The Black Marble (36 page)

“Sometimes,” said Valnikov. “What's the dog handler's name?”

“Philo Skinner,” said the lad, looking in the grave. “She got tired of dog shows. Millie gets tired of everything. Maybe it
is
Tutu. I just can't say. I had no idea this is what it does! God, I'm sorry!”

“That's okay, son,” said Valnikov, patting the enormous shoulder of the young giant. “Thanks for your help, anyway.”

“Maybe it
is
Tutu,” the boy said softly, stealing his last glance into the pine coffin at the jutting mastiff jaw.

Tutu in her final agony took with her to eternity the face of J. Edgar Hoover
.

When they got back to the waiting Rolls, Natalie said, “Buttons, give Twinkles a chance to get himself together. He'll be out in a minute.”

“I ain't in no hurry to get back,” the blond chauffeur shrugged. “No hurry at all.”

And no wonder, Natalie Zimmerman thought, as she and Valnikov waved to Mr. Limpwood who was calling his lawyer to make sure somebody couldn't sue him for letting them dig up a stiff schnauzer. His lawyer wasn't in, so he looked at Valnikov's business card and called Hollywood Station just to make sure this was an authorized police investigation.

The phone was answered by Bullets Bambarella, who was back from the tennis match, dead broke, thinking he'd be eating grass in Griffith Park if this kept up.

“Good morning, Hollywood Investigation, Investigator Bambarella speaking, may I help you.” Bullets gave the rote greeting sullenly, then he listened with only half his concentration. He was worried sick. He took a look at the captain's door. Thank God the groupie with the neck brace was gone. He knew he'd be facing Clarence Cromwell's wrath soon enough over this one. Jesus, Clarence, what I gotta do to make up? Marry the broad or what?

Then Bullets heard something which popped his eyes wide. “Just a second, Mr. Limpwood!” Bullets cried, punching the phone button and putting him on hold. Someone was in
lots
more trouble than he was! Bullets ran to the captain's door, knocked, and jerked it open.

“I ain't ready for you yet, Bullets,” Clarence Cromwell said with murder in his eyes.

“But this is important, Clarence!” Bullets cried. “Captain! There's a guy on the phone. From a cemetery! Guess what Valnikov done! He dug up a grave! Some stiff named Schnozzle! And the mortician wants to talk to you right now!”

They said that Captain Hooker's moan set a new record for police department moaners. He was taken to the hospital with a gas attack severe enough to require an ambulance. Bullets Bambarella loyally accompanied his captain to the ambulance, saying, “Gee, Skipper, if you could just loosen up and fart you'd feel lots better.”

“Ooooooohhhh,” said Hipless Hooker.

It didn't help when Clarence Cromwell phoned the hospital later that afternoon and tried to explain that it was only a dog's body. The medication they gave Hipless Hooker kept him belching and farting and off-duty all afternoon.

Which meant that Valnikov's career was secure another day.

“So what do you have in mind now, Valnikov?” said Natalie Zimmerman as they drove toward Pasadena on the freeway.

“I think we proceed on the assumption that the dead dog
is
Tutu.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“With the responsibility to handle this case,” said Valnikov. “It's
our
extortion. First thing to do is be there when he calls at three o'clock. What do you think?”

“I don't know what to think,” Natalie sighed. “Maybe we should just turn the case over to Pasadena P.D.”

“I feel a … responsibility,” Valnikov said. “I want to help Mrs. Whitfield.”

“It's only a dog, Valnikov.”

“The extortionist calls her a bitch,” Valnikov mused.

“Mrs. Whitfield?”

“No, the schnauzer. He always says the word bitch, never the word dog like you just did.”

“So?”

“He's familiar with dogs. He uses the right terminology when he refers to Vickie. He knew Tutu would fool them long enough that he'd be home safe before they guessed. He's a dog lover.”

“So?”

“Nothing. Something. I don't know. Another thing. He said, ‘I've never hurt an animal in my life.' That was important to him.”

“So?”

“I don't think we should let him know Tutu's dead. When we're out of possibilities, we can tell him he's killed Tutu. See how he acts.”

“You think it was one of Millie's playmates?”

