Curves Can Kill

by Larry Kent

  I turned the key, pushed the door open, backed to the safety of the wall. Then I listened, but all I heard was the buzz of silence that is the muted cacophony of Manhattan’s million-and-one noises. The only time there is real silence in Manhattan is during a heavy snowstorm.

  I waited maybe twenty seconds, then I snaked my arm inside the room, found the light switch, flicked it on. A man can wait quietly in a dark room; but when the lights go on, he usually makes some kind of a move. I heard nothing. Still, I waited maybe another twenty seconds before entering the apartment fast and low, gun out and ready. There was no one in the living room. I closed the door, went from room to room, looked in the closets, even under the bed. It began to look as though the circle of plastic had slipped from the door. Maybe I hadn’t wedged it in as firmly as I thought.

  I slid my .45 back into its holster, poured a drink, lit a cigarette, flicked on the TV set, got a panel show. I twisted the dial around. A soap opera, an old movie with Warren Williams and Claudette Colbert, another panel show, another soap opera, a kiddie show. It was too early for the afternoon news. I made the screen go black again. A second drink, another cigarette. I was stalling. There was packing to do for the trip to New Hampshire. Like most bachelors, I hate to pack. But it had to be done, so finally I forced myself to go into the bedroom and lift down a suitcase from the shelf in the closet. I laid the suitcase open on the bed, went to the dressing table, grabbed the handle on the top drawer—and froze.

  My heart swelled, stopped, pounded. My fingers slid from the drawer handle. The palm of my hand felt slimy; I rubbed it on my trousers. It had been a near, near thing.

  A thin cord, painted to match the wood of the dressing table, was attached to the base of the drawer handle. The other end of the cord was inside the drawer. A booby trap, and I was almost a booby.

  I rummaged in my fishing tackle box, found a spool of fifty pound-test nylon. Carefully, I tied the nylon line to the drawer handle, played out line as I walked into the living room. Then, with two walls between me and the dressing table, I took up the slack, pulled. The nylon line stretched. I kept pulling and the line kept stretching. But finally I felt the drawer give and open. There was a muffled explosion, like a firecracker going off under a tin can.

  I returned to the bedroom. There was some smoke, the smell of cordite and burnt cloth. Screwed inside the drawer was a metal cylinder with a wide bore. A do-it-yourself shotgun, cheap and simple, but deadly. The cylinder was slanted upwards. If I had been standing in front of the dressing table when it went off, I would have been hit in the middle of the chest. I turned around. The wall was pocked with a wide pattern, about seven feet up. I tore the cylinder from the drawer, shook out a shotgun cartridge.

  I examined all the other drawers. They didn’t seem to be booby-trapped, but I wasn’t taking any chances—I opened them all from a distance with the nylon line. After that I gave the apartment a careful search. As far as I could see, there were no more surprises.

  I poured another scotch. This one I needed. So I made it a long one. Then I changed my mind and poured it back in the bottle and replaced it with bourbon. Scotch for taste, bourbon for emergencies. I took a good belt and sat down and sipped at the rest. The boys, I thought, were still active. This had to mean the other side didn’t have possession of Strep 3. Had to? It didn’t have to mean anything of the kind, I told myself. Lee could be right: maybe they were just going through the motions, hoping to give our side the impression that Strep 3 was not motivated by a desire for revenge for the deaths of Kristo and the other two; such noble thoughts as this are simply not part of the spy game.

  The phone jangled. I pressed the receiver to my ear, said my name.

  “This is Rita Duncan, Mr. Kent.”

  I slid into character. “Hi there. Can’t wait until tomorrow to hear my voice, eh?”

  “Mr. Howard asked me to call. He wants to know if it’s all right if we leave a little earlier.”

  “Suits me just fine. I’m ready to leave right now. Want to come over and talk about it?”

  “We’ll arrive outside your apartment building at about half past eight.”

  “Check. Say, Rita, a wonderful thought just occurred to me. Why don’t you get into my car in the morning? Then, if we lose Lee on the way, you can give me directions.”

  “But I don’t know how to get there.”

