“Jeffrey,” she cried. “They’re here. They’re going to kill me if I don’t …”
I grabbed the phone from her. She backed up with a scream. Chaplin took the phone from me and said, “Pultman, I’m afraid the performance is over.”
I kept the gun aimed at Fiona Sullivan, who slumped back against the wall, her mascara and makeup running because of her tears. Chaplin held the phone away from his ear so I could listen.
“You were the old man at the cemetery,” he said calmly.
“I was,” Chaplin admitted.
“Is Peters there with you?”
“He is,” said Chaplin. “I’m afraid you’ve killed your aunt for nothing.”
“No,” he said. “For everything. I’ve got the papers. I’m at the bank now waiting for a cashier’s check from the president. I’ve sold everything for half of what it’s worth, which means I’m walking out of here with three hundred thousand dollars.”
“You weren’t planning to come back here for Miss Sullivan,” he said, looking at Fiona who was wiping her face with her sleeve. She now looked a bit more like the woman I had seen in her home and on the train.
Chaplin shook his head to show her what Pultman’s answer had been.
“No,” she said. “No.”
“I’m a man of many names and faces,” Jeffrey Pultman said happily. “In a few hours, I’ll be wearing one of them and moving somewhere where I can enjoy good food, the company of lovely women, and the delicious pleasure of the show I’ve staged.”
“Jeffrey,” Fiona shouted, pushing away from the wall and trying to get her hands on the phone. She didn’t seem to care about the mad Toby Peters with the gun anymore.
I held her back. She clawed at my face. Chaplin went on calmly, “Well, I’ve learned through bitter experience that one must accept defeat with good grace and applaud a fine performance.”
“Thank you,” I heard Pultman say. “Coming from you that’s a compliment I’ll remember. I am, as you have guessed, an actor.”
I shoved Fiona away, having a serious instant in which I actually considered shooting her in the foot.
“And a fine one too. May I suggest Mexico?” Chaplin said.
Pultman laughed.
“You may suggest,” he said, “but I’m keeping my destination to myself. You understand.”
“I do indeed,” said Chaplin.
“The president is coming back now. He’s holding what looks like a check in both hands. Good luck with Lady Killer.”
Pultman hung up. Fiona got past me and grabbed the phone.
“Jeffrey,” she shouted. “Jeffrey.”
“He’s gone,” Chaplin said with a deep sigh. “I’m afraid the police will have no one but you to hang.”
“No,” she said, dropping the phone. “Jeffrey wouldn’t …”
“He just did,” I said, resuming my normal tone.
“If you help us,” Chaplin said. “If we can catch Pultman and you testify against him, I think you can be reasonably certain of a very light sentence.”
“Or none at all,” I threw in.
“Quite possibly,” Chaplin agreed. “Can we get you a drink?”
She nodded “yes,” and Chaplin led her into the living room where he went to a liquor cabinet we had seen when we had been here before. He opened it and said, “Port, sherry, a Dewars?”
“Dewars,” she said. “No. Make that port. I’ve never tasted port.”
“I like that,” said Chaplin, pulling a notebook out of his jacket pocket and writing something. He looked at what he had written and read it, “I’ve never tasted port.” Then he turned to me and said, “That would be a perfect line for a man who was being offered a last drink before his execution.” Then he put the notebook back in his pocket.
“Did he have a passport?” I asked Fiona, who was seated while we stood over her.
She took a sip of the wine and nodded “yes.”
“He mentioned good food,” Chaplin said. “What kind of food is he most fond of?”
“Food? Steak, fine steaks,” she said.
“Does he speak any foreign languages?” Chaplin asked.
She took another sip and coughed before she answered.
“A little Spanish and something else.”
“What?” I asked.
“I’m trying to think. I never heard him speak it. Something his parents spoke. What difference does it make?”
Chaplin rested an elbow in the palm of one hand and tapped at his lower lip.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said, moving into the hall and picking up the phone. I could see Chaplin and Fiona Sullivan in the living room looking at me.
I dialed Marty Leib’s office. I knew the number well. A secretary answered and I told her who I was and that it was a matter of life and death. She put me through and I heard Marty’s deep, even voice.
“Yes.”
“Marty, Alexander Fuller had a client in there a little while ago, a Jeffrey Pultman.”
“Is that a question?”
“No, but I’m coming to one. Fuller handled his aunt’s estate.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And your firm approved transfer of everything to Jeffrey Pultman in one session?”
“No,” he said. “As I understand it, Pultman asked Fuller about setting up the transfer some time ago.”
“While his aunt was alive?”
“Toby, what is this about?”
“Pultman killed his aunt,” I said.
There was no sound but Marty’s breathing on the other end of the phone.
“I’ll have to check with Alex, but as I recall, Pultman said weeks ago that she was dying,” Marty answered. “He had medical papers substantiating her illness. According to Alex Fuller, Pultman was an impatient man, an impatient man offering to pay a substantial fee for very quick service upon the aunt’s demise.”
“What bank?”
