A Few Minutes Past Midnight

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “If my theory is correct, he shall be there.”

  “Why? You think he showed up at the funerals of all those other women? Likes to see them buried?”

  “Not quite,” said Chaplin with a distinct twinkle. “Not quite.”

  “What time is the burial?” I asked.

  “Just before sundown,” he said. “We have a bit of time, but not much. I came by taxi. I assume your car is serviceable.”

  “It’s serviceable,” I said.

  “Good, then I have one more question.”

  “Shoot,” I said.

  Chaplin turned his head to the door and asked, “What is that bizarre man doing to that woman?”

  “That’s Sheldon Minck. He’s the dentist from the train.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “It’s better not to think about it,” I advised. “When we go out, don’t talk to him. I’ll tell him later that you’re a mobster.”

  “Someone should rescue the woman in the chair,” he said, rising.

  “There’ll just be another to take her place in an hour. The world is filled with people who miss all the warning signs, and wind up under his lamp and dull instruments.”

  Chaplin held up his hands to indicate that he would surrender to the inevitable. I put my jacket back on, and we went out the door.

  CHAPTER

  11

  TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY. We had a lot of time to talk, and, since Chaplin was in a good mood, he did most of the talking. That was fine with me.

  “I have made mistakes,” he said, looking out the window. “I have also made people laugh and cry. I have made a great deal of money and I have, I must admit, been less than delicate in my dealings with women. I take it you are not married?”

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t seem to resist the institution, but I’m confident that Oona, who is no impulsive mistake, will be my final foray into matrimony. Are you on good terms with your former wife?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “I try to retain a cordial but distant friendship with ex-spouses,” he said. “I think Paulette and I will remain on good terms. I hear she’s going to marry Burgess Meredith. Distant, cordial relationship, Toby.”

  “I’ll try it,” I said.

  We reached the cemetery just before the sun went down. Chaplin put on his disguise and got out of the car in front of the cemetery gate. Down the road beyond the open gate we could see about four cars parked along a gravel path.

  “Give me five minutes,” he said. “Then drive in and walk slowly to the gravesite.”

  “How do you know this is the right funeral?” I asked.

  “I called. There ain’t but one at this hour,” Chaplin said in his Texas accent. “Hasta la vista.”

  He opened the door, got out, and headed for the parked cars. I watched him walk away in a deliberate stride unlike his normal, faster gait.

  I was supposed to follow him in five minutes. I couldn’t be sure about the five minutes so I turned on the radio and listened to a little of Quincy Howe and the news. Roosevelt was hopping around the world and an announcer told me to buy 666 Cold Tablets. I figured that took five minutes. I drove up the gravel path toward the gravesite, the setting sun to my left. I parked behind a big Chrysler four-door, got out, and walked toward the group of people around an open grave.

  The casket of Elsie Pultman rested on a stand near the hole. A man wearing a black suit and black hat with a Bible tucked under his arm was speaking in a solemn tone.

  “… and what else can we say about this woman? Elsie Pultman was not known as a generous woman, not known as a devout or kind woman, not known as a friendly woman, but she hurt no one, donated frugally to the Red Cross, and spoke well of President Roosevelt. She also saved large amounts of grease in tin cans to support the war effort. Her family and friends have come to bid her farewell and we ask that our Lord take her into his realm with love and understanding.”

  I looked around the small gathering. Chaplin stood next to two old women on one side of the grave. On the other, just behind the casket were the two men in work clothes who would be lowering the casket into the grave. A large mound of dirt stood behind them with two shovels next to the pile. A few feet from them stood a tall woman in black with a wide hat and a handkerchief to her eyes. She was a good-looking woman of about forty with large earrings and a wide red mouth. Next to her stood a man about her age with a dark mustache and hair brushed back. He wore a well-pressed suit and a sad look on his downcast face.

  I approached slowly. Eyes turned in my direction. I could see Chaplin the Texan looking at the man with the Bible, the grieving man and woman, the old ladies, and even the two grave diggers. I stopped about ten feet from them all.

  “You may lower the casket,” the man with the Bible said.

  The two workmen did just that, with ropes and expertise. When the casket was in place, the man with the Bible nodded at the man with the mustache who reached down, picked up some dirt, and dropped it on the casket. I could hear the dirt hit the wood. Then the good-looking woman in black did the same thing and stood back.

  “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,” the man with the Bible said and stood back.

  The old women moved over to shake the hand of the man who had conducted the service and then they moved to the fellow with the mustache, who, it seemed, was being comforted by the tall woman at his side.

  I stepped closer as Chaplin went around the headstone and moved to the mourning man.

  The sun was almost down now but I could read the engraving on the big gray headstone:

  “Elsie Frances Pultman, 1869–1943, In Loving Memory, Jeffrey.”

  I didn’t move forward. Chaplin then moved off to talk to the man who had delivered the eulogy. The conversation was brief.

  I stood watching while the procession moved away leaving the workmen to fill in the grave. When the mourners were almost at their cars, Chaplin moved to my side.

  “I was right,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “You didn’t recognize them?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Ah, perhaps it’s my years in show business. Makeup and disguise are essences of our craft. The tall, rather handsome woman was Fiona Sullivan,” he said.

  “Fiona Sul …”

  “Remember, she was a makeup artist,” he said. “My guess is that we just witnessed the usual appearance of Fiona Sullivan. The dowdy spinster look she presented to us was the disguise.”

  I suddenly remembered Mrs. Plaut telling me that Fiona Sullivan was considered to be a good-looking woman given to too much makeup.

  The cars were pulling away.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “And there is more not to get,” Chaplin said as we moved slowly toward my car and the sun fell further. “The man with the mustache was Howard Sawyer, or at least he has used the name Howard Sawyer.”

  “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 sa
id, “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 a
ided 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.