Now You See It: A Toby Peters Mystery (25 page)

There was nothing eerie, distant, or ghostly in Juanita’s words. She had her head turned a little to the right, and she held up a single finger of her right hand. She was trying to see something. She gently bit her lower lip.

“You’ll run and run and look,” she said. “In darkness and light, searching for a secret where there isn’t a secret. It’s all simple.”

“What’s simple?” I asked.

“Huh?” asked Juanita.

“What’s simple?” I repeated.

“Whatever you’re all making complicated,” she said, waving her bangle-covered left arm.

“We’ll find her,” came a voice from the open door behind me.

I turned. It was Cawelti. He looked at Phil. Neither man spoke, but something passed between them—a truce.

“He needs a photograph of Natasha,” I said. “I’ve got one downstairs.”

“Wait,” said Jeremy.

He moved to the door to the bedroom on his right. The rest of us stood: Alice looking at me, me looking at Juanita, Juanita looking at her hand, pursing her lips and then getting up.

Juanita moved to Alice and touched her shoulder gently.

“Tea, I could use some tea. You got some?”

Alice didn’t want to stop looking at me.

“Tea?” Juanita repeated. “I’ll make it myself if you tell me where it is.”

Alice turned toward the smaller woman and said, “It’s in the cupboard over the sink. I’ll get it.”

As Alice moved toward the kitchen, Juanita stage-whispered to me, “I hate tea. My husband, Sol, loved the stuff. Never has any taste as far as I’m concerned.”

Jeremy came out of the bedroom with a photograph in his hand about the size of a book. He handed it to Cawelti who repeated, “We’ll find her.”

“It’s odd,” Jeremy said. “The only poetry that comes to mind is that of Poe, and it gives me no solace. There are times when even poetry will not suffice or comfort.”

After a last glance at Phil, Cawelti was out the door and gone.

I started to look at the watch on my wrist, my father’s watch, the watch that never had the right time, that lived in a time world of its own. I’ve heard people say that even a stopped watch was right twice a day. But my father’s watch just kept on ticking as long as it was kept wound and it kept on turning at its own pace.

“It’s a little after ten,” Phil said, looking sadly at his own watch, a birthday gift from Ruth.

It was going to be a long night.

And it was.

Phil went down to our office to call home. I went to Shelly’s office. In the small reception room, Shelly was seated behind Violet’s desk, phone to his ear. Pancho was in the one chair of the cramped space, an old
Look
magazine in his lap.

Shelly removed the cigar from his mouth, crinkled his nose in the hope of pushing his glasses up without touching them, nodded at me, and said, “Yeah. He just walked in. Here.”

Shelly handed me the phone.

“Toby,” said Gunther. “I am at the hotel. I have spoken with all members of the Blackstone troupe I could locate. None of them knows where Jimmy Clark might go. All they can say is that he’s a friendly, helpful young man who appears to be completely devoted to Blackstone. One young woman says that he told her he would give his life for Blackstone.”

“Why?”

“No one seems to know. They all say that Gwen knew him best. Perhaps I should go and talk to her.”

“Okay. You know where she is right?”

“Yes, at her sister’s apartment.”

“Call in if you get something from her, anything.”

“I shall,” said Gunther.

He hung up.

“How’s the tooth?” asked Shelly.

“Perfect, I said.”

“When we find Natasha, we should make an appointment to do complete x-rays and see what else is going on.”

“I’ll think about it, Shel.”

“Pancho’s working on the script,” he said.

I looked at Pancho who was dozing. The
Look
magazine was slipping from his lap.

“I see,” I said.

“Now he needs rest,” said Shel, smiling at Pancho. “Creativity is draining. He needs lots of food and rest. I’m learning a lot about the screenwriting game.”

“Great,” I said, turning to the door.

“
Dentist in Disguise
,” said Shelly.

“What?”

I turned.

“The name of the script about me,” he said. “Remember, I told you before.”

Pancho was snoring now. Shelly looked at him benevolently and pointed at the little man with the stub of his cigar.

“Bad alignment,” he said. “I’ve got a device that can take care of that, eliminate snoring. I’ll just get a cast of his teeth and make one for him.”

“Great,” I said, going through the door.

