My Business is Murder

by Kane, Henry

  I pulled off the tarpaulin, disclosing mildewed trunks and brown paper bundles and cord-wrapped suitcase. I tried my key and when I found the trunk it fitted, I pulled the trunk into the light and opened it. It didn’t contain much: a man’s brown suit, a blue striped suit, underwear, three white shirts, two ties, two pairs of brown socks, a few items of bent and tarnished silverware and a broken electric clock. I looked through the striped suit first. It held nothing except a discolored dime. The brown suit had nothing except a folded letter in an inner pocket of the jacket. I unfolded the letter. The stationery was small, neat and expensive. Engraved on top was: Fletcher Lewis, M.D., 750 Fifth Avenue, New York. Written beneath that was the date, April 28th, and the following:

  “Dear Mr. Adams, I am sorry to be compelled to inform you that, as consultant, I agree with your other physicians that Mrs. Adams has a pulmonary condition which is inoperable. I also agree with the prognosis. Her condition is critical. You ask how long? I would say she cannot last more than eight weeks. I hope I am wrong but I do not think I am. As a matter of fact my prognosis is more optimistic than that of either of your other physicians. You asked for it straight from the shoulder, I am sorry but that is it.” It was signed: “Fletcher Lewis.”

  A little bell rang in my head, and then another little bell but they didn’t have time to go to gongs. I looked up from the letter—and Olga Adams was opposite me.

  She wore a blue suit and flat-heeled blue shoes and most of her hair was beneath a blue beret. There was a small grin on her face and a small gun in her hand. She was quite near me. Too near. But she wasn’t a professional. She said, “This place is perfect.”

  “For what?”

  “For your demise. Real quiet down here. A shot wouldn’t be heard. Suits me fine. You know how allergic I am to publicity.”

  Also she talked too much. That wasn’t professional either. It gave me an opportunity to inch closer. “You wouldn’t dare,” I said. It was corny, but it gave me another step forward and I was within reach. As her gun hand moved outward, my left slapped down on it and my right met her jaw in a jolt. She dropped like the floor had been pulled from under her. I was stooping for the little gun when the voice said: “I wouldn’t do that if I was you. I wouldn’t do nuthin’ but stand up straight.”

  I stood up straight, the little gun remaining on the floor. Frankie Gold was at the foot of the stairway, a large gun in his very professional hand. He said, “Surprised, fink?”

  “Twice surprised.”

  “The little lady’s got a lot of brains under that blonde hair.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “That’s what I’m beginning to tell you, fink.” His thin grin spread. “Brains. She figured we got you tied up by your house and we got you tied up by your office—but you don’t show in either spot. She figures you got to eat, and she figures you need dough to eat, and where is the dough kept at? So she calls on Frankie and we check where your bank is, and that’s where we park out, me and her. You show up and the rest is a tail job. The little lady wanted the pleasure but it looks like she muffed it. I won’t. G’bye, fink.”

  I tried for more talk but Frankie had run out of words. His arm came out, straight and level, and I saw his finger tighten on the trigger and I heard the shot billowing back from the walls, hollowly. I waited to drop but I didn’t drop. Frankie Gold dropped, blood bursting from the side of his head, the gun clattering to the stone of the floor.

  Casey Moore stepped over him and came into the cellar.

  Dryly he said, “Me and my Luger. Melodramatic.”

  “My apologies, and my blessings.” I moved to Frankie and bent over him but Frankie was all gone. I got up and said, “Casey, where’d you drop from, and thank heaven you did?”

  “From the middle of the stairway.”

  “How’d you get there?”

  “Well, I’m upstairs waiting for the super as you instructed me. I notice this car parked, with this guy and the lady inside, and they both seem to be having an eye on me, so I scram.”

  “How?”

  “I go to the corner, hail a cab and drive off.”

  “Where to?”

  “Around the block. When I get out, I’ve got the jump on them. The lady’s already gone. Me, I’m watching a hallway. This guy’s outside the alleyway. He takes one look around and slips in. It doesn’t take long before I slip in after him. You can figure the rest.”

  “Where were you when she was talking to me?”

