A Few Minutes Past Midnight

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  That rang a bell. There was something else. The question was, what was it worth and how big a chance was Pultman willing to take?

  “I guess I’ll head home,” I said. “You should too.”

  “Right,” he said. “Ruth’ll wait up for me.”

  He slipped on his jacket and we walked out together. When we got outside, I headed for my car and he headed in the opposite direction for his Ford in the parking lot.

  I drove to the nearest phone booth, pulled out all my change and my notebook, and dialed a number. Four rings.

  “Yes?”

  “Marty?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Toby,” I said.

  “What did they arrest you for?” he asked, no sign of having been awakened from sleep.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I have a question.”

  “Which couldn’t wait till the morning,” he said.

  “Which couldn’t wait till the morning, and I know it will cost me thirty-two dollars.”

  “Sixty,” said Marty Leib. “Night rates. Ask your question.”

  “You said Elsie Pultman was buried wearing a necklace and a ring, her mother’s.”

  “That is what I said.”

  “Did Fuller’s notes say what they were worth?”

  “Yes, but it was only an estimate based on an appraisal, not market sale price.”

  “How much?”

  “The necklace, as I recall, was worth about twenty thousand, the ring fifteen or sixteen thousand. A waste to bury them, but legal. We’ve made a note in our files. In a few years we’ll return to the issue and see if some sympathetic judge will be willing to consider reviewing Miss Pultman’s decision.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Legal advice and representation are what I’m here for,” he said evenly.

  I hung up and headed for the cemetery. If Jeffrey Pultman was going after his aunt’s jewels, he would wait till after midnight to be sure no one would see him. There was probably an all-night caretaker. If I was right about all this, the caretaker was in deep trouble.

  The iron gates of the cemetery were closed and locked. Inside the gates, about thirty yards away I could see the small stone building. Lights were on inside. I considered rattling the gate but Pultman, if he was there, might hear me.

  I started climbing. It was fine until I got to the black iron points at the top. The gate was attached to the high wall around the cemetery. I pulled myself up to the wall and sat looking toward the graves.

  A small light was visible about a hundred yards away.

  I couldn’t see anything but the light and the silhouettes of headstones. I didn’t hear anything that sounded like digging.

  I climbed down into the cemetery, managing to grab my flashlight just as it was about to fall from my pocket. Then I headed for the stone office building.

  The windows were clear. I looked in and saw nothing.

  I went to the front of the small building. The door was open. Just an office, some chairs, filing cabinets, a desk, and a map of the cemetery on one wall.

  I remembered the place where Elsie Pultman had been buried well enough to get back to it. There was a phone. All I needed was something to back up my intuition. I found it sitting in the closet I opened.

  The old man was seated inside the closet in a chair. He was tied tight with rope and a cloth around his mouth.

  His eyes opened wide when I opened the door. He was having trouble breathing. I took the cloth from his mouth. He sputtered and gasped for air.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Hell no,” he said.

  He was thin, pale faced, with scraggly white hair. He wore a pair of dark pants and an old blue shirt in addition to a look of confusion.

  “Grave robbers,” he said as I cut him free with my pocketknife. “That’s my bet.”

  “He hurt you?”

  “No,” said the old man. “Just my feelings. Been here going on eighteen years. This is the first time anything like this has happened. Oh, we get some kids climbing in sometimes but … hell, what are we talking for? Call the police.”

  “You do that,” I said. “I’m going to see who the guy is who did this to you. He’s about my height, a little lighter, about forty, right?”

  “Happened fast and I lost my glasses,” the old man said, steadying himself with one hand on the chair and starting to get up.

  I found his glasses on the floor and handed them to him. He put them on and looked at me.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Private investigator. The guy who did this to you is a killer.”

  “I’m calling the police,” he said, moving to the phone.

  I went out the door and into the night. I didn’t know how long it would take the police to get here or even which police might come. I figured the fastest I could get real help would be fifteen minutes unless I got lucky with a patrol car.

