My Business is Murder

by Kane, Henry

  “You probably wear a gun more often than I do.”

  “Matter of fact, I always wear it. It’s almost habit.”

  He wrote a check, ripped it out of the book and handed it to me. It was for a thousand dollars. He went back to the cabinet and made himself another drink. He said, “You’re an independent cuss aren’t you?”

  I did a grin for him. “And an expensive one.”

  “That too. I don’t mind the expense. I do mind a clash of temperaments.”

  “You don’t have to be in love with a client to work for him. But you do need cooperation.”

  “Such as?”

  “I might be able to help if you loosened up a little. You don’t go to a doctor and then hold out on the symptoms.”

  He paced, glass in hand, sipped, and sat down. “You have a point there, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, it’s the old cornball deal of letters. Okay. Here’s a dame got some hot letters of yours written five years ago. So what? Your wife, to whom you’re married two years—she can’t object to letters you wrote when you were single.”

  He twiddled with a point of his mustache. He said, “Those letters were undated, Mr. Chambers. Somehow, you don’t date love letters—as though they were part of a business correspondence. When I had my interview with Miss Jolly at her club, she informed me that she would state that such letters were written within the past few months.”

  “Check,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I was beginning to warm up to Mr. Roger Aldridge. Maybe I was getting accustomed to his careful enunciation.

  “Five years ago,” he said and smiled, “I wasn’t quite as conservative as I am now.”

  “What was the threat? Was she going to present them to your wife?”

  “Better than that.”

  “Better … than … that?”

  “A well-known press agent is contemplating a story on Miss Anabel Jolly for one of the tabloids. Miss Jolly threatens to turn my letters over to him—for added spice. Photostats, that sort of thing. Can you imagine the effect of such publication—on me?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I made myself another drink and sat down near him. “I can’t figure it. Here’s a dame that doesn’t need the loot.”

  “Everybody needs a quarter of a million dollars.”

  “Not when it’s attached to extortion. If you went to the cops with this and they worked out a plant—that’s a felony, Mr. Aldridge. That dame can sit her sweet behind in the pokey for ten years on a deal like this. That’s a crazy risk, I insist, when you don’t need the loot.”

  “You sure about her monetary situation?”

  “Positive. I put in ten days on that angle before I even met her. Why should a dame risk ten years out of the prime of her life when she absolutely doesn’t need the money?”

  He squinted at me and his teeth clicked along the edge of his glass. “You’ve got a point there.”

  “And why now? She’s had that hot literature for five years. Why now, when she’s sitting on top of the world, boss-lady of her own club?”

  “You still working for me, Mr. Chambers?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  “Then I’m still working for you.”

  Roger Aldridge abandoned his drink and stood up out of the chair. He went to a window, peered out, clasped his hands behind his back and spoke to me without looking at me. “I can’t inform you about her need for money. I know nothing about that, pro or con. But I think I can answer your question.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one about—why now.”

  “You mean there’s a special reason why she’s waited five years?”

  “I don’t know whether she’s consciously waited for the right moment. But I do know that now—that this particular time in my career—is most propitious for this kind of holdup.” He turned and came away from the window. “This is in the strictest confidence, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Of course.”

  “You know that I’m employed by Winston Parnell.”

  “Yes …?”

  “I earn a good deal of money now. About a hundred thousand dollars a year.”

  “Yes …?”

  I’m going to earn more than that.”

  “How?”

  “Mr. Parnell is getting on in years. He’s planning to retire. I am slated to take over the full active management of the firm. As a partner.”

  “I see.”

  “The lawyers have already prepared the papers. The date for the new partnership is November 15th. Miss Jolly got in touch with me early in October. She gave me until November 1st to make up my mind. I’m wondering if there’s any connection.”

  “Yeah,” I said brilliantly. “Yeah.”

