Martinis and Murder (Prologue Books)
Page 19
On this Friday of the party on 66th Street, the McCormicks had been married a bit over three years: Madeline was forty-seven, her husband was thirty-seven, and her latest lover, at least so inside rumor had it, was Jason Touraine, to whom she now led me in a last burst of introduction before rushing off to other pursuits, such as drinking.
“Jason Touraine,” she said. “Meet an old friend — Peter Chambers.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
“You two ought to get along famously,” she said.
“Why?” I said.
“Why not?” she said and fled.
“Fabulous, isn’t she?” said Jason Touraine.
“Sure is,” I said. What else can you say?
“I’ve heard about you,” he said. “You’re the private detective, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” I said. As per prediction, we were getting along famously.
“Madeline talks about you often,” he said.
The guy was an assistant editor at Harvest House but he referred to the boss’s wife as Madeline.
“I imagine she talks about you often too,” I said.
“I hope not,” he said and grinned engagingly.
He lived up to his notices: he was a looker, no question. He was built like a sprint-swimmer: tall, broad-shouldered, lean-flanked, long-legged; he had green eyes, a tan face, square white teeth, an easy baritone voice, dimples, assurance, and black hair vibrantly crew-cut.
“Do you enjoy your work?” I said.
“Pardon?” he said but the grin got hard.
“Harvest House,” I said.
“Oh. Yes. I do.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Three months.”
“Like it?”
“Love it.” And now the green eyes squinted, looking past me, and he waved.
A lady approached. The lady was exquisite. The lady moved with the grace of a dancer. The lady was dark, wide dark eyes inscrutable, shining dark hair piled on head in theatrical coiffure. The lady was young, about twenty-five, sheathed within a discreet black gown, which, discreet or no, gave emphasis to a willowy, sinuous, olive-skinned figure.
Touraine looked at his watch and looked at the lady.
“It’s about time,” he said.
“I work for a living, remember?” She spoke in a rich, deep, cultured contralto.
“But I told you this thing went off at eight o’clock. I wrote the whole damned thing out for you, didn’t I?”
“My first show goes on at nine. Or have you forgotten?”
“You can skip one show, can’t you?”
“No, I can’t — at the risk of getting fired.”
“Did you ask?”
“I asked. But we had a full house. So the answer was no. This is the first break I’ve had, and I’ll have to be getting back soon.”
“Lovers’ quarrel?” I inquired.
“Worse,” said Touraine. “Family quarrel. Like husband and wife. Karen, I’d like you to meet Peter Chambers. Mr. Chambers — my wife, Karen Touraine.”
“How do you do?” I said.
“Don’t mind us,” she said and looked about. “This is a lovely place, isn’t it?”
“First time you’ve been here?” I said.
“First time,” she said. “It’s just beautiful, isn’t it?”
“The old Clemson mansion,” I said. “Three stories. One more beautiful than the other. Why don’t you ask Madeline to take your wife on the grand tour, Mr. Touraine?”
“Good idea,” he said.
“Do you know Madeline, Mrs. Touraine?”
“Madeline?”
“Madeline McCormick.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve never had the pleasure. I know Mr. McCormick, but I’ve never met his wife.”
“We’ll fix that right now,” said Touraine. “Come on, Karen. Nice having met you, Mr. Chambers.”
“My pleasure.”
Husband and wife, arm and arm, went off, and I had just set my course for the bar where two white-jacketed attendants were busily dispensing potables, when a touch on my arm produced Harvey McCormick, quite sober. Gravely he said, “May I talk with you, Mr. Chambers?”
“Beautiful gal, that one, isn’t she?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Karen Touraine.”
“Quite. Would you come this way, please?”
“I was heading for the bar.”
“I’ll take you to a private bar.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
The private bar was in the library at the back of the house and when we entered I noticed that he touched a button on the knob, which locked us in, alone. He crossed to a liquor cabinet, opened it, said, “What’ll it be?”
“Drambuie,” I said. I reserved Drambuie for serious talk.
“Mr. Chambers,” he said, “you’re a man of the world.”
“Well, thanks.” I liked Drambuie.
“I need the services of a private detective, a discreet private detective, a man I can trust, and … well … a man of the world.”
“I’m it,” I said, sensing a fee.
“Actually, although you are an acquaintance of mine, you’re a good friend of Madeline’s. For that reason, I’m certain there are people who would say that I’m crazy to think of retaining you in these circumstances.”
“Girl trouble?” I said.
“No trouble. Not yet. I’m hoping there won’t be any. But just in case.”
“Is that where I fit in? — just in case?”
He poured Drambuie for himself and sipped. “It’s you — because there simply is no one else whom I know; that is, whom I feel I can trust. I can go to a stranger, but who knows who in hell the stranger is, and how far you can trust him. On the other hand, I do know you, I know of your absolutely impeccable reputation, and, I’m back to my first point — you’re a man of the world.”
“Meaning I don’t figure to snitch to a man’s wife?”
“Would you?”
“Of course not. And vice versa. I wouldn’t snitch to a woman’s husband. I’m in the kind of business where you must be neutral and disinterested and stay neutral and disinterested.”
“I know. I’ve inquired. About you. I’m an executive, Mr. Chambers. People are my business and in my business we are not disinterested; quite the contrary, we are vitally interested. I’ve been vitally interested in you, and you’re my man.”
“Give me a for instance,” I said.
He smiled. “For instance, Horace Clemson was your client. For instance, Horace Clemson, old as he was, was quite a ladies’ man. He was the boss, I was managing editor — there was a good deal I knew about Horace Clemson. For instance, I knew that he was mixed in some scrapes with very young girls while he was married to Madeline, and that you were helpful in getting him out of these scrapes, and that you were not critical about him, and you did not breathe a word to Madeline.”
“One thing has nothing to do with the other.”
“Perhaps you’re a superb cynic, perhaps a true sophisticate — ”
“I’m a slob who attends to his own business and keeps his nose out of other people’s.”
“No matter. You’re the man for me.”
“Thank you. Now what’s your trouble, Mr. McCormick?”
“Harvey.”
“I’m Pete.”
“No trouble, Pete. I’m going to Chicago tomorrow morning.”
“I know. Madeline mentioned it. Business, isn’t if?”
“Mostly. I’d like you to accompany me. I’ll be gone Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Return Tuesday. What would your fee be?”
“As bodyguard?”
“To accompany me.”
“Same thing. A hundred bucks a day. You pay the expenses.”
“We have a deal,” he said.
“Fine. Now what’s it all about?”
“Nothing very sinister. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. I’m making a nine o’clock flight. You’ll
meet me at the American Airlines check-in counter at La Guardia at eight-thirty.”
“Oh my, that’s awfully early for me.”
“So I’ve heard. You’re sort of night people, aren’t you?” He went to a desk, opened a drawer, took out a checkbook and pen, wrote a check, and handed it to me. “Payment in advance,” he said.
He was a good executive. He realized that early morning was a huge sacrifice. The check was in the sum of seven hundred and fifty dollars.
“Tomorrow morning?” he said.
“La Guardia Airport. American. Eight-thirty promptly.”
He blinked, nodded, smiled, strode to the door, twisted the knob, and we returned to the party.
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Copyright © 1947 by Henry Kane, Registration Renewed 1974
Registered under the original title, A Halo for Nobody
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This is a work of fiction.
Names,characters,corporations,institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4039-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4039-4