The Farraday was dark and quiet, except for my footsteps. I went to our office and found Phil looking at the photograph of me, our dad, Phil, and Phil’s German Shepherd, Kaiser Wilhelm. His back was to me.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Kids are getting better,” he said, not turning to look at me. “Becky told me not to worry. I’m going to worry.”

I went to my desk and sat. Phil was a few feet from me now.

“Becky’s a lot like Ruth,” he said, still not looking at me, really talking to himself.

“Yeah,” I said.

“But she’s not Ruth,” he went on with a sigh.

Now he turned, went to his desk, and said, “Let’s find the baby.”

Phil looked at me now. I had the feeling he wanted me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. He looked older than usual, maybe because the first hint of nighttime stubble was starting to show on his chin and cheeks. The stubble was definitely gray like his hair.

“Gunther’s going …”

The phone rang. I started to reach for the one on my desk, but Phil picked up the one on his first.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding at me to pick up my phone.

“Just got off the phone with the police chief in Decatur,” said Cawelti. “Jimmy Clark is William Tracy Carson. The chief recognized the description. The limp was the tip-off. Carson’s got a history. Went into the army when he was seventeen. Action in the Pacific, got hit by shrapnel when he took out a Jap machine gun nest on Tarawa. Got all kinds of awards and medals. Came home a hero. Parade down Main Street, parties.”

“Family?” asked Phil.

“Mother and father are here and well,” said Cawelti. “I talked to them. William is their only son. Father’s a welder. Mother’s a ticket clerk at a movie house. William left home about four months ago. Said he had something to do and would stay in touch.”

“Did he?” I said.

“Stay in touch? Yeah. He writes, calls. Doesn’t say much.”

“You ask them if he knows anyone in Los Angeles?” asked Phil.

“So far as they know, he doesn’t,” Cawelti said. “Maybe some old army buddies, but they don’t have names.”

“That it?” I asked.

Cawelti hesitated.

“No,” he said. “William Tracy Carson spent four months in an army mental hospital before he came home from the war. Battle fatigue.”

I looked at Phil. Phil had spent about a week in an army hospital after the last war. They had called it shell shock. When he came home, he had put a little distance between himself and the world. He had never been easy, but he was even touchier after the things he’d seen. Marrying Ruth and having the kids had given him a reason to live. What was William Tracy Carson’s reason to live?

“Anything else?” asked Phil.

“No,” said Cawelti. “We’re getting copies of the photographs of Carson and the baby made up. It’ll take another hour, maybe, and then we’ll get them out to all cars.”

“Make it a twelve-twelve,” said Phil.

I wasn’t sure what a twelve-twelve was, but it had to be some kind of special priority.

“Already have,” said Cawelti. “I’ll call you if we get any leads or find them.”

One of us had to say it, and I could see Phil wasn’t the one.

“Thanks,” I said.

“For what?” said Cawelti. “It’s my job. I’m not doing this for you. The only thing I’d do for you is throw the switch if you were sitting in the hot seat on your brother’s lap.”

“Ah,” I said. “The John Cawelti we know and love.”

He slammed the phone down.

“Love that guy,” I said.

Phil grunted.

“Well?” I asked. “Got any ideas?”

He didn’t. We sat staring at the phone for half an hour before it rang. I beat Phil to it, picked up the phone and said, “Yeah.”

“I’m at the Pantages,” said Blackstone. “I think it might be a good idea for you to come over here. There’s someone you should talk to.”

“We’ll be right there,” I said.

I hung up. So did Phil.

“Your car or mine?” I asked.

“I’m not getting in that tin box,” he said, getting up. “We take mine.”

It was after eleven. There wasn’t much traffic. The blackout didn’t make it much fun to be on the streets. When we got into Phil’s car, he said, “A guy on foot with a limp and a little girl. They should be able to find him unless he’s holed up somewhere.”

I didn’t say anything. When Phil made a U-turn, I reached for the radio. He slapped my hand away. I knew why. He was in no mood for music, the news, or drama. He had enough drama in his life, no room for music, and the thought of more bad news was more than he wanted.

Parking at the Pantages at this hour was no problem. We found Blackstone and his brother talking to Raymond Ramutka, the stage door man who sat behind his little desk drinking coffee. I wondered if he lived here. Harry and Pete stood in from of him.

