I released the blinds. They flapped closed again with a muffled clang. I holstered my .45 and turned my attentions to the victim, who was making full use of my blotter.
It was purely out of instinct that I leaned over and pressed my fingertips to the man’s neck. I was sure by glancing at him that the man was dead, but just to be certain, I searched for a pulse, not really expecting to find one. I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t. I reached for my handkerchief and wiped my fingers even though I hadn’t touched any of the blood. It gave me an uneasy feeling to be in the presence of a corpse and I quickly stepped back a few paces.
I walked around to the front of my desk to get a better view of the stranger who now occupied my chair. I didn’t recognize the man, yet there was something vaguely familiar about the brown pinstriped suit he was wearing. I was sure I’d seen it earlier that day. I remembered thinking how common blue pinstriped suits were but that this was the first brown one I’d seen in months. I was certain it was the same suit. It had the same wilted carnation sticking out of the left lapel.
The man appeared to be in his early forties with brown hair, thinning on top. As best I could tell from seeing the body in a sitting position, I guessed the man to be about six feet tall with an average build, similar to my own. A pencil thin mustache accented the man’s upper lip and his perfectly manicured nails seemed out of place on an otherwise gruff-looking character such as this one.
His gray eyes were fixed wide open and seemed to be staring at the typewriter, which was perched on the pullout shelf protruding from the end of the desk. I glanced at the man’s eyes and then followed the invisible path between those eyes and the typewriter.
Curling out of my typewriter was a sheet of paper with my letterhead showing. Several spaces down I noticed two lines typed on the page. I leaned over the fresh corpse to see if I could make out the words. Not wanting to spend any more time brushing up against a dead man than I had to, I quickly took hold of the protruding sheet and pulled. The typewriter roller sounded like a casting reel with a large trout straining at it as I jerked the paper from the machine.
Again I stepped back, grabbing the gooseneck lamp and standing it upright on the desk. I held the page under the light and strained to read the lines.
“My dear Nancy. I can’t go on any longer.
Life just doesn’t seem worth the effort
anymore. Please forgive me.”
I neatly folded the paper twice and filed it away in my left inside suit pocket. It made no sense to me when I read it, but then I didn’t even know this guy, so why should it make sense? One thing I did know for sure was that this was no suicide. Someone surely wanted to make it appear to be one, but too many things just didn’t add up. Why use the typewriter? The typing paper was tucked away in a drawer and the typewriter was covered for the night. A pad and pencil were lying right there on the desk. It would have been perfect for a note this short.
The mysterious figure I saw running through the alley at precisely that moment was too coincidental. The open window, the overturned lamp, the emptied desk drawer, they just didn’t add up. The office door had still been locked from the inside. What was somebody after in my office of all places? I wasn’t working on a case at the present time. My last client had paid me off three weeks earlier. My license had just been renewed last month. I couldn’t think of anyone who was out to get me. Still I couldn’t help wondering where I’d seen that brown pinstriped suit so recently.
My next logical step, I thought, was to see who this guy is—or was. I carefully reached into the man’s suit and retrieved a tattered, brown bifold wallet. It had been picked clean except for an old photo neatly tucked under one of the inside flaps. It was a picture of a woman sitting on the left front fender of a ‘47 Nash. The photo looked fairly recent. The yellow and black license plate on the Nash read JTS-276 and the woman was wearing a flowered dress. Aside from that, the photo offered no clues as to the identity of this bleeding bundle of flesh.
I removed my brown felt fedora and neatly tucked the photo in the inside rim and placed it back on my head. As I stood there evaluating the situation, the office door swung open and three men bolted in.
“Hold it right there,” a voice said. “Drop that wallet on the desk and step back. Frisk him, Burns.”
Officer Burns ran his hands up and down my legs, arms and sides. He stopped abruptly when he reached my underarm section. He drew his service revolver and reached into my suit almost in one sweeping motion. “Looks like we got us a gun, here, Sarge.”
“I got a license for that,” I said. “I was gonna call you guys. I just got here myself.”
