Free Melting Clock by Stuart M. Kaminsky

you said ‘Happy New Year.’ He told you? You saw him?”
    “Yeah,” I admitted. “I know people always say this but if there’s anything I can do …”
    “You can do a lot, Toby,” she said. “You can come over here tomorrow for dinner. You can take the kids out to the park so I can spend some time with Phil. He’s taking it hard.”
    “I know,” I said. “Are you?”
    “Taking it harder.”
    “It’ll be all right,” I assured her. “I told Phil I know surgeon who’ll know the right guy.”
    “Thanks, Toby,” she said.
    “They can take care of those things now,” I said. “Army’s developed all kinds of … hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about, Ruth.”
    “Odds I’ve heard are about three-to-one in my favor,” she said. “Before the war they were three-to-one against. I guess war is good for something. Gives doctors a lot of practice and a chance to experiment on dying men.”
    “Ruth—”
    “I’ve been lucky, Toby. My husband was too old to be drafted and my sons are too young.”
    “I’ll come by tomorrow at noon,” I said. “That okay?”
    “Fine,” she said. “Toby, do you realize this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had?”
    “Yeah, we finally had something to talk about.”
    She laughed on the other end and said, “Lucy wants to talk to you.”
    Lucy was Phil and Ruth’s youngest, somewhere between two and three. When she was one she used to clobber me with her favorite toy, a Yale padlock.
    “Uncle Toby?” came a small voice.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Moon is ca-ca,” she said seriously.
    “Sometimes I think you’re right, kid,” I said, and either Lucy or Ruth hung up.
    Next call was to Doc Hodgdon, who was retired but still saw a few patients in his home. He wanted to know when we could get together for handball. I told him it would have to wait till I finished the case I was on. I told him about Ruth and he said he knew a few people. I gave him Phil and Ruth’s number and promised to call him next week.
    Then I made the call I dreaded. Barry T. Zeman answered the phone.
    “It’s me, Toby Peters,” I said.
    “Did you find them?” he said.
    “I found one of the paintings and one of the clocks. Is Dali there?”
    “They never leave the house,” he said. “He doesn’t like the outdoors. She goes running out when he needs something or she asks me to send my driver, J.T. The houseboy quit the second day they were here. The cook asked for a week off. Actually, he said he would be gone until the Dalis left. The housekeeper, who has worked for my family for thirty-eight years, has suddenly discovered an ailing relative in Lac Le Biche in Alberta, Canada.”
    “Life is hard,” I admitted. “Can I talk to Dali? He’s the client. He can fill you in.”
    He put the phone down and I waited. Gala came on.
    “Yes?” she said eagerly.
    “The Place in the note was a man named Adam Place. He’s dead, murdered. The police have one of the paintings and one of the clocks. The killer, or maybe Place, ruined the painting and left a message.”
    I told her about Thirteenth Street and Dali came on the phone.
    “Which painting?” he asked.
    I described the painting.
    “You must find the other ones.”
    I told him about Thirteenth Street.
    “Ah,” he said. “A mystical number. I once had a dream of a crystal with exactly thirteen sides floating in a hole in the head of a giant beast who sat on an enormous egg. I painted that image in a fit of rage in a single day and had to rest for a week.”
    “That’s very helpful,” I said.
    “It is,” he said with great seriousness, “alchemical. Find the other paintings. Find Gala’s clocks. Find them. My dreams are filled with fathers and the naked breasts of faceless women.”
    It could be worse, I thought, but I said, “A man’s been murdered. Shot between the eyes. It might be a good idea to let the police know what’s going on.”
    “No,” said Dali.
    That’s not really accurate. He didn’t say