Melting Clock

7

Twenty minutes later, the Ford pulled into a parking spot on Nicholas Street next to Lindberg Park, no more than twenty or thirty feet from where I had parked last night. I knew I had the right man and I knew where we were going-the house of Adam Place, the dead taxidermist. What I didn’t know was why.

I kept driving and watched him through my rear-view mirror as he got out of the Ford, looked around, and crossed the street. I was in no big hurry now. I parked a block away and told myself to get to a phone and call the Culver City constables. I told myself, but I didn’t listen. What did Alice in Wonderland say? “I always give myself such very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”

I got out, checked my.38, put it back in my holster and walked toward Place’s place. There were no lights on in the house of stuffed animals, at least none I could see. No cop guarded the scene of the recent murder. Cops were too busy with wild sailors on leave and riots among the Mexicans. There was a red-on-white sign on the door: DO NOT ENTER. CRIME SCENE. BY ORDER OF THE LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT AND THE CIRCUIT COURT OF LOS ANGELES.

I stayed away from the side of the house where Place’s neighbor lived, the one who had called the cops the night before, but that cut down the possible entries. A good-sized fence blocked the view of the neighbor to the right of the house. I used the fence to cover me while I walked to what I was sure was Place’s bedroom window.

There were no street lights in the neighborhood. Even if there had been, they would have been out by now. There was also no moon, because of a heavy cloud cover, which you’d never know by reading the papers-no weather reports were published or given on the radio for fear of aiding the Japanese in an attack. That never made much sense to me. The Japanese had to have better weathermen than we did in California.

I tried the window, but tried it so gently that I wasn’t sure I was putting enough pressure on it even if it were opened and greased with oleomargarine. Someone, probably Jim Taylor, was inside the house with a rifle, and Jim Taylor had already taken a shot at Dali tonight, not to mention that he had probably shot both Claude Street in Mirador and Adam Place in the same bedroom I was trying to enter.

I pushed a little harder. The window was unlocked. It shot up with a rattle and there I stood, waiting for the bullet to go through my chest the way it had gone through the back of Dali’s painting of Odelle. Nothing. I climbed in the window and tried to remember what the room looked like.

Then the light came on.

The man was about thirty or thirty-five, with a serious look on his face. His hair was movie star curly, and he looked a little like Gilbert Roland, except for the pock marks on his face. He wore a blue sweater, dark slacks, and a rifle aimed at my chest.

“Take out your gun with two fingers,” he said.

“I can’t take it out with two fingers.”

“Take it out carefully.”

I unzipped my windbreaker, showed my holster and took out my.38 very carefully.

“On the bed. Throw it on the bed.”

I threw it on the bed. It didn’t bounce.

“Now, close the window and pull down the shade,” he said.

“I think-” I started.

“Close it now or I’ll kill you.”

His voice was vibrating like a cello string and he looked scared enough to mean what he was saying. I turned to the window, considered diving out, changed my mind and did what he told me.

“I opened it for you,” he said as I turned to face him again. “The police locked everything. Cars are my living. I could have spotted your Crosley from the sound of the engine two blocks away.”

“How did you get in?” I asked.

“Key. Adam Place was my cousin.”

“Claude Street?”

“We got a mutual friend in Carmel.”

“It doesn’t pay to be related or friendly with you,” I observed.

“I didn’t kill them,” said Taylor nervously. “Why should I kill them?”

“And you didn’t shoot at Dali tonight?”

I took in the room without being too obvious about it, hoping there was something I could use, get to, someplace I could hide. The bed was there, still bloody. The bear was there, too. But the painting was gone. So was the clock. The rest of the room looked pretty much the way it had twenty-four hours ago, like a tidied-up version of Renfield’s room in Castle Dracula.

“I shot at Dali,” he admitted. “But not to kill him.”

“Not to kill him.”

“No, to get him to pay for the painting I still have, for the last clock. Don’t you see? I got to get out of L.A.”

“You want to run?”

“Someone killed Adam and Claude after they agreed to watch a clock and a painting for me. I have the last clock, the last painting. I want to give them back. That Dali’s crazy. His wife’s crazier. It was just supposed to be some kind of publicity thing, you know?”

