by Paul Henke
I returned stateside and made it to New York where it had all started.
Now, you might have thought this was going to be a war story, well it isn’t. This is about life as a gumshoe. I’d given serious consideration to taking up lawyering again but the more I thought about it the less appealing the idea. I even went so far as to have a shingle made with the announcement that I was open for business as a lawyer but chickened out. It was too tame.
So instead, I became a Private Investigator. I placed a couple of small adverts in newspapers and telephoned some of the larger law firms to announce that I was in business. I knew lawyers hired private investigators more often than any other group. It was the nature of their job - either to prove a client innocent or to muddy the waters and make the said client appear not guilty. For a lawyer, both objectives are perfectly reasonable. Apart from politicians, I don't think anybody had morals quite as twisted as those who worked in the legal profession.
Private Investigators come in all shapes and sizes. They were mainly retired cops, or people who had read too many books about private detectives and how they always won through in the end. I had more devious skills than normal, hence the reason I explained my background. I knew more ways to incapacitate or kill an opponent and I had access to some pretty useful equipment, most of which I’d brought back with me from Europe. I also knew how to modify and repair the gear. It was an essential skill when on active duty as there was nobody else available.
During my stint at the OSS I was paid the equivalent of an army captain. The money had gone straight into my bank. There had been very few opportunities to spend dollars in France. More accurately, no opportunity whatsoever.
Added to existing savings, I could hold out for as long as a year or possibly two, while I built the business.
I’d had a few jobs already. Nothing earth shattering. One was to find an errant husband who had run away with his secretary, leaving behind a wife, two teenage kids and a pile of debts. I found him, gave his whereabouts to his wife and sent her my bill. She never paid me. Instead, she invested in a revolver, drove to the address I’d given her and shot her husband. Fortunately, she was a lousy shot and managed to only graze the guy’s upper arm before he ran out the back door and yelled for the cops. She was on trial for attempted murder and I’d been called as a witness. However, the case had taught me an important lesson. In future I wanted a retainer, non-refundable. Depending on the client, it would be anything from 10 to 50 percent.
My PI credentials were hanging on the wall behind my head for all to see. They proved I had the right to call myself a Private Investigator and to carry a concealed weapon. In my case it was a .38 snub-nose revolver, just like the one my old friend Perini had been carrying. To think I owed the last couple of years to a hoodlum. It goes to show you can never tell where life will take you.
I usually stored the gun in the right hand drawer of my desk. I’d used one often enough to know I didn’t like the things. An accidental discharge could lead to life imprisonment or even the electric chair. So I figured it was better not to be tempted. That didn’t mean to say I was unarmed. My time with the OSS had supplied me with some pretty useful pieces of kit.
My phone rang and I reached out and lifted the receiver. ‘Yeah?’ I had yet to learn the etiquette of answering a phone properly.
‘Frank O’Brian?’ The voice was female.
‘Yeah. Can I help you?’
‘I want to hire your services.’
‘Come in anytime and we can talk.’
‘How about this afternoon?’
‘Two o’clock suit?’
‘Yes. That will be fine. I have your address.’ No goodbyes, no thanks. Her tone had been refined, haughty. A woman used to getting her own way. In a nutshell, she sounded like she had money. She hadn’t told me her name and I hadn’t asked.
It was 11.00 and I decided it was time to revisit an old haunt. I’d been back nearly a month and I still hadn’t seen Zelda. I grabbed my fedora and raincoat and headed out the door. In keeping with my image I was wearing a grey, three piece suit and a striped tie. At the front lobby I paused and put on the coat and hat. It was raining.
Ten minutes and I was outside the diner where Zelda worked. I entered and looked round. The place hadn’t changed by so much as a lick of paint. Zelda was behind the counter serving someone and I walked over to stand in line.
She turned to me and I said, ‘Hi, Zelda. How’s my favourite waitress?’
She let out a squeal and came round the counter to give me a big hug. I put my arms around her before planting a kiss on both her cheeks.
‘Frank! You made it!’
‘Yep. I did. Though it had its moments.’
‘Coffee?’ She bustled back behind the counter.
‘Thanks.’
She poured the coffee straight up and didn’t ask about milk and sugar.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I guess you heard about Roberto Perini and his cousin?’
I shook my head. ‘I figured after all this time they’d have forgotten about me.’
‘It wouldn’t matter one way or the other. They were shot about a year ago. Sonny was killed while Roberto is now in some sort of mental hospital suffering from brain damage.’
‘Good shooting by someone,’ I said, straight faced.
‘How so?’
‘Finding his brain.’
Zelda chuckled. ‘If you didn’t know about it you must have been mad to have come back.’
‘Yes, well, I missed New York.’ Then I added, ‘And you, of course.’ I looked around. ‘This place hasn’t changed.’
‘It’s about to.’
‘Why? What’s happening? A face lift at last?’
‘The city is modernising. Rejuvenated, according to the mayor. Old blocks like this are to be knocked down and new, taller buildings put in their place.’
