by Henry, Kane,
“Perfectly, sir.”
“I endeavored to meet people in that field, and one of the people I met was Max Keith. I found him a most intelligent, very active, practical and charming young man. And fun-loving, to boot. It happens, sir, I’m a fun-loving man myself. I’m not particularly attracted to a stuffy type of individual. Be that as it may, I retained Keith Associates as my public relations firm, at twenty-five thousand dollars a year.”
“When was that, Mr. Hartley?”
“Two years ago. Whether or not Keith Associates could claim sole credit therefor — there is the possibility that things in general improved — business palpably improved. At the end of the first year, I renewed my contract.”
“Same fee?” Parker said.
Hartley’s eyes crinkled in a wry smile. “No, sir. Mr. Keith is — was — an astute business men. The fee was four times as much. A hundred thousand dollars. I felt it was worth it, and we came to an agreement. That contract was to have run out next week, and our meeting tonight was to discuss its renewal.”
Parker looked at me, and then his eyes went back to Hartley. “Contract, huh?”
Hartley frowned. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Any idea why Mr. Keith would have wanted a bodyguard?”
“A what?”
“Bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard for what?”
“I don’t know. As I told you before, Mr. Hartley, part of a cop’s job is to seek a pattern. Six months ago, Keith had a contract deal. He hired a bodyguard. Tonight, you say, your meeting with him was on a contract deal. So happens, he tried to hire himself a bodyguard for tonight too. He didn’t press it, but he tried. Make any sense to you, Mr. Hartley?”
“None whatever.”
“Okay. What happened?”
“My appointment was for seven-thirty. Here at his apartment.”
“For dinner?”
‘No. I had dinner earlier.”
“With your family?”
“No. Alone.”
Parker’s cigar was dead again. He took it out of his mouth. “That usual?”
“My dining alone?”
“Yes.”
“Usual when I’m a bachelor, which is what I am right now. My family is up in Maine.”
“How much of a family, Mr. Hartley?”
“My wife. My son, who attends West Point. My daughter, who is engaged to be married to John Allen. That’s Governor Allen’s son, Governor Allen of Louisiana.”
“I see. All right. You came here at seven-thirty, after dinner …”
“That’s right, Lieutenant. We chatted, had a few drinks, talked business, came to a decision.”
“May I inquire about this decision?”
“I decided to renew my contract.”
“For how long?”
“Another year.”
“Price?”
“Same price. A hundred thousand dollars.”
“Then?”
“Keith took me to his projection room and showed me rather an amusing motion picture.”
“What about?”
“Sun-bathers in the Swiss Alps. Gymnastics, sports, even tennis — men and women, all in various stages of undress. Quite amusing.”
“How long did that last?”
“A half hour, perhaps.”
“Then?”
“Then we went back to the drawing room. A Miss Rollins arrived, a member of Mr. Keith’s staff …”
From there, his story was substantially the same as Ruth Rollins’. There was one slight variance. At about nine-thirty, there was a ring downstairs, which Keith answered, and then a ring upstairs, which Miss Rollins answered. She’d ushered in a man, who appeared slightly drunk. The man had wanted to see Keith, and Miss Rollins had taken him to Keith, but it developed in a confused sort of way, that the man was looking for another Keith, a Reginald Keith. He was most apologetic, weaved about for a few minutes, gave them all a laugh, then departed.
“All?” Parker said. “Who was here then?”
“Miss Rollins, Mr. Keith, Mr. Adams and Mr. Keith’s sister — I don’t recollect her name.”
Carl Walsh came through the archway.
Parker said. “Yes, Carl?”
“Excuse me. Steve’s on the phone. The dame ain’t home.”
Parked pulled at his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Not home, eh? She live in a hotel?”
“I’ll ask.” Carl disapeared.
Parker said, “What did you do after you left here, Mr. Hartley?”
“It was a warm evening. I left with Miss Rollins. I put her in a cab, and then I strolled. I returned to my apartment perhaps twenty minutes before your man came to me … informing me of what had occurred.”
