Mildred Pierced (8 page)

Blake led us to the table.

“You have it with you? The dart?”

I removed it from the handkerchief I had wrapped around it. He took it and turned it. Held it up to the light. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined it slowly.

“Blowguns have been around for more than 40,000 years,” he said, looking at the dart. “Popped up all over the world. Serendipity. The hand of God or gods. This dart is made from river cane,
Gigantis arundaris
, probably the same material the blowgun that shot it is made of.”

“Poisoned?” Gunther asked.

“No. No need. A blowgun three or more feet long with a ten-inch dart in the hands of a Cherokee hunter could be shot accurately enough to pierce the eye of a deer at fifty feet. African tribes and South Sea Islanders used poisons in battle and hunting. But this isn’t a hunting dart.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Too short, suggests a short blowgun, probably two feet. Could still be deadly accurate from twenty feet or even more. Person who made this dart knew what he—”

“—or she,” I said.

“Never heard of a woman using a blowgun,” Blake said with a smile. “But why not? Good lungs, steady hands, a hard blow. Person who made this ground the point the way it’s supposed to be. Amateurs whittle. This purple fluff on the end—”

He held it out for us to look at.

“It’s called fletching. This one is cotton, light, fluffy, fills the hole so there’s something to blow against.”

“What do you know about crossbows?” I asked.

He handed me the dart, and I rewrapped it and returned it to my pocket.

“Ancient and primitive weapons of all manner are my passion,” he said. “Along with chocolate ice cream. What would you like to know?”

“First,” I said, “how accurate are they?”

“Remarkably in skilled hands,” he said. “By 1330 in Europe they were making prods—”

“Prods?”

“Springs,” he explained. “Of steel with pulls of fifty pounds and much more. Deadly at distances well over one hundred and fifty feet.”

“Are they hard to make?”

“Not if you know what you are doing,” he said. “It’s relatively easy to buy plans for crossbows, or to buy them already made.”

“The things they shoot—bolts, quarrels, whatever,” I said. “Are they all pretty much the same?’

“No,” he said. “Different lengths, designs, even special specifications for the avid user.”

“Is there any way of telling if one of these bolts came from a particular, I mean, a specific crossbow?”

“You mean like ballistics with a bullet? No, but if you show me a bolt and a crossbow, I can tell you if that bolt was shot from that specific design of crossbow.”

I looked at Gunther. He didn’t seem to have any questions.

“Thanks,” I said. “Would you be willing to testify in court as a crossbow expert?”

Blake beamed.

“Murder case?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Sure.”

I thanked him. He ushered us back to the tunnel, shook our hands and got back in the elevator.

Dinah Shore sang “April in Paris” to us in the car as we headed back to Hollywood and Mrs. Plaut’s.

Back at Mrs. Plaut’s, I got undressed, put on a pair of clean boxer shorts, pulled the mattress to the floor, and sat in my armchair reading Mrs. Plaut’s pages:

THE EPISODE OF THE SILVER CREEK GHOST

He is said to have had a small but distinctly purple wart on the end of his nose, which was the only distraction from what was generally agreed to be a face rivaling that of the infamous but handsome male members of the Booth family, particularly Edwin not the one who shot Mr. President Abraham Lincoln. My grandfather Wallace Edward Hamilton Simcox whose name was longer than he was tall since he is reported to have been no more than five feet and three inches in height even before he shrunk from the natural mystery of age.

My grandfather resided in Silver Creek, Colorado with my grandmother and their two sons, Wayne and Warren. My grandfather was the foreman of the December Silver Mine, a very responsible job.

It is reported though I don’t remember it myself that my grandfather was weak of eye, fond of the bottle and possessed no sense of direction often walking two miles the wrong way to work though he traversed the self same road for more than twenty-five years.

One night after stopping after work at the Horseback Saloon to get quite stinking drunk which he felt was his right and obligation as a hard working man once a week, he recalled that he had left a lantern burning near a shaft. He had done no such of a thing but the recollection had come to him in his cups.

