You,” he continued, pointing at me. “Come with us for a second.”
I followed the two cops out into the hall. Raymond started to follow but was waved back in by Sunset, who closed the door with one hand and held the ax with the other. He didn’t seem to be worrying about blood or fingerprints anymore. He lifted the ax up like a bat and began to swing at pitches from a Yankee down the hall. Preston came close enough so that I could smell his Sen-Sen.
“Peters,” he said. “Cut the shit. Tell these people to get their publicity some other way besides finding phantoms.”
“No shit here, Preston,” I said.
“We wouldn’t even be here if the Captain wasn’t afraid Stokowski would raise a stink,” he said. “And I don’t want to come back. We understand each other?”
“You want a murder,” I said.
“It helps,” he agreed. “Aren’t you a little old for this kind of garbage?”
“Aren’t you a little old to still be a sergeant?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Wife thinks it’s the name. You know, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon. Thinks the Captain won’t put me in for a promotion because he likes making the joke. I don’t contradict the wife, but the truth is I’m a mediocre cop waiting to collect pension. That’s just between you and me, right? I don’t want trouble.”
“Picked a strange profession,” I said.
“Poor vocational counseling,” he agreed. “Sunset should have been a ballplayer.”
We looked at the smiling Sunset wacking an imaginary homer into the right-field stands.
“But he took shrapnel in his shoulder back in the Battle of Midway,” Preston whispered. “He’ll just have to settle for being a cop.”
“Look,” Sunset said. “Mel Ott.” He set his feet wide apart and held the ax up high.
“You see where Branch Rickey just announced that the Dodgers were paying the Phils thirty thousand for Rube Melton? I could hit Melton. I could hit any right-hander last year.”
“I know,” Preston said. “Let’s get back to work. Crime is running rampant in the streets.”
That had been three hours earlier. They left, Lundeen sighed, then found Gwen and went down to interview the company and workmen.
It was a little after four when I left Lundeen, assuring him that the opera company was in good hands.
On the way down from Lundeen’s office I listened for footsteps, butterflies, and music, but heard none.
Raymond caught me in the lower lobby.
“Big nose and beard, little pointy red beard,” he said, stroking an imaginary beard under his chin.
“The Phantom?” I asked, walking on.
“Damned right,” he said.
“I thought you didn’t get out much?” I said.
“Not much,” he said, gangling after me as I hit the doors to the outside.
“That’s the description of the Phantom the opera director gives in the movie,” I said.
“Coincidence,” said Raymond.
“Why you wearing a shirt and tie and overalls, Raymond?” I tried.
He looked down at himself as if this were startling news.
“Want to look my best,” he said. “Make a good impression. Big things going on. Good-looking women. Want to keep working here when they pack up and leave.”
“You don’t think the opera is staying?” I asked, opening the door and looking down. One of the old lady pickets was gone, but the old man and the other woman were still holding their placards high.
“Nope,” Raymond said. “Smell funny in here to you?”
I sniffed.
“Plastery-like,” Raymond went on with a shiver. “Building liked itself the way it was. It was sleeping peaceful. Now they’re waking it up. It’ll get all this dust in its ducts and sneeze everyone out of here.”
“Except you,” I said.
“Probably,” he agreed. “I know places to get a good hold when the sneezing starts.”
“You’re a poet, Raymond.”
“Creativity runs in the family,” he said. “Father was a trumpet player. Got me my job here back when I came back from fighting Villa. Goin’ to
I followed the two cops out into the hall. Raymond started to follow but was waved back in by Sunset, who closed the door with one hand and held the ax with the other. He didn’t seem to be worrying about blood or fingerprints anymore. He lifted the ax up like a bat and began to swing at pitches from a Yankee down the hall. Preston came close enough so that I could smell his Sen-Sen.
“Peters,” he said. “Cut the shit. Tell these people to get their publicity some other way besides finding phantoms.”
“No shit here, Preston,” I said.
“We wouldn’t even be here if the Captain wasn’t afraid Stokowski would raise a stink,” he said. “And I don’t want to come back. We understand each other?”
“You want a murder,” I said.
“It helps,” he agreed. “Aren’t you a little old for this kind of garbage?”
“Aren’t you a little old to still be a sergeant?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Wife thinks it’s the name. You know, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon. Thinks the Captain won’t put me in for a promotion because he likes making the joke. I don’t contradict the wife, but the truth is I’m a mediocre cop waiting to collect pension. That’s just between you and me, right? I don’t want trouble.”
“Picked a strange profession,” I said.
“Poor vocational counseling,” he agreed. “Sunset should have been a ballplayer.”
We looked at the smiling Sunset wacking an imaginary homer into the right-field stands.
“But he took shrapnel in his shoulder back in the Battle of Midway,” Preston whispered. “He’ll just have to settle for being a cop.”
“Look,” Sunset said. “Mel Ott.” He set his feet wide apart and held the ax up high.
“You see where Branch Rickey just announced that the Dodgers were paying the Phils thirty thousand for Rube Melton? I could hit Melton. I could hit any right-hander last year.”
“I know,” Preston said. “Let’s get back to work. Crime is running rampant in the streets.”
That had been three hours earlier. They left, Lundeen sighed, then found Gwen and went down to interview the company and workmen.
It was a little after four when I left Lundeen, assuring him that the opera company was in good hands.
On the way down from Lundeen’s office I listened for footsteps, butterflies, and music, but heard none.
Raymond caught me in the lower lobby.
“Big nose and beard, little pointy red beard,” he said, stroking an imaginary beard under his chin.
“The Phantom?” I asked, walking on.
“Damned right,” he said.
“I thought you didn’t get out much?” I said.
“Not much,” he said, gangling after me as I hit the doors to the outside.
“That’s the description of the Phantom the opera director gives in the movie,” I said.
“Coincidence,” said Raymond.
“Why you wearing a shirt and tie and overalls, Raymond?” I tried.
He looked down at himself as if this were startling news.
“Want to look my best,” he said. “Make a good impression. Big things going on. Good-looking women. Want to keep working here when they pack up and leave.”
“You don’t think the opera is staying?” I asked, opening the door and looking down. One of the old lady pickets was gone, but the old man and the other woman were still holding their placards high.
“Nope,” Raymond said. “Smell funny in here to you?”
I sniffed.
“Plastery-like,” Raymond went on with a shiver. “Building liked itself the way it was. It was sleeping peaceful. Now they’re waking it up. It’ll get all this dust in its ducts and sneeze everyone out of here.”
“Except you,” I said.
“Probably,” he agreed. “I know places to get a good hold when the sneezing starts.”
“You’re a poet, Raymond.”
“Creativity runs in the family,” he said. “Father was a trumpet player. Got me my job here back when I came back from fighting Villa. Goin’ to
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