By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  He stared at me. I stared back. We sat like that for a few moments, two cats ready to fight. He gave in first.

  “Very well, then. Monday I was gambling. All night. I had a beautiful blonde on one arm and a redhead on the other. There’s no way I was going to leave them alone to shoot poor Eli. Besides, I was winning big.”

  A smile oozed its way onto his broad face, daring me to speak. I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Naturally, if I have to repeat that in court, you’ll find me with an entirely different alibi. Airtight, of course.” He leaned back in his thick leather chair and folded his hands across his ample belly. “You see, I’m a respectable man in this town, Mr. Drake. I can’t be seen gambling, cavorting with prostitutes, or conspiring to murder. That just wouldn’t do.”

  I nodded. “I do appreciate your honesty, Mr. Gneiss.”

  “Mr. Drake, honesty is my policy.” With this he rose to his feet, squeezed out a patronizing smile, and extended a hand toward the door. “Now, please. I really must get back to work.”

  “Right. I’ve got a few things to do myself. Thanks for your time.” I pulled myself out of the chair.

  “If you need anything else, my assistant Rex will gladly be of service.” If Rex was the fellow I ran into out front, I somehow doubted his assistance would come gladly.

  I quickly found my way back to the reception area. I wanted to ask my friend with the phone a few questions before I got out of there. This time, instead of the phone, he was playing with an issue of Business Week. I cleared my throat and pointed down the hall with a jerk of my chin.

  “Quite some guy, your boss.”

  His head snapped up out of the magazine as he quipped: “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” His voice swelled with pride. “He’s the Bugsy Siegel of Testacy City, you know.”

  I failed to stop a short burst of laughter from jumping out of my mouth. “Those his words or yours?”

  His lips formed a slippery smile. “All mine.”

  I nodded. “So, Rex, is it?”

  “Yes, Rex Mayer.”

  I’ve always found that a man with integrity offers his hand for a shake when he introduces himself. Rex made no such offer.

  “So, Rex, did you interact much with Eli Hathaway?”

  “Of course. Until Tuesday, I took care of his needs as well as those of Mr. Gneiss.”

  “And you got along with him?”

  “Yes, yes.” He dismissed my question with a wave of his hand, much in the same fashion as his boss.

  “What about Mr. Gneiss?”

  “I get along with him very well.”

  “No, I mean did Gneiss get along with Hathaway?”

  “Of course they got along. They were partners.”

  “Your boss told me he and Hathaway weren’t seeing eye-to-eye lately.”

  “Well . . . that’s sort of true, I guess. Though they didn’t argue nearly as much as Mr. Hathaway and Mrs. Hathaway did.”

  He just sat there, grinning up at me, trilling his fingers on the desk.

  I’d had enough of his cute self-righteousness. “Where were you Monday night?”

  “Not at the Hathaway house,” he chuckled. “Mr. Gneiss will vouch for my whereabouts.”

  The phone jangled loudly, interrupting this dead-end conversation. Rex, still grinning, snatched it up. “Gneiss Property.”

  Nice indeed. Nice as a pit of vipers. I wasted no time getting out of there.

  * * *

  I steered my powder-blue 1965 Galaxie 500 through the dusty streets of Testacy City. I was born here, had spent most of my life here, and still loved this place. Sure, it had more than its fair share of crime, but it had loads of character as well. A Vegas-style convention center would strip that character clean away, leaving Testacy City nothing but the soulless husk of a tourist trap.

  If Eli Hathaway stood against that, then I was truly sad to see him go. It was too late for me to prevent his death, but there was still time for me to bring his killer to justice. So I skipped lunch, deciding I’d rather head to the office and try to throw some more pieces of this puzzle into place.

  I climbed the familiar steps of the William Kemmler Building, thinking about which piece to play with first. I wanted to follow up with both Sissy and Jasper, preferably separately. I didn’t think I could trick Norman Gneiss into letting something slip, but I could certainly outthink Rex Mayer. A return visit, however distasteful that seemed, was definitely in order. And I still had to talk with Kenneth the butler, probably when I looked over what remained of the crime scene. Not to mention that I needed to learn more about Eli’s death from someone who could give me some straight facts.

