My Business is Murder

by Kane, Henry

Frankie Gold was a brainless hoodlum who was quick with a gun. Like every brainless hoodlum he was used as a hatchet man or bodyguard. It had been my pleasure, at one time, to be instrumental in removing Frankie Gold from his usual haunts for a period of two years, time off for good behavior. Now Frankie Gold put his hand within the jacket of his tuxedo and showed me his gun. His scarred eyebrow twitched.

  “Out,” he said. “Quick.”

  “I want to see Matt.”

  “You ain’t going to see nobody.”

  “He’s expecting me.”

  The agate eyes took on an uncomprehending look. “You talking straight?”

  “I always talk straight,” I said sweetly.

  His eyes shifted from me to a black polished door at the far end of the room, then back to me. I could have taken his gun away from him right then but I saw no sense in ruffling myself or him, merely for the purpose of making an impression. I had already made an impression on Frankie Gold. I said, “Put away the heater and go knock on the door.”

  He hesitated.

  “Go on, Frankie. Move it.”

  He hesitated another moment, then, sullenly, he put his gun back and went to the polished door. He knocked and Matt’s deep voice came:

  “What is it?”

  “Guy out here to see you. A fink by name Chambers.”

  “Okay.”

  Matt Bennett opened the door. I bowed to Frankie, pushed him out of the way, and followed Matt into the office.

  Matt Bennett was another type of hoodlum. Matt Bennett had brains, polish, culture and the conscience of a curled-up snail. He flipped the door shut and stuck out his hand.

  “Hi,” he said. “How’s business?”

  We shook hands and he went to the chair behind his desk and sat heavily. Matt Bennett was a big man. I’m six feet two but Matt was inches taller than I, with bruiser’s shoulders and the beginning of a paunch in the middle. He had a square face and black hair and wide black innocent eyes. Matt had been a lawyer once but had been disbarred early in his career. Thereafter it had been the chase for the easy buck, and Matt had made it big. He had been connected with Eddie Adams at the Diamond Circle, and now he was manager in charge of the Stardust Room.

  “If you want to cash a check,” he said, “the sky’s the limit for you.”

  “No check, Matt. Business.”

  “Anything I can do for you, pal. Any time.”

  I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “That’s a new boy you’ve got outside?”

  “Yeah. Know him?”

  “Knew him once. A little gun-happy, I’d say.”

  He frowned at that, seriously. “So I’ve been told and I’m trying to talk him out of that. Very efficient, otherwise.” He smiled with shiny capped teeth. “What’s the business, pal?”

  “I’d like to talk with Eddie Adams.”

  “Can’t do. He’s away.”

  “Can I get to him?”

  “Nope. Little vacation, sort of. On his yacht. Pleasure trip. Little vacation with a couple of close friends.”

  “When’s he due back?”

  He shrugged. “Search me. Any time. Maybe quick, maybe a long time. Something I can do?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Shoot, pal. I got a lot of respect for you. You know that.”

  I slid into an easy chair, slumped, lit a cigarette. “I’m working on a thing, Matt, ties up with another thing. A thing you were in on once.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. The night Mrs. Dorothy Adams was killed.”

  I watched him. Nothing happened. He merely looked quizzical. He said, “What do you mean I was in on that?”

  “You were there, weren’t you?”

  “Sure I was. But I wasn’t in on anything. The old dame got it and got it bad. But that’s old stuff, fella. What’s the production on it now?”

  “Can I ask about the facts?”

  “Why not? Nothing I can tell you that I didn’t already tell the cops.”

  “Okay. First off, what were you doing up there?”

  “House guest.”

  “How come?”

  He stood up. “Let me get you a drink.”

  “No, thanks.”

  He went to a small bar, poured whiskey into a highball glass, added ice and a squirt of seltzer and sat in a chair near me. “Eddie Adams’ wife was sick. Lung trouble, asthma, something, I don’t know. That was about the time the Diamond Circle folded. Eddie had to be in town late, working over books or something. Anyway, he called me, told me his wife wasn’t feeling too hot, and would I go up there and spend the day since he figured to come home pretty late.”

