I moved to a wooden armless chair near the telephone table. She handed me the cup and I drank. It was tea.
“Thanks.”
“Get out of those clothes,” she said. “I think I have some things from my ex in a box. They’ll come close.”
I sat and drank the tea. Then I took off my clothes, all of them, after taking everything from my pockets and removing my empty holster. I dropped the pile on the floor.
Anita came back in with clothes in her arms. She looked at me.
“You should spend more time in the sun,” she said, handing me the bundle.
“I’ll make a note,” I said.
“So,” she said as I dressed. “What’s going on?”
I told her fast. The clothes fit reasonably well: trousers, a tan shirt, dark sox. I did without underwear.
“And he thinks he killed you?” she asked.
“Not sure,” I said. “But I think so. I was lucky. He was using my gun, which, along with its owner, has a long history of unreliability. Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Did the shift till ten at Mack’s,” she said, sitting across from me. “Couldn’t sleep. I was reading when you knocked. What now?”
I reached for the phone book and said, “I make some calls.”
And I did. I called the Los Angeles Airport and was told by the woman who answered that there were no flights out after midnight. She also told me there were no scheduled flights out after midnight at any of the airports within a hundred miles. I thanked her and asked Anita for a pencil and some paper. She got them while I was looking through the book for private airports. I found six of them in greater Los Angeles and started dialing as Anita handed me pencil and paper.
The first three I got, in order, were a janitor, a mechanic, and a man who had just flown in on his private plane from San Diego. All three said there were no flights going out till morning. At number four I reached a man who said “Watkins Airport.”
He was a pilot and he did have a charter going out in about an hour.
“Who’s the charter?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Mikelewski of Air National Defense,” I said. “We have reason to believe a Nazi collaborator is planning to fly out of the Los Angeles area in the next few hours.”
“My charter’s for a Mr. and Mrs. Walter Cannon.”
“You’ve met Cannon?”
“Yep.”
“Average height, a little on the thin side, about forty?”
“Nope, about six-one, over two hundred pounds, and not a day under sixty.”
“Where are they going?”
“Denver,” he said.
“Why so late?”
“Didn’t say,” the pilot said. “He’s paying premium. I’m collecting premium. I didn’t ask.”
I tried the next airport. A telephone operator came on and said the number was no longer in service and the business, which had been there, was closed for the duration of the war.
That left one, the Richard Barth Airport in Glendale. The remarkably bright voice of a young woman answered, “Barth Airport.”
“You’re open,” I said.
“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Family-owned business.”
“You have a flight out in the next few hours?”
“Four of them,” she said.
“Who are the passengers?”
She didn’t ask me for identification, so I gave her none.
“No passengers,” she said. “Freight only. Flights to Fresno, San Francisco, Santa Barbara, and Reno. Can’t tell you the cargo without approval of the clients.”
“No passengers?”
“Not a one. Not ever.”
“Thanks,” I said and hung up. I looked at Anita and shook my head.
“Well?”
“Watkins Airport in Burbank,” I said. “Couple named Cannon are flying to Denver. That’s about it.”
“Maybe this Jeffrey Pultman lied about having to catch a flight?”
“He thinks he killed me,” I said. “He told me because he was about to shoot me.”
“But he didn’t shoot you.”
“I don’t think he knows that.”
“Slim lead, Toby,” she said.
I got up. When my left leg touched the ground, I yelped and sat back. There was no chance I could put my own shoes back on.
“Sit there,” Anita said, getting up.
She was gone for about two minutes. When she came back, she was wearing a green pullover dress. She handed me three aspirin and a glass of water, and knelt in front of me with a wide roll of white adhesive tape.
“Advantage of working in a drugstore,” she said, starting to tape my ankle. “You get things free. This is going to hurt.”
“It already does,” I said. But what she did hurt even more.
“That’s it,” she said. “See if you can stand.”
I stood. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t impossible.
“I can make it,” I said.
She helped me put on my shoes and sox and I started for the door.
“I’m driving,” she said.
“Anita, there’s no …”
“It wasn’t a question Toby,” she said. “It was a statement of fact. You can’t make it to Burbank on that ankle, not if you want to use the brakes. Let’s go.”
We went. She had a car but we took mine. Anita could drive. She liked to drive.
“You have to get up for work in the morning,” I said.
“I’ve got an intimate confession, Toby,” she said over the scrape of the windshield wipers. “I’ve got insomnia. Since I was in high school. I don’t usually fall asleep till dawn. That’s why I work the noon to seven shift.”
“Bad dreams?” I asked.
“Bad memories,” she said.
It took us forty minutes to get through Coldwater Canyon and across to Watkins Airport. The rain had stopped, but the streets were still wet. There was traffic, but not much. There’s always some traffic in Los Angeles.
Watkins Airport was in the field outside of town on La Tuna Canyon Road. I knew the area. I had grown up in Glendale, not that far away. I had been a cop who sometimes found himself on unpaved roads at night.
We drove through the wide-open, steel-mesh gates and headed for the brightly lit little wooden building with a big painted sign that read “Watkins Airport.” A single covered lamp illuminated the sign. There was a nightly blackout but the airport didn’t seem to be in touch with the world and the war. A single car, a two-door, definitely prewar car was parked in front of the building.