  As I pulled open the door to the cluttered office of the agency, Rhoda Chang handed me a slip of paper with a message from Sissy Hathaway. Rhoda had checked the little “please call” box with one of her perfectly shaped check marks.

  Once I settled into my desk chair, I flipped to a clean page in my legal pad and dialed the number on the slip. A man picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “Hathaway residence.” He spoke in a rich, honeyed voice with a slight British accent. I guessed this would be Kenneth.

  “Sissy Hathaway, please. This is Ben Drake, returning her call.”

  “Yes sir. Just a moment, sir.”

  The receiver thunked down, and I heard a man’s heavy footfalls fade behind the low hiss of static that crackled over the phone. A moment later, the smooth old voice returned.

  “Unfortunately, sir, I’m afraid that Mrs. Hathaway is not presently at home. She did, however, leave a message for you, Mr. Drake.”

  I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I spoke up. “Well, are you going to give it to me?”

  “What is that, sir?”

  “The message Sissy left for me.”

  “Absolutely, sir . . . ah, hold on, please . . . I had it here just a moment ago . . . yes, here we are, sir. The message reads: Please inform Detective Drake that I request his company for dinner at the Long Mile Supper Club, tonight at seven. Tell him I hope to discuss Eli’s death someplace less intimidating than a detective agency.”

  “That’ll be no problem,” I replied. “Say, is Jasper Hathaway there?”

  “No sir.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Ah, let me think . . . if I remember correctly he was accompanying Mrs. Hathaway when she departed.”

  “So you’re not sure if they left together?”

  “No sir, they did leave together. I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve been quite distracted lately. This whole business has been extremely dreadful.”

  “Murder is never anything but dreadful,” I responded.

  “Yes sir. Again, please forgive me. I’m under a bit of a strain.”

  “No need to apologize, I’ve been there myself. Tell Sissy I’ll see her at dinner.” I hung up and laced my hands behind my head and got to thinking.

  I had signed up quite a cast of characters for this caper. I needed to get a few more hard facts, and they needed to come straight from Eli Hathaway himself. I snatched up the phone again. This time I dialed the county morgue.

  The line rang about fifteen times, and I was just about to hang up when it stopped. A voice came over the receiver: “Morgue.”

  The voice, full of authority yet soft and inviting, belonged to Rebecca Hortzbach, Testacy City’s ace medical examiner and a good friend of mine. I first met her years ago when a drunk driver killed my wife. Rebecca helped me deal with her death and get on with my life. For that I will always be grateful to her.

  “Hey, Rebecca, it’s Ben.”

  “Ben! Sorry it took me so long to get the phone, I was just finishing up looking at last night’s casualties.”

  I heard the familiar tink of a Zippo lighter, followed by the sizzling of a freshly lit cigarette. Rebecca chain-smoked like no one else I’d ever met. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without a cigarette stuck in her mouth or dangling from her fingers. I always reason
ed that working all day in a building reeking of rotting flesh gave her the right.

  The sound of the burning tobacco made my mind hungry for a cigar. I propped the phone between my chin and shoulder and dug out my tin of J. Cortès Grand Luxes from my suit coat pocket.

  I popped it open, took out a slim cigar, and stuck it between my teeth. “Then you saw Trout Mathers?”

  “Sure did. Asphyxiated. Never a pleasant way to go—and with a necktie no less.” Rebecca took a long drag on her cigarette. “So, how are you? They keeping you busy these days?”

  “Busy as ever,” I answered, sliding the words around my cigar as I struck a match and got my own smoke burning. It tasted good.

  “Did you just call to talk about dead bodies, Ben? Or are you calling to chat this time?”

  “Actually, I need your take on another murder.”

  “Figures,” she grunted.

