Out of Time

by Michael Z. Lewin

  Then encouraged her, pleaded, begged.

  She finally agreed. ‘For old times’ sake,’ she said.

  I felt humble. In theory, I value friendship above all things. In practice, I get over-involved in work.

  Life is too short. It’s people that count and if you have some you can feel for, they should be treated well. I missed my daughter. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  The call was from Miller, who left a message: ‘The IRS has no record of tax returns from a Tamae Mitsuki.’

  I found that puzzling. But after entering the statement in my notebook, I flipped the thing closed and left it in a desk drawer.

  * * * * *

  I picked my woman up a few minutes after seven. I had showered. I had tied. A special occasion.

  She took my hand in the doorway. ‘I should know what you are like by now,’ she said.

  Later I offered her food.

  ‘Something different,’ she said.

  My face showed I was worried.

  ‘There’s a place I have never tried,’ I said, as if there were only one, ‘but it has a connection to the case I may or may not still be working on.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said.

  The restaurant was The Rising Sun, owned by Tamae Mitsuki’s son. Carefully and generously decorated, it was rather more than a restaurant, boasting regular entertainment at weekends.

  The visible employees were all Oriental but the menu was only fifty percent Japanese, the other half drawing on cuisine from several countries. It was a flash place. I had an aperitif and didn’t feel self-conscious.

  I fell quickly into devoting myself to wine and woman. Singing I don’t do so good.

  For a while I felt great, positively hirundine as we swooped and soared through reacquaintance.

  I only came down to earth when I asked the waiter to send my compliments to the owner.

  ‘Would you like to speak to him yourself?’ He turned towards a short, chubby man talking seriously to two diners at a nearby table. His features were only mildly Oriental and a black suit emphasised a pale complexion.

  ‘That’s Hiroshi Mitsuki?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. The proprietor,’ the waiter said. ‘I bring him over.’

  ‘No!’

  I grounded with a thud.

  My woman friend was fully aware of my descent. She apologised for me and then said quietly, ‘Tell me about it.’

  Gratefully I explained about the two problems I was grappling with: who killed Mrs Murchison and the truth about Vera Edwards.

  About Mrs Murchison’s murder my woman asked, ‘If your dynamic duo wasn’t responsible, who could be?’

  On the other one I thought I was ahead of her. She asked, ‘Do you believe this Edwards woman is alive?’

  ‘I do now,’ I said. ‘And not in New York.’

  Talking out problems you are confused about can be a wonderful thing. Fresh perspectives are often as good as fresh information. And when you get both, it is gravy.

  When we finished I felt I finally understood what had happened. And what responsibility I bore.

  I also had a rough idea how to test part of my theory. If I could manage to obtain a little assistance.

  I spent some of the time I should have been sleeping working out details. I slept the rest feeling that I stood a reasonable chance of precipitating some confirmations of what I thought.

  You can’t be right about everything.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  First thing Saturday morning I called the National Security Service and asked to speak to their agent named Roger. ‘I never did get his last name,’ I said sweetly.

  After a minute of internal inquiry the honeyed voice of the agency receptionist, more honeyed even than mine, told be that Mr Claypool was not on the premises but was expected to call in soon. Would I like to leave a message?

  I would. ‘Please tell Mr Claypool that Mr Samson has located Mrs Vera Edwards and he would be happy to share the information if suitable terms can be agreed. Mr Samson will be at home all morning.’

  I called the Belters’ house.

  Tamae Mitsuki answered the telephone.

  ‘Could you get Mr Belter for me, please?’

  She was silent for several seconds. ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘There is a favour I want to ask him, having to do with Mrs Murchison’s murder.’

  She hesitated again, but I interrupted the silence. ‘I’m short of time.’

  Douglas Belter came to the telephone.

  ‘Hello, Samson. I’m afraid that I have rather neglected you of late.’

  ‘You sound more cheerful, Mr Belter.’

  ‘It’s having the boys home. A sad occasion, of course, but they do wonders for Paula. And last night Cab told us that he’s invited a girl to come out, for the holidays. They plan to be married. Paula is in a terrible flap about it, but she’s thrilled.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But Tamae said something about Ella’s murder.’ He paused. ‘It’s a terrible thing to say, but that seems a long time ago already.’

  ‘I don’t want to disturb your plans while your children are here,’ I said, ‘but I would like to borrow your house for a while. . . .’

  I called Miller.

  The detective desk officer was not honey-voiced. But I was put straight through. I asked him how his Murchison investigation was going.

  ‘It’s not,’ Miller said.

  ‘The reconstruction didn’t help?’

  ‘Not substantively,’ he said. He paused for a moment. I could kind of feel him thinking. He said, ‘Albert, what is on your mind?’

  ‘Would you be interested in taking a shot at clearing it all up?’

  ‘A “shot”? Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning creating circumstances which would encourage the killer to self-exposure.’

  He was silent at first. But then he asked, ‘When?’

  ‘If it works, it should be quick. Today, probably. If it doesn’t, you’ll still have a way into it by interrogation, search of premises and so on. But this could tie it up in a stroke.’