Seven small planes stood silently, propellers toward us, next to a long narrow runway that ran deep into the darkness. Anita drove as close to the wooden building as she could get and we got out.
The pain was bearable. We went to the door and into the office. An overstuffed man in an unzipped flight jacket sat reading a copy of Look magazine. The man wore thick glasses and definitely needed dental work.
“I called you,” I said. “Mikelewski.”
“Air National Defense,” he said. “Yeah.”
“The Cannons.”
“Not here yet,” he said looking at his watch. “They said they’d be here before one, but I’m in no particular hurry. They paid in advance.”
It was almost one.
“You don’t think they’re Nazis, do you?” he asked, putting his magazine aside.
“We’ll see,” I said. “Miss Rand and I will wait and see.”
“Fine with me,” he said. “I got paid even if you drag ’em away in chains. You armed?”
“No,” I said.
“What if they are?” he asked.
“I’ll worry about that when I determine if they’re the ones we’re looking for.”
“Well,” the big man said. “I’ll worry about it right now if it’s all the same to you.”
He got up, crossed the room, opened a desk drawer, and came up with a large revolver that looked as if it could have been taken from the d
ead cold hands of Billy the Kid.
“We get vandals,” he explained. “War going on. Airplane parts are worth beaucoup dollars.”
“They’re coming,” said Anita, touching my arm.
The pilot and I paused and listened. A car was coming.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Glen Overbee,” he said.
“Put the gun in your belt and zip up,” I said. “Just in case.”
The car stopped in front of the door. The car door opened and closed. A few seconds later a man stepped in, big, around sixty, definitely not Pultman. He looked around at the three of us.
“We’re ready,” he said to Overbee. “My wife’s in the car.”
“Tell her to come on in,” Overbee said, moving around the desk. “I’ll get the plane ready.”
“We’ll wait outside,” Cannon said, glancing nervously at us.
“My name’s Mikelewski,” I said. “This is Miss Rand. Air National Defense.”
Cannon nodded and said to Overbee, “I’d like to get going.”
Overbee nodded, pursed his lips, and moved to the door, pausing to look at me. I shook my head “no” to let him know this wasn’t the man I was looking for.
“Do you mind telling us why you’re taking a charter flight to Denver at one in the morning?” I asked.
“Business,” he said, moving toward the door.
“What kind of business?” I asked.
“Government contract,” he said. “Hush-hush. I’m not at liberty to talk about it. Some British and Canadian Air Force officers want it this way. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He was out the door before I could say more. Anita and I moved to the window. Overbee had turned some runway lights on. He was climbing up a wooden step stool through the plane’s open door.
“Now what?” Anita asked.
“We watch,” I said. And we did.
The plane’s engine started and Overbee leaned out the door and waved at the car. Cannon got out, walked around the car, opened the door, and helped his wife out. She was about average height, dark hair, a bit too much makeup. She wore a thin brown coat with the collar up. She carried a medium-sized leather suitcase. He took her hand and they hurried toward the plane.
“Why isn’t he carrying the suitcase?” Anita asked.
“Think about it,” I said. “Then answer a question.”
“You want to know if that’s a woman?” Anita asked.
“That’s what I want to know,” I said.
“It isn’t,” she said. “Makeup job is good. But that’s not a woman’s run. Steps are too long. And look at the way she’s carrying her arms.”
We were out the door and into the night. Cannon and Pultman had a thirty-foot lead on us and I was hopping on a bad ankle. Overbee was leaning out of the plane watching. I held up my hand and pointed at the Cannons. He nodded. When the couple was within a few feet of the step stool, Overbee came out with his six-shooter aimed at them.
The sound of the turning engine drowned out what they were saying, but it was clear Cannon was arguing with the pilot. Overbee was unmoved. Cannon looked in our direction frantically and Pultman, in drag, did the same.
Anita and I moved as quickly as we could, but it wasn’t quick enough. Pultman ran, and Overbee hesitated. People weren’t supposed to run when you had a gun pointed at them. And he wasn’t about to shoot a woman in the back.
“Bring him into the office,” I shouted at Overbee.
He cupped his hand next to his ear and I shouted again. This time he got it and nodded his head.
“The car,” I told Anita as Pultman, wig flying into the air, suitcase in hand, ran across the small airstrip.
We got to the Crosley and Anita sped after the killer with the suitcase. We passed Overbee who was guiding Cannon back to the wooden building. Overbee gave us a wave to let us know he had the man with the frightened look on his face under control.
“There he is,” I said.
She turned a little to the right and caught him in our headlights. Pultman stopped, turned toward us, took my .38 out of his coat pocket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. He hit the right headlight. We closed in on him. He shot again. This time he missed partly because he was moving backwards, trying to decide whether to keep shooting or run for the line of trees about forty yards away.
He fired once more without really looking, and Anita pulled next to him. He was panting, makeup smeared on his face. He fired over his shoulder. Nothing. The gun was empty.