  Rebecca was always after me to take her out to dinner or out for a few drinks. I’m not quite sure why, but I always dodged her. I did find her attractive; she had tiny features, sort of like a cat, and the glasses she wore, pointed at the corners, made her seem all the more feline. This appearance, coupled with her innate curiosity, earned her the nickname of Cat Lady from the police. Though it sounded cute, it wasn’t intended to be complimentary.

  “So, you got any particular murder in mind, or can I just pick one?” Her sly titter tickled my ear through the phone.

  “Very funny,” I drawled, unable to keep myself from chuckling. “What can you tell me about Eli Hathaway?”

  “Eli Hathaway, let’s see . . .” She paused to take a few puffs of smoke. “Yeah, I remember that one. Came in early yesterday morning full of holes.”

  “That’d be him. Any good details? Time of death and all that stuff?”

  “Hold on. I still got the file here on my desk.” Papers rustled and flapped about. “Okay. Your man was shot at close range—four times—between ten p.m. and two a.m. while sitting in a chair. Three of the bullets went clean through his body, and the fourth lodged in his spine. His left lung took two of the slugs, and his heart took the other two. Even if someone had found him right away he wouldn’t have made it to the hospital alive. The bullets were .44 caliber—fired from a Smith & Wesson revolver, probably a Model 29 with a six-inch barrel. That’s a pretty big gun to take out a frail man. Bet it made a hell of a noise too.”

  Rebecca liked her guns. I think it was probably her favorite part of the job.

  “That the best you can do on the time?” I asked.

  “Hey! What do you want from me? A miracle? I can only tell you what the body tells me.”

  “Okay, okay. Anything on the shooter?”

  “Judging from the angle of penetration and considering the size of the gun, definitely a man. I’d say anywhere from five-ten to six feet tall, 180 to 220 pounds.”

  “Hmmm. That’s not very specific. I think you’re starting to get sloppy, Rebecca.”

  “Wait a minute, now. I didn’t exactly have ideal conditions to work with. Besides, you know how many of these I do each day?” I could hear the irritation start to crack her voice.

  “Hey, take it easy. I was just kidding you,” I apologized. “But now that you mention it, I’m curious: how many?”

  “Too many.” Again she let a giggle slip out. “But really, I’ve got to get out of here for a little while. What you say we take in a show, Ben?”

  “Say, speaking of shows, I keep meaning to tell you about this case I handled awhile back. I think you’ll find it pretty interesting.”

  Rebecca was a serious collector of conspiracies, no matter what the shape or size. And I just remembered one that I could add to her collection.

  “Yeah? I’m all ears.”

  “This guy—a ventriloquist of all things—went missing, so his wife hired me to find him.”

  “You found him, of course.”

  “Of course. And he was one odd bird too. Anyway, he lets me in on a little secret about the history of ventriloquism.”

  “Hold it, let me guess. This is that whole Orpheus/Alexander Graham Bell thing.”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” I rocked back in my chair. “How is it that you . . . ?”

  “Ben, that thing is old as the hills.”

  “Man, you never stop surprising me, Rebecca. I swear your mind operates on a whole different level than most people. Maybe you should consider detective work.”

  “That’s your job, and I couldn’t do it nearly as well. But I will give you my gut reaction on this Hathaway killing.”

  “Great. Let’s hear it.”

  “All evidence aside, I’m telling you this was a pro hit.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” She paused for a long drag on her cigarette. “You don’t go breaking into a random mansion with a loaded .44 for backup. You know what I’m saying?”

  “You got a point. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “And Ben,” she paused again, “I always like hearing your stories, even if I know how they turn out.” She laughed like a little kid.

  One thing about Rebecca, she never failed to make me smile.

  After I hung up the phone, I pulled out the paperwork I hadn’t finished that morning; then on second thought, I put it right back. I was itching for action, so I looked in the file for the Hathaway address—124 Sycamore Circle. A quick glance at the time told me I still had plenty of time before dinner.