I was more irritated than intimidated. I’d been used to this kind of treatment and had even come to expect it. I hadn’t been on good terms with the police department ever since I’d left the force two years earlier. “Do we have to go through this whole routine?” I said.
The intruder switched on the overhead light and immediately recognized me. “What’s going on here, Cooper? We just got a call from some guy who said we would find a murderer and his victim. I take it that would be you.”
The sergeant’s voice was stern, but I saw through his charade. “So far you’re the only one we’ve seen, besides your pal here. Care to explain?”
I looked at the sergeant in much the same way I’d looked at him during role call back on the force. “He’s not my pal, Hollister,” I said, breaking away from Officer Burns’ grip and straightening my crumpled suit coat.
“I never saw the guy before,” I said. “I just got here myself. I walked in and found this guy bleedin’ all over my desk. Not even an appointment. Can you beat that? Then you and your Welcome Wagon showed up and here we are.”
I had a knack of turning an answer into a sarcastic remark and seemed to enjoy it in this case. I thought about the mysterious stranger I’d seen from the window, but decided to keep that to myself for the time being. My immediate thoughts turned to Sergeant Dan Hollister, once my sergeant, now a real thorn in my side.
“Cooper,” Hollister said, “You’re in a lot of trouble unless we get some answers right now. You know we can yank your license anytime we want so unless you cooperate…”
“All right, all right,” I said. “Still pulling rank, eh? This was in my typewriter.” I pulled the folded note out of my inside suit pocket and held it out. Officer Burns quickly snatched it from between my fingers and handed it to Sergeant Hollister.
“But like I said,” I continued, “I was just gonna call you when you barged in.”
“Is that it?” Hollister said, giving the note a quick once over and placing it in his own pocket. He looked to me for further information.
I saw no reason to share the photo with the sergeant. “Any idea who this joker is?” I said, changing the subject. “I mean, I’d like to get some work done but it’s a little awkward trying to sit on some stiff’s lap, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re funny, Cooper,” Dan said. “About as funny as a rubber crutch. If I thought for a minute that you had anything to do with this, I’d have you locked up so fast…”
“Save the threats for the hoods out there,” I said. I walked over to the mirror that hung above the wall sink, and looked into it. I grabbed my fedora and tilted it to the right. “I know better than that,” I said. “You talk a good line, but that’s all it is, a line. You’re still pissed about me leaving the department, aren’t you? You don’t have ol’ Matt Cooper to hound any more. That’s it, isn’t it, Dan?” My wry smile was more like a smirk.
“Can it, Cooper,” Hollister replied. “You know why you’re on the outside lookin’ in. I don’t have to remind you.”
Hollister turned away and motioned to his men. “Come on. Let’s leave Mr. Cooper to his work. I’m sure he’ll have plenty to tell us in the morning.” Hollister turned back to me, waiting for a reaction. When he didn’t get one, he added, “Isn’t that right, Cooper?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. My answer came mor
e from the sense of wanting to be rid of this intruder than to actually cooperate with him.
Burns and the other officer holstered their service revolvers and looked to Hollister for further instructions. The sergeant turned to the officer at his side and said, “Burns, get on the radio and have dispatch send the lab crew over here—now! Tell ‘em what ya got and tell Koogan that I want the results on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. Got that?”
“Right, Sarge. I’ll have ‘em send the photog over, too. What about him?” Burns asked, nodding his head in my direction.
Pushing his hat higher up on his head and running his forefinger and thumb across his chin, Hollister said, “He’s not that stupid to hang around waiting to be caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Besides, if you’ll run a check on that .38 in the deceased hand, I think you’ll find that it’s not Cooper’s. For now, we’re working on the premise that this guy checked his own baggage. Now get on it.”
“Sure thing, Sarge.” Officer Burns pulled out his pad and pencil and headed off down the hall, jotting notes and mumbling to himself.