  “Hasn’t Lee ever taken you up to his place?”

  “No.” Never had a negative been so affirmative.

  “Sorry,” I said. “My mistake.”

  “Yes, Mr. Kent. Goodbye.”

  Click!

  I cradled the phone, drained the last of the bourbon, leaned back, lit a cigarette ... and watched the doorknob turn. It turned all the way, moved back slowly to its original position.

  I got to my feet, slid out the .45, walked quietly to the kitchen, stood behind the door. A key grated in the front door, was moved back and forth, withdrawn. A skeleton key. Soon another key was inserted. This one turned the lock tongue. The door opened, closed. I heard the soft, slow pad of footfalls, counted them. When I was sure my visitor had reached the bedroom doorway I stepped out. He heard me—but he had his back to me.

  “I have a gun,” I said.

  He didn’t move.

  “You, too, have a gun,” I observed. “But you’re framed in the doorway. You present a target I couldn’t miss. My gun is a .45, by the way. Have you ever seen what happens to a man’s innards when a soft-nosed .45 slug passes through?”

  He dropped his gun.

  “That’s a good start,” I said. “Now take three steps back ... That’s a good boy. All right—about-face.”

  He turned around.

  “Well,” I said. “The last time I saw you, you were walking down Sixth Avenue.”

  His eyes blinked and his lips worked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You weren’t standing across the street from the Montpelier Building pretending to read a newspaper a couple of hours ago?”

  “No.”

  “No? I could have sworn it was you. What’s your name?”

  “Uh—Flag. Jim Flag.”

  “One ‘g’ or two?”

  His cheek twitched. “One.”

  “Flag with one g. Good. I like to get a fellow’s name right. Jim, I’ve got to congratulate you. That was a beautiful booby-trap.”

  “A what?” He grinned foolishly. “I don’t get you, sir.” The “sir” was a gem.

  “You didn’t set the booby-trap?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Well, I …”

  “You’re not a plumber, by any chance?”

  He wasn’t very well equipped in the brains department, but he wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t know I was having him on. And now he was scared. He swallowed saliva, worked hard to generate some more in his dry mouth.

  “What are you going to do with me?” he asked.

  “That’s a legitimate question, Jim. I could turn you over to the cops.”

  “Don’t ... don’t do that,” he said. But his eyes gave him away. He wanted to be placed in the hands of the police. He knew what to expect from the police.

  “Why shouldn’t I turn you in to the cops?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’ll be charged with attempted murder,” I said.

  “Murder?” He pronounced it with the accent on the second syllable, like it was a word he wasn’t familiar with. “I ... I wasn’t going to use that gun.”

  “How about the booby-trap?”

  “I tell you, sir, I don’t know anything about a booby-trap. I ... I’m a burglar.”

  I laughed. He looked down at his feet.

  “Who paid you to kill me?” I asked, still laughing.

  “Nobody.” He blinked his eyes double-time and shook his head. “I’m no killer.”

  “You’re just a burglar, eh?”

  “That’s the truth.” />
  “A common, decent, hard-working burglar.”

  He looked down at his feet again. I uncradled the phone and his eyes came up. I started to dial.

  “Are you calling the cops?”

  “No. Just ... Z Detail.”

  A little grunt came out of him. Things happened very quickly from that point. He threw himself straight back, twisted in the air. I cradled the phone. He landed on his stomach, reached out for his gun. I got to him just as his hand closed around the butt. I kicked him in the neck and he let go of the gun and choked. I lifted him to his feet, manhandled him to a chair, sat him down. He fought to get his breath. I lifted the phone and dialed the local Z Detail number. Jim Flag—if that was his name—was hurting, but he watched my every move, his eyes growing larger and brightening with cold fear.

  A male voice filtered through the receiver. “Hello. Who’s speaking, please?”

  “Larry Kent,” I said.

  A brief pause. “Middle initial, please.”

  “Patrick.”

  “Social security number?”

  “One-three-eight dash twelve dash four-one-three-eight. Would you like my army serial number, too?”

  “We’ve got to be sure, Kent; you know that. I never met you, remember. Be satisfied that we don’t insist on long quotations from Shakespeare.”

