by Kane, Henry
“You are the man,” she said.
“Me, man,” I simpered, half Tarzan, half Casanova, no Chambers.
“You are the man. You will go to Paris.”
“I’m going to Paris?” I said, no more Tarzan, no more Casanova, pure Chambers.
“You are the man. Gilmore and I have decided. Of course, he does not know about us, you and me. You will go to Paris. It is an important mission. Gilmore will provide the pay and expenses. You will seek out a man.”
“Rather seek out a lady.”
“Not now for jokes, dear Peter. It is important. You shall speak with Gilmore tomorrow and he shall tell you all. I am not to speak more. He does not know that we are in communication.”
“Communication,” I said. “That’s a new name for it.”
The hand in my lap was soothingly irritating, or vice versa. “We must not speak more of business. Let us speak of love.”
“Unspeakable love, yeah,” I said. “But just one lousy little question, my beloved.”
“Yes, dear Peter?”
“The man I’m supposed to seek out in Paris. Just his name.”
“Aristotle Skahnos,” she said.
We went home and we made love and it stank. The lady’s ulterior motives stuck out all over her. For her important mission the lady required an eye whom she could trust implicitly, and what is more implicit than the trust of love? The lady worked diligently at enrapturing me and I responded in kind. At this juncture in our brief affair the lady’s motives were as grossly apparent as the bulge in the tights of the male star of ballet. My motives, of course, were less obvious. Disenchanted, I remained a seemingly enraptured eye because, in this case, a seemingly enraptured eye was a snare for business. So I did my damned business in bed. I made love without love and it stank as all of you who have been avid clients of beautiful whores so despairingly know. In the morning I crept out of bed and admired tousled black hair spread formless and beautiful across innocent white pillow. I crept into my clothes and crept the hell out of there. I had had twenty-four hours of pure sweet love affair. How many of any of you can boast more?
EIGHTEEN
I arrived at my office promptly at ten o’clock and my secretary almost slipped from her swivel chair in surprise. She covered up by striking a light to the butt of her cigarette. My secretary was a chain smoker, but she smoked her cigarettes in installments: sort of a link chain smoker. She would use a few drags of a cigarette, expertly clip off the burning end, and save the char-headed stump for further drags. Thus she could light and smoke one cigarette five different times. Now she puffed steadily, reeking smoke, as she regained her composure. She was Miss Miranda Foxworth, aged but ageless, crusty, fusty, frumpy, grumpy, but as loyal, tenacious and great-hearted as an old English bull (which, somehow, faintly, she resembled). She said, finally, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I said as briskly as I could simulate.
“So early?” she said, too heavily pencilled eyebrows arching.
“Tribute or condemnation, dearest Miranda?”
“Mostly, like amazement.”
“Amazement, dear one, because a staunch private Richard forsakes the comfort of his bed to fend, bright and early, with the exigencies of business?”
“Not his bed,” she said.
“Pardon, dear Miranda?”
“I said not your bed, lying bastard.”
“So one speaks to the boss, Miranda? I must remember to cut out that under-the-table monthly bonus. I think it’s spoiling you.” I pulled up my lips and hoped it was a grin. “How would you know—not my bed?”
“I called you. You weren’t home.”
“I wasn’t. Where was I?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“But you seem to know—”
“I called you fifteen minutes ago. You weren’t home.”
“And why a call at so unearthly an hour?”
“You have a client,” she said.
“Hidden where?” I said.
“Inside. In your office.”
“So why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“I wanted the sleep to go out of your eyes. Your bags are showing, pappy. Maybe, one of these nights, you ought to sleep in your own bed.”
“I am seriously considering that, beloved.” I lit a new cigarette for her, placed it between her lips, kissed her head, kissed her nose, and entered into my office where I was greeted by a pair of gams.
