few Minutes Past Midnight (8 page)

Back in the living room I asked Fiona what she knew about Howard Sawyer. She thought for a few seconds with pursed lips, nodded, and said:

“A gentleman. Came here from Cleveland, tried to join the army but was turned down for medical reasons.”

“Medical reasons?”

“He never said what they were. He is a writer.”

“What did he write?”

“I don’t know. He never showed me.”

“His family?”

“All alone in the world,” she said with a sigh. “A dear man. I can’t believe he’s done anything wrong. He’s such a gentle man.”

And Hitler’s a vegetarian, I thought.

I spent the next thirty minutes eating salty peanuts, drinking warm Pepsi, listening to Brahms, and looking at a stack of photographs of B-movie actresses Fiona Sullivan had worked on. My favorites in her collection were Olga San Juan and a very young Wendy Barrie.

“Did men too,” she said. “Ron Randell, Steve Brodie, Bob Stack, even Roy Rogers once. He has those Indian eyes. I was the one who figured out how to make them look bigger. I saved careers. Ask June Allyson.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “May I use your phone?”

“Long distance?”

“No,” I said.

“In the hall.”

I moved into the hall and found the phone on a table next to the stairs. I fished the number Charlie Chaplin had given me from my notebook and dialed.

“Yes,” Chaplin answered.

His voice was steady, almost musical.

“Toby Peters,” I said. “I have a lead.”

“Excellent,” he said. “And I have a problem. Perhaps it would be best if I let your large and engaging associate tell you.”

The next voice I heard was Jeremy’s.

“Toby,” he said calmly. “Someone tried to kill Chaplin.”

CHAPTER

5

“W
HAT HAPPENED
?” I
asked, looking at Fiona Sullivan who was examining a peanut between her fingers.

“We were on a covered porch on the second floor,” Jeremy said. “We were talking about the British war poets when something came out of the darkness, ripped through the screen, and hit a lamp.”

“Something?”

“A knife. Actually a small sword.”

“It is an exceptionally large
assigai
,” Chaplin said in the background. “A rather dull and unimpressive example of the Indian version of the weapon. I believe it was the weapon my damp visitor had in hand the other night.”

“It strikes me as a particularly inefficient attempt to commit murder,” Jeremy said. “A heavy, dull knife hurled through a second-floor screen.”

“Another warning?”

“Perhaps,” said Jeremy.

“We are dealing with a lunatic,” I could hear Chaplin say firmly from the background.

“Ask Chaplin if he knows the name Howard Sawyer.”

Jeremy asked.

“He doesn’t,” said Jeremy.

“You think you could persuade him to pack a bag and move someplace safe for a few days?”

“I will try.”

“Thanks, Jeremy. I think he should stay away from hotels, friends, places he might be recognized.”

“You have a place in mind,” Jeremy said.

“Mrs. Plaut’s. I’ll head over there now and prepare her for a new short-term boarder. I think he should give a false name.”

“Might she not recognize him?” asked Jeremy.

“Without the mustache, costume, and dark hair? I doubt it. I think I hear Gunther coming back. Convince him, Jeremy.”

“I will do my best.”

I hung up and turned to Fiona.

“Was that about Howard?” she asked.

“Did he own any knives, swords?”

“Knives? I don’t know.” She stood up, a palm full of peanuts in her hand.

There was a lot this woman didn’t know about the man she had planned to marry.

“One last question,” I said, waiting for Gunther’s knock. “You said you had some money, this property. Anything else?”

She popped a peanut in her mouth.

“My assets are … I am comfortable. You are implying the possibility that my fiancé may have been thinking of marrying me, doing me in, and collecting my small holdings.”

“Something like that,” I said. “You have life insurance?”

“Both Howard and I have policies,” she said. “We are each other’s beneficiary. I would have as much reason to want to do him in as he would me, if I were so inclined.”

“How big are the policies?”

“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” she said, “but Howard has a large inheritance.”

And that, I thought, was why he was living in a dark Los Angeles boardinghouse with peeling paint.

The knock came.

“The little man?”

“Yes,” I said.