  That reminded me: my new evening plans would cut out my regular drinking get-together with Pappy. I jotted down a note for my old friend and left it with Rhoda. As I headed out of the office, I felt a little guilty checking out on him this evening. He would understand that work had to come first; after all, he and I came from the same mold—we were both detectives through and through.

  * * *

  Sycamore Circle sat smack in the middle of the richest section of Victory Gardens—the wealthiest part of Testacy City. I didn’t have many occasions to go visiting up there; still, I knew my way around pretty well.

  I left my car parked at the top of the empty circular driveway in front of the impressive Hathaway mansion. It stood a modest two stories high and extended far back on a lush piece of property. I’d seen huge houses before, but I still had to think, Who needs a house this big?

  Moments after the pleasant doorbell chimes rang out, an old man in a dark-gray suit greeted me.

  “Yes sir? How may I help you, sir?”

  “Hello, I’m Ben Drake, the detective Sissy hired.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I’m afraid that Mrs. Hathaway is still not at home,” he said in his slow, mannered way. “She did, however, leave a message for you.”

  “Another one?”

  “No sir, the very same one I read to you over the telephone. I thought perhaps you had forgotten about it.”

  I had to stay relaxed to deal with this butler. “I remember dinner all right. I just thought I’d drop by early to have a look around, maybe ask a few questions. I’m investigating the murder of Mr. Hathaway, you know.”

  “Investigating the murder. Right you are, sir. Please do come in then.”

  The door opened into a short but immaculate hallway with a high, arched ceiling. Old, unglazed vases—probably from another century—stood waist-high on either side of the hall.

  This entrance opened up into an even more impressive foyer. The white polished marble floor seemed like a smoky sea beneath my feet. At the other end of the room, a bulky staircase curved up to the next floor.

  I put the butler’s age at a little over sixty. His bald pate shone brightly in the light of the foyer chandelier. What little gray hair he had circled the back and sides of his head just above his ears.

  “You must be Kenneth,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s correct—Kenneth Galbraith.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Is there a place we can sit and talk? I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Very well. If it’s all right with you, sir, I should like to
go to the kitchen. I feel most comfortable there.”

  “Lead the way.”

  In the kitchen he offered me a drink. When I asked for bourbon, he left to go get some out of the liquor cabinet. This gave me a good chance to do some snooping. Sadly, it seemed to be a kitchen with no secrets—nothing hanging on the refrigerator with tiny fruit-shaped magnets, nothing scribbled on scraps of paper tossed on the counter, and nothing in the drawers except for utensils.

  Kenneth returned with my drink. For himself, he poured a glass of cranberry juice from a refrigerated carafe. I wasted no time starting the questioning.

  “Were you here the night of the murder?”

  “Yes, but I retired to my room early that evening.”

  “Did you hear any gunshots?”

  “Hear the gunshots? No sir, I did not. My quarters are located in a small cottage off of the main house. Plus, I had plenty to deal with that night, what with Mrs. Hathaway bickering with that . . .” He paused and took a quick sip of juice. “Ah, with Mr. Jasper Hathaway. That sort of emotion always wears me down.”

  “You’ve had a long history with this family?”

  “I’ve been of service to the Hathaway family for over forty years now, sir.”

  “That’s quite some dedication. Have you always disliked Jasper?”

  “I did not say that, sir. He’s nice enough when he’s not angry, but . . . well . . . he’s nice enough when he’s not angry.”

  He took another sip from his glass; this time he drank too fast, and he began choking. His soft eyes looked up at me. In that moment I got a small sense of what the murder in this house must have done to him.

  “I’d like to check out the study; that’s where they found the body, right?”

  “Correct, sir. The police have combed through it, but you’re welcome to take another look.”

  Kenneth escorted me upstairs to the scene of the crime, then disappeared to attend to his duties.

  I spent the better part of half an hour digging through the details of the study. Not only did I find nothing suspicious, I found nothing even remotely interesting. Most other studies I’d poked around in held all sorts of goodies: bankbooks, business correspondence, even love letters, but the police had picked this scene pretty clean.