Gams are legs. These legs lay upon my desk and they were charming to behold. They were sheathed in black nylon and the feet were encased in shiny black pumps. The gams were long and slender and exposed to the thighs, and the well-turned ankles were crossed. There is nothing like a good pair of gams on the desk to set up your morning. It is like a medicinal shot of matutinal whiskey after an all-night drunk. The gams were attached to Miss Lori Gilmore, slumped in a chair, legs up, deeply engrossed in a pocket-sized magazine devoted to yearly discourses pertaining to the content of tar and nicotine in leading-brand coffin nails. Miss Gilmore was attired in a rust-red suit; all her accessories were black.
“Hi,” I said.
The legs came down, the skirt was pulled, the magazine was laid away.
“Good morning,” she said.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I said, creaking into my desk chair. Mornings are not my best time.
“First I want to thank you for yesterday,” she said. “You were very kind and most considerate at … Mr. Martell’s place. If not for you …”
“You seem to have recovered quite well.”
Youth will have its way. The bloom was back upon her. The smoke-blue eyes were as inscrutable as ever, but the whites were clear; the mouth was as sullen and contemptuous as ever, but the blood was back in the lips. There were faint lines of dissipation in the face, but perhaps they had always been there and I had not noticed.
“Thank you,” she said. “Another thing—I’ve moved back to my father’s place.”
“I hope you notified Lieutenant Parker. I don’t like to be too blunt, Miss Gilmore, but you’re a suspect in this thing, no matter the kid-glove treatment.”
“I realize that,” she said. “I notified the Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, he asked me to remain at home, my new home—my old home, really, my father’s home—he asked me to remain at home this afternoon. He’s planning to come up to chat with me.”
“Perhaps you’d better have a lawyer there.”
She stiffened. “I don’t need a lawyer.”
“The kid-glove treatment doesn’t go on forever, Miss Gilmore.”
“I’ll risk it, Mr. Chambers.”
“Suit yourself,” I said. “Is that why you’re here so early this morning—to bring me up to date on chit-chat?”
The eyes showed disdain. The nostrils flickered as at a bad smell. “I’m here so that you may earn some money, Mr. Chambers.” She said it as though it were a crime.
“State your piece, my dear.” My back ached. I was thirsty for hair of the dog. Morning is not my time. Blood has to circulate. Mine was still congealed in adolescent disappointment.
“A possession of mine has disappeared,” she said.
“Don’t tell me you own half a tiara,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“I beg yours,” I said. “I ramble in the mornings. Morning is not my time. Possession?”
“A letter,” she said. “A letter of mine has disappeared.”
Hurriedly I lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke between us. “Letter?” I murmured mildly.
“It was a letter from Barry Miller.”
“Barry Miller!!” I said, with exclamation points. “You know what happened to—”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“Please go on,” I said in the sympathetic, gruff-hearty tones of an inspector at Scotland Yard—all I needed was long underwear, a tweed suit, a walrus mustache, a British accent, a right-hand drive, socialized medicine, and a dis
arming manner.
“It was a letter,” she said, “from Barry Miller addressed to me. It was stamped, not sealed, and it had not gone through the mails. Mr. Miller brought it to me at Miss Greco’s party Monday night. He told me there was no copy.”
“So?”
“Remember we had all been drinking a bit?”
“I remember,” I said. “What do you remember?” Now I needed a curved pipe and stinking tobacco. All I had was the tail end of a cigarette which I squashed to neutral.
“I remember,” she said, “skimming through that letter. I remember putting it into my handbag. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” I said with relief.
“That party got kind of wild after a while. I tried to do some interpretive dancing on my own. I got home late. I went directly to sleep. I was tight and rather disturbed.”
“About the contents of that letter?”
“Yes.”
“And what were such contents?”
“I’d rather not discuss that.”
“Why?”
That sat her back on her pretty ass for a moment but she came up swinging like a marijuana group at a progressive-jazz session. “Because that is my business and none of yours, Mr. Chambers.”
