"Smells good," I said.
"Orange snail muffins," she said, pulling the bowl back.
"I will put them on the table in eleven minutes. I expect they will be consumed within a minute after."
"Orange snail muffins?" I asked.
"They contain no snails, if that is your concern," she said. "I believe my Aunt Cora Nathan Wing fed the batter to snails she raised back in Arizona."
"Why?…" I began but caught myself. I really did not care why Aunt Cora Nathan Wing raised snails.
"Ten minutes," Mrs. Plaut said, backing out and expertly balancing the heavy bowl in one hand as she closed the door behind her. "And I cannot be responsible for the bad table manners or vicious appetite of Miss Reynel and Mr. Hill."
Dash was out the window and I was out of bed, out of the bathroom, and on the way down the stairs, a pocketful of fifties in my wallet, at eight minutes after, according to the Beech-Nut clock, when the phone rang.
I turned, took the four steps back up, and picked up the hall phone.
"Peters?" came a man's voice, full of enthusiasm and energy.
"Peters," I agreed.
"Sorry about last night," he said.
"Last night? It was a long night with a lot to be sorry for. Give me a hint."
"I left you a note in the Mozambique toilet."
"I got it," I said.
"Figure it out?" he asked brightly.
"I don't like puzzles," I said.
"You can have help on this one," he said. "You must know people who like puzzles."
"I'll work on it."
"Good," he said. "You have almost eight hours."
"I don't do puzzles," I said, "but I've got another trick. I can describe people from their voices."
"Okay, my friend. Give it a try."
"I'm not your friend," I said. "I'm late for orange snail muffins and you killed a pathetic third-rate lounge singer. My friends don't do things like that."
"I'm waiting," said the man. "But I can't wait long. I've got groceries to buy, a letter to write home, and a murder to plan."
"You're about thirty, maybe a little older," I began. "Dark. Hair, what's left of it, combed and brushed back. About average height. Good build and you like to wear a gray windbreaker with something written over or on the pocket."
Silence on the other end of the line.
"How'm I doing?" I asked.
The sound of someone breathing on the other end.
"Can't read what it says on the pocket but I'll figure it out in a day or two," I went on. "I know a fortune teller named Juanita who can give me a hand. Look, I've got to run. Give me a call later or, better yet, give me your phone number and I'll get back to you."
"They killed my father," he said quietly but clearly.
"They?"
"A man of talent, a talented man, a man who could have left his mark on the screen instead of in a dirty ditch."
"Mr. Peelers," Mrs. Plaut screamed from downstairs.
"Hear that?" I said. "If I don't get downstairs, I'll miss the orange snail muffins. You wouldn't want to be responsible for that."
I could smell the muffins. They smelled good.
"Your name's on the list too. You and the movie star," he said bitterly. "But the others go first. After Varney I'll come for you and the king."
"I really would love to stand here all day listening to your threats, but I'm hungry and I haven't had my coffee. Just tell me fast what's going on."
"You know what I look like from my voice. Figure out what I'm doing and why."
He hung up. So did I.
I pulled out my pocket spiral notebook and made some notes with the stub of a pencil I had picked up at No-Neck Arnie the mechanic's. Then I checked the telephone directories on the table next to the phone. No Lionel Varney in greater Los Angeles. I threw a nickel in the phone and pleaded with the information operator to track Varney down. She had five Varneys. No Lionels. I hung up.
"Mr. Peelers," Mrs. Plaut called again, impatiently.
I shuffled to the bathroom, threw water on my face, Jeris hair tonic on my head, and hurried down the stairs. I walked through Mrs. Plant's living room, where mismatched mementos and oddities from the Plaut family past were neatly laid to rest. A Tiffany lamp with a shade depicting a naked lady on the moon stood next to the sewing chair, a monstrous dull-orange thing of cotton with big arms. A seaman's chest stood under the curtained window facing the front porch. The oriental rug was worn almost to a single tone and only the hint of a design. The rest of the room was restaurant chairs with knitted antimacassars and a bird cage in which the bird was nibbling on seed and gurgling to itself.
In the dining room sat Mrs. Plaut, Gunther, Mr. Hill the mailman, Miss Reynel, a plate in the center of the table on which rested two huge blood-red muffins, and cups filled with coffee.
"You are tardy," Mrs. Plaut said, looking at me with the eyes of my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Eileen Eck.
"Phone call," I said, sitting in the open chair, "sorry."
"Tardy to the party and you miss the ice cream," Mrs. Plaut said, reaching over for my plate and putting a muffin on it,
"I was talking to a murderer," I explained. "He's killed two men. Plans to kill two more before he comes after me and Clark Gable."
This information did not appear to get through to anyone but Miss Reynel, who put down her blue-on-white coffee cup and smiled at my dark but pointless humor. Miss Reynel was a ballroom-dancing instructor at Arthur Murray's. She was recently divorced, pretty of painted face, sultry of red hair, the far side of forty-five, and far too skinny for me to dream about. Mr. Hill, however, looked at the recent addition to our happy home as a vision in the mold of Katharine Hepburn. Mr. Hill spoke of this affliction only with his eyes. Mr. Hill was seldom heard to speak, though at Mrs. Plaut's annual eggnog and family New Year's party he was known to wind up his courage, drink himself into a state which he called happiness, and sing Irish ballads with remarkably little skill.
"Coffee's great," I said, looking down at the muffin.
"Great," echoed Miss Reynel, who was dressed for Monday morning in a don't-touch-me yellow suit with Joan Crawford shoulders.
"Try the muffin," Mrs. Plaut said.
I looked around the table. All but Gunther had, if the crimson crumbs told the truth, consumed at least one of the massive lumps. Gunther's was untouched.
"How are you this morning?" I asked Gunther, pulling the plate a little closer to me.
"Without appetite," he said, gazing at the muffin in front of him, which approximated the size of his head.
"You'll like it," said Mrs. Plaut.
"Why is it red?" I asked.
"You wouldn't want it its natural color," Mrs. Plaut explained as I tore off a piece and started to raise it to my mouth. I took a tentative bite and washed it down with some coffee.
"Not bad," I said.
Mr. Hill smiled. Miss Reynel carefully dabbed the corners of her mouth for crumbs.
"It's supposed to be better than bad," Mrs. Plaut said. "It is supposed to be good."
"It's good," I said.
"Ingredients are difficult to obtain," she said, placing her hands palm-down on the table, ready for business.
"I can appreciate that," I said, taking some more orange snail muffin.
All eyes were on me. I had the feeling I was supposed to say something, but I had no idea what it was.
"We have all agreed, Mr. Peelers," Mrs. Plaut said, "to pool our ration-book resources and comply with the point system which is effective today."
Mrs. Plaut looked around the table for confirmation. She got it from Mr. Hill and Miss Reynel. Gunther was looking at the muffin before him as if it were a ruby crystal ball that would tell him how Gwen and her old boyfriend were getting along in San Francisco.
"The goal of point rationing," Mrs. Plaut said, pouring me more coffee, "is to give us as wide a choice as possible within any group of rationed commodities and to encourage the use of more plentiful foods in preference to the scarcer items."