A Graveyard for Lunatics

The phone rang.

Crumley handed it over.

A voice said: ?They seek him here, they seek him there, they seek that scoundrel everywhere. Is he in heaven, is he in hell??

?That damned elusive Pimpernel!? I yelled.

I let the phone drop as if a bomb had blown it away. Then I snatched it up again.

?Where are you?? I yelled.

Humm. Buzz.

Crumley clapped the phone to his ear, shook his head.

?Roy?? he said.

I nodded, staggering.

I bit one of my knuckles, trying to build a wall in my head for what was coming.

The tears arrived.

?He?s alive, he?s really alive!?

?Quiet.? Crumley shoved another drink into my hand. ?Bend your head.?

I bent way over so he could massage along back of my skull. Tears dripped off my nose. ?He?s alive. Thank God.?

?Why didn?t he call sooner??

?Maybe he was afraid.? I talked blindly to the floor: ?Like I said: They?re closing in, shutting the studio. Maybe he wanted me to think he was dead so they wouldn?t touch me. Maybe he knows more about the Beast than we do.?

I jerked my head.

?Eyes shut.? Crumley worked on my neck. ?Mouth shut.?

?My God, he?s trapped, can?t get out. Or doesn?t want to. Hiding. We got to rescue him!?

?Rescue my ass,? said Crumley. ?Which city is he in? Boston or the backlot? Uganda on the north forty? Ford?s Theatre? Get ourselves shot. There?s ninety-nine goddamn places he could hide, so we run around like sore thumbs, yodeling for him to come out, get killed? You go on that studio tour!?

?Cowardly Crum.?

?You betcha!?

?You?re breaking my neck!?

?Now you?ve caught on!?

Head down, I let him pummel and thumb all the tendons and muscles into a warm jelly. From the darkness in my skull I said, ?Well??

?Let me think, god damn it!?

Crumley squeezed my neck hard.

?No panics,? he muttered. ?If Roy?s in there, we got to peel the whole damn onion layer by layer and find him in the right time and place. No shouts or the avalanche comes down on us.?

Crumley?s hands gentled behind my ears now, a proper father.

?The whole thing, it must be, has to do with the studio being terrified of Arbuthnot.?

?Arbuthnot,? mused Crumley. ?I want to see his tomb. Maybe there?s something in there, some clue. You sure he?s still there??

I sat up and stared at Crumley.

?You mean: Who?s in Grant?s tomb??

?That old joke, yes. How do we know General Grant is still there??

?We don?t. Robbers stole Lincoln?s body twice. Seventy years back they had actually toted it to the graveyard gate when they were caught.?

?Is that so??

?Maybe.?

?Maybe?!? shouted Crumley. ?God I?m going to grow me more hair so I can tear it out! Do we go to check Arbuthnot?s tomb?

?Well??

?Don?t say ?well,? dammit!? Crumley scrubbed his bald pate furiously, glaring. ?You been yelling that the man on the ladder in the rain was Arbuthnot. Maybe! Why not someone got wind of homicide and stole the body to get the proof. Why not? Maybe that car crash came not from being drunk but dying at the wheel. So whoever does the twenty-year-late autopsy has murder evidence, blackmail proof, then they make the fake body to scare the studio and rake in the cash.?