“I know,” I said.

“Hey, I just need a little money so I can get away. Police are gonna be after me. I know it and someone’s killing- Look, I was gonna call, but you tell Dali. Tell him, tell her I need twenty-five thousand dollars and he can have his painting and his clock back. It’s all their fault anyway.”

“Their fault?”

“Stop doing that,” he warned, pointing the gun in the general direction of my face.

“What?”

“Asking me questions. I’ll tell you what you have to know. I wrote those messages on the paintings. It was Dali’s idea, Dali and his wife. If they’d just have let me alone. We was doing all right.”

“We?”

“Me, I. I like my work. Zeman treats me fine. I love cars. You love cars?”

“Adore them,” I said.

“You’re lying,” he said, his voice rising. “I see what you’re driving, how you don’t take care of it.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I hate the goddamn things.”

When you talk to a nervous man with a gun, remember he is always right.

“Where was I?”

“Messages on the paintings,” I reminded him.

“Yes,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to take the clocks, the third painting. It was just a publicity stunt. I take the two paintings. They hire someone to look for them.”

“Me.”

“Yes, they hire you to look for them. I leave the messages and you get the paintings back. Then the newspapers come in. Maybe Lowell Thomas and Movietone. That’s what they said. And I’d get a thousand dollars.”

“Did Zeman know?”

“That,” he said, “is a question. If you ask another question …”

“The clocks and the paintings,” I reminded him, careful not to make the reminder a question.

“I needed help carrying the paintings. I drove to Carmel with Claude. When he saw the third painting and the three clocks, he was, I don’t know, crazy. He told me we could make thousands and thousands.”

I almost asked how, but caught myself and switched to, “Lot of money for a painting and some clocks. He must have thought they had some special value.”

“Claude was smart. Claude knew about art, history, stuff like that. He could speak languages-Spanish, Russian, Dutch. I don’t know anything about all that, painting, clocks,” Taylor said. “I only know about-”

“-cars,” I finished.

Taylor was shaking his head now. The finger on the trigger of the rifle was twitching nervously.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” he said.

“Gregory Novak,” I tried.

“Gregory Novak. Who the hell is Gregory Novak?”

“Someone who might have killed Claude Street, maybe killed Adam Place, too.”

“I don’t know anybody named Gregory Novak,” he said. “I’ve got the last painting and the last clock. Dali wants them back, he gives you twenty-five grand by noon tomorrow.”

“You mean tomorrow, Tuesday.”

“Monday.”

“Today’s Monday. It’s after midnight.”

“Today. I’ll call you at your office. You don’t have the money, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll kill Dali or I’ll call the police, tell them about the whole thing, tell them it was Dali and his crazy wife’s idea and they got Adam and Claude killed. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He was scared and ranting now.

“I’ll let him know,” I said as calmly as I could.

“The second clock’s not here,” he said. “I looked for it all through the house. Where is it?”

“Police probably took it.”

“Why?” he asked. “Did they give it back to the Spanish loony?”

“They didn’t tell me, Jim.”

“Don’t call me Jim. I’m not your servant.”

“They didn’t tell me, Mr. Taylor.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“What do you want me to call you, for Chrissake?” I asked.

The gun went off. Either he was serious about shooting me if I asked a question or the finger-twitching had worn down the trigger spring. The bullet tore past me into the wall and I turned and dived through the window, taking the shade with me. The shade kept me from getting cut by the shattering glass. I did a belly flop on the grass and lost my wind. I tried to get up but didn’t have the air so I rolled to the right, pushing the torn window shade from me and expecting another shot from Taylor. He might not be able to shoot straight, but given enough chances at a close target he was bound to meet with some success eventually.

No shot came as I got to my knees, but I did hear Taylor coming out the window after me. Lights came on in the house on the other side of the fence as I heard Taylor move toward me in the darkness.

“Twenty-five thousand, cash, by noon,” he said. “I’m a desperate man.”

And I’m a weary one, I thought, but said nothing. I couldn’t have said it even if I wanted to. I was still trying to get a near-normal breath. He moved past me, running toward his car across the street, the rifle in his right hand.