  The light I was following was weak but I didn’t want to turn on my flashlight. Then I heard the sound. Shovel digging in, dirt falling on the ground.

  I rounded a tree, gun in hand, and found myself looking at Jeffrey Pultman, at least the head and arms of Jeffrey Pultman. He was deep in his aunt’s grave and shoveling dirt onto a pile a few feet away. I moved closer. He didn’t see me, didn’t look up. He grunted and dug. When I was about a dozen feet away, he let out a satisfied sound as his shovel hit the casket.

  I stood waiting while he backed up, straddled the sides of the hole he had dug, and opened the casket. I kept watching while he leaned over and came up with the necklace and ring. The light from his flashlight next to the grave hit him from behind. He was a black outline right out of a Karloff movie.

  Then I turned on my flashlight, pointed the beam at him, and held up my gun.

  “Greed,” I said. “Gets ’em every time.”

  He looked at me, jewels in one hand, the other hand at his side. I stepped forward.

  “Don’t reach for anything,” I said. “Just stand there.”

  His face and clothes were spotted with dirt. He didn’t look surprised or even worried. He smiled. He was no longer the bespectacled blond of the afternoon. His hair was dark and straight; a strand stuck to his forehead.

  “You didn’t figure this out,” he said. “You’re not smart enough.”

  “Maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are,” I said. “You make everything too complicated. Best way to get away with a crime is to just do it and walk away.”

  “No fun in that,” said Pultman calmly. “I’m an actor. I wrote a script for myself and lived it. The money will feel so much better when I’m able to look back at my performance.”

  “Greed,” I said again.

  “Right,” he agreed. “I admit it. I couldn’t resist these. But Peters, all this performance lacked was applause.”

  He held up the jewels.

  I took another cautious step forward.

  “And now?” he asked.

  “We stand here and wait for the police,” I said.

  “Can’t do that,” he said. “It’s not the end I planned. In my tale, the bad guy, that’s me, gets away. Well, actually I’m not a bad guy, just an impatient, clever adventurer.”

  “Whatever you say. Just stand there.”

  “Can’t do that,” he repeated, dropping into the grave, and ducking down so I couldn’t see him.

  “That’s fine with me,” I said. “You stay down there and I stay up here. We can tell each other stories while we wait.”

  But Pultman had a different plan. He stood up suddenly, shovel in hand, and heaved it in my direction. I ducked to the right, fired, and missed as he came at me out of the hole. I slipped and backed away. I’d lost my flashlight but I could see his outline. I fired again. I think I came close. But I didn’t hit him. He picked up the shovel and took a swing in my direction. I fell backward to the ground and scrambled away losing my gun.

  He took another swing with the shovel and caught my ankle. The pain wa
s lightning. He stood over me now, shovel raised high.

  Instead of backing up, I lunged forward, my head ramming into his stomach. He staggered back and I looked around for my gun. My flashlight was on the ground facing the grave. No gun, but I did see the necklace and ring. I crawled forward a few feet and grabbed them. Pultman was getting up now. He hadn’t lost his grip on the shovel. I got to my feet and ran. My ankle hurt like hell, but I ran expecting a sharp steel edge cutting into my skull. Then I heard the shot.

  Instead of coming after me, Pultman had gone for my gun and found it. He didn’t seem to be any better a shot than I was, but let’s be fair: It was dark, I was running, and he was trying to catch his breath.

  I headed away, toward a far wall. The flashlight beam hit about fifteen feet to my left. I tripped and went down on my knees, facing the headstone of Samuel Sidney Talevest. I struggled behind Sam’s headstone just before the beam of the flashlight hit it and moved on.

  And this is where I started telling you my story.

  “Peters,” Pultman called out as the rain came. “Throw out the jewels. I’ll take them and go. I don’t want to leave a trail of bodies behind me.”

  I kept my mouth shut and stuffed the jewels in my pocket.