‘So what’s going to happen to everyone who works around here? Like you?’ I took a sip of coffee. Better than mine, that was for sure.
‘I’ll be out of a job tomorrow. A couple of years ago I decided I would live on my wages and save my tips, so I can manage for a few months until I find something.’
I didn’t stop to think it through. Unusual for me, I blurted out, ‘Can you type?’
‘Huh? What do you mean, type?’
‘You know,’ I held my hands in front of me and wiggled my fingers.
‘Oh! Type! No.’
‘Take shorthand?’
‘No.’
‘Answer a phone?’
‘Of course, silly. Anyone can answer a phone.’
‘Okay. What do you make here?’
‘Three grand a year plus tips.’
‘How much in tips?’
‘About five hundred. What’s this all about?’
‘The job’s yours.’
‘What job?’
‘Receptionist, secretary, coffee maker.’
‘I guess I can make coffee, but I don’t know about the other stuff. What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve opened my own business. Private Investigator. A couple of blocks from here. I was thinking of hiring someone in the near future. I need someone I can trust and someone who can keep their mouth shut. Are you up for it?’
She looked at me in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I can’t guarantee we’ll still be in business this time next year but I can guarantee we’ll survive at least that long. I need someone to field calls, pay the bills and generally run the place. Not that there’s much running to do, you understand. At least, not at the moment. What do you say?’
Slowly she nodded and then her head moved more enthusiastically. ‘I say yes, a thousand times yes. Frank, I can’t thank you enough.’
I grinned. Zelda would help to add an aura of respectability to the place. That was, once she rid herself of the smell of fried hamburgers.
‘When do you want me to start?’
‘What would suit y
ou?’
She shrugged. ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Twelve is when we close for good.’
‘Leave it until Monday. Nine o’clock.’
7
I returned to the office, made fresh coffee and then phoned the company who had supplied me with the desk and other furnishings. I ordered the same again, cash on delivery, for Monday. I was assured the stuff would be there by 9am. While I was killing time waiting for my client I opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and extracted some electric gear. It was a recording device, one of the items I’d liberated from the OSS. There were a few modifications I wanted to make. So I went to work with a screwdriver, pliers and soldering iron and lost myself in the intricacies of modern and clever technology.
A knock on the door brought me back to earth. ‘Come in,’ I called out while at the same time I tidied my desk by placing the items I’d been working on into a cardboard box.
When the woman walked through the door I stopped what I was doing. Somehow, I kept my composure. She was best described as stunning. She had the sultry looks of Jane Russell, the same colouring, the same shaped lips and almond eyes. I was pretty sure my mouth was closed but looking back on it, I wouldn’t swear that was the case.
‘I have an appointment.’
I looked at my watch. It showed ten after.
‘I’m here to meet Mr. O’Brian?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Oh!’
‘Oh? Why oh?’
‘Sorry, I was expecting someone older.’
‘What? On the basis that with age comes knowledge?
‘I was thinking more along the lines that age brought experience.’
‘Trust me I’ve had more than my fair share of experience.’
She seemed satisfied and nodded. I took that as acceptance of my relative youth.
‘Please take a seat. Can I take your coat?’ I held out my hand.
She hesitated and then nodded. She undid the buttons, slid the coat off and handed it to me. There was a hat stand next to the door and I hung the coat on it. She sat down and crossed her legs. She was dressed in a sheer red dress with thin black vertical stripes with a lightweight cream jacket. She looked elegant, sophisticated and rich. All three did it for me. I returned to my desk and sat down.
She opened her purse and took out a cigarette holder. ‘May I?’ she said and waved the holder.
I didn’t like smoking which made me fairly unusual and so there was no ashtray. I was about to say it was okay, to go ahead, but I thought, hang it all. She’d come to see me. She wanted my services. I shook my head. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Oh? Any reason?’ She replaced the cigarette holder in her purse.
I shrugged. ‘I guess I don’t like the smell.’
‘But I’m the client. Surely I get to do what I want. Within reason, of course,’ she quickly added.
‘I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know whether I’m going to take the job because that all depends on which side of legal it falls. So right now I’d rather smell your perfume without the smoke. If that’s okay with you.’
She smiled. I swear, the room lit up when she did. She was radiant, that was the only word to describe her. I glanced at her left hand. I saw a wedding band and an engagement ring that looked like it cost more than I earned in a month of Sundays. She looked like a million bucks and I was highly intrigued as to why she was in my office.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘How may I help, Mrs...,’
‘Vanowen. Susan.’
‘Before you go on, I should tell you my terms.’
She opened her purse, took out a roll of bills, peeled off two and placed them on the desk. They were $100 each.
I looked up and said, ‘I charge twenty a day, plus expenses, one day up front.’
‘Then that should be more than sufficient, wouldn’t you say?’ Her voice had a sultriness to it that I had found alluring for about 30 seconds. Now I found it irritating. I obviously had a low tolerance level to breathless beauties with a fake way of speaking.