“Don’t touch another thing.” The sergeant’s eyes followed me across the room as I settled in an overstuffed burgundy leather chair in the corner. “The lab guys will be here shortly. Hollister turned to leave but turned back to Matt and added, “Oh, and Cooper…”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Don’t leave town. I’ll be here trying out some spot remover on my blotter.”
I pulled a nearly empty pack of cigarettes from my jacket pocket and shook the pack upward, producing one last cigarette. I grabbed it with my lips and crumpled the empty pack, tossing it at my metal waste can where it found its mark with a clanking sound. I struck a match on the wall next to my chair and held the flame just out of reach of the end of the cigarette. “You wanna make sure your guys pick up this package—tonight,” I said, touching the flame to the end of the cigarette.
“You just make sure you’re in my office first thing in the morning,” Hollister said. “Got that, Cooper? Don’t make me come looking for you.” Hollister exited the office, slamming the door behind him. The glass insert rattled and I settled back into the chair.
As the uniformed intruders made their way back down the hall toward the stairway, I sucked on the cigarette, producing a bright red glow that illuminated my face in the dark corner. I glanced once more at the dead man seated at my desk. I rose from my tufted perch and strolled over to the window and took another look at the street below. The street glistened with the recent rain and the streetlight’s reflection left a wavy pool of rainbow colors on the asphalt. My eyes focused on the steady stream of water trickling along the gutter and down the grate. I couldn’t help but wonder who left this mess in my office—and why.
I awoke suddenly, startled by a loud thud at my front door. I rolled off the end of the couch, hitting my head on the carpet. With my hand perched inside my crumpled suit, I half stood up and drew back the curtain just enough to see outside. I had fallen asleep on the couch in my clothes and the events of the previous night back at the office had made me a little jumpy. The morning sun hurt my bloodshot eyes and I quickly released the curtain and squinted my eyes tightly for a moment and opened them again to try to adjust to the light.
I opened the front door a crack only to find the cause of the sound that woke me. It was the morning newspaper. Opening the door further and reaching for the bundled wad, I could see the paperboy peddling away down the block. I relaxed my grip on the .45, scooping up the paper and closing the door behind me.
The paper unfolded and I sat on the couch to glance at the headlines. “TRUMAN MEETS WITH FOREIGN LEADERS.” I turned the paper over and just below the fold saw a familiar face, the face of the man who occupied my wooden swivel chair the night before. “SUICIDE SUSPECTED AT PRIVATE EYE’S OFFICE,” the caption read. Directly below the picture was the name “Harry Marcheske” in bold type.
Now it struck me where I’d seen this face, or rather that brown pinstriped suit, before. Harry was the owner of the neighborhood dry-cleaning store. I remembered seeing that suit at Harry’s place. I wondered who’d come in to claim it and who would choose brown over blue in the first place. Now it was obvious. No one would claim it. It belonged to Harry Marcheske.
I read on. “Harry Marcheske, 46, proprietor of H & M Dry Cleaners was found early this morning in the office of Matthew Cooper, a local private investigator. Mr. Marcheske suffered one bullet wound to the head. Police have no further leads at this time and have not ruled out foul play but are optimistic in their investigation.”
I threw the paper to the floor in disgust and headed toward the kitchen. “Optimistic?” I muttered, “Of course they’d say that. They have no leads and nowhere to turn, as usual.”
I downed my coffee, stuffed the last morsel of toast into my mouth and headed for the bathroom where I stripped down, throwing the crumpled suit in a pile in the corner. A quick shower and shave and I would be back on the street looking for answers to last night’s puzzle.
I selected my gray slacks, blue turtleneck sweater and corduroy jacket from the closet and stood in front of the mirror to admire the results. “Ya still got it, Cooper.” I eased my jacket off again and slipped into the leather and elastic shoulder holster. The ensemble was now complete.
Slamming the front door closed behind me, I walked the seventeen steps to the driveway and climbed into my Olds coupe. I backed out of the driveway and onto Melrose Ave.
