Witch Rhymes With ...

by Larry Kent

  “I understand you were friendly with Mrs. Delmar,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, and then went on to tell him about my visit the night before, the talk I had with Benny in the parking lot. “I also had a few words with Peller, the hotel detective,” I said.

  “Yes. Peller mentioned that. Was there someone with Mrs. Delmar?”

  “Yes. A fellow named Earl Salem. He owns Earl’s Court, a discotheque night-club in New York City.”

  “Do you have any idea of what his relationship was with Mrs. Delmar?”

  “They both said he was just a friend.”

  “Did you believe them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ballantine picked up a pencil, turned it over and over in his big hand. “In your opinion, Mr. Kent,” he said, “based on what you felt as much as what you saw last night, would you say that Salem and Mrs. Delmar were having an affair?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “Just possible?”

  “Likely.”

  “I see. Good. Would you go a little further and say she was in love with Salem?”

  “I don’t think Eve knew how to love anyone. She was too selfish for that.”

  Ballantine looked down at the pencil. “From all accounts, Mr. Kent, you spent quite a lot of time with Mrs. Delmar last night.”

  “About an hour, maybe more.”

  “What was the reason for your visit?”

  I guessed—no, I knew—that Ballantine had been in touch with Lieutenant Grady after Grady came to my apartment, and that Grady had told him about the woman phoning my answering service the afternoon before, claiming she was Eve Delmar—I knew this and Ballantine knew I knew it, but I repeated the whole story and he listened like it was news to him.

  “And she denied having made the phone call?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think she lied?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she seem frightened?—worried about something?”

  “Yes. But she wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  “Your personal card was found in her suite.”

  “I gave it to her.”

  “Why?”

  “She asked for it. She said she would contact me.”

  “On a business matter?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “She put it on a personal basis. But it was my impression that something was bugging her. When I left, I was pretty sure that she would be contacting me soon, and that she’d ask me to help her. Don’t ask me what kind of help she needed, I don’t know.”

  “You and she must have done a lot of talking, Mr. Kent. According to the timetable I’ve drawn up, you were in her suite for about an hour and fifteen minutes.”

  “That would be just about right. However, we didn’t talk all the time.”

  “Oh?”

  “I made love to her, Captain.”

  Ballantine stared into my eyes. “Thank you for being so honest with me.”

  I smiled. “It’s purely a matter of self-defense.”

  His smile was so brief and faint that I wasn’t sure I had seen it. He said, “Let’s talk about your friend, Jack Delmar. To your knowledge, does he have a gun?”

  “Yes. He keeps it in his New York apartment. I know about the gun because he got me to buy it for him. And I helped him get his license. This was after his apartment was broken into. The license gives him the right to keep the gun in the apartment only.”

  “I see. What kind of gun is it?”

  “A .38 Smith and Wesson revolver.”

  “Did he ever own a .38 Maratti revolver?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Did you know that Mrs. Delmar was killed with a .38 Maratti revolver?”

  “I knew only that it was a .38. The newsreader on the radio mentioned it.”

  “Did you know that Jack Delmar was here last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw his car about two miles from here, after I left. And I saw him behind the wheel. He was alone.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you speak to him this morning?”

  “Yes. I dialed his home number after hearing of the murder on the radio. When I didn’t get an answer, I dialed the number of his secretary and fiancée, Lila Reynolds. He was there. He had spent the night with Lila.”

  Ballantine’s, tiny frown told me that he didn’t approve of people like Jack and Lila—or of people like me for that matter. But there was too much good cop in him for him to allow personal feelings to get in the way of a murder investigation. He said:

  “I imagine you told him about the murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “Shock.”

  “Did he deny having killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still believe him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you know he was here last night?”

  “He admitted being here.”

  “Do you consider his admitting it to be proof of innocence?”

  “Not on its own. I just know he didn’t kill her.”

  “Do you have any evidence to support that statement?”

  “Yes. Eve told me she was going to give him a divorce.”

  “On what terms?”

  “Terms a lot easier than what she’d been demanding.”

  “Perhaps she just told you that to get rid of you.”

  “I didn’t come down here to discuss her troubles with Jack. I thought she needed my help on an unrelated matter.”

  “Oh, yes; it slipped my mind—that telephone call to your answering service.” Ballantine played with the pencil again. “Did you know that we have an eye witness who saw Jack Delmar enter his wife’s suite last night?”

  “Yes; Peller. And while we’re on the subject of Peller, I want to tell you something about him. He—”

  There was a rapping on the door.

  “Yes,” Ballantine said.

  The door opened wide enough for the cop to stick his head in. “Stanley Peller’s out here, Captain. He wants to—”

  “Tell him I’m busy,” Ballantine said.

  “But he insists on talking to you right now. He says it’s important. He knows Mr. Kent is here with you, and he says he wants him to hear what he’s got to say.”

  “I think I know what’s on his mind,” I said. I was about to ask for a few minutes on my own with the captain, but he said:

  “Send Peller in.”

  Peller entered the office. He still wore the heavy overcoat and all the buttons were in place. Peller smiled at me, looked a little sheepish. I didn’t like this at all.

