I found myself wishing Dali were there to see the sight. I considered turning and getting the hell out of there before I had to deal with whatever had brought Shelly here on New Year’s Day. Instead of leaving, I tiptoed to the broom closet I used for an office, opened the door-taking about a month to do it so it wouldn’t wake Shelly-and went in. It was almost dark outside now but I didn’t turn on the light. I went behind my desk, opened the window behind it that looked down on an alley, and sat down, placing the Life magazine and the letter to Dali in front of me in an area of the desk relatively free of bills and old newspapers.
I looked around the room in the orange twilight and saw what I always see, two chairs squeezed in on the other side of the desk, and a wall with my Private Investigator’s license and a photograph-a photograph of me, my brother Phil, my father, and our dog, Kaiser Wilhelm. I was ten in that picture. Phil was fifteen. My mother was dead. My father soon would be. No one knows what happened to Kaiser Wilhelm. He just had enough one day and wandered off, some say in the direction of Alaska.
I wasn’t sure of the time. My old man’s watch didn’t help. It promised me it was two-thirty and that for sure was a lie, but I forgave it. I could have turned on the little white Arvin on my desk, a birthday gift a month ago from Gunther Wherthman. It was almost time for the Rex Stout show, but I didn’t want to wake Shelly beyond the door. I should have been thinking about Dali’s stolen paintings. I tried, but I found myself wondering what Gwen and Gunther looked like in mad embrace. I got no picture so I picked up the Life and squinted at it, holding it up so the last of the sun would hit the pages. I learned a lot about Admiral Leahy, a little about aerial navigation, and too much about why the Yankees won the American League championship. Then the sun was gone and I had to turn the light on.
I got up, moved slowly to the switch near the door, and watched the overhead 100-watt Mazda in a round white-glass globe go into action. I’d lost about an hour. I scratched the fingers of my left hand with the fingers of my right and went back to the desk.
Look for the second PLACE in Los Angeles to find the first painting. You have till midnight on New Year’s Day.
I pulled out my spiral pocket notebook and opened it to the page where I’d written the names of Dali’s suspects. Maybe I should start with Picasso? I needed Dash. He could distract me. Maybe I should sail paper airplanes out the window?
I was considering these options when the door to my office opened and Shelly walked in, a rolled-up dental journal in his hand. I could tell it was a dental journal by the smiling incisor on the curved cover.
“I thought you were a burglar,” he said, lowering the weapon.
“And you were going to beat the hell out of him with the Dental Times?”
“Dental Hygiene,” he corrected.
He still wore the little hat but the rubber band was back under one of his chins where it belonged. The cigar was in his hand and his glasses were pushed back on his nose. He plopped heavily into one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Phones keep going out,” he said. “Tried to call Mildred a few minutes ago.”
“That’s nice, Shel,” I said.
“To be expected,” said Shel. “Got a patient-Leon, you know? Big guy with lots of ear hair.”
“I’m working, Shel,” I said.
“Leon says more than forty-three thousand Bell employees are in the armed services. He says there are copper shortages. Lucky to have phones at all, Leon says. You want to hear what happened to me?”
“No,” I said.
“Someone made a pass at Mildred again. You know who?”
“Sydney Greenstreet.”
“No, no. Murray Taibo’s brother, Simon, the accountant,” Shelly said, shaking his head in exasperation. “You know Mildred is irresistible.”
I said nothing. Mildred is a rake with a prune attached where a head should be. Mildred had, about a year ago, kicked Shelly out and run off with a Peter Lorre imitator. When the guy had been killed, Mildred went back to Shelly.
“I know,” I said.
“We had words, you know?”
“I can guess.”
“I was a little drunk,” said Shelly, looking at the palm of his left hand as if it had the answer to a question he was about to ask. “I said things. I was crazed, Toby, crazed. There is just so much a man can take, even if he is a board-certified dentist.”
What is there to say in the face of such wisdom?
“Anyway,” he said, “I think I told Mildred I was not coming home. So, here I am.”
“Here you are,” I agreed.
We sat in silence for about a minute and then he remarked, “It was a nice party.”
“I’m sure. Who would expect less from Murray Taibo?”
“Right.”
“I’ve got work to do, Shel,” I said, looking down at the thief’s note. “And time’s running out.”
“You want something to eat? I brought stuff from the party.”
“Let’s take a look.”
He went out, leaving the door open, and returned in a few seconds with a grease-stained brown paper bag which he placed on the desk in front of me. I opened it and fished out a quartet of hors d’oeuvres on little slices of stale white bread shaped like hearts, clubs, diamonds, and spades. The stuff on them was creamy, orange, and sad. There was also a slice of chocolate cake. I ate a busted flush and the cake while Shelly, having paid for the time with leftovers, went on about the beauty of Mildred and the pangs of jealousy.
“You want to help?” I interrupted. “Take your mind off your troubles?”
“Why not?” He shrugged.
“Take off the hat,” I said.
He took off the hat and put it on the corner of my desk. I gave him a shorthand version of the little I knew about the Dali theft.
“Now look at this,” I said, handing him the note.
He held his glasses to keep them from falling and squinted at the note. The writing was large and clear. He handed the sheet back to me.
“Well?” I said.
“You’ve only got three hours,” Shelly answered, looking at his watch. “I’ve been gone almost two nights. I think I’ll go home.” He got up and headed for the door.
“Thanks, Shel,” I said, dropping crumbs into the now empty brown bag.
“Dali’s the painter who does the crazy stuff, right?” asked Shelly, turning toward me with an idea.
I nodded.
“You think you could talk him into painting a big tooth for me? You know, a tooth with a smile?”
“No, Shelly.”
“How do you know? You haven’t asked him.”
“I know.”
Shelly, unconvinced, retrieved his hat and went out, leaving the door open behind him. I looked at the note a few thousand times more and wondered what the second place in Los Angeles was. I wasn’t even sure what the first place was-the Brown Derby, Paramount, M.G.M.? I knew it wasn’t Columbia or Warners. Sunset or Hollywood Boulevard? The Beverly Hills Hotel? A little after ten and hungry again, I stuffed the note in my pocket, closed the window, turned out the light, and left the suites of Minck and Peters.
I was on the way down the stairs when I heard something move in the sixth-floor shadows. I stopped and waited a beat. Jeremy Butler stepped out.
“This is not a day of work,” he said. He was wearing dark trousers and a black turtleneck shirt. He had put on a few pounds in the ten years since he had stopped wrestling, but the arms and shoulders were still solid as a telephone pole.