A Few Minutes Past Midnight by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

when I see you at the station.”
    “It will be done,” Gunther said.
    I hung up and called Mrs. Plaut’s. When she finally answered, I shouted, “Mrs. Plaut. It’s Toby Peters. I have to talk to Mr. Voodoo.”
    “Who is it?” she asked.
    I screamed my message into the phone.
    “Why?” she asked.
    “Why? I found a book he was looking for. I want to know if I should buy it for him.”
    “What book?”
    “ How to Win Friends and Influence People ” I said.
    “I’ll get him.”
    A few moments later Chaplin said, “Peters?”
    “Listen, the guy who came to your door, who threw the knife at you, I think he’s killed five women.”
    “Distressing,” he said.
    “To say the least.”
    “Are these women all single, older, living alone?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “I see,” he said. “Yes. Our damp night visitor is doing what the character I’m writing my screenplay about is doing. He found out about it somehow and is afraid I’m doing research on him. And I am to assume from this that the Fiona Sullivan I was to stay away from is to be his next victim.”
    “I’ve got her covered,” I said. “On a train out of Union Station for San Francisco at eight. Two friends are going with her. But I think I should get you on that train too and out of town for a while. Meanwhile, there’s another woman on our man’s list. She won’t listen to me.”
    “San Francisco for a few days is acceptable,” Chaplin said. “Though it is a pity I can’t spend a bit more time with Mrs. Plaut. She is a treasure trove of ideas. You say this woman, this other woman …”
    “Elsie Pultman. She has a house in Venice.”
    “Elsie Pultman,” he repeated. “Good name for a character. She won’t listen to you?”
    “Slammed the door in my face,” I said.
    “Perhaps I might talk to her. I can, I am told, be persuasive with women.”
    That I knew from reading the newspapers and listening to Jimmy Fiddler.
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    “The man has threatened me,” said Chaplin. “I shall have to insist.”
    “Okay,” I said. “I’m in Venice. I’ll pick you up in about an hour or so. I don’t think we’ll have time to get back to Mrs. Plaut’s when we finish. We’ll head for Union Station. So it will help if you’re packed. I don’t want to leave Elsie Pultman alone for too long.”
    “I understand. Then perhaps we should end this conversation.”
    “Right,” I said.
    He hung up. So did I. I got in the car, used some of Mrs. Plaut’s gas ration stamps, and headed for Hollywood.

CHAPTER
    7
     
    W HEN I GOT to Mrs. Plaut’s, Chaplin, wearing tan slacks, a white shirt, and a brown sports jacket, was sitting in the living room with his packed suitcase at his side. Mrs. Plaut sat across from him, a jar of something dark in her hand, saying, “… most welcome should you ever wish to return, Mr. Voodoo.”
    Chaplin nodded at me and rose.
    “You’ve been most gracious,” he told her taking her hand. “But before I leave I must tell you that I have engaged in a slight deception.”
    “You are Charlie Chase,” she said.
    “No, I’m afraid not, but I am Charles Chaplin.”
    “Carl Kaplan?” she asked. I wondered why there seemed to be a select group of us who Mrs. Plaut failed to hear. “Mr. Kaplan, did you think I would turn you away because you are of the Jewish persuasion?”
    “I am not Jewish,” Chaplin said patiently.
    “Be proud of your heritage,” she said. “I am. My ancestors are everything, plus six different tribes of Indian with one Jewish peddler thrown in, I think. Here, this is for you, a jar of sweetbreads and minced tongue.”
    She handed Chaplin the jar.
    “That is most generous of you,” he said.
    “Cow tongue,” she said. “Cow brains. So don’t worry.”
    “I will savor this generous gift,” he said tucking the jar under his arm and picking up his suitcase. “Adieu.”
    Mrs. Plaut smiled, and we went out the door.
    “A delightful woman,” Chaplin said. “I may