I grinned and she left. I thought about Anne. I didn’t much care at the moment if she married Preston Stewart or Tojo. If it weren’t for the fact that someone had tried to kill me the night before, I would be in a damned good mood. My rear end didn’t even hurt, though there was a tenderness to it that I had done my best to keep Anita from finding out about.
I threw the covers back and went through my ritual of standing up. First roll over on my hands and knees. Then put one foot on the floor and rise slowly. I waddled naked to the dresser in the corner, found a clean though holey pair of underpants and some socks that were not in need of serious mending, and put them on. Trousers were another problem. I went to the closet and found a pair of navy twills and a shirt with all the buttons. My poplin jacket was ruined, probably beyond repair after my fall on the roof where Willie Talbott was killed. I had a tan zipper jacket. The good news was that it was clean. The bad news was that the zipper didn’t work. I pulled it out anyway.
Before I put on the shirt, I went down the hall to the communal bathroom. I thought I’d easily be the first one up. I was mistaken. Someone was taking a shower. I knocked on the door. Mr. Hill, the mailman who turned into an opera singer when he had some of Mrs. Plaut’s Christmas grog in him, called, “Come in.”
“It’s me,” I said loudly. “Toby Peters. Mind if I shave?”
“Shave,” he called.
The room was steamy. That included the mirror. I shaved carefully with my Gem razor and a fresh blade. The day was going well so far. I managed to keep from cutting my throat or even nicking my chin.
“Early run,” Mr. Hill said. “Why are you up? You’re never up this early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said, gathering my shaving gear and trying to examine my face in the mirror, which had clouded again.
“Know how it is,” he said. “Miss Reynal and I were up late in the parlor, talking.”
Miss Reynal was the latest boarder, a redhead about forty-six, kind of pretty in a skinny way, which apparently was to Mr. Hill’s liking.
“She’s a fine woman,” I said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Hill in a rather throaty voice. Love was definitely in the air of the upstairs rooms of Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse.
I dressed, put on my shoulder holster and gun, and covered them with my jacket that wouldn’t zipper. Then Dash and I each had a big bowl of Wheaties and I was off on my quest for a killer.
Mrs. Plaut caught me as I tiptoed down the stairs. Mrs. Plaut seemed to sense when a boarder was going up or down.
“Mr. Peelers,” she said, her hands folded over her broom-stick frame. She was still or again wearing the Mister’s robe.
“Yes, Mrs. Plaut.”
“Your sister did not leave here till one hour past.”
“We were up late talking about old times.”
“What sane person would remain awake all night trying to remember old rhymes?” Mrs. Plaut was not wearing her hearing aid.
“She slept on the sofa,” I shouted. Cornelia the budgie began chirping wildly.
“Your sister?”
“My sister.”
“You do not look at all alike,” she said suspiciously.
“You don’t think so?” I shouted. “Strange, most people see the resemblance immediately. But I tend to think Anita looks like mom while I look like dad.”
“Yes, you do seem to be quite mad. Here nor there. Sister or no sister. She stayed the night. Overnight guest rate is two dollars.”
I got two dollars out of my wallet.
“New ration books Monday,” she said, poking the two singles into the depths of the Mister’s robe.
“I’ll give you the food stamps, Mrs. Plaut.”
“Dole’s liniment,” she said. “Takes care of your foot cramps like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“Thank you,” I shouted, trying to get past her.
“Wait,” she said, holding up her hand.
I stood in the hall while she went back into her rooms. Cornelia was calming down but still pissed. Mrs. Plaut returned and handed me the world’s largest muffin, or a small cake.
“Grandma Willitt’s recipe for okra muffins,” she said. “Tastes almost as good, but I used Crisco instead of butter. There’s a war on.”
“I know,” I shouted, holding the muffin in two hands.
“Return the tinfoil,” she said, pointing at the muffin.
I nodded and she went into her rooms, closing the door. I took a step toward the front door and Mrs. Plaut reappeared. She had a gun in her hand and it was aimed in the general direction of my crotch.
“Smith and Wesson thirty-eight Police Model Ten with a square butt. Neuter you in a flash.”
I stood there with the okra muffin in my hand and smiled.
“Better weapon than that Police Special of yours,” she said. “Belonged to the Mister.”
“Like the robe,” I shouted.
“Like everything in the house including the house,” she said.
“I’ve got to get going.”
“Give my hellos to your sister,” Mrs. Plaut said, her weapon still aimed in my general direction. “I like her.”
I retreated through the front door to the sunrise. No one shot at me. I headed for my car, wondering if I should drop the muffin and put my hand on my gun.
When I got to the Crosley, I knew something was wrong. The rear window was back, I went to the side of the car and looked in. The glass on the rear seat had been cleaned up. Someone had even done a not-too-bad job of painting the bullet streak on the roof.
I got in the car. There was an envelope on the passengerside seat. My name was on the envelope. I opened it. There were five crisp hundred-dollar bills in it and a handwritten note:
Peters. I clean up after myself. Take the money and forget the investigation. I don’t want to clean up blood. Last night was a warning. There will be no more.
There was no signature. I put the note back in the envelope and looked at the bills. I folded them, shoved them in my pocket, and drove back to the Farraday Building.
My hope, as it had been at Mrs. Plaut’s, was that it was still too early for any of the tenants to be in, though I knew Jeremy would be up and about with his soapy bucket and patient determination, ready for combat with grime.
I parked in front. There were plenty of spaces and I didn’t expect to be there very long.
The door of the Farraday was locked. I figured it was no later than seven or seven-fifteen. I used my key and went in. The dim lights were still on and the Farraday was silent. I went up the stairway slowly, trying to make sense out of what was going on. I had no success. I did have five hundred dollars and a note. Everybody was giving me money-Astaire, Forbes, the guy who shot at me. I was rapidly gaining some sense of financial security. My love life had shown a definite and surprising improvement. And I had no idea who killed Luna Martin or Willie Talbott.
There were no lights on in the offices of Minck and Peters, but the door was open. Could be lots of reasons. Shelly or Violet had forgotten to lock it last night. Someone was inside waiting to kill me. Or, most unpleasant to contemplate, Shelly had arrived painfully early. When I opened the inner door I found that the worst had come to pass.
Shelly was in his dental chair. Violet was leaning over him, their faces close together. The lights were out and the venetian blinds were closed, letting in hints of sunlight.
“Good morning,” I said.
Violet jumped away from Shelly and Shelly blinked twice at me and shifted in his chair. He didn’t have his white smock on yet. All he was wearing were his trousers, a shirt, and a dazed look.
“Toby?” he asked.
“Put your glasses on, Shel,” I said.
Shelly groped in his pocket and came up with his thick, heavily fingerprinted glasses. He perched them on the end of his nose. “Toby,” he repeated, only not as a question.
“Dr. Minck has had a tragedy,” said Violet, who was wearing a tight-fitting dress that matched her name.
“Mildred threw me out,” Shelly cried.