I wondered how much more of her was fake. Certainly not the grooming. Her clothes were impeccable, her make up perfect and her fingernails had the length and polish that indicated she’d never done a proper day’s work in her life. Which showed how wrong I could be as I was soon to find out.
I wasn’t going to argue so I picked up the money, nodded and placed the notes in a drawer.
‘So what can I do for you?’
‘I’m being blackmailed,’ was her stark response.
I kept a straight face and nodded as though I was told such things on a daily basis.
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘I...I’m not sure.’
‘Let me tell you, there aren’t that many options. Pay up, refuse to pay and tell the blackmailer to go to hell and do his damnedest or lay the whole thing at the feet of the cops.’ I paused. ‘I guess there’s one other option. Have him killed. And there, you have two further options. Do it yourself or pay someone else to do it for you. I can’t think of anything else only to say that I don’t recommend the killing part.’
She sat in silence for a few seconds, chewing on her bottom lip. I was enjoying the view. Not my type but worth looking at was my conclusion.
‘Isn’t there a fourth way?’
‘What?’
‘Recovering what he’s blackmailing me with. Without paying him, that is.’
‘I guess that’s also a possibility. Whatever I decide, I need to know how, where, who, when. In other words, the details of what’s going on.’
She squirmed. Looked down. Looked at me. Looked over my shoulder and lied. I knew she was lying because the eye and body movements were classic. I know. I’d been taught to look for the signs by some of the best people in the business. Also how to avoid making them. And knowing when someone was lying could save you a load of trouble and in my case, on two occasions had saved my life.
‘I don’t think,’ she hesitated. I could see she was play acting. She started again. ‘I don’t think killing this person is a good idea.’
‘Glad to hear it. I wasn’t serious.’
‘Oh! I thought you were.’
I shook my head. Maybe she wasn’t as bright as she looked. ‘So who’s blackmailing you?’
There was more silence while she appeared to grapple with her answer.
‘Mrs. Vanowen I can’t help you without knowing all the facts. Now either tell me what’s going on or,’ I opened the desk drawer and took out the two bills, ‘take the money and go. Call this initial meeting on the house.’
‘No, no. I need your help. The man’s name is Godfrey Crane. He lives in Scarsdale.’ She gave me the address. I wrote it down. I didn’t know the area but anywhere in Scarsdale was above my league when it came to the good life.
‘So what does he have on you?’
‘You have to understand, Mr. O’Brian that my husband is the jealous type.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mrs. Vanowen, let me put it another way. Unless you married your husband when you were still a teenager you will inevitably have a past. Everyone does. It’s the law of nature. So how can this man Crane be blackmailing you unless you’ve been, shall we say, indiscreet since your marriage?’
She was good. Really good. She bent her head and when she looked up a single teardrop trickled down her left cheek. I watched, unmoved, as she took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her cheek dry. She would have made a great little actress. She didn’t answer either of my questions.
‘How can you say such a thing? I’ll have you know, I take my marriage vows seriously.’
‘Sorry. So it’s something in your past?’
‘Yes.’ She fell silent again.
I was getting fed up. It was like drawing teeth. ‘So what has he got on you?’
‘Photographs and letter
s.’
‘And you want me to get them back, is that it? If so, what do you suggest? I break into his house, search the place and steal them? Just for the record, that’s a felony. It could easily get me three to five in the state penitentiary. That’s something I don’t relish, so I don’t know what I can do for you.’
‘I tried talking to him but he just laughed. He said if I wanted the...the photos back I was to pay $10,000. He said it wasn’t blackmail. It was the going price that any newspaper would pay.’
‘Can you afford it?’
She went through the lower lip biting routine again. ‘Not really.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying but you appear to be well off.’
‘Oh, I am. When it comes to the little things. But any real money I have to ask my husband for and believe me, he won’t be parting with any ten grand any time soon.’
That little speech was interesting. Her accent had slipped along with the language.
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘I can raise half the money. I want you to meet him and give it to him and...and persuade him to hand over the photographs.’
I sat and thought about it for a few moments. Five grand was a lot more than the average person earned in a year but on the other hand, it wasn’t a lot to somebody who lived in Scarsdale. ‘This address in Scarsdale, does the blackmailer own the house?’
She laughed. It was forced. There was nothing humorous about the situation. ‘No. He works there. He looks after the grounds and the pool and lives in a small apartment over the garage.’
That put a different complexion on the matter. ‘How long have you been married?’ I asked.
‘What’s that to do with anything?’
‘Please. Just answer the question.’
‘Five years.’
‘And he appears now? I don’t buy it. Why wait so long to try and blackmail you?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ But she was doing that thing with her head and eyes again so I knew she was lying.
‘Mrs. Vanowen, you do know. I can tell. If you want my help you need to come clean. Otherwise, I’ll take him the money, he’ll probably refuse to hand over the goods until you pay the other $5,000. And if and when you do, he’ll continue with what he’s doing. You’ll be his meal ticket. He won’t stop.’