“Please continue,” I said, once more the inspector at Scotland Yard, with tea in the offing, or in the urn, or in the tea pot, or in the pee pot, or what the hell ever? Crass, eh, these American Richards? Lay not, kindly, the blame like a blanket on all. Never generalize. Put it down to the fact that pale morning is not my time and brush away a compassionate tear.
“I went shopping that morning, Tuesday morning.”
“In the rain?”
“Yes.”
“What did you buy?”
“Nothing. Women shop first by looking. Also it is therapeutic. Looking-shopping is therapeutic. I wasn’t feeling well. I was disturbed. I went looking-shopping, as therapy.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Afterward, I went to … to Martell’s place.”
“Hold it a moment, please.”
“Yes?”
“Between sort of eleven and sort of eleven-thirty, in the rain on Tuesday, you were looking-shopping?”
“Yes.”
“Which is not, of course, provable.”
“And why must it be?”
“Because that’s approximately when Martell was blasted. Funny,” I said. “Men’s stupid alibis run to going to movies; women’s stupid alibis run to shopping.”
“Now look here, Mr. Chambers!”
“Just a comment, my dear. Nothing personal. Purely comment.”
She lit a cigarette with strong, long fingers. “Then I went to Martell … and you know about that.”
“Yes.”
“And then the policeman took me downtown.”
“Yes.”
“And then I went home.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s when I went to my bag, the bag I had worn Monday night.”
“But didn’t you change its contents?”
Impatiently she said, “Yes, I did, my compact and things, but I didn’t look for that letter, not at that time, not when I was quickly changing. Anyway, when I got back yesterday afternoon, I did look, specifically, for that letter. I wanted to reread it. It was gone.”
“Gone,” I said, giving it a light touch.
“Damned gone,” she said. “It was either stolen at Sherry’s party Monday night, or it was stolen from my apartment during Tuesday.”
“What do you want me to do, Miss Gilmore?”
“I want you to find that letter, Mr. Chambers.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important to me.”
“Why?”
She rubbed out her cigarette. She said, “Must you poke?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then don’t.” She opened her bag. “I’m prepared to pay a reasonable fee.”
“Why didn’t you come to me in the first place, Miss Gilmore?”
“First place?”
“Instead of Barry Miller.”
“Well, I knew Miller was associated with Martell and—” She stopped. The smoke-blue eyes hit mine with impact; then they dropped. “I was acquainted with Mr. Miller. I had heard about you, but I was not acquainted with you.”
“And now you are acquainted with me.”
“Yes, now I’m acquainted with you.” She flashed her checkbook like a foil. “How much, Mr. Chambers?”
“For free, Miss Gilmore.”
One eyebrow cocked. The blonde hair tossed as the face slanted. A little smile made her mouth suggestive. She swished one black-gleaming knee over the other without thought to her skirt. Maybe she was flirting with me. Nothing would help her. How many bullets does a man have? I was saving a few for a certain saucy, indifferent, arrogant, contumelious, belly dancer. A man’s powers of revitalization slow down after thirty, and I was after thirty. Some other time, Miss Gilmore. For you I would first have to take a vacation. I would go to a milk farm and milk cows or something.
“For free?” she said. “Why?”
“I’m stuck on you,” I said.
“Oh, now, really, Mr. Chambers.”
“Really, Miss Gilmore.” I stood up and came out from behind the fence of desk.
She did a cute shake of bosom. “But then I’ll be indebted to you, Mr. Chambers.”
Wearily I said, reciting old lessons: “Young and beautiful as you—I’d want you indebted to me.”
She stood up and drew herself alongside of me and I began to forget about reserve supplies of bullets and revitalization. I was being revitalized right there on the spot. “You turn up that letter for me,” she whispered, “and you’ll receive a fee you’ll never forget.” And the little bitch bit my ear.
“Don’t!” I said.
“Sensitive?” she said and danced toward the door.
“Mostly in the morning,” I said.