Carl returned. “She lives in an apartment house, Chief.”
“Tell Steve to get to the super, flash his potsy and get into the apartment. He’s to wait for her there. When she shows he’s to bring her down to Headquarters. If she doesn’t show, after a while, let him call me downtown, and we’ll relieve him. Somebody stays there until she does show.”
“Yes sir, Chief.”
“And Carl …”
“Yes?”
“Send in Miss Rollins.”
“Yes sir, Chief.”
Parker munched on his cigar. I lit a cigarette, offered one, belatedly, to Hartley. Hartley shook it off, brought out a cigarette case, and had one of his own, a special long job with a filter tip. Then Carl Walsh came through with Ruth Rollins. Parker said, “Ah, Miss Rollins …”
Hartley jumped to his feet, nodded.
Miss Rollins said, “How do you do, Mr. Hartley?”
Parker said, “Two questions, Miss Rollins.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One. Mr. Hartley tells us he deposited you in a cab when you two left. Where did you go?”
“Home. To my apartment.”
“Where’s that?”
“Eighty-two Seventy-third.”
“And now another thing. Mr. Hartley tells us about an intrusion, some kind of drunk that wandered in here. Do you remember that?”
“Certainly.”
Parker looked aggrieved. “You didn’t mention it.”
“No,” she said. “Come to think of it, I didn’t. It had absolutely no importance. It slipped my mind. I was trying to concentrate on all the events, everything that I thought could possibly help you. It … simply slipped my mind.”
“Perfectly natural,” Parker said. “But you did see him, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, I opened the door for him. He was looking for someone else, he said. A … a Reginald Keith, I believe.”
“That’s right,” Hartley said. “Reginald Keith.”
Parker turned his back and walked, slowly. Then he came back, slowly. “Probably junk, the kind of junk that clutters up a file. But you punch every key that pops up, that’s being a cop. Okay, you’re both here. Between you, we ought to be able to get a picture. Let’s have a description of this drunk.”
One prompted the other and the picture came up like this: tall, broad-shouldered, red hair, ruddy face, smooth reddish eyebrows, quite handsome, about thirty-five, and two scars. Two small scars. One at each eyebrow. Each smooth reddish eyebrow, split by a small scar.
Parker and I looked at each other. Then Parker went to the archway and called, “Walsh.”
Walsh appeared. Parker said, “Take Miss Rollins and Mr. Hartley down to my car.”
“Yes sir. What about you, sir?”
“I’ll be right down.”
Hartley said, “Your car, Lieutenant?”
Parker said, “We’ll go down to Headquarters. You two’ll look at pictures. I’ve got a broken-down hunch. Please go down with Detective Walsh.”
Walsh got them out of there, and Parker said, “Huk in town?”
“I don’t know.”
“How’s he figure in this?”
“Search me.”
I followed him into the living room. He said, “Certainly sound
s like Huk, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds, all right.”
The telephone rang. Parker lifted the receiver and listened after saying, “Parker,” once. Then he said, “Good. Don’t talk to him, and let him save his talking for us. Take him to Headquarters. We’ll be there.” He hung up.
I said, “Who’s that?”
“Fleetwood picked up Adams.” He got his hat, went to the door, and I went with him. The only one left in the apartment was the uniformed cop. In the elevator, Parker said, “You coming downtown with us?”
“I’m going to stop off at my apartment first.”
“Then?”
“Then I’m coming down.”
“Good.” In the lobby downstairs, he took his hat off and scratched a nubby finger at his stiff short-cut hair. “You heard Hartley, didn’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Heard how he enjoyed a motion picture with a lot of sun-bathers in the Swiss Alps?”
“Sure.”
“It’s got a catch.”
“What size?”
“Large size.”
“How come?”
“That projector. It had no film in it. No film at all in the projection room. No film anywhere. Not one strip in the entire god damn apartment.”
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Copyright © 1958 by Henry Kane, Registration Renewed 1986
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3907-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3907-7