My Business is Murder

by Kane, Henry

  “How do you figure it, Mr. Chambers? True enough she offered you money, but her reasons sound plausible, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “How do you make it, Mr. Chambers?”

  “You may as well start calling me Pete.”

  “Okay.”

  “Like this I make it. What adverse publicity? Suppose I rake it up and there’s nothing to rake … where does the publicity come in? Newspapers publish news, not nonsense. They wouldn’t publish a rehash of a case that was closed last year, not unless new facts came to light. Dig me?”

  “Yes. But perhaps, knowing they are skating on thin ice, they don’t want any sort of possible adverse publicity. Happens, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe she was telling the truth—but if she wasn’t, and that’s much more likely, then it’s a ruse, ten thousand dollars worth of ruse, to keep me off it. I’m going along with the second theory for the time being.”

  Musingly, he said, “Ten thousand dollars …”

  “Don’t make a martyr out of me, pal. I’m just not put together that way. I don’t take that kind of money, never have, never will. But don’t let me get on a philosophical pitch. It’s either you’ve got larceny or you haven’t. I haven’t. I like to earn my dough.”

  He didn’t say anything. He smoked his cigarettes.

  I said, “You eat yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want to take a ride?”

  “Where to?”

  “I’d like to get a look at your father’s house or what’s left of it. I’d like to sort of mosey around the neighborhood. How’s about it?”

  “Fine with me.”

  Flushing, Queens, is rather remote for me. It took us about thirty minutes over the Queensboro Bridge, Casey directing me. The area around Whitehall Place was small, almost rural. The community was a square block of old houses, a tiny shopping center, and nothing else. Fanning out from Whitehall Place were unpaved roads losing themselves in shrubbery and flat empty lots.

  I parked and Casey talked to me. He pointed out where 116 had been. It was levelled now, a square ragged expanse of nothing, black char of the fire still showing on the ground. Opposite was a small grocery store. A bent old man came out carrying a large shopping bag.

  “That’s Simon,” Casey said. “He’s been the delivery boy as far back as I can remember. I ought to go out and say hello.”

  “No you don’t.”

  His head shot around toward me and his face was questioning.

  “There’s a lot of people around here,” I said, “that you’d like to say hello to, I’m sure of that. You haven’t yet, have you?”

  “No. I’ve had other things on my mind, as you know. But I’ve been planning to drop around.”

  “Not yet, Casey. Not while our thing’s cooking.”

  “But why?”

  “Because, so far, there’s only me. No client, remember? I don’t want it spread around that you’re back. If there’s going to be a fall guy, let it be me. I know how to handle it. It’s part of my business. Make sense?”

  “But why should you stick your neck out? I’ve got a pretty good neck of my own.”

  “One neck is easier than two. Mine’s already out. Let’s keep it as uncomplicated as possible. Anybody’s going to do any chopping, let them chop at me. Stay with me, pal. Okay?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “You’re the boss.”

  Simon was ambling back from his delivery. I got out of the car and hurried across. I called to him. “Simon.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Talk to you a minute?”

  “Sure.” He came to me, a bent seamy-faced man, grinning with yellow teeth. “What’s botherin’ you, young fella?”

  I pointed at where 116 Whitehall Place had been. “I’m checking on the fire there.”

  “Aincha a little late, young fella?” His voice was a cackle, and the pleasant grin was as much a part of his face as his forehead.

  “I’m from the insurance company. We’re doing a recheck.”

  “Didn’t know old Henry had insurance.”

  “Small policy. We’ve been holding the proceeds for his estate.”

  “Estate? Ain’t no estate. Ain’t no family left. One son. Heard he got killed, the poor kid. Off in that ol’ Koree war. Mess, that Koree.”

  “They turn up sometimes even when they’re reported dead.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes they do.”

  “What’s your full name, Simon?”

  “Gordon. Simon Gordon. You’re makin’ me feel right real important, young fella. Ain’t nobody been asking old Simon any real fact questions for years and years now.”

  “Would you like to sit down somewhere?”

  “Nope. I’m right comfortable standin’.”

  “Did you see the fire, Simon?”