“First Federal, I think,” Marty said.
“Did he give Fuller any hint of where he was going, what he was going to do?”
“You want me to ask him?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
The pause was long.
“Hang on. I’ll see if he’s free.”
“Interrupt him,” I said.
Marty didn’t answer. I heard the phone clunk on his mahogany desk. I looked at Chaplin and Fiona again. They were both trying to figure out what was going on. Chaplin seemed to get it. Fiona didn’t. Marty came back on the phone in about three minutes.
“Pultman said nothing about where he was going,” said Marty. “And he got everything but what she was buried in: the dress, her mother’s necklace and ring.”
“One more question. You have all of Elsie Pultman’s papers. Birth certificate, all that stuff.”
“We have. Alex handed her file to me.”
“Where was she born?”
Chaplin smiled. He could see where I was going.
“Let me take a look.” There was a pause while the chair creaked from Marty’s rising. He was a big man who moved very slowly.
I waited. Chaplin watched. Fiona sipped.
“San Francisco,” Marty said.
“She had a sister or brother. Jeffrey’s parents.”
“Brother.”
“Where were her parents from? You have that?”
“Yes, Portugal. And, before you ask, though I don’t know where this is going, the brother was older than Elsie. He was born in Portugal as was his wife, Jeffrey’s mother.”
“Portugal,” I repeated.
“Sunny Portugal,” Marty repeated slowly. “Any other questions? I’m in no hurry.”
“No,” I said. “That’ll do it.”
“I’ll send the bill to your office,” he said.
“Bill?”
“For this consultation,” he said. “One hour. Thirty-two dollars.”
He hung up.
“Portuguese?” I said, looking at F
iona.
“I think so,” she said.
Chaplin was smiling.
“He can’t get to Portugal,” he said.
“At least not till the war is over,” I picked up.
“Therefore,” Chaplin said, and we both answered:
“Brazil.”
CHAPTER
12
I CALLED THE Los Angeles airport. There were no direct flights to Brazil. There were, however, two ways to get there by plane. One was a flight to Mexico City with a connection to Caracas and on to Rio. Another was to New Orleans, then to Havana, and any of five ways from Havana to Brazil. I didn’t bother to check with any of the airlines to find out if a Jeffrey Pultman or a Howard Sawyer was booked on that first step to Brazil. He wouldn’t be using his own name, and he would almost certainly be in some kind of disguise.
“Now what?” asked Chaplin.
Fiona sat weeping. I thought, took a deep breath, and dialed a number I wasn’t supposed to have. Six rings and an answer.
“Yes,” came a woman’s voice.
“I’d like to talk to Mrs. Stewart,” I said.
“May I say who’s calling?”
“Toby Peters. Tell her it’s life and death.”
The woman put down the phone. Minutes were racing by.
“Peters?” came Preston Stewart’s familiar voice.
“Hello, Preston,” I said.
“Ann told me about your visit earlier this afternoon,” he said calmly.
“This is about business,” I said.
“Peters, please leave her alone,” he said with real concern. “She’s been through … well, you know most of what she’s been through. She’s a tough woman, but your harassment doesn’t make her life any easier.”
“Stewart,” I said. “I need her help and I need it fast. You can listen in on an extension.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I need your permission.”
“I didn’t … please. It is really a matter of life and death this time.”
Silence. Preston Stewart was thinking. I remembered his pose in Shadow of a Gun when he had to decide how he was going to answer the question of a Gestapo colonel.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell her, but I don’t know if she’ll talk to you.”
More silence. Then I could hear Stewart and Ann talking. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then Ann came on the phone.
“Life and death,” she said, sounding very tired.
“Ann, if you wanted to get to Brazil, how would you do it with the least likelihood of anyone asking questions about who you were?”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” I said. “A man murdered an old woman. I think he’s trying to get to Brazil, fast.”
Ann knew more about travel than anyone I could think of. She was an expert and I knew her mind would grab a question like this and go into professional mode.
“I wouldn’t go by boat,” she said. “Too dangerous. Not many boats are taking passengers because of the German submarines. You could fly out of Los Angeles to …”
“That I’ve checked,” I said.
“But if you didn’t want to be spotted at the airport,” she went on, “and if you had a passport, the best thing to do would be to drive to Mexico and catch a flight from there.”
That was it. Pultman might figure that it was possible we would be checking the airports. He would probably play it safe, drive north to Canada or east to anywhere.
“Thanks, Ann,” I said.
“Don’t call me anymore, Toby,” she said. “Please.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve got a headache, and Preston and I need some rest. Whatever you’re doing, be careful, but don’t call me.”
“I’ll be …,” I said, but before I could say “careful” she had hung up.
Chaplin was looking at me for some sign.
“I think he’s heading by car to the Mexican border,” I said.
“And then on to Brazil,” Chaplin supplied, nodding his head in understanding. “You think this, but you are not certain?”
“No, but it makes sense.”
“Then let’s go with your judgment,” he said. “Your next call will have to be to the police.”
It was my turn to nod.
