My Business is Murder

by Kane, Henry

  What else?

  There was a basement but entrance to the basement was through the rear, and the basement had no connection with any other building. The adjacent building, around the corner and tacked right close to my apartment house, was a hotel, two stories higher than my house, with a large lobby entrance and a small side entrance. But the basement of each edifice were separate. The roof? To get to the roof of my house, one had to ascend a narrow stairway and push open a trap door somewhat like the hatch of a submarine. But this trap door was shut and locked from within. I didn’t know a thing about the roof of the hotel but I decided to find out.

  A cab dropped me at the side entrance and I slipped in quickly. I took the elevator to the top floor, pretended to stroll the corridor looking for a room number. As soon as the elevator closed, I began a more careful inspection. I came to a door marked: ROOF GARDEN. I opened that, ran up a flight of stairs, pushed open another door, and I was on a dark roof with potted palms, iron tables with umbrellas growing out of their middles, iron chairs around these tables, and lounging chairs of the beach-type variety strewn all over the place. Light rising from the neons of Manhattan provided a dim, fantastic, cloudy illumination. I was on a solarium of sorts. Brick walls rose about four feet on each side. There was a break in the wall on the side touching my apartment house. I went to that quickly. The break opened upon a fire escape which ran down the two stories to my roof. Here was an emergency fire exit. But it explained why the trap door on my roof was always shut and locked: otherwise it would have been too easy for the uninvited bent on mischief to invite themselves.

  In case of fire, that trap door could be hacked open quickly enough or it could be opened from within.

  The rest was easy. I went back to the lobby, crowded into a phone booth, and dialed the number of the house phone in the lower hall of my apartment house. I waited, nerves twanging. Finally, Louis’s voice came on: “Hello?”

  “Louis?”

  “This is Louis.”

  “Mr. Chambers, Louis.”

  “He’s got his own phone, upstairs. We don’t call no tenants down here. This is for the convenience of the tenants in case—”

  “Louis!” I screamed.

  Mildly he said, “This is Louis.”

  “This is Mr. Chambers. Here. Peter Chambers. I’m here. Me. Here. I’m talking to you.”

  “Oh. I didn’t see you come in, Mr. Chambers. Fact, I ain’t seen you around for a couple nights. Been away?”

  “I’m not in, Louis.”

  “Not in?”

  “Out.”

  “Out?”

  “Look, Louis, let’s do it nice and slow. Okay, Louis?”

  “Anything you say, Mr. Chambers.”

  “I’m calling you from outside.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can’t get in.”

  “Key busted or something? You leave it to Louis.”

  “It’s not that, Louis. There are people waiting for me.”

  “Well, I’ll have them come in. I’ll have them wait in the lobby. That’s what we got all the nice soft chairs for.”

  “No, Louis. These are not friends of mine. These are hoodlums. The minute they see me, they start making with the artillery.”

  “You leave it to Louis.” There was excitement in his voice now. “I’ll get cops. I’ll attend to everything. Just leave it to Louis.”

  “No,” I yelled. “I don’t want you to do a thing. Not a thing.”

  There was a moment of pause, then plaintively, “So what did you call me for … if you don’t want I should do nothing?”

  I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Louis, we’re at cross-purposes. We got tangled up. I do want you to do something for me and it’s very important.”

  His voice brightened. “Yes, sir, Mr. Chambers.”

  “I’m in the hotel next door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going up to their roof.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’ve got a fire escape going down to our roof.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to go upstairs and open up the trap door. The one on our roof. Okay, Louis?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jump to it, Louis. I’ll be waiting.”

  So, in the dark of night, and more than a trifle fretful about somebody who might start screaming or worse, start shooting at a very legitimate individual endeavoring to break into his own apartment—I crept down the iron-rail awkward rattling steps of the fire escape and waited, a lonely figure with bells in his head and birds in his stomach, until the trap door fell back and Louis’s head rose up into the night.

  “That you, Mr. Chambers?” he whispered.

  “Ain’t no one else,” I said, and practically rammed him down the stairway and scrambled after him.

  I waited, fist-clenchingly, until he locked the trap door. I said, “I don’t want to use the elevator.”

  “Figured that. Got the freight elevator up here.”

  He took me by freight elevator to the rear of my floor. I parted my wallet and fetched up a bill. I said, “Here’s for you.”

  “Thanks. But what’s with them hoods?”

  “Forget them, Louis. Forget the whole deal.” I fetched up another bill and handed it over. “This one’s to help you remember to forget.”

  “Already,” he said, “it’s forgotten.” He smiled, shrugged, closed the elevator door and disappeared.

  I put the key in the lock, and I was home. I debated about putting on the lights and I don’t know which of me won but I put on the lights. Once more my reasoning was based on the hypothesis that these were not amateurs. If they saw the light and knew it came from my apartment—so what? They were the sentinels. They knew that I had not come into the building. I could have sent someone to get something for me—in person. If they felt that somehow I had got by and sneaked in—well, they knew that I was as much a professional in my field as they were in theirs. I wouldn’t open the door for them and bow and ask them in to assassinate me. My door would be locked and bolted. (I moved to the door and locked and bolted it). They might try. They might knock. But then they’d go back to waiting for me to come out.