  “That’s all?,”

  “That’s all, so help me.”

  “Would you tell me the rest of it?”

  “Sure, pal. I went up there—he had his place in Mamaroneck at that time. I had nothing else to do anyway, since the Circle had folded. I spent the day up there, turned in early about ten o’clock. Then about two o’clock that shooting started. It woke me, and I ran out.”

  “Would you give me the setup of the house?”

  “Living rooms, kitchens and stuff, downstairs. Bedrooms upstairs. Eddie and his wife were in one bedroom. My bedroom was opposite theirs on the other side of the stairway. The shooting woke me. Mrs. Adams was at the top of the stairs and this guy was pouring it on from the foot of the stairs. Then Eddie came tearing out and shot up the bum downstairs. That’s it, period.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ice jiggled as he drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you working on, pal?”

  “I wish I could tell you, Matt.”

  “Confidential?”

  “You know how it is.”

  “You could have gone to the cops for this information.”

  “I like my information firsthand.” I stood up and stubbed out my cigarette. “Thanks, Matt. One favor.”

  “You call it.”

  “Don’t mention to Mr. Adams that I inquired about this.”

  He put his drink away. “Why not?”

  “I wouldn’t like him to think I’m prying into his affairs. With others, that is. I’ll be talking to him, personally, when he gets back. So you keep it under your hat. Okay, Matt?”

  He smiled, his innocent eyes crinkling. “Promise,” he said, and he exaggerated making a cross over his heart.

  “I’m serious, Matt.”

  “I promised, didn’t I?”

  “Fine. And now I’ll take you up on that check-cashing deal.”

  “Going to give the basement a whirl?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  I wrote a check and he went to a large safe, opened it and counted out the money. “If you’re going to play the dice,” he said, “play them wrong. They’ve been cold all night.”

  “Thanks, Matt. By the way, Adams had a partner here, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah. When they opened. Jack Rawlings. But they split up. Adams is sole owner now. Here’s your dough, pal. And play them wrong.”

  I got back to town at four-thirty in the morning. I was a hundred and twelve dollars richer, but I hadn’t learned a thing that would be of any help to Casey Moore. I’m an old hand at asking questions. Matt Bennett hadn’t been lying. He hadn’t held back a thing. Matt was a wise owl. He could have balked at the answers if there was anything to balk at. But he had given them to me straight and without any hesitation. It added up tight and without any leakage—the police had a closed file, the insurance company had turned over two hundred thousand dollars, and Matt Bennett had been cordial and cooperative. Couldn’t be worse for Casey Moore. But I was thinking as a normal human being. The criminal mind thinks differently. The criminal mind is always one jump ahead of the normal mind: cops figure this in advance. So do private investigators. It’s one of the reasons they go about asking questions. They are stirring up the criminal mind.

  I was hoping.

  I parked my car alongside the curb on the south end of Central Park, and went across to my
apartment house. The doorman was more solicitous than he had ever been. He opened the door for me, smiled, scraped, bowed, and walked me all the way back to the elevators. Doormen come awake prior to Christmas, but this was spring and it was half past four in the morning. I punched the button for the elevator and the doorman coughed. He had hoped, I trust, for a discreet cough. It came up like a long rumble out of a giraffe.

  I said, “What’s the matter, Louis?”

  He said, “Mr. Chambers, sir …”

  I said, “Louis, if you’re looking for a touch, you got me at the right moment. How much and when do I get it back?”

  “No, sir,” he said, “it ain’t that.”

  “What is it, Louis?”

  “It’s … it’s I can pick up twenty bucks.”

  “Pick away, Louis. Who am I to gainsay you?”

  “Gainsay?” he said.

  “Skip it, Louis.”

  “No, it’s this. There’s a party outside parked in a Caddy convertible. Party got here about a half hour ago. Party asked for you. I said you were out … went out, didn’t come back yet. Party said would I point you out when you do get back? Worth a twenty to me if I pointed you out.”