“That's what I'm thinking,” Valnikov nodded. “If we could just get that woman's undivided attention for fifteen minutes.”

“Impossible, what with the people, aardvarks and lizards in her bed.”

“If we could get her thinking, I'll bet there're three or four guys who lived with her when she was involved in dog shows. I'll bet it's one of those guys.”

“She's a chickenhawk!” Natalie sneered. “These kids come and go hourly through her zoo. Sunset Strip one week, Haight-Ashbury the next.”

“Except that this one's in town. Only thing bothers me is the voice. That voice, even if he was an actor, that wasn't a youngster's voice. And Millie likes
boys
.”

“So you think there were two.”

“Or more,” Valnikov nodded. “Would probably take two anyway. Millie's former friend takes Tutu from the restaurant. Maybe one or both take the dog into the show and switch schnauzers. Then the other one calls Mrs. Whitfield, the older man.”

“A dog lover,” Natalie sighed. Her police career had come to this.

“A dog lover,” Valnikov said. “Yes. Not an ordinary thief. Not a burglar, certainly. Her address is in dog show catalogues, I'm sure. It wouldn't be hard to find. This is someone who was much more
comfortable
committing a theft in the presence of thousands of people at a dog show than he would be shimming her back door, or prowling her neighborhood. This wasn't an ordinary thief, or he'd have stolen the dog from
here
.” And as he said it, Valnikov stopped by the iron gate overlooking the winding cobbled driveway into Madeline Whitfield's fifty-year-old Mediterranean mansion.

“Wow!” Natalie said. “I see why he picked her!”

“He picked the wrong victim,” Valnikov said, wheeling into the driveway. “She's almost broke.”

“How could you be broke and have a house like this? And squander money on a show dog?”

“That's what the extortionist can't understand,” said Valnikov. “It's a long story.”

Madeline Whitfield was on the steps when they got out of the detective car. She looked at Natalie curiously and smiled at Valnikov like an old friend.

“This is my partner, Sergeant Zimmerman,” Valnikov said. “Mrs. Whitfield.”

“Come in. I'm glad you came early. The waiting is hard.”

“We're pretty sure the dead dog was the one belonging to Mrs. Gharoujian,” said Valnikov. “I wish we knew for certain, though.”

“Does that help you?” Madeline asked, and Natalie Zimmerman, a fair detective herself, noticed that Madeline Whitfield held Valnikov's arm all the way into the sitting room. And that when she said, “I'll get you some tea, Sergeant,” she fluttered like a pigeon and
squeezed
his arm.

Natalie strolled around the room, admiring the view of the Rose Bowl. “How long did you stay here last night?”

“Pardon?”

“I said, how long did you stay here last night?”

“Uh, well, the extortionist called just after six.”

“She lives all alone in this big house?”

“All alone,” Valnikov nodded and his reddening face was not lost on Natalie Zimmerman.

“If she'd lose twenty-five pounds. And shave …” Natalie smirked.

“She's a fine lady,” Valnikov said, a bit too quickly. “She's loving … of her Vickie. She's educated. She knows music. You should see her record collection.”

“Really?” Natalie said. “I thought you were busy with an extortionist.”

“I … uh, listened to a few records with her.”

“Did she play? Music, I mean?”

“And she's very smart. After all, she's the one who first discovered that the dead dog was Mrs. Gharoujian's.”

“Which we're not sure of at all,” Natalie reminded him.

When Madeline returned, she said, “Sergeant Zimmerman, how would you like your tea?”

“Well, actually,” Natalie said petulantly, “I'd prefer some coffee. Most
ordinary
cops drink coffee.”

“Of course,” she said. “It'll just take a minute.” Then she poured for Valnikov and handed him the cup and saucer, and met his eyes, and smiled demurely, touching his arm before leaving for the kitchen again.

“Oh, horseshit!” Natalie said to her Friz.

“Pardon, Natalie?” said Valnikov.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Natalie smirked. “It's not
my
business.”

“What?”

“Nothing, for chrissake!”

“Sorry,” said Valnikov, sipping. “Very good tea.”

“Of course it's good tea. She probably has it imported from Bombay. From the plantation of a retired rajah, for chrissake.”