  “Nope. Happened around eleven o’clock at night. I hits the hay come nine, never later. Sleep like a top. Even them old fire engines don’t wake me up. Sleep like a top. Nuthin’ wakes me.”

  “I see. What about Henry Moore? When’d you see him last?”

  “Know about ol’ Henry?”

  “I heard.”

  “Turned out to be a crook, ol’ Henry. You wouldn’t believe it. Got all hitched up that same night, ol’ Henry did, upstate somewheres. Got all shot up, ol’ Henry. You’d never believe it. Nobody talks about it around here, nobody says a word.”

  “When’d you see him last, Simon?”

  “Saw him that selfsame day. Saw him that day, day of the fire, only the fire was at night. He was sittin’ out on the steps of his house, a-whittlin’ on a hunk o’ wood, all dressed up, just sittin’ and whittlin’, till that car draws nigh and picks him up.”

  “What car, Simon?”

  “Search me. It was close onta five o’clock. I’m just bringing a bundle over to the Wyatts, two houses down past Henry’s, when the car pulls up, real fancy car too.”

  “You see who was driving?”

  “Sure, I see. Man gets out, that’s who was driving, and he talks to Henry and Henry ups and off they go in the fancy car.”

  “Can you describe that man?”

  “Nope. I ain’t the least good in describing nobody, young fella. Couldn’t even describe you to you, right now. But I don’t forget a face, that I can tell you. I got what they call a … a photographic memory, that’s what I got. I can give you back a face that come up against me thirty years ago, that I can. But don’t ever ask me to describe ‘em, because that I can’t.”

  “The face of the man that came out of the car … would you remember it?”

  His eyes became crafty. “You figure maybe he was an accomplice of ol’ Henry up there upstate?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I saw that bird, young fella, saw him good.” He tapped a gnarled thumb against his chest. He was proud as he said: “You put me in front of a hundred people and have that guy be one of them, and I’ll pick him out for you, sure as shootin’. But don’t never ask me for no descriptions. What you call a photographic memory, a lot o’ people got it, it’s like a gift.” He glanced about, tapped my shoulder. “Look, I gotta be gettin’ back to the store. They’ll be wonderin’ about me. Sure hope I helped you, young fella.”

  “Thank you, Simon.”

  He looked at me with faded eyes, almost blankly as old men will, then he winked deeply, nodded, raised a hand in a half wave, and went off. I returned to Casey in the car.

  Casey said, “Hot in here. Wow.”

  I started the motor and we shoved off. I said, “Queens is Long Island, isn’t it?”

  “Right.”

  “How long will it take us to get out to the shore? Cool breezes by the shore.”

  From a corner of my eye I could see him twist his head toward me. I could feel his eyes on me. But since I wasn’t talking, he wasn’t asking questions. “Yeah,” he said. “Cool breezes by the shore. You make a right turn two blocks from here, then we hit the Parkway, then it’s about a
half hour.”

  When we arrived at Long Beach, there were cool breezes, and there was the tonic smell of salt in the air. Sun hammered down, coming back at us in a glare of white reflection. I said, “I wish we had time for a dip.”

  “Haven’t we?”

  “No. We’re going to pay a visit. Lido. Maybe Mr. Adams is back from his yachting trip. Which way?”

  “Turn left.”

  We stopped in the town of Lido and inquired at a drug store about the Adams estate. We were given directions which we followed to a large pink-roofed house near the sea. Tall, iron gates were open. We drove through, and up a pebbled roadway, and we stopped at a wide stairway leading up to two massive doors with brass adornments. I said, “Stay right here, Case.”

  “Here we go again. Why?”

  “Same reason. I don’t want people knowing you’re around.”

  I got out and ran up the stairs and banged at a brass knocker. A butler opened the door and screwed up his mouth in a sour smile. I said, “I’d like to talk to Mr. Adams.”

  “He’s not at home, sir.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Please come in, sir.”

  It was like a cool tomb, the floor of glistening highly polished stone, the ceiling domed and far away, two stairways in the rear curling upward and, on each side, five heavy, carved oak doors. But there was no place to sit.

  The butler said, “Just one moment, sir.”

