by Kane, Henry
“It is the paramount principle of the private investigator.”
“What is the paramount principle?”
“That the confidence be kept the confidence.”
“Of course,” I said, “but you are not the investigator. You are the client and the client has the right to breach the principle. Now who? Just for laughs, huh?”
“Sadie Flanagan.”
I went home stoned by whiskey and stunned by paramount principle and in bed before I fell asleep I giggled out loud, so help me.
Fifteen
WOKE WEDNESDAY at noon and twisted out of a dream and turned on the other side and slept soundly until two which proves there is nothing like being your own boss although you can’t get rich at it. Rose up out of bed and straggled to a shower and showered and shaved and dressed and went out into a cloudy afternoon and walked down to Al & Dick’s and had breakfast of steak, salad, and French fried potatoes, and walked, spirited for exercise, to the office, and was greeted with “Well, about time” from my secretary, Miss Miranda Foxworth, wizened, crotchety, but ineffably capable, and I said “What’s new?” and she said “Nothing is new, all is old, even you” and I escaped from that into the inner office where on my desk the mail was neatly piled. The mail consisted of bills for money rightfully owed and ads for dirty pictures because I had once gotten on a list for dirty pictures and once you are on such list you will never get off such list because you are transferred from list to list to other lists, forever. The ads were quite sprightly, naked men and women in ungainly sexual positions for gain, and I enjoyed for a few minutes and then tore up the ads and wrote checks for the bills, and they were large bills, which made me weary by the time I was through.
I sighed and brought out the checks and the bills to Miss Miranda and gave her instructions for neatly typing the decrease in my bank account and sighed again and went out and went across the street to an oasis called Trennem’s Dark Morning Tavern and it was off-hour for drunks and Trennem’s was cool and dank and peaceful with the smell of old beer and Mr. Trennem himself, stomach bulging in white apron, was behind the stick, and he said, “What’ll it be, Mr. Chambers?”
“Scotch sour,” I said.
“Double?” he said.
“Single,” I said.
“Double,” he said, “because the second half is on the house.”
“Double,” I said and picked up Mr. Trennem’s newspaper from the bar and read about people killing people and people killing themselves and about the President of the United States getting no cooperation whatever from the Congress of the United States which must be very confusing to people who do not live in the United States and we do admit that such people exist.
“What do you think about Elizabeth?” said Mr. Trennem.
“Mr. Trennem, my Daddy taught me early in life never to discuss politics or religion in a saloon. Like that you can get your head handed to you.”
“This is not a saloon, Mr. Chambers. It is, at worst, a bar and grill; at best, a tavern; never a saloon. I have pig’s knuckles with potato dumpling, the special for the day, with red cabbage, and I recommend it. I made it myself and I’m going to eat it myself, now.”
“Ah, cholesterol,” I moaned.
“Mr. Chambers, I am an old man, and I have lived through all kinds of faddist bullshit. Once upon a time aluminum utensils would give you cancer, and everybody had their tonsils taken out, and a woman who put rouge on her lips was a prostitute. Today everybody cooks in aluminum, nobody takes out the tonsils, and if you are a woman who does not put rouge on the lips you are very sick. My father lived to a hundred and six and he ate pig’s knuckles every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, because my mother loved pig’s knuckles and she died at the ripe old age of ninety-nine. Are you hungry, Mr. Chambers?”
“Mr. Trennem, I have a temperamental-type appetite. Sometimes I eat all day, never stop; sometimes I don’t start at all and don’t eat at all.”
“What day is this for you, Mr. Chambers?”
I licked at Scotch sour. “You guarantee the pig’s knuckles?”
“I’m going to eat it with you.”
“The hell with the cholesterol.”
“You are a man after my own heart, Mr. Chambers, and you’re not paying for nothing. All on the house.”