  “Right behind him, about twelve steps up. He’s at the foot of the stairway, with a bead on you, listening. I’m on top of him, with a bead on him. Who pegs whom first becomes a matter of judgment. I’m glad it worked out.”

  Nervously I said, “So am I.”

  He looked toward Olga. “How’s the lady?”

  I bent and examined. “Sleeping peacefully.” I looked past her, thought a moment, said, “This tomb is practically sound-proof and a good thing. But let’s get this stuff in place and get out of here.” I stood up. “Give me a hand.”

  I closed the trunk, moved the other trunks and bundles and suitcases together, shoved our trunk into place, and Casey helped me with the tarpaulin.

  Olga Adams began to move. I let her. I picked up her little pistol and watched her. She sat up. I pointed the thing at her. Now she said it: “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t.”

  She stood up, touched the point of her chin gingerly, dusted herself off, looked about, saw Frankie, opened her eyes wide, then opened her mouth wider to scream.

  “Don’t,” I said. It stopped her. I said: “He’s dead.”

  She looked about wildly, ran toward the stairs. Casey grabbed her arm and she flung about. I got to them and her mouth opened to scream again. I closed it. With a short jab to the same point of her jaw. She sagged against Casey. I said, “It’s not the noise I’m worried about. I just don’t want her to start getting hysterical.”

  Casey said, “What now?”

  “Where’s their car?”

  “Right in front of the alley.”

  “Who was driving?”

  “She was.”

  I looked in her pockets and found the car keys. I said, “You got a clean handkerchief, Case?”

  He leaned her against me, found a handkerchief, and showed it to me. It was large, and that was excellent. I said, “Shake it out and fold it into a bandage sort of thing. Like you were going to bind a wound …”

  “Sure.”

  He did it, handed it over, and I passed it around her head and tied it over her eyes. Casey said, “I get it. Something wrong with her eyes, somebody’s got to lead her.”

  “Right.” I gave him her car keys and I gave him mine. “You go up first. Open her car and get the motor running, and leave the door open for me. Then get into my car and be ready to follow me.”

  “Roger.”

  He went up. I gave him a few moments, then lifted her and carried her up. In the alley, I set her on her feet, put my arm around her, and half-carried her, half-walked her out to the street. I got her into the car without too much trouble. A couple of the loiterers stared, but I was helping a woman who had trouble with her eyes and I didn’t give them much opportunity to stare. I ran around to the driver’s seat, slammed the doors, shifted the gear, and we were rolling. A glance at the rear view showed me Casey behind me. We rode north until we reached Van Cortlandt Park. I parked where it was isolated and removed the handkerchief from her eyes. She stirred uneasily. I looked in the rear view. Casey was parked about fifty feet back.

  She was slumped down in the seat, and now I pulled her up. I slapped at her face, until she came to. “Wha …?” she said. “Wha …?” I kept slapping, gently. Finally, she was awake, her face strangely childlike again, the expression innocent and frightened.

  “Hi,” I said. I reached into my pocket and brought out her little gun. I slapped out the bullets and threw them far out into the grass of the park. I said, “Here’s your gu
n. Between you and me, I think you’re a little nuts. Stop playing games with yourself.”

  She didn’t touch the gun. She said, “Frankie …?”

  “He’s very dead.”

  She gasped and her face whitened. I moved her over, opened the glove compartment, threw in the gun and snapped it shut. “Look,” I said, “go home, and stay home. Will you do that, please? Let dear old Eddie operate, and you butt out. Stay home and be a lady. Or are you looking for headlines? Big, black ones?”

  “What are you up to? What are you up to, anyway?”

  “You’re going to know soon enough. I’m coming to the end of the line. In the meantime, go home and stay home. Okay?”

  She was silent.

  I said, “Frankie’s dead. You could have been dead. Stop playing movies. Go home and shut up, and so will I. I didn’t see you today. Neither did my pal. You were out for a drive, period. You don’t know a thing about Frankie Gold. Like that you’re all the way in the clear. It’s my idea you like to play movies but you’re not a bad kid. That’s my idea. Make me look smart. Okay?”

  Silence again. Then she said, “Yes.”