  “Be reasonable,” he said with a laugh as the rain began to fall. “This is nothing for you to die over.”

  I could hear his footsteps under the rain. My best guess from his voice and the sound of his feet was that he was to my left and behind me. I took a chance, turned in pain, and peeked around the headstone.

  I could see the flashlight’s beam going slowly, lighting the back of a headstone. He moved to another. I didn’t have much time. I got out from behind the headstone and crept as quietly as I could on my hands and knees back toward the grave of Elsie Pultman. With luck and the rain covering the sound I was making, I had a chance to get back there. I wasn’t sure what I planned to do when I arrived. I doubted if I could crawl all the way to the gate without being caught.

  Over my shoulder I could see Pultman moving forward, jabbing light behind tombstones including that of the late Sam Talevest.

  “Peters, I’m withdrawing my offer. I’m wet. I’m impatient, and you may have been telling the truth when you said the police were on the way. And so, I’ll give you this small victory and get out of here. I’ll just have to rewrite the ending of the tale, a bittersweet victory for the elusive brilliant criminal.”

  I had crawled while he talked, crawled all the way to the open grave of Elsie Pultman. I flopped over the side and landed inside the open casket looking down at Elsie whose makeup, with the rain beating down on her face, was in urgent need of the talents of someone like Fiona Sullivan.

  No sounds now but the rain. I knelt, careful not to step on Elsie. I’d give Jeffrey about four minutes to get away, then I’d get out of the grave and make my way back to the caretaker.

  Suddenly the light hit my face and I looked up. I hoped it was the police, but I knew who it was even before I heard his voice.

  “Surprise,” he said. “I was always good at hide-and-seek when I was a kid.”

  He lowered the flashlight a little, though the beam was still in my face. Now I saw the wet figure Charlie Chaplin had opened his door to four nights earlier.

  “Hand me the jewels,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I reached into my pocket, listening for sirens I didn’t hear. I gave him the jewels.

  “I rather like your dogged determination, Peters,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to shoot you and bury you with dear auntie. Will anyone miss you?”

  I thought about that for an instant. Gunther, Jeremy, Anita, probably Shelly, my brother, Ruth, my nephews, maybe Mrs. Plaut for a day or two. The list was short.

  “A few people,” I said. “Time for a few questions?”

  “You’re stalling,” he said.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “But I also have a few questions.”

  I was hoping the ego he strutted and the chance to perform a little while longer would give me a few minutes.

  “Ask your questions, Scheherazade.”

  It was raining harder now, beating like a drum on the casket.

  “Why didn’t you wait until your aunt died?”

  “Good question. She wrote me a letter asking if I would mind if half of her money went to a war orphans charity when she died. She was certain I wouldn’t mind and reassured me that there would be plenty for me.”

  “But she was wrong.”

  “I called her and told her that leaving half her money to charity was a wonderful idea. I asked her to wait a few months till I got there so I could be a proud witness to her new will and together we could make out one for me in which I left everything to charity.”

  “Generous,” I said.

  “Thank you. I came to Los Angeles immediately, contacted Fiona Sullivan with whom I had worked years ago and who had more than a crush on me. My charm blossomed with my plan.”

  “You never planned to share with Fiona Sullivan,” I said.

  “Not for a moment. I considered eliminating her, but, as I said before, I didn’t want to leave a trail of bodies behind me, at least not people I had really killed. Enough?”

  “Never,” I said.

  “I think that will have to do it,” he said, aiming the gun at my face. “I’m wet and, frankly, a bit tired, and I have a late plane to catch. So …”

  My legs gave way, my ankle burning with agony. The shot was loud, echoing in the grave. I felt no pain. I was still alive. I waited for another shot. It came, but it didn’t seem as close. I closed my eyes waiting for the third and final shot. He couldn’t miss a third time. At this range with a trapped target, even I couldn’t miss a third time. I remembered Juanita’s premonition of me and a dead woman I shouldn’t step on.

