an apartment roof in Venice a little over an hour ago. Luna Martin used to work for him at the On Your Toes Dance Studio. Someone tossed Talbott’s room looking for something. I’d say the two murders might be connected.”
Phil grunted.
“In fact,” I went on. “I’m sure they’re related.”
I told Phil the story about my going to the studio, finding Talbott, making the deal for Luna’s appointment schedule, and then going with Talbott to his apartment and missing his murder. I left out the part about Fred Astaire being with me. Phil grunted, pulled a pad of paper out of his desk drawer, which was no mean feat since there was nowhere for Phil to back up to have enough room to open the drawer more than a few inches. Phil took some notes and looked up at me.
He pursed his lips, stared at me, and hummed a few bars of what sounded like “Tiger Rag.” Then he looked down at his pad and said, “You interfered with a murder investigation by not going to the police as soon as you knew about this appointment book. You left the scene of a murder though you were the only witness. You’ve been present at two murders in one day.”
“I really didn’t see. .”
“I know that, Tobias. That’s your problem.”
My real name is Tobias Leon Pevsner. Toby Peters is my professional name. Philip Martin Pevsner does not approve of his brother dropping the family name. Phil doesn’t approve of a lot of things, but this one is a favorite.
“Find Steve out there,” Phil said, waving his hand toward the noisy squad room. “He’ll take your statement.”
We sat silently. Phil turned back toward the window and put his hands behind his head, his thick fingers locking. I got up.
“Maybe you’d feel better if you just threw something at me, Phil. You know, like the good old days.”
“Get out,” he said.
“Look. .”
“Out,” Phil repeated.
I got out, found Steve Seidman. He was walking toward his desk in the corner near the window. He looked even more pale and thin than he had that morning.
“I’ve got a statement, Steve. Phil said I should see you.”
Seidman got behind his desk and motioned me into the battered wooden chair next to it.
“Mind if I stand?” I said.
“Suit yourself.”
The Mexican kid started to yell. “He thinks I stabbed Jorge,” he screamed above the noise of the squad room. “I din’ stab Jorge. I don’ know who stabbed Jorge, but it wasn’t fuckin’ me.”
Buxbaum just sat playing with a rubber band. No one paid any attention to the Mexican kid. I gave my statement to Seidman, who typed it up as I stood there.
“Phil tell you Cawelti’s on top?”
“He told me.”
“Politics,” Seidman said, hitting the keys of the Remington.
The kid was yelling louder now. The squad room doors opened and Cawelti stepped in in a new blue suit.
“Shut him up,” Cawelti shouted, pointing at the kid.
The room went silent except for the kid, who was now talking Spanish. Buxbaum nodded, put down his rubber band, and stood up with a grunt. The kid kept screaming; he turned to Cawelti and called him a series of colorful names. Cawelti’s pocked face turned nearly as red as his hair.
“Bring this piece of crap to my office, Buxbaum. Fast.”
Buxbaum grabbed the kid’s left arm. The kid pulled away. Cawelti shot forward, punched the kid in the stomach, kneed him in the groin, and hit him square on the nose with his right elbow. The kid went down and said no more.
“Add resisting arrest to whatever else you’ve got on him,” Cawelti said, adjusting his jacket and taking a step toward the door.
Then, sensing additional prey, he turned and scanned the room, almost missing me in the corner. Our eyes met and Cawelti gave me a smile I did not like. I returned the smile and he strode across the room toward me. The room was still silent.
Cawelti and I were face to face.
“If you’re not a witness or, better yet, a suspect, get your ass out of here,” he said. “I don’t want to see you in here.”
“Witness,” Seidman said, pointing at his report.
Cawelti’s face and mine were no more than six inches apart now.
“To what?”
“Murder,” Seidman said.
Cawelti’s smile broadened. It really was one awful-looking smile. I dug in my pocket and came up with a packet of Sen-Sen. I handed it to him. He threw it on the wooden floor.
“I want that report on my desk in the next fifteen minutes.”
Seidman nodded.
“Congratulations on your promotion,” I said. “I’m sure you and the local merchants will get along just fine.”
“Soon,” Cawelti said, pointing a finger at my nose. “We’ll meet soon.”
He turned, crossed the squad room, nodded at Buxbaum to bring the bleeding and bent-over kid, and went out. The noise level began to climb.
“Can I go, Steve?”
“Go,” Seidman said. “We’ll get back to you if we need you.”
I moved past Buxbaum, who was keeping the kid from falling over.
“What’d I do?” the kid said through the blood leaking from his nose. “What’d I do?”
“Exercised your right to free speech,” Buxbaum said.
I escaped into the corridor, went quickly past Cawelti’s office, the office that used to be my brother’s, and got down to my Crosley. I eased into my seat on top of Mrs. Plaut’s pillow.
My guess was that it was close to five. I turned on the radio as I drove, waiting for the time. The news guy told me that Trygvie Lie, the foreign minister of the Norwegian Government in Exile, was sure the Norwegians would welcome an Allied invasion of Norway. I then found out that Anthony Eden was in Washington to talk about postwar issues and J. P. Morgan had died at the age of seventy-five of a heart attack. At the end of the news, a happy woman sang, “It’s five o’clock. Gruen watch time. Ticktock.”
I headed for the Monticello Hotel. I had things to discuss with Arthur Forbes.
Chapter Eight: First You Put Your Two Knees Close Up Tight
When I got to the Monticello, I realized I should have called first. The desk clerk, a thin guy with a funeral- director smile and a blue-serge suit, told me he was sorry but Mr. Forbes and Mrs. Forbes were not in the hotel. He assumed, but he wasn’t sure, that they had gone home.
“I thought he lived here,” I said. “When do you expect him back?”
“Who knows? Mr. Forbes has many business enterprises and social obligations,” the clerk said, leaning over to copy something from one open book to another.
“Where might Mr. Forbes live?” I asked, flashing my own unwinning grin.
“I do not know Mr. Forbes’s address, and if I did know I’m afraid I wouldn’t be at liberty to give you the information. You might try the telephone directory,” he said, still leaning over his busy work. “But. .”
“Unlisted.”
“Unlisted. You could leave a message.”