I hobbled in the general direction of the Crosley. There was no telling how long it would take the cops to show up; I’d guessed wrong about that the last time I was here. Taylor was down the street and long gone when I made it to my car and got in. There were no more lights on in the houses along the street, but I had the feeling people were watching from dark windows. They couldn’t have missed the shot and the explosion of glass.

No police cars screeched around the corner ahead of me to cut off my escape and I saw none in the rear-view mirror. I should have gone back for my gun after Taylor had left. It was too late now. I headed for Beverly Hills, half shot near sunrise, in need of a shave, and trying to think.

I stopped at the all-night Victory Drugstore on La Cienega and got change from a woman of who-knows-what age behind the counter. She had a round pink face and a smile that said she was either simpleminded or believed fervently that Jesus was coming no later than Wednesday to take her out of this miserable job.

“Got coffee?” I asked her.

“Lunch counter’s closed,” she said. “But I can heat up what was left in the pot, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine,” I said, heading for the phone in the back of the store.

My first call was to Zeman’s. It was answered by Zeman himself.

“Did you call the police?” I asked.

“No,” he said wearily. “The Dalis don’t want the police involved. They think they’ll be arrested. Dali’s afraid of jails. He spent a few days in one in Spain when-”

“They can’t stay with you,” I said.

“They can’t?” He brightened considerably.

“Your chauffeur may try to kill them,” I explained.

“My … Taylor?”

“Taylor,” I confirmed.

“Why?”

“Ask the Dalis. I’m sending someone to pick Gala up in the next hour, a big bald guy named Jeremy Butler. He’ll take her back to Carmel and keep an eye on her. I don’t think Taylor wants to hurt her, but let’s not take chances.”

“I can’t believe J.T. would-”

“He shot at Dali. He tried to kill me about ten minutes ago. A second man named Gunther Wherthman will pick up Dali. You can’t miss him. He’s a little over three feet tall.”

“Peters, did Dali put you up to this? Is this one of-”

“Barry, I’m getting them out of your house. You owe me a bonus.”

“I said I’d pay if you got the … all right. Let’s compromise. Five hundred dollars.”

“Deal,” I said.

“What if I can’t talk them into going with your men?”

“Do your best. Tell them they’ll stand a good chance of being dead by dawn if they don’t. Tell them their only other choice is to go to the police. My men are already on the way.”

“Where are you taking Dali?”

No answer from me.

“I see. You think I might be …”

“It’s easier not to tell you and not to have to think about it, especially when you owe me five hundred bucks. One more thing.”

The pink-faced night clerk came over to the open booth, bearing a white mug filled with steaming coffee. I nodded and took it gratefully. She looked pleased.

“What?”

“Taylor wants twenty-five thousand dollars by tomorrow to return the last clock and the last painting. Can you get it and give it to Gunther when he comes?”

I took a sip while he thought about it. The coffee was bitter, strong, with grounds at the bottom. It was just what I needed.

“Cash?”

“Cash.”

“I can’t believe Taylor … I’ve got that much in the house. I’ll give it to your dwarf when he comes. I’ll want a receipt.”

“He’s a little person, not a dwarf.”

“I’m sorry,” said Zeman. “I don’t know the protocol. I know …”

“… cars,” I finished. This was deteriorating into the same conversation I’d had with Taylor. “Since you’ve got cash around, give the five hundred you owe me to Gunther in a separate envelope. Still think Salvador’s a good investment?”

“Yes,” he said. “You want to know what you should do with that five hundred?”

“What?”

“American Bantam. Out of business. Making Army vehicles now. You can pick up any one of the 1941 line for about three hundred. They’ll be worth thousands in twenty years, maybe ten.”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

Then I called Jeremy. Alice answered.

“I woke you,” I said, looking at my father’s watch, said it was nine, which was a lot closer than it usually got. I figured the time for two or three in the morning.

“No,” she answered. “Jeremy was reading to me. He just finished a new poem. I’ll get him.”

I was down to the thick grounds at the bottom of the cup. The pink-faced clerk seemed to sense it and appeared next to me, gesturing with the tilt of an imaginary cup to her lips. I nodded yes and handed her the cup.