  “You can imagine what will happen to me if this press agent scheme goes through. The notoriety would definitely finish the deal—since the papers, though prepared, are as yet unsigned. Do you understand now why it was worth fifteen thousand dollars to me to obtain the return of those blasted letters?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But does Jolly know about … about this impending partnership?”

  He shrugged expressive shoulders. “Frankly, I can’t see how. The only ones who know about it are the principals and the lawyers. Except …” His Adam’s apple jumped as he gulped.

  “Who?”

  “My cousin, Jonathan Nolan.”

  “That guy?” I said.

  “He used to be a brilliant lawyer.”

  “Yeah, but he was disbarred last year, wasn’t he?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, but I know about him. From your uncle.”

  “I have a great deal of confidence in Jonathan; that is, in his brain power. He’s a young man, much younger than I, but, no matter what anyone may say about his morals, no one in the world can deny the fact of his brilliance.”

  “So?”

  “When the contracts were finally prepared, I brought them to him for a last check.”

  “When was that?”

  “Early in October.”

  “I get it. But … does he know Jolly?”

  He nodded dejectedly. “He does. In fact, he introduced me to her.”

  “Think there’s any connection?”

  “This is the first time it’s really occurred to me. Sounds stupid, but I simply cannot conceive of Jonathan having anything to do with blackmail. Jonathan would use a rapier rather than a bludgeon. No. Wide open blackmail would be too thickheaded for Jonathan, too blunt, and far too open to risk.”

  “Well, now that you are thinking about it …”

  “At best guess—it could be—inadvertently perhaps—he dropped the information to Miss Jolly, and Miss Jolly decided to make hay in the sunshine.”

  “A quarter of a million. That’s hay, all right.”

  “She’s got me where it hurts. I’ll tell you that, sir.”

  “Mind if I see Jonathan?”

  He looked frightened. “If you think that’s all right. But I don’t think you ought to mention—”

  “I agree with you. If he’s in it, if he’s using the bludgeon instead of the rapier—then he’s in it. But if he’s not, he might make an excellent advocate for the good Miss Jolly, once he learns about it. Though for the life of me I can’t figure that gal. What’s his address?”

  “He has an apartment at 10 West 35th Street. And a small office at 150 West 42nd Street.”

  “And who’s your lawyer?”

  “Warren Dodge.”

  “The best. A fine old man. He’s your uncle’s lawyer, too, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m going to talk with him, too. Does he know about your trouble with Jolly?”

  “Nobody knows anything about that except you.”

  “I think we ought to take Mr. Dodge into our confidence.”

  He sat down and scraped a finger at a frown on his forehead. “You’re the expert in these affairs, Mr. Chambers.”

  �
��Thanks,” I said. “And thanks for the interview, and thanks for re-hiring me.”

  He took up his glass and drained it. He said, “I’ve got to do some tall thinking. Got the full day off tomorrow. Suppose I drop in at your office at about two o’clock.”

  “Sure.”

  I left him bent in his chair, staring at the floor and rubbing the same finger at the same frown on his forehead.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Flatiron Building is a skinny triangle pointing north on 23rd Street. Warren Dodge’s office was on the 7th floor and an elderly lady at an ancient desk was his receptionist.

  “Peter Chambers,” I said, “for Mr. Dodge.”

  “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Chambers?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said.

  She smiled and wrinkled her nose at me. “I don’t know why I ask that question. It’s silly. Please sit down. I’ll ask Mr. Dodge if he’ll see you.” She pushed herself out of her chair, waddled to a door, opened it, and said, “There’s a young man outside, Peter Chambers. Will you see him?”

  Warren Dodge had a booming voice. “Sure I’ll see him. I’d love to see him. Send him right in, Mamie, my girl. But you could have used the inter-com. That’s what I’ve got it for.”

  “Inter-com.” She sniffed. “Gadgets. People spending money for nothing. Giving themselves importance.” She turned to me and smiled again. “Mr. Dodge would love to see you—even though you don’t have an appointment. In here, please.” She held the door open while I passed through, then slammed it behind me.

