A Few Minutes Past Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page A

that I was a book editor. The origins of this idea were rooted even deeper into Mrs. Plaut’s imagination than the bug theory. And she saw no contradiction or clash between what she saw as my two professions.
    Mrs. Plaut had been writing her family history for almost two decades. Every week or so she gave me ten or so neatly printed pages. I paid my rent, took care of her infestations, and read her ever-growing, rambling epic.
    “Is Gunther there?” I shouted.
    “Mr. Wherthman?” she asked.
    “How many Gunthers do you have?” I asked.
    “At the moment, only one. I’ll get him. Oh, I finished another chapter. I’ll put it in your room. Please read it promptly. You took too long last time and I’m getting no younger.”
    “Which of us is?” I responded, but she had already gone in search of Gunther.
    I listened to Shelly humming the Maine fight song (trying for the Rudy Vallee nasal twang), looked at the blades of the fan, flipped the pages of the phone book, and scribbled some names, numbers, and addresses in my notebook while I waited.
    “Toby?” came Gunther’s voice.
    I imagined Gunther standing on his tiptoes and holding his head up to speak into the receiver. Gunther is a midget. Pardon me. He’s a little person, a very little person, perfectly proportioned, slim, always well groomed, usually wearing a suit and tie, often with a vest. He slept in a nightshirt.
    Gunther lived in the room next to mine at Mrs. Plaut’s. He had gotten me to move in more than three years ago after I helped him beat a murder charge.
    Gunther was Swiss. He could read and speak a bunch of languages, which was how he made a living. He did translations of books and articles from almost anything into English and occasionally from English into Hungarian or whatever was required. He worked in his room at a normal-sized chair at a normal-sized desk.
    “Gunther, how busy are you?”
    “Nothing that cannot wait if you have need for my services,” he said.
    “What do you think of Charlie Chaplin?”
    “As a comic actor he brings great humor and pathos to his film roles. I would rank him as a genius. He writes, directs, produces, and stars in his own films and he creates the music. His musical scores are …”
    “As a man,” I said.
    “Indiscretion sometimes results from the hubris of the very famous,” he said with a sigh. “It happened to the ancients, to great military leaders, musicians, artists, and to actors who believe they will be loved in spite of that which they might say or do. Mr. Chaplin is a victim of such indiscretion in his public utterances and, if the newspapers are to be believed, in his private affairs.”
    “I’m working for him,” I said. “Someone came to his door and threatened to kill him. I’ve got a few million suspects and one or two leads. The best one is a woman named Fiona Sullivan. I want to find her.”
    “You would like me to search for her?”
    “I would,” I said. “You might start with the Los Angeles phone book. There are a lot of Sullivans. I struck out on the first two F. Sullivans. The third doesn’t answer.”
    “You wish me simply to locate a woman named Fiona Sullivan?”
    “It may not be simple. If you’re lucky, it’ll just be boring.”
    “I will, of course, be pleased to help.”
    Gunther figured he owed his freedom, maybe his life to me. He had been accused of several murders, particularly the murder of another little person who had been in The Wizard of Oz as Gunther had. Gunther hadn’t been much of a suspect but he had been handy. He had an accent that sounded German, and he wore a little toothbrush mustache. He looked like a small Adolph or a tiny version of Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp if you were feeling charitable. Gunther had shaved off his mustache after he was cleared of the murder charge.
    “Great,” I said. “Call me in the office if you find her. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll check in when I get back to the house.”
    “And so it shall be,” he