  He went to one of the oak doors, opened it, and passed through. I waited, literally cooling my heels. Then the door opened again and another man emerged. He was thick-shouldered and squat and he approached me with more bounce than a hansom over cobblestones. His ears didn’t match. One was pulpy. Aside from that, his face had the blue sheen of a tough-to-shave beard but it was pleasant. He was neatly dressed in a white linen suit, white shoes, and a dark blue sport shirt with no tie, collar over jacket. He was very polite. He smiled, said, “How do you do?” His voice was deep and raspy.

  I said, “I’d like to talk to Mr. Adams.”

  “I know. The monkey told me. He said you said it was important. How?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How important?”

  “Matt Bennett sent me.”

  The smile closed to lips squeezed together and his chin wrinkled. He pondered a moment, then: “Would you wish to talk to the Missus?”

  “I would, if Mr. Adams isn’t at home.”

  “He ain’t.”

  “Didn’t know he had a wife. I thought she—”

  “He has. Kindly follow along.”

  He wheeled and I walked behind him. We went to the rear between the two curling stairways. He slid apart glass-brick doors opening on a long wide corridor at the end of which was another set of glass-brick doors, bright light of sun filtering through. We traversed the corridor and he pushed open the second set of doors and we were on a broad, railed terrace fronting on landscaped gardens. Off to the left, some distance, was a swimming pool, surrounded by wrought-iron chairs and tables and long comfortable padded beach chairs. One of the beach chairs was occupied. It was candy-striped and it contained a lady. The lady wore a black bathing suit and large-lensed sun glasses. The lady had blonde hair braided over her head like a crown and her name was Olga. The bathing suit paid off on the promise of the evening gown. She was high-breasted, narrow-bellied and full-hipped, and the figure, curve upon curve down to long-legged smoothness, could bring the blood to a froth in your brain. If you were a man. If you were a woman, you might sniff.

  She was using a pen on a writing tablet in her lap. As we approached, she glanced up, and turned on a small smile for me, prim and almost involuntary like a college professor looking up from an enforced reading of the funnies. My guide said, “Guy wishes to see Mr. Adams. Wishes also to see you. Says it is important. Says Matt Bennett sent him.”

  “Thank you, Mike.”

  She moved the glasses down on her nose, looked at him upward and dismissed him with the wave of a finger. Mike bowed a clumsy bow, turned, went back up the terrace and into the house. Olga laid the pen and tablet on a nearby table, reached for a frosted drink, sipped and set that back on the table. She was not wearing gloves now; gloves, with her costume, would have been most inappropriate. The diamond marriage ring on her finger was very obvious. She said, “Something special, Mr. Chambers?”

  “I wanted to talk with Mr. Adams.”

  More sharply she said, “Why are you here, Mr. Chambers?”

  “I told you. I hoped I’d find Mr. Adams.”

  “You think you might make a better deal with him?”

  “Possibly.”

  Her tongue came out and licked wetly at her lips. I couldn’t see her eyes behind the glasses but she cured that. She took them off and laid them aside. She kept her left hand upraised, the ring glinting in the sunlight. Languidly she said, “Surprised to find that I … am Mrs. Adams?”

  “Yes.”

  Her smile was no longer prim. “Simple and to the point, aren’t you? You could be nice if you tried.”

  “I have been trying … Olga.”

  “Don’t try too hard, Mr. Chambers.” Her voice was a lilting tease. “I’m a newlywed.”

  “How long, Mrs. Adams?”

  “Four months.”

  “And already Eddie Adams is out on his yacht … with close friends … but without you?”

  It didn’t work. The smile stayed on her face. She said, “Mr. Adams is past sixty. I’m twenty-four. Mr. Adams is entitled to his recreations and his rehabilitations without me.”

  “Smart,” I said.

  “Mr. Adams wouldn’t have married me if I weren’t smart. Mr. Adams has a great contempt for fools.”

  “You’re no fool.”

  “Aren’t I …?”

  She threw up a look that wasn’t the look of a newlywed.

  I shifted my ground. I said, “When’s he due back?”

  “Don’t know. My husband is, to say the least, unpredictable. There’s a letter from him.” She pointed at the table. “It’s all right. You can read it. No billing and cooing. Not Mr. Adams.”

  I lifted the letter. There was no envelope and no date mark. It was short and to the point. It said the fishing was good and the weather was good and he was relaxing. He hoped that she was enjoying the short vacation from him and that he expected to be home soon.