“Toby,” said Jeremy. “I just finished a poem I’d like you to hear.”

I was about to ask the man to leave his work, his wife, and his baby to drive a lunatic painter’s wife to Carmel. The least I could do was listen to his poem. “Go ahead,” I said. And he did:

The filigreed fingernail of God

etched a fine bright line across the sky

as I watched through the window and heard

behind me the patter of an insurance salesman.

Over my shoulder I saw my wife nod,

for she had seen the wonder, as I,

had seen the heavenly bird

over the patter of the insurance man.

“Did you see that?” she asked him

in joy. Eyes beclouded, dim,

he answered, “It’s nothing, let’s insure your car.

It’s nothing, just a shooting star.”

“I like it,” I said.

“What did you feel?”

“Sorry for the insurance man,” I said.

“Yes,” said Jeremy. “Yes.”

I told Jeremy what I needed. He listened, then asked if I really felt this was essential. I said it was and he agreed. I thanked him, hung up, and dialed Mrs. Plaut’s, wondering if I felt sorry for the insurance man for the same reason Jeremy did.

Mr. Hill answered the phone and told me that he had to be up in two hours to get to the post office and sort his mail. I told him I was sorry, that it was an emergency.

“Nice New Year’s party,” he said.

“Nice party,” I agreed, and he went to get Gunther.

“Toby?” asked Gunther in a voice coated with sleep.

“Gunther, I need a favor.”

I explained and he readily agreed to pick Dali up and take him to my room.

“Gwen had to go back to San Francisco for a few days,” he explained.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Just a few days,” he reminded me in his Swiss accent, which to too many people sounded suspiciously Germanic.

“I appreciate this, Gunther,” I said.

“I have not always appreciated Senor Dali’s insensitivities,” he said, “but I am intrigued by his art. It should be most interesting.”

“Thanks, Gunther,” I said and hung up.

I had one more call to make, but I wanted to think about it for a few seconds. The counter woman came back with the second cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Glad to,” she said. “Slow at night. Most nights. I’d close it up but my son, it’s his store. My husband and I take turns nights till Miles gets back from the war.”

“Army?”

“Marines,” she said with a big smile. I could see both pride and fear in it.

“It should be over soon,” I said.

“Admiral Halsey, Bull Halsey, says we’ll have the war won by 1943.”

“He should know,” I said.

“Commander of the South Pacific Force of the Pacific Fleet,” she said. “He should know. Want something to eat?”

“I don’t want you to …”

“I like the company,” she said brightly.

“Got cereal?”

“Just Wheatena left.”

“Sounds great.”

As she bustled back to the lunch counter, I dropped my next nickel and called the Wilshire District Police Station. I didn’t have to look up the number.

“Briggs?”

“Sergeant Briggs, right,” came the Irish-accented voice.

“This is Toby Peters. Someone just stole my gun.”

“Stole your gun,” he said flatly. “You got a story to go with this? Some bullshit. Things are slow here and I could use a tale or two.”

“Someone broke in my car, took it out of my glove compartment. I’m reporting it. I was parked on Santa Monica near La Cienega. Happened about four hours ago. I just noticed it when I went to lock it up at home.”

“Maybe the Japs took it. Or those Fifth Col-youmnists.”

“Could be. You want the serial number? I’ve got it right-”

“I’ll get it off the records,” he said. “But you’ve got to come in and fill out the papers. You know.”

“Can it wait till morning, late?”

“Why not?” said Briggs. “I’ll have the blotter report on your brother’s desk when he comes in. He likes a good read with his first cup.”

“Thanks, Briggs,” I said and hung up.

My guess was that the.38 I’d thrown on Adam Place’s bed was already on the desk of a cop in Culver City. I had the Wheatena and talked to the counter woman, whose name was Rose. I’d read her wrong. She wasn’t simple and she wasn’t waiting for Jesus. She was waiting for Miles Anthony McCullough, waiting for someone to show photographs of her grandchildren to. I ate my Wheatena and looked at the kids. They were all cute and they all looked like Rose McCullough.