  “So? Did you point?”

  “I don’t point out nobody till I ask. So I’m asking. If you tell me no, there goes the twenty, but I don’t point. If you give me the okay, fine. That’s the way I work, Mr. Chambers. I ain’t been a doorman twenty-two years for nothing.”

  I grinned and I patted the back of his neck. “You just earned yourself an extra ten plus the twenty you’re going to earn.” I dug in for a ten dollar bill and donated it to Louis. “Point away, fella. Kind of, it’ll be a late point. But tell the party I just came in and what my apartment number is. Only give me a little time to get up there first.”

  “Thanks. Leave it to Louis.”

  Upstairs, I put on the lights and opened the windows. Clean breeze of early morning freshened the apartment. I didn’t think twice about my prospective visitor. That’s the kind of business I’m in: clients drop from everywhere and their visiting hours have all the regularity of a berserk banshee. Within five minutes the buzzer rasped and I opened the door.

  I didn’t expect what I got.

  I got pulchritude, all dressed up.

  The lady was tall and cool with thick blond hair, braided and worn like a crown over her head. Her face was smooth and round, her nose thin and tiny, her eyes blue and clear—and impertinent. She wore a white mink stole over her shoulders, white gloves, and there was a gold mesh evening bag in her hand. She said, “May I come in?”

  I stopped staring and rediscovered my voice. “Please do. Please come in.”

  She swept into the apartment and I followed her. She moved about for a few minutes inspecting pictures and doodads, said, “Nice,” a few times, added, “You’ve a lovely place here.”

  “Thank you.”

  She removed the stole and placed it over the back of an easy chair. She was wearing a black evening gown and little gold high-heeled shoes. Her arms were long and white and smooth with dimples near the elbows. Her shoulders were beautiful, wide and strong and without bones. She had a proud, statuesque figure and she was about twenty-eight years old, though with a lady like that you never can tell: she could be twenty-one, she could be forty.

  “I’m a messenger,” she said.

  “Suits me. Suits me, whatever you are.”

  Now she smiled, a youngish smile, and one thin eyebrow moved up a trifle, quivering. “May I sit down?”

  “You may do whatever your little heart desires.”

  “Very gallant.” The mouth arched in a broader smile. She sat perfectly at ease, the gold bag in her hand, and she crossed her legs. The smile went away. She said, “I come as a messenger. I’m to ask a few questions and perhaps answer a few. May I?”

  “Of course.”

  She sighed deep, blurted: “What’s your interest in Eddie Adams, the late Mrs. Dorothy Adams, and the events surrounding an attempted burglary that took place a year ago?”

  “Just like that?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I went away from her. I paced the far end of the room, opened a cigarette case, brought it to her, but she shook it off. I lit one, returned the case to its table, said, “What’s it to you?”

  “It’s nothing to me. I told you, I’m merely a messenger.”

  She shrugged her white shoulders. “You needn’t talk to me if you don’t want to. That’s entirely up to you.”

  I paced some more. Then I stopped in front of her. “I’m a private detective.”

  “So I hear.”

  “By the way, name’s Peter Chambers. What’s yours?”

  “Olga.”

  “Olga … what?”

  “Just Olga, for the time being.” Again a small shrug of the expressive shoulders. “Let’s get back to the business at hand. Shall we, Mr. Chambers?”

  “As I said, I’m a private detective. When business is lousy, you look to stir it up. I’d been going over some old newspaper clips and I came across that Mamaroneck deal. I figured it might be productive.”

  “Productive? Of what?”

  “Money, naturally.”

  She was silent a moment, frowning in thought, her red lower lip coming out in a pout. Then she said, “You have a client?”

  “No client.”

  “You mean you’re in on this on your own?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  Now her blue eyes had more appraisal than an auctioneer hunting for a bargain. She looked me over, slowly, up and down, cocked her head, her nostrils opening slightly, and a queer smile hinged a corner of her mouth. “Very enterprising.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Very handsome, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence again. Then she stood up, her dress rustling. She opened the gold bag and laid five one thousand dollar bills on the coffee table.