Mason Thurling, who made a meager but honest living cleaning the spittoons at the Horseback, had volunteered to accompany my father back to the mine to be sure he went in the right direction. All in the Horseback thought this an idea of merit. We are talking about a barroom filled with drunken louts who would not know an idea of merit were it branded on their bicuspids and they could taste it.

Mason Thurling was the town drunk in a town of drunks, an accomplishment of no small stature.

And so they proceeded back to the December on a moonless night. They discovered no lamp left lit and in the darkness Mason tumbled over a wheelbarrow and went unconscious. My grandfather stumbled toward the mineshaft and was about to step into it when the ghost appeared glowing in front of him.

Stop you goddamned fool the ghost so said to my grandfather who stopped.

The ghost so my grandfather said afterwards looked exactly like Dolly Madison though when questioned my grandfather could not give accurate information on where he might have seen Dolly Madison’s image.

My grandfather took several steps back and tripped over Mason Thurling who awoke with a start seeing the ghost. Mason’s hand was broken in the incident and was of little use from that night forth forcing him to become left handed and change his profession to that of itinerant harmonica player along with a hare-lipped Indian who played a broad repertoire of Stephen Foster tunes.

Due to his repute as a drunk there were few who believed Mason’s confirmation of the sighting of Dolly Madison’s ghost. However it must be recalled that my grandfather would have certainly been smashed to blood and bone had not he seen the ghost or vision. Dead he would have been unable to return home where that very night my grandmother conceived my father William which led to the birth of my mother Dolly Madison Simcox which led to me Irene named not for a ghost but a seamstress who had not taken the gesture of my being given her name as payment for a dress.

I turned off the lights, got on the floor with a pillow under my head and closed my eyes. And the dreams came. Two I couldn’t remember, but the last one—that one I remembered.

I was in Cincinnati. I don’t know what I was doing in Cincinnati. I don’t know why I dream about Cincinnati. I’ve never been to Cincinnati, but the Cincinnati of my dreams is a vast city without people.

It was night. Street lights were on. I was standing in front of the door of a modest one-story brick house. The door opened slowly. I wanted to back away but my legs wouldn’t move. Over my shoulder a voice whispered, “Oh-oh, now you’re in for it, bub.” I turned my head toward the voice. It was Koko the Clown. He nodded his head toward the door letting me know I should pay attention.

The door was open all the way now. The house was dark inside, but a woman stood glowing in front of me. She was wearing a Colonial costume complete with bonnet. In her hands was a crossbow. She was aiming it at me. I knew she had to be Dolley Madison.

I tried to think of something to say to her, something to stop her, to assure her I voted for her husband, that I’d once been to Madison, Wisconsin, and walked down Madison Avenue in New York.

She raised the crossbow higher. It was pointed at the top of my head. I reached up and felt an apple balanced in my hair. Koko snatched the apple and took a big bite, and Dolley Madison lowered the crossbow. It was aiming at my chest now. I knew her finger was tightening on the trigger.

“I told you you were in for it, bub,” Koko said, and a bright light hit my face and a woman’s voice said, “Time.”

I opened my eyes. Mrs. Plaut stood in the doorway of my room, the hall light behind her.

“Time,” she repeated. “It’s seven.”

I left Mrs. Plaut’s a few minutes later and hurried to pick up Joan Crawford.

T
HE ROOM, THE
size of a small storefront shoe store, was dark except for the low platform at one end bright with overhead lamps. Folding chairs sat facing the platform. I was sitting on one side of Joan Crawford. Marty Leib was sitting on the other. Tony Sheridan, an assistant district attorney, sat directly behind us. There were also two plainclothes detectives and a couple of uniformed cops.

“Okay?” asked one of the plainclothes detectives.

Sheridan, tall, lean, and recently discharged from the army after two Purple Hearts and a case of battle fatigue, said, “Okay.”