  The office had wooden walls and many windows and green filing cabinets and a cluttered desk and the handsome Mr. Dodge behind the desk. Warren Dodge was at least seventy years of age but he looked fifty, acted forty, and had the zest of thirty. He was a bulky man with a smooth face, round and pink, and short cut tight grey hair. thick as steel wool and kinky as your aunt with arthritis. He was quick to laugh, his teeth were good, and the one eye that had begun to fail him was encased in a monocle.

  “Good to see you, lad,” he said. “And how goes it with all the little murderers in our fair city?”

  “What a business,” I said.

  “You picked it.”

  “It’s a living.”

  “You love it, Sir Knight of the Browbeaten.” Buffed fingernails did a tatto on the desktop. “What’s the occasion for a visit to a lawyer?”

  “Roger Aldridge.”

  “Pompous but well-meaning. Known him since he’s a boy.”

  “Old man Root recommended me.”

  “And I recommend you to Mr. Root a long time ago, while he was still active. What’s Roger’s trouble—that Mr. Root knows about?”

  “Root doesn’t know what Roger’s trouble is. Roger told him he had need of a private detective and the old man mentioned me.”

  Warren Dodge stood up. “I smell gossip. I smell an enjoyable conversation. Let’s get out of the would-be-businesslike atmosphere. Come into the library.”

  He opened a rear door and I followed him into a large cool book-lined room. There were easy chairs and a liquor cabinet and green blinds at the windows holding back the sun.

  “Love this room,” I said.

  “Ancient. Most rooms, unlike most women, grow more beautiful with age.” He chuckled. “Some day I’m going to fire Mamie and get me somebody with curves out there.”

  “You do all right.”

  “Well, I’m a bachelor, aren’t I? And it happens I’ve retained my appreciation for curves.”

  “Know Anabel Jolly?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “But curves.”

  “Then I should.”

  “Roger Aldridge knows her.”

  “That the trouble?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You free to tell me about it?”

  “Yes.”

  He chuckled again. “Told you I smelled gossip. Sit down. Let me fix a couple of long ones. You’re a Scotchman, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” I moved into a soft leather chair and stretched my legs.

  Warren Dodge said, “One cube, if I remember.”

  “There’s not much you forget, sir.”

  He brought the drinks, set them up on a corner of a library table, backed into a nearby easy chair, opened the laces of his shoes, kicked them off, sighed, took up his drink, said smilingly, “Make it gory, lad … or make it sexy.”

  I told him the story from the time I’d been retained by Roger Aldridge, and his first comment was: “Sounds fascinating, that Anabel Jolly.”

  “Is fascinating.”

  “You reserving that?”

  “I am.”

  “For whom?”

  “For me.”

  His eyes grinned. “Too bad. All right, what’s this visit for?”

  “Well … since we both know some of the parties involved … I thought it might be good sense to talk it over with you. I come for advice, Mr. Dodge, and for counsel.”

  “What are you really here for, Peter?”

  “I’d like the lowdown on Jonathan Nolan.”

  “That’s better.” He took the monocle out, breathed on it, wiped it with a handkerchief, set it back. “Jonathan Nolan. I’m inclined to agree with Roger. I don’t think he’d tamper with blackmail. He’s too shrewd, too careful, and … too imaginative.”

  “What’s the story on that guy, Mr. Dodge?”

  “Brilliant. Too brilliant. Too wise. Too worldly. Too acquisitive. Wanting to get rich, really rich, too quickly.”

  “How old a guy?”

  “Jonathan? Now? Not more than thirty, all told. Brilliant student, quick early success—then, bang.”

  “How’d the bang happen?”

  “Let’s begin at the beginning, eh?”

  “It’s your story, sir.”