  “Right now,” I said, “something from Hamlet would be appropriate. I have a guy here who tried to make a skull out of my handsome head.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “My apartment.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Somebody set a booby-trap for me. I made it go off without getting myself killed. The guy probably waited outside, heard the explosion, and let himself in.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Alive?” I smiled at Jim Flag. “Yes, he’s alive. What do you want me to do with him?”

  “Hold him. I’ll get a man over to your apartment.”

  “Only one man?”

  “What do you think we are, the CIA? Our man’s name will be Rudy. Expect him in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Right.”

  I cradled the phone, walked across the room, picked up Jim Flag’s gun. It was a short-barreled .32 revolver, pearl-handled.

  “A lady’s gun,” I said. “How’s your neck?”

  “Go to hell,” he said.

  “Ten-to-one you beat me there. And before you’re even dead.”

  He sagged. A few sob-like sounds came out of him. I put his gun in my pocket, walked to the cocktail cabinet, poured a drink. Scotch this time. I sipped, enjoyed the smooth warmth of the liquor.

  “I’m just a nothing,” Jim muttered.

  “Talking to me?” I asked.

  He reached out to me imploringly. “I take orders, that’s all. They keep everything else to themselves. I’m telling you the truth—I don’t know anything that’s important.”

  “You may know more than you think, Jim.”

  “Just some names, that’s all.”

  “Addresses?”

  “That’s all. Things like that. I could give you all that right now.” He started to talk fast. “Names, addresses, everything I know. I’ll give ’em to you, Kent. I’ll write ’em out. Just give me a chance.”

  “Sorry, Jim. All I can give you is a drink.”

  “But they’ll kill me!”

  “Maybe not. In fact, you’ve got more of a chance with them than with your own people. You were supposed to get rid of me and you goofed it. You don’t think they’re going to forget and forgive, do you?”

  “But I can run! Listen! Give me a pen and paper and I’ll write down everything I know. Everything, Kent! I swear it!”

  “I believe you, Jim. But if I let you go, what would I tell my own people?”

  “You’re not a Z Detail man.”

  “Right now I am.”

  “But you’re not like the rest of them. I know about you. You’re a private eye. I heard all about you. You don’t kill like they do. They don’t care.”

  I shook my head.

  He rose a few inches from the chair. He was shaking all over. “Money? Huh? I’ve got some money, Kent. It’s yours.”

  “If I wanted your money, I could have taken it.”

  “I don’t mean on me. I’ve got some salted away. You come with me and I’ll give it to you. All of it, Kent. Eight grand. It’s yours.”

  “No, Jim.”

  He was standing now. And crying.

  “Sit down,” I ordered.

  His body shook with deep, wracking sobs. I started to turn away. He saw his chance and ran—straight at the window. I cut him off, hit him with a shoulder block. He rolled on the carpet and lay there, sobbing. He was afraid, all right. Outside the window there was nothing but empty air, and the ground was about forty-five feet below.

  I sat down close to him, kept my eyes on him, ready to slug him with the gun. But he had no fight left in him. He lay there, not moving, as the minutes passed. Finally, the door buzzer went.

  “Who is it?” I called out.

  “Rudy’s cleaning service.” boomed a big voice.

  “Just a minute.”

  I opened the door. A round-faced fellow looked in at me. He wore a blue uniform with Rudy’s Cleaning Service stitched across the left side of the coat. A cap sat on the back of his head. He was big all over. There was a livid scar that ran from beneath his left ear to his chin.

  “I’m Rudy,” he said. “You’re Lawrence Patrick Kent and your social security number—”

  “Forget it. Come in. There’s your man.”

  Rudy walked to where Jim Flag lay. He looked pleasant, even jovial. He said, “Doesn’t seem like much, does he? Are you sure he’s with the opposition?”

  “He knows about Z Detail,” I said.

  “I understand he tried to kill you.”

  “Twice. Then he tried to jump out the window.”