“But Mr. Trennem …”
“In my saloon I have it my way which is why I own a saloon, damn. Now you just sit and drink the sour and read the paper and if anybody wants Trennem, you tell them Trennem is cooking in the kitchen. You just sit, Mr. Chambers.”
The pig’s knuckles were succulent and the dumplings fluffy and the red cabbage pungent and there was German dark bread and Minnesota salt butter and a large mug of coffee, and my second breakfast vis-a-vis Mr. Trennem went down as easily as my first breakfast, and Mr. Trennem refused to take a dime for any of it, and so the cab driver who brought me to Sadie Flanagan’s building received an unexpectedly large gratuity: life has its balances even in minuscule matters.
Sadie said, “Have a seat here by me, hero. I’ve got the preliminary data in the top drawer.”
“I have a bone to pick,” I said.
“What now?” she said.
“Let’s first get rid of the top drawer.”
She brought out two manila folders. “Duplicate contents,” she said. “One folder is for you.”
My folder contained three cardboard sheets, one headed EARL, one MONIQUE, one INGRID. Each had a photograph of the respective person on top, and on bottom a photograph of fingerprints, and in between there was printed data.
EARL: British actor. Lives at 24 East 36 in a three-room apartment. Brought over by David Holly—you know why. Check of fingerprints shows no record in States. I do not know about England. I have no connections in England. Phone now tapped on twenty-four hour basis with recording machine to take down data.
MONIQUE: Separated from Tommy Lyons. Lives at 300 West 55 in a four-room apartment. Shares apartment with Jane Madison, a society gal who works as a photographer’s model. Check of fingerprints shows arrest four years ago in a raid on a marijuana party, suspended sentence; and arrest one year ago disturbing the peace drunk and disorderly, dismissed. Phone now tapped on a twenty-four hour basis with recording machine to take down data.
INGRID: Divorced from David Holly. Lives at 870 Park Avenue in a seven-room apartment. Maiden name Ingrid Strindberg, born in Sweden, came to U.S. at age 20, of a fine family; father at present member of Parliament in Sweden. Check of fingerprints shows no record in States. I do not know about Sweden. I have no connections in Sweden. Phone now tapped on twenty-four hour basis with recording machine to take down data.
I replaced the cardboard sheets into my manila envelope.
I said, “I bet the last one wasn’t too much trouble for you.”
“So much for preliminaries,” she said. “I’ll follow up on each. What last one wasn’t trouble for me?”
“Ingrid.”
She frowned. “That the bone you have to pick?”
“How’re you fixed for ethics, Sadie?”
“As good as you or better, and I think you’re fixed pretty good for ethics.”
“Sadie …” I began.
“Lay it on the table, sweetheart.”
“Was Ingrid Holly ever a client of yours?”
She did not turn a hair of her new brunette hair-do. “Yes. So?”
“Do you work both sides of the fence?”
“Never.”
“But—”
“Once she was a client of mine. Now she is not. There is nothing unethical in investigating a former client. Furthermore, when she was a client of mine, she was not a general client. I was retained for a single specific purpose.”
“What single specific purpose?”
“You know I won’t answer that, Peter, because you do know that I’m an ethical operator.”
“I’ll answer it for you, Sadie.”
She drew down the corners of her mouth and peered at me, upwa
rd; but she said nothing.
“I was your single specific purpose,” I said.
She was an ethical operator: she continued to say nothing.
“Wasn’t I, Sadie?”
“I don’t breach confidences, Peter.”
“The lady told me.”
“Okay, so the lady told you. The lady has a right to tell you whatever she wishes. Me, I don’t breach confidences.”
She was an ethical operator.
I hung on to my folder and I stood up from my chair and I leaned over and kissed Sadie’s forehead. “Goodbye beloved,” I said.
“Peter.”
“What?”
“You want me to keep after these people?”
“So far, yes.”
“You want any money back because one of them might have been easy for me?”
“I want nothing back.”
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“Just one thing, not unethical, no breach of confidence, simply personal observation.” She smiled.