  I went to the bedroom and opened a closet and flung clothes about until I found the odd jacket I had worn when I had first visited Olga Adams in Lido. I dug into the pocket and plucked out the letter that I had jammed away when I’d been whirled around and a man named Paul had pinned my hands behind me and a man named Mike had strutted, grinning in front of me. I flattened the letter and looked at it and the bells in my head simmered down to music.

  I was on my way to the phone when the rap came to my door. I didn’t answer. Then the door buzzer sounded, loud and long. I wasn’t having any. There was another rap, a series, rapid and impatient, and then there was silence. I went to the bedroom, doused the light, and watched through the window. Across the street, on the Park side, a man was pacing. Soon another man joined him. They both looked up toward the lights of my living room. Then they sat down on a park bench and lit cigarettes. I went back to the phone and called Eddie Adams in Lido. I got him, and I said, “Mr. Adams?”

  “Yes?”

  “Peter Chambers.”

  “You told me that if I changed my mind, I was to call you. I’d like to come over and see you. I think we’ve got some business to do.”

  “Always willing to do business.”

  “First step is a display of good will.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Good will. That’s part of business, isn’t it?”

  “What about good will?”

  “Call off your dogs, Mr. Adams. Guy can’t talk business with a set of slugs in him. Guy can’t talk business if he’s dead. Got to have good will, Mr. Adams.”

  “When will you be here?”

  “Within the next couple of hours. Call of your sharpshooters, Mr. Adams. Same story. I’ve got friends who know I’m coming out to talk with you. Be a real darn
shame if I happened to get killed on the way. Trouble. You don’t need trouble. Like you told me, you’re getting on, Mr. Adams. You want peace and quiet. Let’s do it like that, Mr. Adams—peace and quiet.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Try. Try hard, Mr. Adams. Think about it. Maybe it’ll come to you. Bye, now. I’ll be out within the next couple of hours.”

  I went back to the dark bedroom, sprawled prone on the bed and peered through the window at my two vigilantes on the park bench. I rested, marshalled my thoughts, and watched. Dear Eddie Adams didn’t know what I was talking about, but fifteen minutes later a car slid up beside the two men on the bench. A man hurried out of the car, there was a moment of conference and then the three returned to the car, entered and the car pulled away.

  I got off the bed, and went out to play target. A live target can quickly be transposed to a dead hero, but I wasn’t being much of a hero, I was pretty sure of myself. In the lobby downstairs Louis said, “But … but … what about them hoods?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m going out to make sure.”

  I strolled beneath the canopy with all the jumpy assurance of a college freshman being nonchalant while waiting for his first date for the prom. There existed the remote possibility that Adams might be playing potsy—and my body was braced for a bullet. Nothing happened, and I got braver. I lit a cigarette and let the match flare at my face. Nothing happened. My pulse rate was considerably slower as I went to the rear entrance and did a repeat performance. Nothing happened there, either.

  I went back, patted Louis’s cheek, did a small jig, was whisked upstairs, opened my door and attacked the telephone. Number One was Casey Moore. I told him to come up to my place but pronto. Number Two was Captain Weaver at Headquarters. He was out but I told them it was extremely important, and they said they’d be in touch with him and he’d call back. Number Three was Herb Wiley at home and Herb sounded irritated being called at home.

  “What’s so important?” he said.

  “Two hundred thousand smackers. A testimonial with speeches. Remember me?”

  “But I’ve got company.”

  “Bring her. Bring a gun too. And bring your car. Pick me up at my apartment. You know the address.”

  “You kidding about the company?”

  “If she likes cops and robbers, I’m not.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “Hurry up, Herb.”

  My first visitor was Casey Moore. I said, “I think we can wind it up tonight. Here’s what I want you to do.” I gave him the keys to my car. “Use my car. Go out to Queens, pick up Simon. Gordon and go to Lido. We’ll meet at the drug store where we had the ice cream sodas. That’s it. Get going.”

  “But—”

  “No time for talk now, Case. Get a move on.” The phone was ringing. I hustled Casey to the door, pushed him out, and ran to the phone. “Hello?”

  “Chambers? This is Weaver.”

  “Hi, Captain. It’s on that Henry Moore deal. You told me to be in touch if anything popped.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s popped.”

  “Popped, has it? When and where?”

  “Got my tense wrong. It’s going to pop. I hope. At Eddie Adams’ place. In Lido.”

  His voice was suddenly nasal. “You sure you know what you’re talking about?”

  “Fairly sure. I’d like your cooperation.”

  “What kind of cooperation?”

  “I’d like you to get together with the Lido cops. I’d like the Adams place staked out with lots of cops, close but not too close. In about an hour or so, two cars are going to pull up. I’m going to be in one of them, and I’m going to have friends in the other. We’re all going in. I’ve got a hunch there’ll be some action. I’d like you guys around.”

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “You know me a long time … I generally know which end is up. Will you be there, Captain?”

  “We’ll see.”