  “That a fact? Now why would a man want to do a thing like that? Y’know, sometimes I just don’t understand the opposition.” His eyes twinkled. Deep dimples appeared in his cheeks. “You shouldn’t feel like that, friend,” he said to Jim as he gave him a short, vicious kick to the ribs. Jim moaned. “Ah. You’re alive. I wasn’t sure.”

  “Knock it off,” I said.

  Rudy gave me a curious look. “They’re not people,” he said quietly. “As soon as you realize they’re not people, the rest is easy.” His dimples deepened. “Welcome to the club, Kent.”

  “I’m only an honorary member,” I said.

  “I know. But I was told to treat you like one of us. I guess the big man knows what he’s doing.”

  I found myself wondering where Dumbrille had got Rudy from.

  “Get up,” Rudy said to Jim, who didn’t move. Rudy gave him another kick in the ribs. Jim got up. “Sit down.” Jim sat. Rudy took something out of a pocket. “Open your mouth and swallow this.”

  Jim stared hard at the large blue capsule that Rudy pushed at him.

  “He thinks it might be poison.” Rudy chuckled.

  Kristo’s image flashed into my mind ... Kristo, holding the hypodermic needle over my arm. Did being on the right side make Rudy a better man than Kristo? I wondered. Almost immediately I felt a stab of guilt. Kristo was the enemy; Rudy was wrapped in the stars and stripes. It was obvious that I was no longer suited to this kind of work. It had been different once—when I was young and eager. Yet ... Rudy was older than me; and there was Dumbrille, of course. The truth was, our country needed men like these; men who applied themselves to all assignments, washing clean their memories of the nasty things. My head whirled. Thoughts ran together. Best not to think, I decided.

  “Open your mouth,” Rudy said pleasantly. “No? Well, there are other ways to put a man to sleep ...” He made a fist of his free hand, pressed his fist against Jim’s chin. Jim opened his mouth and Rudy pushed the pill in. “That’s the way to do it.”

  “How long will it take to work?” I asked.

&
nbsp; “Not long. Couple of minutes.”

  “How are you going to get him out of here without being seen?”

  “Oh, that’s no problem. I don’t care if a hundred people see me, a thousand.” Rudy patted his pockets. “Got a smoke? I’m fresh out.”

  I gave him a Camel, stuck one in my own mouth. Rudy gave me a light from a paper match.

  “I wish ...” It was Jim Flag talking. He was sprawled back in the chair, looking at the ceiling, his face slack. “... wish ... it was poison.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” Rudy said.

  “I’ll talk ...”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Tell ... everything ...”

  “Everything? I doubt it, friend. No matter how much you tell, there’s always something else. But never fear, we’ll dig it out.”

  Jim’s head lolled, then his eyes slowly closed and his chin fell against his chest. His arm slid from the chair and swung limply. Rudy took a long draw on the Camel, squashed it out in an ashtray.

  “You have a dirty rug,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “It is a little dirty.”

  “Well, you won’t know it after we get finished. Will you give me a hand?”

  We moved a few pieces of furniture to free the rug. Rudy lifted Jim Flag from the chair, laid his body flat on the edge of the rug, rolled the rug into a tight cylinder with Jim in it. He bent, threw the rug over his shoulder, started whistling a gay tune.

  I opened the door for him. He touched the visor of his cap and said, “Like I told you, Mr. Kent, you’ll never know this old rug of yours when we’re finished with it.”

  I closed the door behind him, sat down and forced myself not to speculate on what would happen to Jim Flag—or whatever his name was. I knew that Baxter Dumbrille would approve of the way I’d handled the affair. If there had been a gunfight, the police would have come into it. Which would have been awkward—for me, not for Dumbrille or Z Detail; Dumbrille had made it plain that his organization operated only in a covert fashion, and under no circumstances would he admit to its existence. If I got into something that brought publicity with it, I could forget Z Detail; I’d be on my own. If an attempt was made to prove that Z Detail existed, it would simply cease to exist, and Dumbrille would be a sick old man. Leader of a secret organization? Ridiculous. But then, as soon as the heat was off, Dumbrille would be calling the shots again, from a new location, and the organization would have a fresh name.