“Perhaps it’s all for the best,” she said. “Things happen, somehow, for the best.”
“Only when you’re young,” I grieved.
“Martell was a horror, the son of a bitch,” she said. “This—what happened—has cut it for me. Like being snapped out of hypnosis, you know? I’m going to Europe. I’m going to spend a year in London. I’m leaving in three weeks. My father is making the arrangements.”
“With the co-operation of the cops?”
“Oh, they won’t stop me.”
“Don’t depend on that.”
“I’m going to Europe,” she said, hand on knob. “And I’ll forget Martell, and I’ll forget Clayton, and I’ll forget MacDougal Street, and I’ll forget beatniks and jazz and crazy poetry.”
“Will you forget Sherry Greco?”
“I hope,” she said before she had time to think. “Maybe that’s why I’m going to Europe.” And then the blue eyes turned to stone.
“Good-bye, Miss Gilmore.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Chambers. You’re an awfully frigging clever bastard, aren’t you?”
NINETEEN
I needed a drink but I waited for the phone call. It had been a rough night and I was slightly hung and needed a couple of shots of stimulation to smooth me into the new day, but I swung in the swivel chair waiting for the phone call and soon enough it came. Miranda buzzed me and informed me that Mr. Gilmore wished to speak to Mr. Chambers. Mr. Chambers, after the appropriate business-like delay, accepted the call. Mr. Gilmore invited Mr. Chambers to his shop. Mr. Chambers accepted the invitation, inquired when. Mr. Gilmore stated that he was waiting right now. Mr. Chambers informed that he would be along in short order. Mr. Gilmore thanked him and hung up and Mr. Chambers whizzed the hell out of there as though propelled by a poltergeist.
Across the street from my office building exists one of the few remaining saloons in America undefiled by television and undinned by jukebox. It is called Trennem’s Dark Morning Tavern and its hallowed interior has stained-glass windows, sturdy, dark-red m
ahogany bar, dark-red wood-paneled walls, and faint yellow lights. It is cool, dim, quiet, tranquil, and dignified. When I entered, Mr. Trennem, behind the bar, did not greet me effusively. Mr. Trennem, huge and portly within his immaculate apron, had been behind the stick for forty years, and Mr. Trennem knew better than to greet morning-type customers effusively. As a matter of fact, Mr. Trennem did not greet me at all. He granted me the favor of permitting me to climb upon my stool in grateful silence. Studded throughout the place, like sparse cloves in an insufficiently spiced ham, were other wan business executives morosely mending last night’s sins. A good saloon is at its most charming in the morning. Its well-dressed customers are like penitent wraiths fugitive from a recently raided haunted house of ill repute. There is no back-slapping and camaraderie. Nobody buys drinks for the house. Nobody tells dirty stories. Nobody thickly says, “Now I resent that.” Nobody says, “This is a sad old town when you’re a stranger. Where you from, Mac?” Nobody says, “Why, a call girl in this burg is like fifty bucks. Back where I come from, a broad appreciates like when you buy her a few drinks and …” And nobody sings “My Melancholy Baby.”
Mr. Trennem said, “What will it be, Mr. Chambers?”
“Double Scotch Sour, not too sweet, Mr. Trennem.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Chambers.”
I drank and my burdens began to dissipate, and hunger nudged at me. “Mr. Trennem,” I said, “how’s about something to munch?”
“I’ve got some roast suckling pig cooking back there,” Mr. Trennem said. “It’s what we’re going to serve for lunch. Delicious. I’ve been making a roast suckling pig out of myself just lapping up the scraps.”
“Mr. Trennem, you’re making my mouth water.”
“Why don’t you go into one of the back booths, Mr. Chambers, and I’ll make you up a sandwich.”
“Mr. Trennem, please do.”
I knocked off the remains of the Sour and went to the booth. Mr. Trennem brought me a pork sandwich on French bread deeply dipped in gravy and my gastric juices jumped like a sensitive gal insensitively goosed.