  He hung up on me. I looked at the receiver, called it names, and flung it back on its bar. I removed my jacket, fitted a shoulder holster over my arm, and packed Casey’s Luger into the leather pocket. My door buzzer set up a clamor, and I called, “Okay, okay,” and I opened the door for Herb Wiley, alone.

  “No company?” I said.

  “I didn’t ask her. Not when it’s your party.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “For my girls, I like to be the hero. I know you. Comes the denouement—any kind of denouement—you’re the center of attraction. I’m not bringing my company to admire you.” Laugh lines deepened around his eyes. “I brought this.” He opened his jacket and tapped a beltholster. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  “Nope.” I switched off the lights. “We’re cutting out. Now.”

  We picked up Casey and Simon Gordon and we were a two-car procession from the drug store at Lido to the pebbled roadway of the Adams’ house, ablaze with lights. We got out with a vast slamming of doors, massed at the bottom of the stairs and went up in a bunch. I raised my hand for the knocker but the hugh door was swung open by the wide-smiling Mike.

  “Enter, gentlemen. Enter, kindly and welcome.”

  The door closed and there was the scrape of a heel on the stone floor behind us. We turned to see tall Paul, his little eyes wrinkled like shrunken prunes, his red beefy hand wrapped around the butt of a bulky long-muzzled automatic.

  Mike rubbed a finger at the lobe of his pulpy ear. “It’s what is called getting the drop, gentlemen. Anybody gets funny, gets ventilated, so don’t get funny. Got us a real army calling on the boss tonight. I been told to expect one guy.” His finger abandoned his ear and pointed at me. “You, wise guy.”

  “I brought friends.”

  “Yeah. So while Paul covers with the roscoe, I do what is called the frisk. Kindly remember Paul is crazy about shooting people. It’s a thing in the head.”

  He did it quickly and he came away with the Luger in one hand and Herb’s whistle-clean revolver in the other. He winked at Paul. “As long as they come with artillery this trip … hold the roscoe on them. I will go talk to the boss.”

  He walked off, his heels echoing, to the oak door of the plum-walled room. He knocked and waited and Eddie Adams opened the door. Eddie Adams wore black trousers, tassled black lounging shoes, and a black velvet smoking jacket with satin cuffs and lapels. His throat was covered by a cream-white silk ascot, neatly folded and hooked within the satin of the smoking jacket.

  Simon Gordon grabbed my arm and cackled: “That’s him.”

  Adams pointed a finger at Simon. “Who’s he?”

  “A friend of mine,” I said.

  “I thought we were going to talk business.”

  “Real business.”

  “Was it necessary to bring … your board of directors?”

  “Real necessary.”

  Mike said, “They come loaded with hardware. These here.” He raised his hands, holding the guns like dumbbells.

  “I’ll take one of those,” Adams said. “The flat one.” Mike gave it to him. Adams balanced it in his hand. “Luger. Excellent weapon.” He went back to the oak door and pushed it open wide. “All right, gentlemen. Please come in.”

  We filed into the coral-carpeted room.

  Olga Adams was there in a simple, beautifully filled black dress. Her braided gold hair gleamed. She wore no jewelry, no adornments, nothing but the rings on her marriage finger. If there were any bruises on her jaw, they were artfully covered. Adams said, “I believe you know my wife, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  She started for the door. I said, “I’d like it if Mrs. Adams remained here.”

  Adams smiled. “It’s your conference, Mr. Chambers.” He made a sign to Mike, who closed the door, remaining on the outside. Olga sat down and crossed her legs. Adams said, “Please remember, Mr. Chambers, that I have
two eager sentries beyond that door, both armed, both capable and both exceedingly anxious.”

  “I’ve got you topped, Mr. Adams.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve got cops.”

  “Cops?”

  “You’ve got two hoodlums parked on the outside of that door. I’ve got cops by the gross load staked all around the premises.”

  He was old, all of a sudden. The skin of his face hung loose, the jowls flabby, the flesh wrinkled to pits beneath his eyes. He said, “Cops? Why?”

  “Because I’m going to accuse you of murder.”

  “Murder?” That was Olga Adams. An explosion after a gasp. It was the last sound she made until we were all finished.

  “Perfect murder,” I said. “Almost. A double-header. And we’ll throw in arson, just to round it out.”

  The tips of the slender fingers of his left hand nervously caressed the smooth muzzle of the Luger. He said, “Suppose we try to conduct this meeting in as orderly a manner as possible. Won’t you sit down, please, all of you?”

  They sat, all of them except me.

  Simon Gordon said, “That’s him, all right.”

  Sharply Adams said, “What’s he talking about?”

  “We’ll come to it,” I said.

  He turned his back and gracefully he walked a long distance from us to the carved mahogany desk. He turned, sighed softly and sank into the high-backed chair. His elbows came up on the desk and the Luger pointed in our direction. He said, “I’m listening, Mr. Chambers.”

  “May I introduce my friends?”

  “Please do.”

  “Herbert Langhorn Wiley, an officer of the Coronet Insurance Company. Simon Gordon, delivery clerk of a grocery store in Flushing, Queens. And … Casey Moore … son of Henry Moore.”