  “When,” I said, “is soon?”

  “With Eddie Adams you don’t know.”

  Suddenly there were hands on my shoulders and I was whirled around. I shoved the letter in my pocket and I was ready to swing when other hands caught mine and pinned them behind me. Mike, smiling in front of me, said: “Paul tells me there is a monkey with one arm sitting outside on your running board taking the sun.”

  I said, “Who the hell is Paul?”

  “Me,” said a voice behind me and grip on my hands tightened.

  Mike said, “Who’s the monkey?”

  “My assistant.”

  “And who the hell are you what needs assistants? I thought you said Matt Bennett sent you?”

  Olga’s grin was pure joy. Olga was having a good time. Again the tongue came out, licking the lips. “All right,” she said. “Let him alone.”

  My hands were freed and the man behind me came into view. He was young, tall, dark and beefy with nasty eyes and thick red powerful hands.

  I said, “You jump a guy from behind like that, Paul, you’re asking for trouble.”

  “I like trouble, mister.”

  Olga said, “Okay, boys, break it up.”

  Mike was insistent. “But he said Bennett sent him.”

  “Bennett didn’t send him. It was his way of getting in here.”

  “Oh, a wise guy,” Mike said.

  “Maybe too wise for his own good.” She extended her hand for her glasses, set them on her nose, tilted her head upward but I could no longer see her eyes. “I’m being kind to you, Mr. Chambers. Maybe my reasons are as special as yours. But, for the time be
ing, suppose we say … au revoir. You don’t mind if the gentlemen show you out.”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Adams.”

  “Bye, beautiful.”

  I could hear her laughing as they marched me up the terrace and through the corridor and into the tomb-like stone lobby, and they held the door open for me and slammed it behind me.

  Casey stood up from the running board, grinning. “Saw a couple of real hood types around the premises. I was beginning to wonder whether you needed me. They give you a hard time?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “Get any dope?”

  “Adams is still at sea.”

  We drove back and stopped at the same drug store that had given us directions. It was ten minutes to five. I said, “I want to make a call in New York. Wanna come?”

  “Personally, I’ve got a yen for an ice cream soda.”

  “Good idea. So’ve I.”

  Casey was lustily sipping through a straw while I made my call. Information gave me the phone number of the Coronet Life Insurance Company, Number 10 Wall Street, and the operator put me through after I inserted hollow-sounding coins. I asked the switchboard girl for Herb Wiley, and I got him. “Hello?” he said.

  “Herb? Pete Chambers.”

  “Hi, Pete.”

  “Herb, how about dinner tonight?”

  “Okay, if you can make it late. Eight-thirty, or so.”

  “Eight-thirty is fine. How about Casa O’Brien?”

  “Perfect.”

  “And Herb …”

  “Yes.”

  “Dig up a file for me. And bring it with you.”

  “File?”

  “Beneficiary, Edward Adams. Deceased, wife, Dorothy Adams.

  “We cover that?”

  “Yeath. Date of death, May 11th, last year.”

  “Hold it a minute, Pete.” I waited, fingering the wall of the phone booth, and then his voice came back. “Okay. What’s up?”

  “Tell you when I see you.”

  “Casa O’Brien. Eighty-thirty.”

  “Swell.”

  The Casa O’Brien was a delightful restaurant on East 64th Street. It was owned by a man named Abramowitz. It was quiet, dimly lit, sound-proofed, the spacious tables far removed from one another, and the walls covered from floor to ceiling by the murals of Ichabod Rally, one of our brilliant young American geniuses. Rally never painted a canvas: he worked only on walls. Rumor had it that Abramowitz had not paid Rally, but that they had arranged a contract whereby food and drink would be afforded to Rally for the rest of his life or the life of the restaurant. There were those who said that Abramowitz had effected the best bargain of his life but I doubted it. I knew Rally and though I didn’t know his capacity for food, I did know his capacity for potables. Anyway, the Casa O’Brien, owned by a man named Abramowitz, featured exquisite Chinese food and, on a small balcony, an Austrian zither player named Hapsburg who zithered the Third Man Theme almost exclusively. But he zithered it softly.