There wasn’t much light. A shaded lamp on the desk. An enclosed bulb over the door. A few bulbs glowing from behind the curtains of the stage and a single light at the top of the stairway where the dressing rooms were.

Ramutka, the stage door man from central casting, looked over the top of his glasses at us, put down his mug, and picked up his pipe.

“Raymond says he got to know Jimmy reasonably well in the last few days,” Blackstone told us.

“Nice boy,” said Ramutka. “Nice boy. Gave him some of my pain pills that first night. His leg, you know.”

We knew.

“Raymond says Jimmy liked to be alone,” said Blackstone.

“Yes,” said Ramutka, looking at the stem of his pipe. “Liked to go up on the roof and look at the stars all by himself. Helped him to think. I got the feeling that boy did a lot more feeling than thinking.”

“The roof,” I said.

Ramutka pointed his pipe up at the ceiling high above us.

“You see him tonight?” Phil asked.

“No,” Ramutka, said shaking his head.

“Could he get to the roof without your seeing him?” asked Blackstone.

“Sure,” the old man said. “Lots of ways, if you know them. Through a window on the other side of the stage if there was one open or up the fire escape if he climbed up on something and … lots of ways, if you know them,” he repeated.

“How can we get up there?” Phil said.

Ramutka pointed with his pipe again.

“Up the stairs, round the corner, past the storage room, and up the rungs.”

He started to say something else, but we had all turned and were headed to the metal staircase in single file. Phil was first. I was second. Harry and Pete behind. We rattled past the dressing rooms into the shadows.

We turned the corner and saw the rungs to the roof jutting out of the brick wall.

“Hold it,” said Phil, turning to us. “We’re making too damn much noise. I’ll go up. You wait here.”

“I could talk to him,” Blackstone whispered.

“Harry can be very persuasive,” whispered Pete.

“So can I,” said Phil.

Even with his face in shadow, I recognized the look on my brother’s face. I didn’t argue. Neither did Blackstone or his brother.

Phil went slowly and quietly up the ladder and was quickly lost in the darkness above us. We could hear his feet touch each rung and then a square opened above us and we could see stars and then, half a beat later, the bulk of my brother’s body blocked the stars and went onto the roof.

We waited listening, looking at each other. A radio came on below us and out of sight. We waited. Nothing. And then Phil’s body filled the square of stars and started down to us. He was making no effort to be quiet.

“Not there,” he said when he got back to the landing, wiped his hands on his pants, and turned to us.

“The wrong roof.”

We turned to Harry Blackstone who said, “I think I know what roof he’s on.”

Then I remembered what Juanita had said. It was simple. We had made it complicated.

“He’s on the roof of the Farraday,” I said.

Harry Blackstone nodded.

        
Place a glass of water almost full on a table. Drop an ice cube into the water. Rest a piece of string over the ice cube with the ends of the string dangling over two sides of the glass. Challenge audience member to remove ice cube with string without touching the ice cube. When they give up, perform the trick. Solution: Pour salt on the ice cube and string. The salt melts the ice. The string sinks in and the ice hardens again when the effect of the salt wears off. The string is now frozen into the ice cube that can simply be removed by holding both ends of the string and lifting
.

From the
Blackstone, The Magic Detective
radio show

W
E CLATTERED DOWN THE STEPS
and past Raymond Ramutka, who was listening to classical music on the radio on his little table.

“Not there?” he asked.

“Not there,” Blackstone said.

Ramutka was going to ask another question, but he was too slow. We piled into Phil’s car and he did a wild U-turn, heading back toward our office. I was in the front passenger seat. Phil ran two red lights and, amazingly, avoided a collision with a truck. His jaw was set as if it was he who now had a toothache. I considered talking about what we were going to do when we got to the Farraday, but Phil was in a don’t-mess-with-me mood so I shut up.

“If he’s there …” Pete said from the backseat.

“He’s there,” I said, or, rather, hoped.

I didn’t pray. I don’t pray, not for show, not to feel better. I don’t know if there’s a God or gods out there. I don’t think about it much or often. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe. I just thought if there was a God and he wanted to get involved, he was watching. He could do what he wanted. What could I promise him that would make a difference? Why should he do something for me just because I asked him?