“Sorry,” said Valnikov, wondering why she had him apologizing.

“Did you ask
her
to go to the movies?” Natalie smirked.

“Why, no.”

“Why not take her to see
Deep Throat?
”

“I
told you I'd rather not see porno films, Natalie,” Valnikov said. “But if you need an escort and you have to see it again, I'll be glad …”

Madeline's return interrupted Valnikov's offer and Natalie's impending outburst. Madeline put the coffee down and said nervously: “What should I tell him? Should I tell him I have the money?”

“I think it's time to say just that,” Valnikov nodded while Natalie glared coldly at Madeline Whitfield, unable to fathom this overwhelming anger.

“I
do
have money for him, Sergeant. And as we discussed last night, it's
my
choice. I've decided today that if he'll promise to release Vickie unharmed, I'll give it all to him. I've managed to borrow and raise twenty thousand dollars!”

“That's stupid!” Natalie Zimmerman said.

“Please, Natalie,” Valnikov said. “Natalie didn't mean that harshly, Mrs. Whitfield.”

Now he was apologizing to this dowdy broad for his
partner's
manners! Him! A certified dingaling and a drunk apologizing to this Pasadena dog freak about Natalie's manners! Natalie was ranging from fury to contempt. For the both of them.

“I can understand that it might be hard for you to comprehend,” Madeline said carefully to Natalie Zimmerman.

Don't patronize me, Dame Whitfield. Don't patronize Natalie Kelso Zimmerman or you'll be wearing a fat lip under that goddamn moustache!

“I can't understand
ever
giving in to kidnappers and extortionists,” Natalie said. “For solid professional reasons
you
couldn't comprehend, Mrs. Whitfield. And I don't think many people, cops or civilians, could comprehend laying out twenty thousand in ransom for a
dog
.”

“Sergeant Valnikov understands,” Madeline said, looking at him with
that
look again while Natalie muttered to her Friz.

“I
do
understand, Mrs. Whitfield,” Valnikov said, patting her hand. Now now. Keep your chin up, Mrs. Whitfield. Now now.

Natalie Zimmerman felt like screaming. Or getting sick. A
nut
who shouldn't even
be
a cop, and a woman maybe crazier, who's willing to shell out twenty grand for a pooch, and they're sitting here patty-caking and feeling smug and condescending toward the one who just can't understand. The
only
sane person in the goddamn house. What am I doing here! Why does everything happen to me? The black marble!

“What I'm hoping you might consider,” Valnikov said, “is going along with a money drop. But trusting us to handle it for you. I want you to tell him you'll give him the money tomorrow. Tell him how much you have and that you'll be able to make the delivery tomorrow afternoon. Then we'll take over. We have helicopters and surveillance people who're expert at this sort of thing and …”

“I don't know. I think I'd just rather not risk it,” Madeline said softly. “I
want
to let you catch him but …”

“I thought that if you trust me, personally, I could coordinate the operation,” Valnikov said. “If you trust my judgment I'll promise not to let anything happen to scare him off and endanger Vickie. I won't risk Vickie's safety. If I'm positive we can take him, we'll take him. If not, we let the money go. What do you say? Do you trust me?”

She squeezed his forearm again, this time with both hands and whispered, “You
know
I do.”

“Oh,
shit
,” Natalie muttered aloud.

“I give you my word I'm going to return Vickie to you. I promise,” Valnikov said.

Then Madeline got tearful in spite of her best efforts, and Valnikov said, “Here, let me fix you some tea. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. That's a brave girl. Now now.”

“It's a dog.”

“Pardon, Natalie?” Valnikov said.

“It's a dog,” said Natalie Zimmerman to no one. To everyone. “It's a dog we're talking about.”

“It's an extortion,” Valnikov reminded her. “A felony.”

“It's a
dog
you two are talking about,” Natalie Zimmerman said stubbornly. “You two have
never
been talking about an extortion. You two are talking about a
dog
. I'm not running into a burning house to rescue a bowl of goldfish. And I'm not going to sit here and let you two make me so … make me forget that we're all talking about a
dog
. A dog! Do you hear me!”