  “Jonathan Nolan.” He sighed and the eye behind the monocle closed in reminiscence. “A wild kid and headstrong. An orphan, as was Roger. Brought up by the uncle, Donald Root—both of them. These two boys are his only legal heirs, his only heirs-at-law. Two boys reared in the same environment, one crazy-wild, the other quiet and stuffy.”

  “About Jonathan …?” I said.

  “He got out of law school, very early, at the age of twenty-two. That was about the time Donald Root’s wife died. At that time, Mr. Root gave up his estate in Scarsdale, and took his apartment in town. You know where he lives, an old-fashioned narrow little house on Park Avenue. A splendid old house, five stories high, but nothing pretentious, no doorman, self-service elevator—quiet and dignified. And there Mr. Root lives to this day, an invalid now, attended only by Emerson Beach, valet, cook, and chauffeur.”

  “About Jonathan …?” I said.

  “He gave each of them a present, the younger Jonathan and the older Roger … fifty thousand dollars each … and they were on their own, living apart, no longer part of the household.”

  “Now, about Jonathan …?”

  “As you know—I am aware that Mr. Root took you into his confidence—his will only mentioned them … Jonathan and Roger … to share alike of his estate upon his decease.” He held up a hand as though warding off a brickbat. He said, “Yes, yes … about Jonathan. He practiced law, and he practiced it in a hurry … but he was a professional boxer, for a while, on the side.”

  I felt my eyebrows fly up. “A professional boxer?”

  “He had been intercollegiate heavyweight champ. Friends prevailed on him to enter the professional domain. He did, felt he wasn’t good enough and went back to practicing law in a hurry.”

  “What do you mean … practicing law in a hurry?”

  “Obtaining negligence cases through unethical means, handling unsavory cases that other lawyers wouldn’t handle … making a lot of money, and always spending a bit more than he earned … and gathering a bad reputation along the way. Donald Root called him in and warned him. As did the bar association after several complaints. Then he became a boxing manager.”

  “A boxing manager.”
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br />   “Behind-the-scenes boxing manager, but it heralded an era of more fixed fights than the boxing business had ever known. Again he made a good deal of money, and again he spent a good deal of money … but it finally caught up with him. His sheer brilliance, his planning, his cunning … prevented his going to jail. Six others were found guilty, and sentenced … but there was insufficient evidence for his conviction, and he was acquitted.”

  “Any money left?”

  “Very little. But the bar association didn’t need the quality of evidence required by a criminal court—proof of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. And certain evidence that, in our jurisprudence, was inadmissible in a court of law, was admissible to the bar association sitting in committee. Jonathan Nolan was disbarred.”

  “When?”

  “One year ago. And at that time—as I remember Mr. Root informed you—he changed his will. Jonathan was cut off. One half of Mr. Root’s estate goes to Roger Aldridge, the remainder to charity. A simple half page will replaced the old one.”

  “And how’s Jonathan fixed for money at the present?”

  “Not too well from what I hear.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s a bookmaker.”

  “A what?”

  “A bookmaker.”

  I finished my drink and I stood up. “Good-bye, Mr. Dodge.”

  “Where to now, lad?”

  “Jonathan Nolan.”

  “Careful does it.”

  “Careful? Why?”

  “He hits first and asks questions later—he’s the type. And he’s thoroughly capable.”

  “Thanks for the information.” I winked at him and waved my hand. “And thanks for the advice. Take care.”

  “You too.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The black wall bulletin in the lobby of 150 West 42nd Street said J. NOLAN … 1401 … in white celluloid replaceable letters. The elevators were in the rear and I went there and waited amongst a small knot of prospective passengers. The elevator arrived with a rattle like dungeon chains and we entered and each of us sounded off with his floor number. I got out at 14 and walked a long narrow corridor to 1401. It was a door with a glaze-glass window and no printing on it except the number: 1401. Adjacent was another door of metal, stating in red letters: STAIRWAY. I tried that door first. It opened on a stairway landing, cool, dim and deserted. I closed the door and tried 1401. It gave on one push.