Free A Few Minutes Past Midnight by Stuart M. Kaminsky

particularly inefficient attempt to commit murder,” Jeremy said. “A heavy, dull knife hurled through a second-floor screen.”
    “Another warning?”
    “Perhaps,” said Jeremy.
    “We are dealing with a lunatic,” I could hear Chaplin say firmly from the background.
    “Ask Chaplin if he knows the name Howard Sawyer.”
    Jeremy asked.
    “He doesn’t,” said Jeremy.
    “You think you could persuade him to pack a bag and move someplace safe for a few days?”
    “I will try.”
    “Thanks, Jeremy. I think he should stay away from hotels, friends, places he might be recognized.”
    “You have a place in mind,” Jeremy said.
    “Mrs. Plaut’s. I’ll head over there now and prepare her for a new short-term boarder. I think he should give a false name.”
    “Might she not recognize him?” asked Jeremy.
    “Without the mustache, costume, and dark hair? I doubt it. I think I hear Gunther coming back. Convince him, Jeremy.”
    “I will do my best.”
    I hung up and turned to Fiona.
    “Was that about Howard?” she asked.
    “Did he own any knives, swords?”
    “Knives? I don’t know.” She stood up, a palm full of peanuts in her hand.
    There was a lot this woman didn’t know about the man she had planned to marry.
    “One last question,” I said, waiting for Gunther’s knock. “You said you had some money, this property. Anything else?”
    She popped a peanut in her mouth.
    “My assets are … I am comfortable. You are implying the possibility that my fiancé may have been thinking of marrying me, doing me in, and collecting my small holdings.”
    “Something like that,” I said. “You have life insurance?”
    “Both Howard and I have policies,” she said. “We are each other’s beneficiary. I would have as much reason to want to do him in as he would me, if I were so inclined.”
    “How big are the policies?”
    “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” she said, “but Howard has a large inheritance.”
    And that, I thought, was why he was living in a dark Los Angeles boardinghouse with peeling paint.
    The knock came.
    “The little man?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    She went to answer the door. Gunther entered with a leather suitcase. I looked at the suitcase and he looked at me. I knew there was a small but efficient pistol inside it that Gunther knew how to use.
    When I left the two of them and walked back to the Crosley, I could hear music coming from the house. It was classical. It was serious. I was glad I didn’t have to stay and listen to it.
    There were voices coming from Mrs. Plaut’s apartment when I stepped as quietly as I could into the house. It was after eleven. I was drained. A session with Mrs. Plaut might well bring me to tears. I started up the stairs listening to Mrs. Plaut, whose voice carried as far north as Santa Barbara and as far east as the Arizona border.
    “It is pure fact, Mr. Voodoo,” she said.
    “And I believe it,” came Charlie Chaplin’s voice in answer.
    I had reached the stairs. I turned and found myself facing Jeremy Butler.
    “Would you like me to return in the morning?” he asked.
    “Does anyone else know he’s here?”
    “No,” said Jeremy. “He simply called his wife and told her he was doing research for the movie he was planning.”
    “ Lady Killer ,” I said.
    “ Lady Killer ,” Jeremy confirmed. “Toby, he is a bitter man.”
    “Did he complain about coming here?”
    “He sighed. I think he welcomed the opportunity to get away from phone calls and reporters.”
    “And let’s not forget lunatic assassins,” I said. “I think he is safe here from everything but Mrs. Plaut. Thanks, Jeremy.”
    “It was interesting,” he said. “I finished my Edgar Lee Masters poem. I want to work on it a bit. Perhaps I’ll read it to you tomorrow.”
    “I’m looking forward to it,” I said.
    “No, I don’t believe you are, but exposure to any poetry lightens the soul and touches the mind.”
    “I can use both,” I said.
    He nodded and moved