"Uh, yes, I understand, ma'am," Valnikov said quickly, as Natalie moved a few feet to her left to try to see what Millie had on her water bed.
"Damn, you're a tough man, Sergeant," Millie sighed. Then she picked up a cigarette, put it into a ruby-studded holder, and said, "You married, Sergeant?"
"No, ma'am," Valnikov said.
"Hmmm," said Millie. "Well, some other time maybe. Right now, I gotta get back to business."
"Is there anyone else here ..."
"Anyone else here! You kidding! I got two kids in there with ..."
"Yes, I mean anyone who could come with us and look at the dead schnauzer," said Valnikov. "It might save everyone a lot of trouble.
"Hey, Twinkles!" Millie yelled, and the houseboy returned from the kitchen with a plastic mixer full of banana daiquiris.
"Yes, Millie?"
She patted his buttocks and sighed, "If only you were Japanese, sweetie. Maybe we could get your eyes fixed. Listen, go with these cops, will ya? Have Buttons drive you in the Rolls. Look at this dead dog they wanna show you and see if it's Tutu or not. Then get your ass right back here. These two in the bedroom are already tired out." Then to Valnikov, "The youth of America ain't what it used to be, Sergeant. The President's Council on Physical Fitness oughtta listen to me, sometime. I could tell em."
"Yes, ma'am, and thank you," said Valnikov as he and Natalie followed Twinkles out the front door, getting a fair glimpse into Millie's boudoir. There was a huge hairy creature lying on the floor. Alive!
"There's a goat in there, Valnikov!" Natalie cried when they were outside.
"It's a baby llama," Twinkles said. "Millie's keeping it for a friend. And I'm getting sick and tired of cleaning llama shit all day, I can tell you. " Twinkles peeled off his waistcoat and revealed a torso that actually split the shoulder seams of his starched white dress shirt. He rolled up the sleeves over bulging forearms with tendons like pencils. "We'll follow you in the Rolls," he said. "If it's Tutu, I'll know her."
There was a wake going on when they arrived at the pet mortuary. Three women and two men were weeping incon- solably and saying adieu to a raccoon who lay in state in a little walnut baby coffin. It had a fawn satin lining with black ruffles to match the tail stripe and mask on the eyes of the dead animal. The coffin had a double lid and the lower half was closed, revealing only the head and torso of the deceased. There was soft music drifting over the intercom, instrumental strings playing "My Buddy." The deceased had never looked better. His fur was brushed with lanolin. His black raccoon mask was touched up with shoe dye. His little raccoon hands were folded on his chest, as though in prayer, artfully kept in that position by driving a cobbler's needle clear through his chest and sewing them in place. In this prayerful pose the raccoon looked anything but dead. The raccoon could have been playing possum.
They were greeted by a balding man in a somber gray suit with a white carnation in his lapel.
"May I be of service?" he asked.
"Mr. Limpwood?"
"No, he's conducting a graveside service at the moment."
"I called him. I'm Sergeant Valnikov from the police department."
"Yes, he said to show you to the cemetery. He'll be finished shortly. It's a private graveside service for the immediate family."
Valnikov and Natalie walked outside and saw Mr. Limp- wood consoling a tearful couple. He tried in vain to scratch the arched backs of the immediate family of Siamese cats. Then he walked jauntily along the cobbled path among tombstones and granite sculpture of all sizes and description which said things like: "Our beloved Duchess, lest we forget!" and "Farewell, Happy Oliver! Till we meet in the Great Beyond!"
He was dressed similarly to the other mortician, but was much shorter and more bald. He wore a white carnation. "May I be of service?"
Valnikov showed his badge and Mr. Limpwood registered disappointment. It was the best week since he'd been in business: fourteen dogs, ten cats, a chimpanzee, two ocelots, a piranha from Pomona (Not all freakos lived in Hollywood.) and a raccoon. There was a rumor that they might get an Arabian gelding, which had them all excited. (Eleven plots of ground to bury that baby. Eleven! And the embalming cost!) But these were just cops not customers.
"You know, Sergeant, I tried to call you this morning but you'd just left. I'm terribly sorry, but the deceased was buried last night. I thought we still had her set for burial this morning, but as you know, there was no bereaved, only dear Mrs. Whitfield, who kindly arranged for the burial, bless her heart."
"Where's she buried? Let's dig her up," said Valnikov. "Dig her up? Sergeant! Exhume the body? I've never been asked ..."
"I think that only applies to people bodies," said Valnikov. "Is it that fresh grave over there? By the shovel?"
"Yes, but I don't know! I don't want to be sued, Sergeant! In the event the deceased's next of kin is determined!"
"We can't determine anything until we look at the body," said Valnikov.
"Millie wants me back on time and she means business," said Twinkles suddenly, and Valnikov didn't doubt that at all. Then the giant kid strode over to the half-filled grave, stripped off his dress shirt, showing a black silk bodyshirt that Millie had bought him, and started swooping up earth like a steam shovel. He had the shallow grave uncovered in fifteen minutes.
"I don't want to be responsible," Mr. Limpwood cried. "I'm getting out of here." And he took off in a hurry while Twinkles pulled the box out of the ground with one hand. (It was a cheap pine box and not the walnut that Madeline paid for.)
The lad used the shovel blade and cracked it open easily. Then he grimaced. "Oh!" he said. "Oh, I don't think that's a schnauzer!"
"It's a schnauzer," Valnikov said, with little admiration for Mr. Limpwood's art. (When there's no bereaved, save a buck where you can.)
The young giant was unaccustomed to death in any form. "Tutu was so beautiful!" he said. "I don't know!"
"Mrs. Gharoujian said something about a white toenail on the rear foot. Do you remember that?" "Do dead things look so . . ."
"Yes, they do," said Valnikov. "Now look at the back foot. You can just reach in there."
"I couldn't," the kid said, getting pale. "Is her body hard?"
"Rigor has come and gone," said Valnikov. "Let's see." And he reached in the coffin. "Yes. There is a whitish toenail. I think this might be Mrs. Gharoujian's Tutu."
"But the face!" the young man cried. Then he sat by the grave site and dropped his head. "I loved Tutu." His eyes were filling. "Millie never cared about her."
'_'Listen, son," Valnikov said, squatting beside the tearful body builder, "who would be able to positively identify this schnauzer by her markings? Who knew her best?"
"There are so many guys that come and go at Millie's," said the young man. "Everybody played with Tutu. So many guys."
"Mrs. Gharoujian mentioned her dog handler," said Valnikov. "Would he know her markings?"
"He might." The kid nodded, taking a look at the contorted mastiff face on the dead animal. "That cant be Tutu! Is this what deadi does to you?"
"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 wa
s 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 hoys"
"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," Valninov said, wheeling into the driveway. "She's almost broke."
"How could you he 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's 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 yon 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 he 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!
the Black Marble (1977) Page 25