  ‘What would it take?’

  ‘You’ll have to get a team of three or four together right away. If you’re interested.’

  He had to be interested, given what he had told me about his need for a big case, one with PR content.

  ‘I’m interested,’ he said.

  Chapter Thirty

  Roger called at a quarter past ten. He said, ‘Before you say anything, I want to apologise for having lost my temper yesterday. I said things that I regret.’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought.’

  ‘I have a message that you’ve located Vera Edwards.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good work. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How certain are you of the identification?’

  ‘She answers to the name.’

  ‘You’ve talked to her?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘That’s really very good.’

  Even when there’s a reason, I find it hard to be civil when I am patronised. But all I said was, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And you would be willing after all to tell me where she is?’

  ‘Thing is,’ I said, ‘I’ve found out that I may have to move to new premises soon.’

  ‘That’s rough,’ he said.

  ‘Also expensive.’

  ‘I see. How expensive?’

  I said, ‘What do you think your client could stand?’

  ‘I’m sure my client would run to five hundred. In cash.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said dismissively.

  He thought. ‘You know, Mr Samson. . . .’

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘call me Albert.’

  ‘Thanks Albert. But I was going to say, I hate bargaining.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘So what figure do you want?’

  ‘I was thinking how much five thou w
ould smooth my move.’

  ‘Five thousand dollars?’ He sounded shocked.

  ‘You are a long way from the lady,’ I said. ‘And at the rates you agency fellows charge, I thought that was pretty modest.’

  He considered. ‘I’ll try it on her,’ he said. ‘But tell me what you’ll take if she won’t go that high.’

  ‘What say we split anything over four five? So you can show something for your trouble,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. If it’s on, when will you give us the information?’

  ‘Just as soon as the cash – shall we say used fifties? – is in my hand.’

  ‘My client would be entitled to confirmation of the identification before any money is transferred.’

  ‘I am an old-fashioned private eye,’ I said, ‘as you pointed out so forcefully yesterday. One of the characteristics is that my word is my bond.’

  He thought about it. There would be ways he could get back at me.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Roger said.

  I sat at home, waiting.

  I tried to be constructive. I started to reread my notebook entries.

  But sitting was no good. I was reduced to more housecleaning. It was something to do.

  Roger Claypool got to my place just after one.

  He looked entirely pleased with himself as he and his fancy suit came through my door. ‘I have good news, Mr Samson,’ he said.

  ‘Super.’

  ‘I got you your four-five.’

  I forbore asking how much he got him. He handed me an envelope filled with fifty dollar bills. I counted them. I made it four thousand four hundred and fifty but didn’t quibble. I don’t get much practice counting that high.

  Claypool watched. When I finished he said, ‘And now, Vera Edwards’ address?’

  I gave it to him.

  ‘In Indianapolis all the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He studied it. ‘Fancy part of town.’

  ‘She is a wealthy woman,’ I said.

  ‘How did you find her?’

  I waved the envelope at him. ‘Lessons are extra.’

  He rose. Then he pointed a finger at me. ‘If there is anything wrong with this information, I wouldn’t spend that bread too quickly because sure as shit I’ll have it back from you, with interest.’

  Chapter Thirty One

  I drove out to the Belters’ house.

  There was a light covering of snow from the previous day’s precipitation. It showed a lot of tyre tracks on the drive. But there were no cars. I got out of the van and went to the front door. I rang the bell.

  A grey-haired woman’s face appeared in the crack as the door was opened.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Are you Mrs Edwards?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  She stepped back and I entered to find a stocky woman, apparently in her sixties, heavily rouged and powdered.

  I had never seen her before. ‘You are Vera Wert Edwards?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I reached into my jacket pocket for my notebook.

  In an instant, both my arms were pulled behind me by what felt like a dozen hands. My limbs were twisted back and up, short only of being tied in a bow.

  Then feet kicked repeatedly at my legs. They insisted that I take a dive. Only it was a belly flop, on the hall floor.

  I noticed the tiles coming up in time to lift my head away from the first impact. But this haughty distancing didn’t last long. A lead beret was fitted from behind, intent on pushing my face into the space already occupied by the floor beneath it. That’s against the laws of physics. Something would have to give.

  It was almost my nose.

  But a disappointed voice interrupted the inevitability of science. It said, ‘Back off. Let him up. False alarm.’

  I stayed on the floor, panting.

  ‘He isn’t dead, is he, Lieutenant?’

  I sat up to see a pair of grey dacron legs in front of me. With effort, I lifted my gaze and focused on a brown face. ‘You guys play tackle, don’t you,’ I said.

  ‘You could have said who you were when the door was answered,’ Miller said.

  ‘I was interested in what kind of surprise party you and the reception committee had arranged.’ I nodded approvingly towards the two detectives who had protected Vera Wert Edwards. They had felt like an army. Behind them the old woman stood waiting with athletic ease.

  ‘She looks good,’ I said.

  The policewoman took a little bow.

