Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

“And you are his friend and a detective,” he said with a sigh, digging into the pie. “This is good. I … I was afraid you’d find out that I’m a …”

“Fraud,” I finished.

He shook his head “yes” again and took on a forkful of pie so big that it stood a good chance of choking him.

Anita was halfway down the counter cleaning the grill, looking over her shoulder at us. I knew she could hear.

“Can you write a script?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Probably a very bad one, but I certainly know the format.”

“Then do it,” I said. “Shelly can afford it.”

He smiled at me gratefully, his left cheek full of pie. Then the smile faded.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “When we finished our meeting in your office, I went back to my office to work. A man came in. He said he knew I had been at a meeting with you and the others and that it had something to do with the dinner tonight for Blackstone.”

“The man have a name?” I asked.

“Everyone has a name,” he said. “In Los Angeles, it is usually one that bears little resemblance to his or her given name. He didn’t give me his.”

“What did he look like?”

Pancho described Calvin Ott.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to tell him what went on in our meeting this morning,” said Vanderhoff. “He had seen me come out of your door.”

“And you told him?”

The thin old man looked at the ceiling. I could see then why he wore the scarf. The wrinkles on his neck made me add ten years to the seventy I had already credited him with.

“How much?”

“I sold my honor for a mere fifteen dollars,” he said, pulling three fives from his pocket and placing two of them on the counter. “Filthy lucre, but I truly need it. I spent some of it on a cab to get here.”

“Keep it,” I said.

“I had to tell you,” he said.

His pie was gone. I asked if he wanted another slice. He considered it and shook his head.

“You did the right thing,” I said.

“And you won’t tell Dr. Minck?”

“Write his screenplay,” I said.

“I don’t think he has a realistic idea about it,” Vanderhoff said. “He’s planning to produce this himself if he can’t get studio backing. And he wants to approach Clark Gable to play him. Dr. Minck claims to be friends with people like Gary Grant, Gable, Joan Crawford, and Fred Astaire.”

“He has met them,” I said. “The word ‘friends’ is definitely pushing reality.”

“I feel better,” he said, standing and rewrapping his scarf. “Confession. Very cleansing.”

“Hold on and I’ll give you a ride back to the Farraday,” I said.

“I almost forgot,” Vanderhoff said. “The man who gave me the fifteen dollars said something peculiar just before he left. He told me not to tell it to anyone else. He told me to watch closely tonight at the dinner because the dead would rise.”

That was pretty much what Juanita had told me. I didn’t understand it any better coming from Pancho. I would, eventually-but “eventually” still was quite a few surprises away.

I placed a dollar on the counter and told Anita I would call her later. She gave Pancho a smile. He twitched one back at her.

I dropped off Pancho at the Farraday and headed for the Pan-tages where Blackstone had told me they would be rehearsing and making some changes to the show because of Gwen’s absence and the damage to the buzz saw.

The old man at the stage door recognized me and waved me in with his pipe. I could hear voices coming from the stage beyond the heavy curtains, just out of sight.

“Catch him?” the old man said.

“Not yet.”

He adjusted his suspenders with his thumbs, looked at his pipe over the top of his rimless glasses and then looked at me as if he were going to honor me with sage advice.

“Meat loaf sandwich for lunch,” he said, touching his stomach. “Didn’t agree with me.”

“Sorry to hear it,” I said. “Look …”

“Raymond,” he said. “Raymond Ramutka.”

He paused, his eyes wide, expecting a reaction. When I didn’t respond, he rubbed his left hand on his thick wild mane of white hair.

“Before your time,” he said with a sigh, looking toward the stage. “I was in the St. Louis and Chicago productions of The Girl of the Golden West . Played Jack. Had a voice. But you must hear stories like that all the time in your line of work.”

“Some,” said. “I know the police asked you, but can you tell me what you saw last night?”

“Saw? Let me think.”

He rubbed his hair some more. It was now almost comically wild.

“Saw,” he repeated. “Like what went on here?”

“Yes.”

“Not things I saw earlier, on the way here after breakfast.”

“No, before the shooting,” I said.

“Let’s see. People moving around in those costumes, moving that stuff, animals in cages. Everyone trying to be quiet ‘cause the show was going on you know.”

“I know.”

He looked at his pipe again.

“Thinking back,” he said. “Did see that one who got himself shot and killed. Talked to him. He was a talker. Asked questions. I had answers, but I don’t think they were the ones he wanted. He went upstairs. Think maybe I saw him going into one of the doors up there, dressing rooms.”

“You didn’t hear the shot?”

“Who says?”

“I thought …”

“No, I didn’t hear the shot. Nothing wrong with my hearing. I’ve got perfect pitch. Always did. Born with it. ‘God’s gift,’ my mother used to say. ‘God’s curse,’ my father said, because it got me into musical comedy, opera.”

He was lost in reverie. I pulled him back.

“Gunshot.”

“Never heard it. Buzz saw was going,” he said. “Looked up some point. Not too many people backstage then. Saw the one, what’s her name, long legs, little tiger costume.”

“Gwen,” I said.

“That’s the one,” he said with a nod. “She was about at the top of the stairs. Someone came out of the dressing room behind her. She turned and ran down the stairs, right past me, out that door there.”

“The other person, the one who came out of the dressing room?”

“Nice suit, beard, one of those turban things on his head.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

Raymond Ramutka was in no hurry. He played with the tobacco in his pipe with a stained thumb and hummed something.

“What did he do,” he repeated. “Don’t know. Don’t think he came down the stairs. Don’t know. I watched her go through the door.”

“Thanks,” I said.

About a minute later I saw Jimmy Clark, the freckled kid, carrying a wooden cage big enough for a cougar. There was a handle on top, and it took both his hands to carry it.

“Want a hand?” I asked.

“No place to grab except the handle,” he said. “But thanks.”

He put it down and looked at a spot behind the curtains, probably gauging how much further he had to go.

“The other night,” I said. “What did you see?”

“Police asked me this,” he said. “I’ll tell you the same. I was standing about here. Even with the buzz saw, I heard the shot. I knew it was a shot. I’ve heard lots of shots.”

“Army?” I asked.

“Yeah, a grunt. Infantry. Got this,” he said, touching his leg, “getting off a landing barge on a little island near Guam. Didn’t even make it out of the water. Jap shell hit about then yards away from me, went in, blew. Never got to the island.”

He didn’t look a minute older than eighteen.

“The shot,” I reminded him.

“Oh yea. I heard it. “I was standing there with Meagan and Joyce. I looked up, saw Gwen running down. Saw this guy up there. Turban, beard. I think he had a gun in his hand.”