  I opened the door and moved out of the driver’s seat. She shoved over and then, very faintly, she said, “Thanks.”

  “Forget it.”

  The car shot forward. I watched it until it was out of sight. Then I went to Casey. I said, “I don’t know whether I mentioned it before. Eddie Adams has a wife named Olga. That was Olga. You never saw Olga today. As far as you’re concerned, you don’t know nuthin’ from no Olgas.” I winked and crooked my mouth up. “Check?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Switch it off and come on out.”

  He shut off the motor, came out and gave me the car key. We walked deep into the park. There was nobody near. I said, “Give me the gun.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you mixed up in this, that’s why. This is my kind of work and I know how to handle it. Fork it over.”

  He gave it to me and I pointed it upward and blasted at the sky.

  “What’s that for?” Casey said.

  “For the record.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  I showed him my palm. “In there.”

  “What?”

  “Cordite particles, invisible to the eye, but they show up under certain police tests. I shot the gun.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. Me, In self-defense. He’s a murderous hoodlum and the cops’ll be glad to be rid of him. But if it comes to a check, I want it to check.”

  “But there’s only one bullet in him, two bullets discharged from the gun, and no second bullet around.”

  “So what? A bullet could have been shot from this Luger at any time before now.”

  “And where’d you get the gun?”

  “Borrowed it from you. You’re a client. I couldn’t go home or to the office, and I needed protection, and you had this Luger, was souvenir, so I borrowed it from you.”

  “And who gets this story?”

  “That I don’t know—yet.”

  “And why the closed mouth about the little lady?”

  “A kid living in a jazzed-up dream world. But she got a bellyful this afternoon. She saw the real thing happen and you saw what it did to her. Dream world, movie-heroine, only married a short time to mister big shot. Doesn’t know a thing because a guy like Eddie Adams doesn’t figure to let her in on anything. That’s a doll to keep around the house, and use when necessary. Anyway, I figured you and I’d give the kid a break. Any objections?”

  “No.”

  We got into the car, returned to civilization, and stopped at the first drug store. I called Police Headquarters, said, “There’s a dead man in the basement of 12 Horner Avenue,” and hung up.

  Back at the Montero, I called the office of Dr. Fletcher Lewis. I was informed that the doctor’s evening office hours were from seven to nine. I asked for an appointment and received one for seven-thirty. I made more calls, three in all, to various doctors with who I was acquainted. I learned that Dr. Fletcher Lewis was a specialist, high in his profession, and a man of irreproachable ethics. I called Jane Rawlings.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “How about dinner?”

  “A likely thought. Where and when?”

  “When … right away. Where … hold it a minute.” I wanted a place not too far away from 750 Fifth Avenue. La Maison Rouge was at 61st and Fifth. I said, “French?”

  “Always.”

  “Maison Rouge?”

  “Fine. Meet you at the bar. Bet I get there first.”

  She didn’t.

  I got there first.

  Lawrence, the maître d’, said, “You wish to order now, Mr. Chambers? While you wait for the lady?”

  I ordered, and a table in the rear was spread while I waited at the bar. I’d finished half of a Rob Roy when Jane showed up, elegant in a tight black beaded dress with a small mink jacket. “Beautiful,” I said.

  “You too.” Her teeth shone in a grin.

  “Let’s go where it’s romantic. I’ve already ordered.”

  “You’re for me.”

  The rear room of Maison Rouge had maroon velvet walls, and gold tapestries, and faraway dim pink lights, and each table had a candle encased in a frosted soft pink spiral of glass. At a distance there was mellow music from a harp and when the harp music ceased, there was a muted violin. Lawrence had selected a corner table for us and we sat side by side and thigh-close. Jane removed the little jacket, revealing lush and warm-glowing depths, and she revealed more as she bent over and kissed the lobe of my ear. “You’re for me,” she said. “You worked out the early dinner real fine. Did you work out the tuxedo too?”

  “Murder,” I said.

  “What keeps you from home?”

  “Not now. Let’s relax now. Let’s chat. Let’s know about each other.”