  “Well, what is it?” Ballantine asked.

  Peller hunched his shoulders up. Half of the back of his head disappeared under the collar of the overcoat. “I’ve got something to confess,” Peller said in a small voice.

  “Out with it,” Ballantine said, sounding a trifle impatient.

  “I tried to play detective with Mr. Kent here,” Peller said apologetically. “You see, last night—like I told Mr. Kent in the parking lot a little while ago—I figured that he was sent down here by Mr. Delmar to talk Mrs. Delmar into an easy divorce. Then, when she was murdered ... well, all night long I was thinking about it. This morning I phoned Mr. Kent in New York. I thought he was in it with Mr. Delmar, and I figured maybe I could get some proof of it, so I told Mr. Kent that I would swear I saw Mr. Delmar leave his wife’s suite before the shot was fired—if Mr. Delmar would pay me twenty thousand dollars in cash.”

  “That part of it is right,” I said. “He did ask for twenty thousand. Only he wasn’t playing detective. He really wanted that money.”

  Peller showed his yellow teeth in a forgiving smile. “I don’t blame you for feeling like that. M
r. Kent, for being bitter about the whole thing. I should have known you wouldn’t have any part of a deal like that, what with your good reputation and all that.”

  “Go on,” Ballantine said. “Tell me the rest of it.”

  “Well, there’s not much more to tell, Captain. You see, I figured that if Mr. Delmar accepted the deal ... well, that’d be proof that he killed his wife. I mean, a man doesn’t give away a lot of money like that if he’s innocent. Naturally, I was going to bring the money straight to you, Captain, and tell you the whole story.”

  “Naturally,” Ballantine said dryly.

  “I was wrong. I know that now. I guess I should have known it from the beginning, but ... well, I wanted to try and help solve this thing.” Peller looked at me. “I want you to know how sorry I am, Mr. Kent.”

  I turned to Ballantine. “Get him out of here,” I said, “before I step on him.”

  Peller looked ready to cry. “I thought you might understand, Mr. Kent, you being a detective and all that.”

  I lit a cigarette.

  “That will be all,” Ballantine said to Peller.

  “Sure,” Peller said, backing to the door. “You know me, Captain—I want to give you all the help I can.”

  “Yes,” Ballantine said. “I know you.”

  “Thanks for seeing me and giving me a chance to straighten this thing out. So long.”

  Ballantine watched Peller let himself out, then he tossed the pencil on the desk and said something under his breath.

  I said, “I guess there’s no point in telling you that Peller tried to shake Jack Delmar down for twenty thousand before I saw Eve Delmar last night. He said he had some evidence that would help Jack get a quick divorce.”

  “I know what Peller is,” Ballantine said. “He’s a sneak, a liar, and perhaps a blackmailer.”

  “And worse,” I said, “with no perhaps about it.”

  “What do you suggest I do, Mr. Kent—throw him in jail?”

  “I know you can’t do that. Captain; it’s my word against his. But there’s also another thing you can’t do—and that’s accept Peller’s word against Jack Delmar’s.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to discuss that with the district attorney, Mr. Kent. Twenty minutes ago, Jack Delmar got into a police car in New York City. That car is now on its way here. When it arrives, I’m going to arrest Jack Delmar and charge him with the murder of his wife.”

  “On the evidence of a liar like Peller?”

  “That’s only part of it. This morning I traced the gun that killed Eve Delmar. It was sold in Asbury Park, about eighteen months ago. The purchaser has been positively identified … as Jack Delmar.”

  Chapter 5 ... letter from a lady ...

  I wanted to see Jack Delmar, but Ballantine told me that the district attorney had ordered that only Jack’s lawyer would be able to talk to him until further notice. I figured I’d hang around, anyway, but after a few hours of dodging newspaper reporters I got into my car and drove back to the city. I knew there was a good chance of reporters being in the lobby of my office building, so I used the fire stairs.

  There was a lot of mail on the floor near the letter-drop. I went through it. Nothing required answering, at least not right away. The phone jangled. It was my answering service. A woman named Daisy Ransom had been trying to get in touch with me. Reporters, of course, had called. I took down the woman’s number, dialed it.

  “This is Daisy Ransom speaking,” said the voice at the other end.

  “Larry Kent here. I understand you’ve been trying to reach me.”

  “Since ten o’clock this morning, Mr. Kent—ever since I learned that poor Eve was ... poor Eve ...”

  Oh-oh, I thought, a crying drunk. But she didn’t reach the tearful stage. “I want to see you right away,” she said.

  “What about?”

  “About Eve, of course.”

  “What’s your address?”

  She gave me a West Side address.

  “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” I said.

  “Bring some money,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  “What have you got to sell, Miss Ransom?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Information?”

  “Words on paper.” She laughed. “Paper for paper.”

  “All right, I’ll bring some money.”

  “Not just some money, Mr. Kent. Five hundred dollars. That’s my price. Oh, and pick up a bottle of gin on your way, hm? Good gin. I’m just about out.”

  “Beefeater all right?”