  I said, “What’s that?”

  “That’s to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Why? What happened up there? Why should anybody want to pay me to lay off? What’s the pitch, lady?”

  She came near me, near enough so that I could smell the light perfume she wore. “No pitch, Mr. Chambers.”

  “But—”

  “As I told you, I’m a messenger. But a messenger with certain delegated powers.”

  “Power to pay me off? Why?”

  “Because Mr. Edward Adams runs a shindig out in Jersey that’s a very delicate proposition. Mr. Adams can’t use publicity, adverse publicity, that is. That thing is running great guns out there. We want it to run as long as possible. A delicate proposition like that—it can go boom at any time. Bad publicity mushrooms up. Bluenoses move in. Anything can happen. We want to prevent that.” She pointed to the money on the table. “Let’s call that … part of the operating expenses.”

  I shook my head. “No good.”

  “More?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s blackmail.”

  “Is it? If there’s nothing wrong on that Mamaroneck deal … where’s the blackmail?”

  “It’s blackmail of another sort. Mr. Adams is running wide open in Jersey. His name starts poking up in the newspapers, crusades can start. Like that, I mean, it’s blackmail. And I think you know it, Mr. Chambers. I think that’s why you started prying. You’re using that Mamaroneck business, perfectly proper as it may have been, as a lever.” “You’re beginning to insult me, Miss … Olga.”

  “You insult beautifully.” Again the queer little smile. “Would an additional five thousand salve the insult?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She said, “I’ll be frank with you. I’ve been authorized to go as high as ten thousand. That’s take it or leave it. After that, you’re on your own. If I were you, I’d take it. I wouldn’t want … to be on my own. Mr. Adams is a kindly man.”

  “Is he?”

  “But even a kindly man, driven into a corner, has vio
lent reactions. What do you say, Mr. Chambers?”

  “I’m leaving it.”

  She looked at me for a long moment, the inspection narrowing her eyes, then bent to the table, picked up the money, and put it back into her bag. She came back to me, moving slowly, came close, so close her body touched mine. She lifted her head, looking up at me, said softly, “Do you know me?”

  “No.”

  “Ever see me before?”

  “No.”

  “Ever in your life?”

  “No.”

  The pressure of her body was more palpable. There was a throb in the soft voice. “Is there anything special you’re looking for out of this deal?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s liable to work, brother. Funny as it sounds, it’s liable to work.” She raised up on her tiptoes, kissed a corner of my mouth lightly, turned quickly, retrieved the stole from the chair, slung it over one shoulder, crossed to the door and went out.

  I shot the bolt after her.

  Early morning sun tinctured my bedroom a pale yellow as I climbed under the covers. Sleep was quick and comfortable but I remember one last mutter: “Casey Moore, I love you.”

  I awoke at noon. Six hours’ sleep isn’t much, but sometimes it’s enough. It was enough this time. I woke up refreshed. I showered, shaved and breakfasted. The phone kept ringing all the time but I didn’t answer. There was a lot of stuff piled up in the office and my secretary was probably frantic but it would have to wait. I checked the Hotel Montero in the phone book, waited for a silence between ringings, grabbed at the phone and called Casey. I told him to stay put, that I’d be with him shortly.

  I stuck my head out the window. It was a hot day, the sun boiling down. I dressed in slacks, loafers, a sport shirt and an odd jacket. The lights were still burning in the living room, almost invisible in the glare of the afternoon sun. I clicked them off and went out. There was a ticket on my car but even that didn’t disturb me. I drove up to the Montero, obtained his room number from the clerk, and went up to Casey.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “You too, fella.”

  “Any developments?”

  “I think so.” I recited the facts, omitting no detail. I said, “Casey, lad, I’m with you. All the way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, somehow, somewhere along the line, I think something stinks.”