“And it is now essential that I completely reveal my part in this affair,” he said.
“I can’t see a way around it. Fiona talks. You talk. We try to convince the police to check cars at the border.”
“But,” asked Chaplin reasonably, “if Pultman has a false passport and has altered his appearance …? Ah, I see. You propose that I fly to the Mexican border ahead of him and check every man, woman, and tall child going across.”
“You know what he looks like. You’d recognize him through a disguise,” I said.
“I am confident that I would,” Chaplin agreed with a humble bow of his head.
“Then …,” I began.
“Let us go,” he finished.
I called my brother’s office. He was still there. I told him what was going on, that Fiona Sullivan was ready to talk, that Pultman was getting away, possibly with murder. Phil did not like that and he didn’t like the game Pultman had played with the deaths of the other women.
“Where are you?” he asked.
I told him.
“I’ll make some calls, have a car pick Chaplin up,” he said. “I’m going to put my job on the line, Tobias,” he said. “I’m going to get a plane for Chaplin. You bring the Sullivan woman here, now. Can you handle her alone?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then get started.”
He hung up. I told Chaplin the plan. He approved.
“There is always the chance he’ll slip through,” Chaplin said.
“Tell the border guards who you are,” I said. “Get their names and addresses and tell them you’ll send them autographed photographs.”
“Considering the current attitude toward me, they may not be so inclined,” he said.
“They’re human,” I answered. “They like telling stories about celebrities they’ve met. Even the cops and prison guards wanted Capone’s autograph.”
“Not a flattering comparison,” said Chaplin.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got to get Fiona into the city. Good luck.”
Two hours later, Fiona Sullivan, having already given her statement and still declaring her innocence, had been taken away. I sat in my brother’s office. We drank coffee. A little after eight he called home, talked to Ruth and the boys, and said he would be there as soon as he could.
He held out the phone.
“Nathan wants to talk to you.”
I took the phone.
“Hi Nate,” I said.
“Uncle Toby,” he came back soberly. “David says you never shot anybody.”
It was Nate’s favorite subject. I looked at Phil, sleeves rolled up, definitely in need of a shave. The gray stubble on his face and the distant look in his eyes reminded me of how old we both were.
“I’ve told you,” I said.
“No, I mean really. I’m old enough.”
“I shot one man when I was a police officer and one since I’ve been a private investigator. Neither of them died. I also shot myself once.”
“I remember,” Nate said. “My dad won’t tell us how many people he shot.”
“I know,” I said, looking at Phil whose eyes were on me, warning. “You’ll have to talk to him about that.”
“He won’t talk about it,” Nate said with disappointment.
“Say hello to your mom and Dave for me,” I said. “Get some sleep.”
“First we listen to Baby Snooks,” he said. “I think we’re old enough for Inner Sanctum too.”
“That’s up to your mom and dad,” I said.
“Yeah,” Nate answered and then hung up.
At 8:15, Phil called down and got a uniformed cop to pick up some sandwiches. He didn’t want to leave the phone.
&
nbsp; An hour later Cawelti came into the room, his face red.
“What’s going on?” he said to me.
“Get out of here,” Phil said, rubbing his eyes.
“This piece of crap brother of yours said he’d give me the lady killer,” Cawelti said, standing his ground, posturing but ready to retreat if Phil decided to charge. “Now I hear he’s giving it to you. I had a deal with you, Peters. I let that fat little pervert go.”
“You can have the collar,” Phil said. “Now get out of here.”
Cawelti turned to Phil, who was still rubbing his eyes.
“What?”
“You can have it,” Phil said. “But it’s not going to get you headlines or medals. He only killed one woman.”
“Bullshit,” said Cawelti.
“It’s the truth,” I said.
“Now, for the last time,” Phil said, opening his eyes wide to ward off weariness. “Get out.”
“Don’t jerk me around,” Cawelti said. “I’ve got a right to be here.”
Phil shook his head and started to get up.
“John,” I said. “If I were you, I’d start running.”
Cawelti looked at my brother. He saw a rhino ready to charge. He made it to the door and through it as Phil took two quick strides toward him. Then Phil turned to me.
“Don’t say it,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Don’t even think it then,” he said, fist clenched.
I knew that look. I had felt those fists. He wanted something or someone to hit.
“Cawelti is a decent enough cop,” he said. “And he’s never going to get anywhere. No one likes him. If he has a mother, I don’t think she even likes him. I don’t think he likes himself. He is one sad, lonely, and angry man. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have thrown him through the wall.”
I didn’t say anything.
We waited. Around eleven, a call came through. Phil listened, said “Okay” four times, and hung up. It was an army sergeant at the Mexican border. He said Chaplin was checking everyone out and, so far, no Pultman.
“He’s not going through,” Phil said. “Not tonight. And Chaplin needs some sleep. Hell, maybe he’s in Pittsburgh or Havana by now. Maybe he’s not done here. Maybe there’s something more he can pluck from his dead aunt’s hand.”
A Few Minutes Past Midnight Page 16
