who this Craighton might be. It was clear that the mystery man was the mastermind behind Timmerman and that he was willing to pay big money for Winifred Fine’s book.
There was no more information on Craighton. A new player with no face or even a race. He had to be rich, that’s all I knew for sure.
Later entries were about Fearless and me. I ripped out those pages and returned the book to its place in the drawer.
I spent another hour searching the garage-office. Under a loose tile I found a rusty metal toolbox that had stacks of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills in it. It was a lot of money but I didn’t have my usual sticky-fingered reaction. When I looked at that money all I could think of was those pictures of perverts and corpses. Blood money was one thing but Ted Timmerman’s money was drenched in filth. Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to touch it.
I left the house of evil at about eight forty-five.
41
WHEN I GOT BACK HOME Icleaned my place from top to bottom. I washed the floors and windows and walls. I dusted and scrubbed until the whole place smelled of cleaning fluid. By four that afternoon I was exhausted.
It might seem that I had wasted the day on trivial matters, but that’s not true. While I mopped and swept I was thinking and plotting. The murder of the Wexler kids was ordered by an enemy of Maestro Wexler, of that much I was sure. This faceless foe, named only Craighton, had hired Timmerman to take out the kids and steal the book. With the book this new player—also a millionaire, I surmised—would shake down Winifred and get control of the prime property in Compton.
All I had to do was figure out who it was that stood to gain from the loss of both Wexler and Fine. That might have been an impossible task, but I had one advantage: Bradford, the personal secretary and self-styled mother hen of the Wexler clan.
I had to wait until nine that evening to use the number the personal secretary had given me, but that was fine. I spent a couple of hours rereading the poem “Little Gidding” from the
“Hello,” I said, with a fair certainty that it would be Fearless on the other end of the line.
“Paris?” she asked. “Have you heard from Fearless?”
“Hey, Ambrosia. No, I ain’t seen ’im since early this morning.”
“What you call him for anyway? You know he ain’t been back here since then.”
“He said that he had some business with a man he wanted me to introduce him to. Probably they got down to some work.” I was pleased being obscure with the taciturn Ambrosia.
“I’m worried about him, Paris. He said that we were gonna go to Big Mama’s Bar-B-Q Pit tonight.”
“It’s okay, honey. You know Fearless is the last man on earth you gotta worry about. John D. Rockefeller got more to worry about than Fearless Jones.”
“I know you right,” she said. “But I just get worried and I can’t stop myself.”
“Well all right then,” I said. “I’ll go out and see if I can find him. The minute I see him I’ll make sure he calls your number.”
“Thank you, Paris,” she said sweetly. “I’m sorry I cussed at you before. You know I get kinda surly when people mess up my plans.”
“And I’m sorry I bothered you, baby. But you got to know that I just called ’cause Fearless wanted me to help him.”
“With what?”
“I’d like to tell ya, Ambrosia. I truly would, but you know Fearless don’t like his business out the box.”
“Okay then,” she said. “You tell him to call me, though.”
“I will.”
I also wondered where Fearless could be. Had he been found with the corpse? I turned on the radio and listened to three newscasts, but none of them said anything about a gold Chrysler, a black man named Tristan, or the recently deceased Theodore Timmerman.
BY NINE NO ONE ELSE had called or dropped by. I dialed Bradford’s number and he answered a quarter of the way into the first ring.
“Yes?”
“Bradford, it’s Paris Minton calling.”
“Mr. Minton. How can I be of service?”
“It’s me can help you,” I said. “I think I have some information that you might want to have. It has to do with your boss, his kids, and some fellah that’s been pulling the strings from behind the scene.”
“Who is that?”
“Why don’t we get together?” I suggested. “Then maybe we can share information and come to some kind of agreement that will make everybody as happy as they can be.”
“All right. There’s a little park off Lucile Avenue near Hoover,” Bradford said. “Do you know it?”
“No. But I can find it.”
“Why don’t we meet there now?”