  “That’ll be fine. ’Bye.”

  I cradled the phone, went to the safe, opened it. The first thing I took out was my gun, then the money. My other gun was in my apartment. I didn’t take it with me to New Jersey because my license is good only for New York.

  The address Daisy Ransom gave me was in Slum Alley. There was a liquor store on the corner. I parked the Corvette, bought a bottle of London Beefeater gin, walked down the street. I came to Daisy Ransom’s building, climbed three flights of stairs. My nose told me that someone was making tortillas, another was frying fish. There were other odors, too, and the usual screamings and cryings and laughings. Daisy’s apartment number was fourteen. I walked past apartment thirteen. This was interesting. Thirteen. You will not find an apartment thirteen in any of New York City’s luxury buildings. There will be an apartment twelve A, then twelve B, then fourteen. You won’t ever find a thirteenth floor either. But I guess that when you’re poor you can’t afford to be superstitious.

  I rapped on the door, heard the patter of feet, then the door opened the length of a night-chain. A large brown eye peered out at me.

  “I’m Larry Kent,” I said, then lifted the bottle of gin from the bag, and let her see it.

  “Just a sec,” she said.

  The door closed, the night-chain was pulled free, the door opened. I stepped into the apartment. The bottle of gin was snatched from my hand.

  “Thanks,” Daisy Ransom said. I watched her tear off the seal and screw off the cap with a shaking hand. Then she put the bottle to her lips and took a big swallow. “Just couldn’t wait,” she said, coughing. “Good stuff, that. How about a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Gin isn’t my speed.”

  She walked to the table, poured three fingers of gin into a glass, added ginger ale from a bottle. Gin and ginger ale. I shuddered.

  “Make yourself comfy,” she said.

  I sat on a rickety chair. She took a long sip at her drink, sighed appreciatively. She had brown hair that was tied under a gay bandana. Her face was thin. She had high cheekbones and her brown eyes were set wide apart and at a slight angle, suggesting that somewhere in her family tree there was Chinese blood. She had a long, graceful neck. Her nose was a thin line to her nostrils, which flared out. A makeup expert could do a lot of things with her face; when he was finished she might be beautiful.

  But she needed no help with her figure. She had a high bosom, a very slim waist, flaring hips that gradually tapered into firm thighs and slim legs, a nice turn of ankle. All this was encased in a silk dressing gown that had seen a lot of wear. It was a wrap-around gown, belted loosely at the waist. The gown was not quite opaque. Where the silk touched her body, I could see the satiny sheen of her skin.

  “I’m sorry you won’t have a drink,” she said. “Are you a whisky man?”

  “Scotch and bourbon. Rye in a pinch.”

  “You should have picked up a bottle of that, too.”

  “I came here on business. Miss Ransom.”

  “Miss Ransom!” She laughed. “Boy, I must be slipping. Hey, it’s awful dark in here, isn’t it? Well, I’ll fix that.”

  She walked to the window, pulled at the shade, let it go all the way up. “There,” she said. “Much better, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She took a few steps, keeping herself in line with the window. Now the silk gown w
as transparent. She turned and I had a profile view of her silhouette. She threw back her head and drained her glass. Her breasts reached up, straining at the silk. Then she looked at me and smiled.

  “A woman has been murdered,” I reminded her.

  She looked down. Her lower lip trembled. “Poor Eve,” she murmured. She took a deep breath. “I used to see a lot of her in the bars on Forty-Seventh Street.”

  The B-girl bars, I thought.

  “She told me about you,” Daisy said. “That was before she got married. She had a thing going for you, Larry; I guess you know that. Thought you were a real man.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  “Only a few weeks ago. She came here to see me. She was cold sober. Maybe that was why she was scared. When Eve had some drinks in her, which was most of the time, she wasn’t afraid of anything. But this time she was a nervous wreck. We killed a whole bottle together before she stopped shaking.”

  “What was she afraid of?”

  Daisy walked to the table, her hips swinging provocatively. “That, Larry dear, is what the five hundred dollars is all about.” She poured gin into her glass. “Did you bring the money with you?”

  “Yes.”

  She half-sat, half-leaned against the table. The movement loosened the belt. The wrap-around silk began to slide. The inside of her thigh was a creamy flash of skin. She said, “Eve gave me a letter. She said I was to pass it on to you if something happened to her. She said you’d be willing to pay five hundred for it if she was murdered.”

  I didn’t believe the last part. Daisy was simply promoting herself a gin fund. But I wasn’t concerned about that. If Eve’s letter pointed in the direction of her killer, five hundred was a bargain price.

  “Eve told me you could be trusted,” Daisy said. “I think so, too. But maybe it’s a good idea if we keep things on a businesslike basis ... for the time being, anyhow.”

  “You want to see the money first,” I said.

  “That would be a good start, Larry.”

  The money was in my breast pocket. I took it out, got to my feet, walked to her. She pushed herself erect. The silk slid some more, moved a few inches beyond her cleavage. I saw deep ivory, the suggestion of pink ... Her eyes were on the money, hot and greedy. She reached for it. I let her take the money from me.