This West Hollywood neighborhood seemed a perfect location for me. It put me right in between Hollywood and Beverly Hills. My office was just minutes away and I often slept there. Luckily I hadn’t chosen that particular night to sack out at the office. That might be me there alongside Harry.
As I passed Fairfax Avenue, my thoughts turned to poor Harry with the hole in his head. I still couldn’t make sense of it all. Harry was a dry cleaner, a nobody, at least as far as I could tell. There didn’t seem to be any ties between Harry and any underworld figures that I knew. Harry was a family man and I just didn’t see a connection.
I turned north on La Brea and pulled up to the curb in front of my office building. A black-and-white was just pulling away but I noticed a familiar sedan with the obvious duel spotlights mounted on the cowl still parked just ahead of my coupe. It was Sergeant Hollister’s car.
I made my way up to the second floor, down the hall and to the last door on the left. The door was open and Dan Hollister seemed to be looking for something.
“Lose something, Hollister?” I said. “It isn’t like you to show up uninvited at my place.” That same sarcastic smirk fell over my face as I stood there.
“Can it, Cooper,” Hollister said. “I thought I told you to be in my office first thing. Do you call this first thing?”
“Don’t get all shook up,” I said, reaching for my cigarettes. “I was on my way and decided to stop here to pick up a few things first. Besides, what’s the big deal? You know I had nothing to do with this.”
“Cooper,” he said, “This is official and if you interfere in any way with our investigation you’ll be spending the next few years at the taxpayer’s expense, got it?”
The expression on Hollister’s face told me that levity wasn’t going to get me anyplace.
“Get off it, Dan,” I said. “You know it wasn’t a coincidence that this Marcheske character happened to be in my office. He must have wanted me for something.”
I struck a match and held it to the cigarette that dangled from the corner of my mouth. “He just never got the chance to tell me before somebody gave him that .38 lobotomy. Did your guys check the typewriter for prints yet?”
Hollister didn’t answer. In fact, he seemed put out that I would even suggest to him how to go about his business.
“What’d ya find?” I said. “Nothing, right?”
“Wrong,” Hollister said. “We found prints all over it, Cooper. Yours.”
“Of course you did,” I said. “It’s my typewriter
, but did you find anybody else’s?”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that Harry could leave a suicide note on my typewriter and not leave his prints on the keys? I mean, didn’t that strike you a little odd? It’s obvious that the note was typed after Harry was dead. Handwriting is too easy to trace so the killer used the typewriter. Harry would have simply used the pad and pencil that was lying there.”
“Cooper,” he said, “The official word is that this was a suicide and it will be treated as such until we have reason to think otherwise. If you have any crazy ideas keep ‘em to yourself. I have work to do.” Hollister turned away and continued with his search.
“Typical,” I said. “You still got your head up your ass after all this time.” I was growing impatient at the sergeant’s indifference. “I’d have thought you of all people would have wised up by now. You know I was framed and I know I was framed and still you insist on playing these stupid games. Who you protecting anyway?”
Sergeant Hollister didn’t answer. Instead he just scowled and headed for the door, glancing back over his shoulder as he was leaving. “Matt, let me give you some advice. Some things are better left alone. Trust me on this one. I know what I’m talking about. Stay out of it.”
Before the words had stopped echoing in the hallway, Dan was gone. I couldn’t see the curb from here, but I heard the car door slam and the tires squeal as Sergeant Hollister pulled away.
What was Harry doing here, I wondered. If Harry’s killer thought that Harry had left anything, they’d have torn this place apart looking for it. But then they really didn’t have time for a thorough search. I got here right after poor Harry got plugged. That explains the overturned desk drawer.
I stood there a moment to collect my thoughts and to look around the room one more time. “Well, it looks like I gotta get me a new blotter,” I said out loud, as if there was someone to hear me. I lifted the blotter and looked around for a place to toss it. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a small piece of paper stuck to the underside of the blotter. Partially stained with Harry’s own blood, I could still make out four numbers—6052 and MARCHE before the blood obliterated the rest.
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 9