A Few Minutes Past Midnight by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Lagoon. We stayed until nighttime to watch the fireworks over the bathing lake and I fell asleep on the ride back to Glendale.
    I turned off of Wilshire at eleventh and went south finding my way to Appleby Street where Elsie Pultman’s house was in the middle of a row of Victorian-style two-story homes. Hers stood out. It was three stories high, wood, with turrets that made it look like pictures illustrating Nathaniel Hawthorne’s House of Seven Gables.
    I parked and walked up to the door leaving my raincoat in the car. It wasn’t raining in Venice. I straightened my shirt, adjusted my belt, brushed back my hair, and knocked.
    “Who is it?” came the voice I had heard over the telephone.
    “Toby Peters,” I said brightly. “I talked to you on the phone less than an hour ago.”
    She opened the door and looked me over. She was well into her seventies and doing her best to hide the truth. She was thin, arms wrinkled, too much makeup, hair dyed blonde. The result of her efforts was to make her look even older than she probably was.
    “May I come in?” I said.
    “Where is your briefcase?” she asked. “You’re an insurance man. Where is your briefcase?”
    “In the car,” I said, looking back.
    She followed my eyes. The only thing she saw was my Crosley at the curb. She wasn’t impressed.
    “Let me see the check,” she said.
    “I can only give it to Mr. Sawyer,” I said, with what I hoped was a plea for understanding.
    “I’m not asking you for it,” she said. “I’m telling you I want to see it.”
    It was the moment of truth.
    “Miss Pultman,” I said. “It is Miss not Mrs.?”
    “Miss,” she said. “I was married briefly in my youth, but I … that is none of your concern.”
    “Howard Sawyer?” I asked.
    “Who is this Howard Sawyer?” she said.
    “He could be using a different name.”
    She started to close the door.
    “Your life is in danger,” I said.
    “What?”
    “Your life is in danger,” I said. “I think your Howard Sawyer has killed five women and is probably planning to kill you.”
    “You’re not an insurance agent,” she said.
    “No,” I said.
    “You are a lunatic,” she said, fear in her eyes.
    “If I could just talk to you for …” I said.
    She answered me by slamming the door.
    “I’m calling the police,” she said.
    I could do without the Venice police. There wasn’t much to back up my story, not yet. I’d wind up having to call my brother, who would not be happy.
    “Don’t be alone with Sawyer,” I called through the closed door. “Or any other thin man about forty and my height.”
    There was no answer. I went back to the Crosley, climbed in, and sat watching the house, trying to decide what to do. I decided. I went to a public phone booth on Venice beach and called Fiona Sullivan’s.
    “Peters,” I said when she answered. Music was playing in the background. “Can I talk to Gunther?”
    “You may ,” she said. “I know you can, but if you’re asking my permission, you may.”
    “You were a schoolteacher,” I guessed.
    “I was briefly, a long time ago before I discovered that my talent lay in a different direction. Here is Mr. Wherthman.”
    “Gunther?”
    “Toby, everything is quiet here except Mrs. Sullivan and the Victrola.”
    “Can you talk Mrs. Sullivan into getting out of town for a while?”
    “Possibly,” he said. “Is it imperative?”
    “I think it’s a good idea. Take the eight o’clock train to San Francisco at Union Station.”
    I knew Gunther was familiar with the train. It was the one he took every month to visit Gwen.
    “Then,” I said, “call Jeremy. See if he can take a few days off. If he can’t, call Shelly, tell him to go with you. Sneak out, Gunther. Sawyer may be watching the house. Don’t let her leave any notes besides one saying she’ll be gone for a few days. I’ll call Chaplin. We’ll meet you at the station.”
    “Shall I purchase the five tickets?”
    “Please. I’ll give you the money