I had picked Crawford up at her house just after the sun came up. She was wearing a plain black dress and a floppy hat with a big brim and dark glasses. She did her best to hide her lack of enthusiasm about my Crosley and got in the front seat.

“Phillip is home with the children,” she said.

It was Saturday.

I started driving.

“He wanted to come, too, but if both of us were there, we’d have to get someone to watch the children, and the likelihood of my being recognized would certainly be increased.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Do you?” she asked, looking at me while I drove. “What do you think of when my name is mentioned?”

“Movie star,” I said.

“Yes, movie star,” she said, finding her cigarettes and lighting one. She didn’t ask if I minded. I did, but I didn’t say so. There wasn’t much room in the Crosley, and cigarette smoke makes my eyes burn and gives me a headache.

She sighed.

“Mr. Peters”—she half-turned toward me—“I come from a very poor family. My formal education ended with the fourth grade. I’ve been singing, dancing and acting my heart out since I was ten years old. I don’t know how to do anything else. I don’t want to do anything else. Yes, I’m a star, and I intend to remain one. Are you certain there will be no reporters today?”

“You see the
Times
this morning?” I asked, eyes on the road.

“No,” she said.

I handed her the folded copy shoved alongside the seat on my left.

“Page three, bottom left,” I said.

She took the paper, turned the page quickly, and folded the paper in half. She read it to herself. I knew what it said under the headline, which read:
Dentist Kills Wife in Park with Crossbow.
The article said that Sheldon Minck, a dentist, had shot his wife to death with a crossbow in Lincoln Park. The article also said Shelly and his wife were “estranged” and that he claimed he was in the park practicing. The only other piece of information of interest was that there was a witness who was passing by when the killing took place. There was no mention of Billie Cassin or Joan Crawford.

“This is good,” she said with a slightly relieved smile.

“Good, but not perfect,” I said. “Even if there are no reporters at the line-up, one of the cops may recognize you and tell a reporter.”

“You can stop that from happening?”

“I called Shelly Minck’s lawyer this morning. He’ll be there. He said he’d try to make some kind of deal with the district attorney’s office.”

“A deal?”

“If Shelly pleads guilty, your testimony won’t be needed.”

“He intends to plead guilty, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “The other possibility for a deal would require my finding who killed Mildred fast, before you have to be in a courtroom where there would probably be a reporter or, if not, there would definitely be people who’d sell the information to the closest reporter for a few bucks.”

“I see,” she said. “So …”

“I’ve got to try to find the murderer fast.”

We didn’t say much more. I wanted to turn the radio on and listen to anything, but I didn’t.

“Very well,” she said. “If you become certain that this will appear in the press or on the radio, let me know and I’ll do what I can to salvage … No, it can’t come to that. I can’t let it.”

The last was said with such determination that I turned to look at her. I saw the face of a woman I wouldn’t want to tangle with. I couldn’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses. I didn’t think I wanted to. She was wearing makeup, but not much, and it was possible that with only a quick glance, she might not be recognized.

“When we get there,” I said, “take off the glasses, don’t walk fast, and don’t smile. I’ll go in first. You follow.”

“And the point of this?” she asked.

“To keep from drawing attention to you and to give me a chance to spot anyone who might be a problem.”

We were almost at the Hall of Justice now, and I didn’t want to answer more questions than I had to.

“Problem? You mean like reporters, a fan?”

What I meant was “like a pink-faced kid with a blowgun,” but I only said, “Right.”

She went silent, thinking, smoking, and giving me a headache.

“What if I don’t identify this Dr. Minck?” she asked.

“They won’t believe you,” I said. “The D.A. will give you lots of trouble, and they might even decide to have a not-very-nice but very long talk with you.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, let’s go.”

We went. So far everything had gone reasonably well. Now we sat in the dark while five men were paraded onto the platform and told to face forward with their backs against the dirty white wall.

Shelly was facing us at the end of the line to our right. He was wearing a blue shirt and an expression of openmouthed blinking bewilderment. He took off his glasses and squinted into the darkness in front of him.