  I looked up at the flashlight beam above me.

  He stood with the gun hanging down at his side. He looked smaller and older than he had a few seconds ago.

  “You all right?” asked the caretaker.

  “No,” I said, “but I’m alive.”

  “Best crawl out of there and close the box on the poor lady.”

  I groaned my way over the edge of the grave and lay on my back with the rain beating against my face. Then I heard the sirens.

  “Took a shot at him. Guess I scared him off,” the caretaker said. “Tell you the truth, I tried to hit him, but my glasses are wet.”

  “I’ll settle for scaring him off,” I said. “Thanks. You’re sure he’s gone?”

  “Watched him run for the gate,” he said. “Considered taking another shot, but I wanted to see if you were alive first.”

  “I’m alive,” I said.

  He helped me up, and, with my arm on his shoulder, I hobbled toward the gate. The sirens were closer, much closer.

  “Let’s go into the office,” the caretaker suggested.

  “No, just let me out the gate and tell the police what happened.”

  “What did happen?”

  “The late Miss Pultman’s nephew dug her up and stole the jewels she was wearing,” I said.

  “And what do I tell them about you?” he asked as we reached the gate and he pulled out a thick ring of keys.

  “What do you know about me?”

  “Not a whole hell of a lot,” he said, opening the gate.

  “Then that’s what you tell them.”

  “Why can’t you stay and tell ’em yourself?”

  “The nephew killed his aunt and he’s going to get away if I stay here and get pulled in by the police. By the time they believe me, our boy will be halfway to who knows where.”

  He nodded and I hobbled through the gate and toward my car. It was a long hobble. He stood here watching and called, “Good luck.”

  I waved back over my shoulder and got into my Crosley and closed the door just as a cop car, siren going, pulled up in front of the cemetery. I slouched down, reached up, and tilted the mirror so I could see what was happening.


  Two cops in raincoats got out reasonably fast and approached the caretaker. They started to talk. The caretaker didn’t look my way. He turned, and the cops followed him toward the rows of buried dead.

  I sat up and started the car. I drove with one foot. The ankle was bad enough without giving it a chore. Shifting gears and hitting the brake with the same foot wasn’t easy.

  Wet, in pain, and trying to think, I drove. Who could I call? Phil? It was after midnight. I would wake Ruth and I’d probably have a hard time making him believe that my latest hunch, even though it was supported by the words of Jeffrey Pultman, was right. I had already been wrong once tonight and he was going to have some tough questions to answer the next day about flying Chaplin to the Mexican border.

  Gunther? The phone would ring in the hall. I’d eventually get him, but what could he do? He could give me advice, which I badly needed. But by the time we figured something out, Pultman would be gone. I rejected Jeremy for the same reason, and there was, anyway, a likelihood that his wife Alice would answer the phone and be less than happy with me. Shelly wasn’t even a serious consideration. Chaplin? I’d already sent him to the Mexican border and back.

  I was on my own and out of ideas. Then I realized there was someone nearby I could probably count on. I drove, windshield wipers scraping against glass, trying to think.

  In about ten minutes, I pulled in front of a two-level courtyard of apartment buildings off of Third Street. I hobbled to the door to Anita Maloney’s apartment and knocked.

  “You’re about nineteen hours early for our date,” she said.

  I didn’t smile. Even though it was after midnight and she was wearing a blue robe, it didn’t look as if I had awakened her. She had a cup of something hot in her hand.

  “You look awful,” she said, holding the door open for me to hobble in. “What happened?”

  “Long story,” I said. “I’ve got to tell it fast and use your telephone. Your daughter here?”

  Anita had a grown daughter who frequently spent the night if she was having husband trouble.

  “No,” she said.

  “Have anything dry that might fit me?” I asked starting to sit in a chair in the small living room.

  “Wait,” she said. “You’re wet. Sit in that one.”