“Get ahead of him,” I said.
She did, cutting him off. He stood panting, and I got out of the car. Anita turned the car so that the single headlight was on my back and in Pultman’s eyes.
“You recognized my car back there,” I said.
He nodded “yes,” trying to catch his breath.
“Cannon an actor?”
He nodded “yes,” and managed to get out, “I’ll split it with you. Two ways, right down the middle. All in this suitcase. Count it out right here. You get the necklace. I get the ring.”
“I’m independently wealthy,” I said.
“Peters, don’t be a fool.”
“Can’t help it,” I said. “We’re taking you in.”
“Make sense,” he said, stepping back. “Ask your girlfriend?”
He looked past me at Anita. Anita was out of the car and moving toward my side.
“How much?” she asked.
“About two hundred thousand for you two,” Pultman said. “Well?”
“I just wanted to know how much we were turning down so I could tell my daughter,” she said.
Pultman looked around for somewhere to run. He was worn out. I stepped toward him, trying to hide my limp. He was caught in the headlights, frozen.
I stood in front of him, and he put his hands up to cover his face from the punch he was sure was coming. I plucked my .38 from his hand, put it in my pocket, took the suitcase from him, and grabbed him by the neck.
“We’ve got some people to wake up,” I said.
CHAPTER
13
ANITA AND I drove Pultman to the Wilshire station. He sat next to Anita in the front seat, his hands tied behind his back. I sat in the tiny space behind the seats, my arm draped around Pultman’s neck. He didn’t say anything, and I tried not to look at him. The makeup streaking his face made him look like a hungry zombie in a Monogram serial. Maybe we could get Pultman and Fiona together in the interrogation room at the Wilshire and they could have a little chat and touch up each other’s makeup. But then again it was probably a better idea to keep them apart. I’d have to leave that decision to the police.
We ushered our prisoner to the desk sergeant—another old-timer, this one named Wilson—at a little before three in the morning. My ankle had settled into a steady throb.
“What’s the cat drug in here, Peters?” he asked, peering over the top of his glasses.
“A badly accessorized murderer,” I said. “You want to give Cawelti a call. Wake him up. Tell him I’ve got Pultman.”
“Don’t have to wake him unless he’s asleep in the Squad Room,” Wilson said. “He’s doing a second shift from last night.”
“Dedication,” I said.
“You ask me, he doesn’t like going home alone,” Wilson said in a loud whisper. “I know the feeling.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Anita and I ushered Pultman up the wooden stairs and into the squad room. Even at three in the morning it wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t full, either. Thieves work nights, but your average domestic battle, strong-arm robbery, rape, and murder take place at civilized hours. Criminals need their sleep, too.
Two detectives were at their desks. One was on the phone. The other was John Cawelti looking as if he had just shaved and carefully combed his red hair right down the middle. He sat up and grinned.
“He’s yours,” I said.
“I demand my immediate release,” said Pultman.
“You do?” asked Ca
welti, getting up and moving to meet us.
“I’ve done nothing,” Pultman said.
“Except dress up for Halloween on the wrong day and the wrong month,” Cawelti said.
“I was on my way to a costume party,” Pultman said.
“At two in the morning,” Anita pointed out.
Cawelti looked at her, then at me, and smirked.
“This is Anita Maloney,” I said. “Friend of mine.”
I handed him the suitcase. He took it.
“That’s my personal property,” Pultman protested.
“Evidence,” I said. “Papers, probably cash or bonds from Elsie Pultman’s estate. Also,” I said, taking the necklace and ring from my pocket and handing it to Cawelti, “the jewelry he took from Elsie Pultman’s body a few hours ago.”
“That was you,” said Cawelti, looking at me. “I figured. You were the one at the cemetery.”
“Me and Pultman,” I said. “Bring in the caretaker.”
“They’ve got his statement. We’ll bring him in for a lineup.” He turned to Pultman and smiled. If I were Pultman, I would not have liked that smile. “You dig up old ladies and steal their jewelry. A noble profession.”
“First he kills them,” I said. “You’ve got a Fiona Sullivan in custody. I think she can put a lid on this for you.”
“I want a lawyer,” Pultman said.
“First we go into a little room down the hall and have a chat,” Cawelti said, taking his arm.
“I’ll give you a statement,” I said.
“Good. You do that, but right now I think Mr. Pultman is going with me to wash up, have a cup of coffee, and talk,” said Cawelti. “I think Mr. Pultman … Jeffrey, is it? Jeffrey and I are going to come to an agreement and wrap this up.”
“You were lucky, Peters,” Pultman said.
“And you were too smart,” I answered. “Too tricky. Too many loose ends. Too many games.”
“I wanted it to be fun,” said Pultman as Cawelti led him away. “And it was. Admit it. It was.”
When they were through the squad room door Anita turned to me and said, “I think he’s nuts.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s smart enough to already be thinking of claiming that he’s nuts. Maybe he’ll tell Cawelti that he hears voices that tell him to kill and dress up in women’s clothes. Maybe that’s what I would do if I were wearing a dress and my makeup was running.”
A Few Minutes Past Midnight Page 18