“Yes, Sadie?”
“She’s a fine lovely woman. If you want me to keep on loving you, don’t play around there.”
“And if I’m not playing?”
“Then bless you, both of you.”
“G’bye, my love.”
“G’bye, lover.”
Miranda, at the office, said, “You have a client?”
“Question or answer,” I said.
“You have a client,” she said declarative.
I looked about the waiting room. “A ghost?” I said.
“He’s inside.”
“Why inside?”
“An important-looking party. I couldn’t have him sitting around out here simply because I didn’t know when in hell you’d be back. I told him you’d either be back or you’d call. He said he’d wait. I couldn’t keep him sitting out here, could I?”
“You could.”
“Matter of judgment,” she said. “Inside it’s like commodious. Out here it’s like”—she lifted her hands—”well, an outer office. The guy isn’t an outer office type.”
“What name?”
“I didn’t ask him. I’m a good employee. I don’t look to spoil. The guy looked like ready-money and I’m a trouper and I’m not one to shake up what looks like ready-money with impertinent questions. As long as he was willing to wait, I figured I’d let him wait under the best of auspices. I ushered him into the fancy room and I made with all the flounces and I fixed him up with magazines and cigarettes and cold water on a tray in the thermos. He’s been in there maybe an hour and not a peep out of him. Did I do wrong?”
“You did right. This is my day for dolls.”
“Well, thank you, boss.”
“Elderly dolls.”
“Drop dead, boss.”
Sixteen
MY CLIENT was Barney Croyden.
My client had mosied about a bit in the fancy room because the tray bore, alongside the thermos of cold water, a tall bottle of hot Scotch. Miranda, ready-money or no, would not have dared to monkey with the private stock. Miranda was old and tried and had fastidious judgment—the fancy room and the fancy flounces and the cold water and the magazines, yes. Booze, no.
I could not blame the client.
I might have done the same myself.
Maybe.
He was in the inner office waiting for me to earn his money, and when you wait an hour to spend your money, you are entitled to something more stimulating than cold water from the thermos and tepid stories from the slick magazines. He glanced up from the magazine laid over crossed knees and smiled with all the glistening grandeur of the obvious upper-and-lower and closed the magazine and put it away and glanced, somewhat apologetically, toward the tray on the desk. The tray contained the thermos, the bottle, and one of my tall glasses half-full of amber liquid.
“I do hope you don’t mind …” he said.
“I’m happy,” I said.
The fancy room was cool with air-conditioned air and bright with light from the windows and I was able to observe him more clearly than I had been able to observe him under the party-lights of David Holly’s party. He was a handsome man, richly attired, and he probably attended the men’s division of his wife’s beauty salon. His hair was wavy and awfully blue-grey; his gorgeous Van Dyke was gorgeously blue-grey; even his eyebrows, shaggy, were gorgeously blue-grey; he was, obviously, a vain man, strong and sturdy, with large grey alert intelligent eyes. I knew this bastard from somewhere, I’d swear.
“I helped myself …” he said.
“Naturally.”
“I must apologize …”
“Forget it.”
“I’ve been waiting …”
“Of course.”
He was wearing a charcoal tropical worsted, meticulously tailored, and an obviously custom-made cream-white shirt, and a delicate not-too-narrow delicate-maroon tie, and a delicate-maroon fluff of foulard sprouted from the breast pocket, and the obviously custom-made bootmaker shoes were black pointed slip-ons with buckles at either side. Oh, this was one guy who liked himself very much and if his underwear did not have neat custom-embroidered initials then I would be willing to go on the wagon for the rest of my life which, for me, would be somewhat of a sacrifice.
I got another glass and laid Scotch on bottom and water on top and stirred and sat myself in the business chair behind my desk. I sipped and said, “If you would have called in advance …”
“Actually, this was an impulse, Mr. Chambers.”