  The dinner was wonderful, slow and long, and we talked all through it. Over the demitasse and brandy, I said, “I’ve an appointment at seven-thirty.”

  “I don’t care about seven-thirty. How about midnight?”

  “I think I’ll be able to make it.”

  “With tuxedo?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Now that that’s out of the way—what’s at seven-thirty?”

  “Business.”

  “Really? Can I come? I’ve never seen a detective at work.”

  “If you’ve got nothing else to do …”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve got to do, my fine-feathered friend. The dressmaker’s to deliver a dress, but that’s all right, the downstairs man has instructions to accept it. Then at eight-thirty from Elizabeth Varden, the one and only Georgette shows up. Georgette, she makes me beautiful. And then at nine-thirty, a wonderful man from Paris, Henri Daniel, with the most divine jewelry. So, I’m free until approximately eight-thirty.”

  “Be my guest.”

  We presented ourselves at the offices of Dr. Fletcher Lewis at seven-thirty. We were shown into his consulting room. Dr. Lewis was a small man with a trim white beard, fluffy white hair, and an engaging tobacco-stained smile. I said, “I’m Peter Chambers. The lady is my wife.”

  I got a pinch for that, surreptitious but soft and the doctor bowed. “Beautiful lady,” he said. Then, more businesslike, “My secretary informs me that you’re not here as a patient.”

  “That’s right, sir. I’m investigating a matter for the Coronet Insurance Company, and I’m here to enlist your help.”

  The doctor said, “Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Chambers?”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to me. “I’ll help, if I can. But please remember that any information regarding a physician and patient is an absolutely privileged matter, completely confidential, even in a court of law.”

  “I’m aware of that, doctor. I’d simply like to know whether at any time, you had a patient by name Dorothy Adams?”

  He went to a cabinet,
riffled through a card-index file. I waited, fumbling with some of his stationery neatly stacked on a corner of his desk. Finally, his head came up from the file. He said, “No.”

  “While you’re there, doctor. Was a Mr. Edward Adams a patient of yours?”

  He didn’t look to the file. “Yes. Haven’t seen him for a long time, though. Perhaps a year.”

  “When, exactly, doctor? When did he last visit you? Could I have the date and time?” Dr. Fletcher Lewis frowned, an expression of doubt wrinkling across his face. Hurriedly, I said, “I don’t want to know a thing about his illness or the treatment or the advice. None of the privileged communications. Just the date and time. There’s no violation of any medical confidence in that information, and it might be vitally important to us.”

  He thought a moment and then the frown smoothed out. He said, “I believe that’s quite correct.” He bent to the card-index, fingered cards, pushed one back and read from it. “May 10th, last,” he said. “Ten-thirty, A.M.”

  “Thank you.” The little bell began to ring in my head.

  “Is there something else?”

  “No, sir. You’ve been very kind and very helpful. Thank you again and good evening to you.”

  “And a very good evening to you, young man. Delighted to have met you, Mrs. Chambers.”

  Outside, Jane Rawlings lifted her eyebrows and intoned: “That’s work?”

  “Go home now, dear wife.”

  “Midnight, husband?”

  “I hope. Keep a lamp in the window.”

  I put her into a cab and then I was a parade on Fifth Avenue, by myself. Many bells were now ringing in my head but indiscriminately, the sequence as disordered as an ashtray at a poker game. It was imperative that I go home. Home, the bells could begin to chime a melody with meaning: home was the baton, home the maestro, home the music and the orchestration. I had to go home. But how?

  I pondered that on my parade on Fifth Avenue. The house had a front entrance and a rear entrance. Eddie Adams’ hatchet boys were playing sentinel there, front and back. How would I get in? I thought of disguise and quickly dismissed it. Disguise. Dark glasses. A beard. A lump on my shoulder and a cane and a bent over walk. None of it would work. Eddie’s boys weren’t amateurs. They probably knew me—I’m well-known in my town, especially to the hard boys. Any question in their minds and they’d just go right up and find out. They’d yank at the beard, or snatch off the glasses, or trip up the bent old guy, and if it was a mistake, they’d say, “Pardon me,” and what would the guy with the beard do about it? No. No disguise.