“I shall,” said Jeremy solemnly.
“Whertham,” said Phil. “Think you could do some leg work on Ott, see who he hung out with, or who hung onto his wallet? Might be a few people out there who didn’t like him.”
“He did not appear to be a likable individual,” said Gunther. “I shall begin immediately.
“Our office, tomorrow, nine?” I asked.
“Nine-thirty,” said Shelly. “I’ve got Mrs. Odell coming in for an impacted wisdom tooth.”
I could almost swear I saw a Mona Lisa smile on the face of one round rich little dentist as he imagined Mrs. Odell, whoever the hell she was, in his chair. My tooth began to ache.
Chapter 14
Take out two packs of cards. Give one pack to one person and the other to another. Have them shuffle the cards. Tell them to reach into their deck, pull out a card, look at it and insert it in the other person’s deck. Have them shuffle their decks again. Take the first deck and flip through it with the faces of the cards toward you. Do the same with the other. Take the two decks and shuffle them together. Cut the thick deck and let each person shuffle the cards as much as they like. Have them look at the cards to be sure that it is indeed two shuffled decks. Spread the cards faceup and point to the two that were chosen. Solution: The initial deck you gave the first person contained only black cards. The deck you gave the other person contained only red cards. When you flipped through the decks after the cards were reinserted, you could see which red one was among the blacks and which black among the reds. When the two decks were thoroughly shuffled, they could be turned faceup. They would look quite normal and you would pluck out the right cards.
Jimmy Clark was backstage at the Pantages tightening a screw on a brightly painted red and green wooden box about the size and shape of a hatbox. He was the only one working.
“Have to get this fixed,” he explained, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “Darned thing’s snafued, won’t play ball.”
A small Arvin radio with a plaid cloth cover sat on the workbench next to him.
“The British forces …” the deeply serious voice on the radio was saying when Jimmy turned it off.
“Sorry, you were saying?” he asked, wiping his hands on his work pants.
“Guy on the radio was going to say the British crossed the Odon River and beat back nine Nazi attacks,” I said. “We heard it on the radio on the way here.”
“Great,” he said, beaming and looking at us. “War’s almost over, you think?”
Phil nodded.
“Looks that way,” I said.
“My brothers are out there,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Terry’s in Germany somewhere. Connie’s in the Pacific. I’d still be if it wasn’t for this.”
He tapped his game leg.
“Mom says it was God’s way of being sure she had one son safe. But … I’m sorry. You wanted to talk about last night, right?”
“Right,” I said.
Phil just stood there, hands behind his back, feet apart looking less than happy.
“Nothing much to tell,” said Jimmy. “Got to the hotel early, sat behind the curtain under a table with a big white tablecloth hanging over to cover me. People went by you know. Then, when the dinner started, I crawled out, waited for the cue from Mr. Blackstone, hit the light switch, out went the lights, made the count, hit the switch, on came the lights, make the count, lights out again and like that. Then back under the table.”
“And you stayed there?” I asked.
“Didn’t move,” he said, playing with the screwdriver and looking at the box as if he wanted to get back to it.
“The lights went out again,” I said.
“Yep. That’s when Mr. Ott got killed.”
“You see who turned the lights on and off? You were how far from the switch?”
“Few feet. Didn’t see who did it. I stayed under the table.”
“Didn’t see anything?”
“Saw his shoes,” Jimmy said. “And socks.”
“Small feet? Big feet?”
“Regular feet.”
“Black shoes?”
“Yeah, tuxedo pants. One thing funny though.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Socks were red. I mean the guy who turned the lights out. His socks were red,” said Jimmy. “Why would someone be wearing red socks with a tuxedo?”
“I don’t know,” I went on. “Could you tell if he was big, little, young, old?”
Jimmy shrugged.
“Red. You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Mr. Blackstone going to be alright?” he asked as Phil and I moved toward the stage door.
“He’ll be fine,” I said.
“I’d do anything for Mr. Blackstone and Pete,” he said. “I was doing dishes for food and a few dollars a week when they found me in Detroit, asked me if I wanted a job with them. I’m learning the business. I’m not just a gimp farm kid or a dish jockey.”
“We’ll let you know,” I said. “Red socks?”
“Red,” he said.
The radio came back on behind us as we headed for the door and the voice behind us said, “This is the N.B.C. Red Network.”
Raymond Ramutka, the old man at the stage door, sat on a wooden chair smoking his pipe and playing with his suspenders. He looked up from his newspaper and said,
“The boy help any?”
“Maybe, a little,” I said.
“Word is Blackstone is in some kind of trouble,” said Ramutka, ruffling his bushy white hair.
“Where’d the word come from?” I asked.
“Here, there, the boy. The police don’t really think Blackstone had anything to do with killing that big spender in the dressing room do they?”
He pointed his pipe stem up the metal steps toward the dressing rooms.
“Not Harry Blackstone,” he went on before we could answer. “Wouldn’t hurt an ant. I’ve been at this door for eleven years and before that at the Squire in Baltimore. Never met a performer as nice as Blackstone. Well, maybe Beatrice Kay or Eddie Cantor. Did I tell you I used to be a singer?”
“You did,” Phil said impatiently.
“Girl of the Golden West,” Ramutka reminisced.
“You said,” said Phil.
“Did I? Well …” he shrugged, put his pipe back between his teeth and looked down at his newspaper as we went out the door.
I looked at Phil. He looked at me.
“What?” he said.
“You could have been nicer to the old man,” I said.
“Oh crap. You want me to go back in and ask him to sing me an aria?”
“Too late,” I said.
“Fine. Let’s go find a magician with red socks.”
We stopped at a Rexall Drug Store where I called Mrs. Plaut’s while Phil had a cup of coffee and a pair of donuts. Mrs. Plaut answered.
“Can I speak to Gunther?” I said. “This is Toby Peters.”
“Of course you can speak to him,” she said. “I do not make a habit of keeping telephone calls from people who reside in my abode.”
“May I speak to him?” I tried.
“You are capable of speech,” she said. “Therefore you can speak to him. And I just told you you don’t need my permission.”
“How should I say it?” I asked.
“Please get Mr. Gunther on the telephone,” she said.
“Please get Mr. Gunther on the telephone,” I repeated.
I heard the phone drop on the cord and bang into the wall. While I waited, I looked at Phil. In one month, he had lost his wife and his job and gone into business with me, and business was not looking as good as we would like. And now his son had whooping cough, and I could see that he was thinking that he had another son and daughter who could also get it. My brother did not look happy. This was a dangerous time for the world. When Phil wasn’t happy, it was best to keep a reasonably safe football field length between you and him.