He had a fine voice, deep and rich and convincing: the guy was a born salesman. Did I know him?
“Well, I’m glad you answered to it, Mr. Croyden.”
“But why—”
“You’re business.”
“Of course.” He uncrossed his legs and clasped his hands. “After last night, I inquired about you, sir. It appears you are an experienced individual in your profession.” He smiled again but not up to the gums, a tentative smile. “I would like your advice, if you please.”
“Be glad, Mr. Croyden.”
“It is … er … a trifle touchy.”
“If it weren’t touchy you wouldn’t be here, Mr. Croyden.”
“Well, er …”
“I’m in a touchy business, Mr. Croyden. Each to his own. When you go to a proctologist you have troubles that you wouldn’t talk about in polite company. Same applies to a private richard.”
“That’s rather well said.”
“If I may revert to type—stick it, Mr. Croyden.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re not here to compliment me upon how well I say. I must cling to type, if you please.”
“Type?”
“A richard is like a proctologist. When there’s something stuck up your ass, that’s when you come to him. Now what’s your trouble, Mr. Croyden?”
“Please don’t be crude, Mr. Chambers.”
“What’s your trouble?”
“Blackmail, in a sense.”
“There is no blackmail—in a sense.”
“It’s not my trouble, actually. My wife’s. Blackmail. I should like some advice.”
“Yes, Mr. Croyden?”
He unclasped his hands. He drank from his glass. He stroked his beard. He said, “When can one be sure that blackmail is paid and is over?”
“Never.”
“Even if a great deal of money has been paid over?”
“Never,” I said. “Blackmail is like crabgrass. Attend to it in one spot, it will pop up in another.”
“But isn’t there any way …?”
“There is.”
Hope flickered in the grey eyes widening. “Just how?”
“You go to the police.”
“Oh no …” It was a groan.
“Oh yes. That way—it is the only way—that way it can be ended, permanently; and that is the only way.”
“But—”
“Look. Whatever is the basis of the blackmail, the guy who’s doin
g the blackmail, no matter how much you hope differently, has duplicates. If there are letters and the originals have been turned over, there will be duplicates. If the basis is pictures, there are other prints, even if the negatives have been turned over. If the basis is documents, there are photostats. If it is auditory, there are duplicate tapes. Blackmail is crabgrass, Mr. Croyden. It never ends.”
“Except—”
“Police, because with police the whole lawn is destroyed, crabgrass and all.”
“And the house and lot and everything …”
“No!”
“But police …”
“Mr. Croyden, a blackmailer is a criminal, extortion is a crime. Police understand that for blackmail to exist there has to be, pre-existing, some sort of indiscretion, and the police are sufficiently pragmatic to know that to accomplish their ends, they must not reveal the indiscretion, else they will never have cooperation.”
“Never, Mr. Chambers?”
“Almost never, Mr. Croyden.”
“Almost is not enough, Mr. Chambers. Will you explain it to me, please?”
“When you go to the police, they cooperate with you, unless you yourself, or, in this case your wife, has committed a crime.”
“No crime …”
“The police will cooperate. An expert trap will be set and an expert trap will be spring. There will be a tape-recording of the blackmailer’s demands, and marked money will be turned over to him, and he will be picked up as he accepts it. He will have no legal exit, no defense. He will be offered a guilty plea in return for a lighter sentence, and his lawyer will urge him to take it, and then the blackmail is forever ended.”
“He will always plead guilty?”
“With a trap that’s sprung, the weight of the evidence is over-whelming. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, he will plead guilty.”
“And that one time in a thousand …?”
“Then there must be a trial.”
“And the … indiscretion … becomes public knowledge?”
“Yes—but my statistics may be conservative. Almost every case of extortion—every one that I’ve ever heard of—once the police were in and a careful trap was baited and sprung—always there was a guilty plea; there never was a trial. Hell, the guy can’t win, and by pleading guilty he can figure on a reduced sentence.”