She went to answer the door. Gunther entered with a leather suitcase. I looked at the suitcase and he looked at me. I knew there was a small but efficient pistol inside it that Gunther knew how to use.

When I left the two of them and walked back to the Crosley, I could hear music coming from the house. It was classical. It was serious. I was glad I didn’t have to stay and listen to it.

There were voices coming from Mrs. Plaut’s apartment when I stepped as quietly as I could into the house. It was after eleven. I was drained. A session with Mrs. Plaut might well bring me to tears. I started up the stairs listening to Mrs. Plaut, whose voice carried as far north as Santa Barbara and as far east as the Arizona border.

“It is pure fact, Mr. Voodoo,” she said.

“And I believe it,” came Charlie Chaplin’s voice in answer.

I had reached the stairs. I turned and found myself facing Jeremy Butler.

“Would you like me to return in the morning?” he asked.

“Does anyone else know he’s here?”

“No,” said Jeremy. “He simply called his wife and told her he was doing research for the movie he was planning.”

“
Lady Killer
,” I said.

“
Lady Killer
,” Jeremy confirmed. “Toby, he is a bitter man.”

“Did he complain about coming here?”

“He sighed. I think he welcomed the opportunity to get away from phone calls and reporters.”

“And let’s not forget lunatic assassins,” I said. “I think he is safe here from everything but Mrs. Plaut. Thanks, Jeremy.”

“It was interesting,” he said. “I finished my Edgar Lee Masters poem. I want to work on it a bit. Perhaps I’ll read it to you tomorrow.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said.

“No, I don’t believe you are, but exposure to any poetry lightens the soul and touches the mind.”

“I can use both,” I said.

He nodded and moved slowly out the door and into the night.

I knocked at Mrs. Plaut’s door. Westinghouse, her bird, went wild. It sounded as if he were saying something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.

“I believe someone is at the door,” I heard Chaplin say.

“It’s Westinghouse,” she said. “The bird. He is given to fits of inexplicable frenzy. It comes from feeding him pine nuts.”

“I see,” said Chaplin pleasantly, his voice audible over the chattering of the bird. “But someone is knocking at the door.”

I heard Mrs. Plaut move across the room to the door pausing to “hush” the squawking animal. Then she opened the door and looked up at me.

“Mr. Peelers,” she said. “You should be asleep or reading the very important section I gave you.”

“I’ve had a long day,” I said.

“I’m sorry someone gave you the wrong pay, but we must all make it through life in the face of adversity. We have a new roomer. You may come in, say hello, and depart.”

She stepped back to let me in, closed the door, and led me to the dining-room table where Charlie Chaplin was sitting with a tea cup in his hand.

“This is Mr. Voodoo,” she said.

“Verdon,” Chaplin corrected.

“Mr. Voodoo is a bouncer,” she explained.

“An announcer,” Chaplin corrected patiently.

“I have been telling him that being a bouncer is dangerous work,” she said. “Especially for a little fellow like him. He is a little long in the tooth for such work. And he is not getting younger. No one is getting younger. There was talk in my family when I was a young girl that my father’s cousin Orton actually got younger when he fell in a vat of tar and almost died, but my mother would have none of it.”

“Illuminating,” Chaplin said, sipping his tea and beaming at Mrs. Plaut.

“I’m sorry,” I said as Mrs. Plaut took a seat across from Chaplin.

“For what? This woman is a nonstop fountain of ideas. And she and her house could well be models for the film I’m working on.”

“Mr. Peelers,” Mrs. Plaut said, “is an exterminator.”

“Really?” said Chaplin with interest.

“And an editor of books,” she added.

“A unique combination,” Chaplin said with a laugh.

“Howard Sawyer and Fiona Sullivan,” I said. “Their names don’t ring any bells?”

“None,” said Chaplin.

“Elsie Pultman?”

“No,” said Chaplin after a moment of thought.

“Jenny Malcom, Elizabeth Gornashuski, May Kelly, Donna Curtain, Zoe Fried?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” said Chaplin. “What do they have in common?”

“I think they’re all dead. I think Howard Sawyer may have killed them. I think maybe Howard Sawyer was the one who knocked at your door.”