  ‘I’m pleased you’re pleased,’ Miller said. ‘But get up and move your van, will you? I want the driveway clear.’ He studied me. ‘I can get someone to do it for you.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. Then, ‘I hope this works out.’

  ‘So do I,’ I said.

  I moved the van to the back of the house and returned to the front door. I called, ‘Peace. Friend,’ as I went in this time.

  Miller took me to the living room.

  ‘Where’s the family?’ I asked.

  ‘At the funeral service,’ Miller said. ‘They’ll call before they head back here and they’ll check with my man out on the road before actually driving in. If it comes to it, I figure the house is plenty big enough for them to stay out of the way for as long as we decide to stick around.’

  ‘And the housekeeper?’ I asked.

  ‘I made her stay behind,’ Miller said. ‘It took some doing but I said I needed someone who knew the house and could cover the phone.’

  I nodded. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Tamae Mitsuki sat on a stool at the breakfast counter nursing a glass of tomato juice. She didn’t look up immediately as I came in and she didn’t seem surprised to see me when she did.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Hello.’ The voice seemed flat.

  ‘You sound tired,’ I said.

  She faced me. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you?’

  ‘Only that they are hoping for something that will sort out Ella’s murder.’

  I took a stool next to her. ‘They think that Mrs Murchison’s murderer might come here to try to kill Vera Edwards.’

  ‘Vera Edwards?’ she asked.

  ‘The idea is that since Vera Edwards is wealthy she would live in a fancy place. So we’re using this house.’

  She shrugged. She turned to her drink and sipped.

  ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘since you do live here, Mrs Edwards, it seems only appropriate.’

  Tamae Mitsuki was utterly still.

  I gave her that long moment of peace. After all, she had been hiding the identity for more than forty years.

  But it began to look like she would be silent forever. I couldn’t wait that long.

  I said, ‘I took a friend to Hiroshi’s restaurant last night. What made it fall into place was seeing him. That he is clearly not a hundred percent Japanese. It put me to thinking how that could be so.’

  She raised her eyes. ‘I was raped by a Caucasian sailor.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I said quietly.

  We sat.

  ‘You are no more Japanese than I am,’ I said. ‘Eye shape and hair, sure, but not the cheek bones, skin colour or eye colour. And your English is as Hoosier as mine. What do we find if we search your room for hair dye? When did you have your eyes operated on, Mrs Edwards? I figure it had to be pretty soon after you left Indianapolis if you were married as “Tamae Seto” by the end of September.’

  She looked defiant and stayed silent.

  ‘Since there are surgeons who can “westernise” eye shape for Orientals, a rich woman has to be able to find a surgeon to “Orientalise” her eyes if she wants one. As a gesture to an Oriental husband? To help lose a former self by becoming submerged in a new culture?
Or just a pragmatic step to avoid the prejudice against a white woman with a yellow baby? That would have been worse in California then even than in Indianapolis, what with their history of “yellow peril” paranoia. Nothing to say, Mrs Edwards?’

  ‘My name is Mitsuki,’ she said. But it was a correction of detail rather than a contradiction of substance.

  ‘All right. Vera Mitsuki.’

  ‘Tamae,’ she insisted.

  ‘You had it legally changed?’

  Her eyes remained on her glass. She spoke quietly. But she spoke. ‘Tamae was Koichi’s mother’s name. It’s a refined, old-fashioned name. Like Lily in English.’

  I put my face little more than a foot from hers. ‘I have decisions to make before your daughter and her family get back.’

  Resignedly she said, ‘You will do what you have to.’

  ‘Damn it, I want some answers. Unless you no longer know what is truth and what is fiction.’

  Hoosier determination for survival comfortably swamped the learned submissiveness. ‘I know what’s happened in my life,’ she snapped. ‘Nobody else does.’

  ‘That’s part of my problem,’ I said.

  She glared at me.

  I glared back. What I decided to do would affect the lives of several people. I didn’t just need new answers. I needed some reason to believe them.

  ‘What prompted you to take the houseboy to bed when you were Benny Edwards’ wife? Uncontrollable lust?’

  She drew a quick breath. ‘Benny was vicious and Koichi was the first man who was ever nice to me.’

  ‘If Edwards was vicious, why did you marry him?’

  ‘I didn’t know what he was like until after I lived with him. I knew he wasn’t nice, but he said he loved me, and I thought that meant something. I thought it would mean I could do well by Paula.’

  ‘If you were sleeping with Koichi, why take Normal Bates to bed?’

  ‘He was . . . so sad. And he wanted to help.’

  ‘Did you screw every man who was nice to you?’

  ‘They are the only two who ever were,’ she said.

  It was a cold comment on a long life.

  ‘So when you got pregnant, you arranged for your two lovers to help you kill your psychotic husband?’

  She said emphatically, ‘Nothing was arranged or planned or intended. That night I told Benny that I was going to leave him, since the baby wasn’t his. He went crazy. He attacked me. I shot him. It was self-defence. Neither Normal nor Koichi was involved. It just happened.’