“Why?” asked Chaplin.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Why are you two discussing gardening?” Mrs. Plaut said. “Mr. Voodoo and I were having a delightful conversation about history.”

Chaplin crossed his legs and nodded to Mrs. Plaut.

“Mrs. Plaut’s great-great-grandfather almost killed George Washington,” Chaplin said.

“That’s in the pages awaiting you in your room,” she said.

“I can’t wait to read about it,” I said.

“You’ll find the tale fascinating,” Chaplin said.

“You know,” Mrs. Plaut injected, squinting at Chaplin, “you look like someone.”

“We all do,” Chaplin said with a tolerant smile.

“A person in the moving pictures,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding his head and putting his right hand to his chest with a small bow.

Mrs. Plaut pondered. We waited. And then it hit her.

“He has a mustache,” she said. “That funny man, Charlie …”

I was working fast on an answer.

“Charlie Chase,” she said with satisfaction, sitting back. “But he’s taller and he doesn’t have curly hair. It’s brushed straight back. And his face is pinched.”

“Then the resemblance is quite superficial if flattering,” said Chaplin.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said. “Your room all right?”

“Mrs. Plaut has given me a delightful room,” he said.

“With a view, next to Miss Simcox,” Mrs. Plaut added. “When the sun comes up, you can see the garage.”

“I delight at your landlady’s selective hearing,” Chaplin said.

“Nobody is getting younger,” she said in response.

“With the possible exception of your father’s cousin Orton,” Chaplin added, holding up a finger.

“An error,” she said. “I do intend to write about that incident and bring the truth to light for posterity.”

I left with Chaplin leaning attentively toward Mrs. Plaut, who said, “Would you care for some chop suey pickles?”

When I got to my room, I turned on the lights, hung up my clothes in the closet, and changed into a pair of boxer shorts. Mrs. Plaut was certain to burst into my room early in the morning, mop in hand, with questions about the pages she had left for me to read.

Dash was curled up on the sofa, his head resting on the “God Bless Us, Every One” pillow. He looked up at me and went back to sleep.

I put on an undershirt, walked down the hall, showered, brushed my teeth, shaved with a new Gem razor, and looked at myself in the mirror, brushing back my hair. I needed a haircut. I needed a new nose. I needed a bowl of Wheaties.

When I got back to my room, I poured myself a bowl of Wheaties and milk and a dish of milk for Dash, who walked regally over my mattress on the floor and leaped on the table to join me.

While we ate, I read Mrs. Plaut’s latest entry:

My great-great-grandfather Simon was a gentleman farmer in the then colony of Delaware. Some reports have it that he was neither a gentleman nor a farmer but a farmhand who was sent in the place of the farmer to fight for the new United States against the British and their many Indians and Germans and Chinese, mercenaries all with no talents other than killing if we exclude the cooking skills of some of the Chinese.

My great-great-grandfather Simon was given a rifle, an almost new pair of shoes, a knife, and a farewell from my great-great-grandmother Theodora.

Theodora and her six children, four of which belonged to her husband and two of whom, it is believed in the family, bore a more than coincidental resemblance to the farmer.

Simon was gifted with a keen sense of smell, a fine set of teeth, and crossed eyes. Simon met up with the son of a Dover blacksmith named McNally. McNally promised to check up on my great-great-grandmother Theodora if he went back home before Simon, a promise Simon accepted with tears and appreciation and an eventual child who resembled McNally which, by all accounts, was not a good thing because though McNally was large and strong he looked like a piece of rock.

The near tragedy occurred in the winter. Encamped near the Delaware River, McNally and my great-great-grandfather were night guards while the others slept and snored loudly, some of them passing air. We know of this and the event that followed from McNally’s journal which was left to my great-great-grandmother who gave it to her daughter, Mineola, who became my great-grandmother and who misplaced the journal or threw it away considering McNally a man of little honesty and no virtue.

So on that fateful night near the Delaware, Simon and McNally were discoursing quietly on the virtues of rum over other alcohol. Great-great-grandfather Simon was out of sorts having long since exhausted his supply of laudanum.

It was, by McNally’s account, Simon who heard the horses coming.

“Hear that?” Simon said.