Death on the Double

by Kane, Henry

  “In the direction of the evidence.”

  “No.”

  “Any reason to believe that any evidence exists? I mean … a boy friend, something like that?”

  “No. Nothing like that.” He went back for his drink and gulped most of it. Then, hesitatingly, seeming to be groping for the words, he said, “For … for the past couple of months … she’s been going out … and coming home late, very late. She … she stayed out a couple of nights … and her explanations to me—just weren’t explanations. I’m very curious to know just what’s what. And if it is what I expect—then I’m going to commence divorce proceedings. That’s my problem, Mr. Chambers. Now what’s your fee?”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  I don’t know why I said a thousand dollars. I could have said much less, I could even have said more. I could have offered the usual per diem rates, with expenses. I didn’t. I made it a flat rate. I think I know why I did that. I think it was because I felt the guy was lying. I don’t know why I felt he was lying but in a business like mine, after a while, you seem to grow antennae, like the feelers of a cockroach, and they poke around and you sort of get a message. Sometimes it’s right, sometimes it’s wrong—but more often it’s righter than wrong. Anyway, that’s why I made it a flat fee—take it or leave it—and I didn’t care much either way.

  He took it.

  He went to his desk, wrote a check and gave it to me. “Thank you,” I said. “And now if you please, some statistics.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “1120 Park Avenue.”

  “You and your wife?”

  “Uh … not quite.”

  I squinted at him. “Your wife doesn’t live with you?”

  “Uh … not at present.”

  “Where does she live, Mr. Hart?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Now just a minute.” I helped myself to another drink, neat. “You mean, specifically, that you don’t know where your wife is?”

  “That’s what I mean, Mr. Chambers.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Two weeks. She … she just disappeared.”

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  “It … it wasn’t that kind of disappearance.”

  “What kind of a disappearance would you say it was?”

  “I mean … she didn’t just … just vanish. I mean for police, for Missing Persons, that sort of thing.”

  “You mean she told you that she was going?”

  “No.”

  “Then what the hell do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s not a disappearance … when you pack four bags … when you take most of your clothes from the closets.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. She left you. Is that what you’re trying to say, Mr. Hart?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. Though God knows why.”

  “So, first I’m supposed to find her, and then kind of poke around for the evidence. That it?”

  “I don’t know. I told you—these are things I know nothing about. You’ll do your job to the best of your ability, and you’ll report back to me.”

  “Where?”

  “At home. Or here.”

  “Suppose you’re not at either place.”

  “Then my secretary will know where I am.”

  “Suppose it’s after business hours.”

  “She’ll still know where I am.”

  “Yeah, but how’ll I get to her—after business hours?”

  “Oh. Yes. She lives at 16 East 70th. Apartment 5. Her name is Jessica Rollins. Her phone number is in the book.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Now what about family?”

  “We have no children.”

  “No. I mean your wife. Any family? Relatives?”

  “Just one. A brother. Anthony Quigley. Lived in England most of his life. Taught school there. He’s retired now.”

  “Still in England?”

  “No, he’s living here.”

  “Know where?”

  “At the Parke-Hedges Hotel. On Thirty-fourth Street.”

  “No other relative?”

  “Nobody else.”

  “Well,” I said, “that about ties it. Now, how about a picture of your wife, photo, something like that?”

  “I don’t have a picture here.”

  “What about at home?”

  “There are lots of them there. Look. Why don’t you come back here, say, at about four o’clock. I should be ready to go by then, and I’ll take you up to the apartment. You could look over any number of her photographs there. Perhaps we can have a bite of dinner together, and discuss this further.”

  “Fine,” I said. “We’ve got a date.” And just then I noticed the door in the far wall—and I had right good need of a door in the far wall at the moment. “Got to powder my nose,” I said, heading for it.

  “You’re going in the wrong direction.”

  “Not that door?” I pointed.

  “That’s an exit door.” He smiled with yellow-stained teeth. “Leads to a corridor, which leads to the elevators. Private like. Use it when I want to duck out, when some disgruntled investor is camping in the waiting room.”

  I moved from foot to foot. “Sorry I brought the whole thing up.”

  “Little boys’ room is outside, to the right of the reception desk.”

  “I thank you,” I said.

  The phone rang. Hart lifted it, listened, put it down. “Tamville wants you. And please—our talk was confidential.”

  “Always is,” I said and I scooted and, after propitious use of the boys’ room, I re-entered the lair of Robby Tamville.

  “Make money?” he inquired.

  “I did.”

  “Good. Got a couple of fresh arguments coming up with friend business-partner—but that’ll keep until after our business here is finished.”

  “You mean it’s finally going to begin?”

  “There are two gentlemen waiting outside,” he said. “One’s name is George Benson. He is a dealer in objects of art. The other is the chap I mentioned before, Timothy Blattner. He’s what is known as a business broker, which means a guy who tries to turn a buck. They’re both interested in a rare piece of jewelry of which I’ve decided to rid myself.”

  “At a profit, of course.”

  “Naturally.”

  “How rare is this rare piece of jewelry?”

  “A true object of art, a priceless object of art.”

  “Such as?”

  “An opal ring that was worn in times so ancient—that ancient history is modern in comparison. Has a name in the trade, too. Known as the Opal of Ramses.”

  Up-tone, I said: “Opal of Ramses!” Then, down-tone, I said, “Brother, I haven’t gotten mixed up in one of these fancy jewel deals in years and years. I thought that sort of thing was obsolete.”

  “Stop being a smart-aleck, will you please?”

  “Me? A smart-aleck?”

  “Listen. That damn ring is supposed to be one of those hard luck pieces—but I’m not a superstitious man. That is, not until lately.” His chuckle was grim. “Lately, everything’s been lousy, like my business things here with Hart. Anyway, I’ve decided to get rid of that ring. Cost me a hundred thousand bucks. I think I can turn a profit. Benson and Blattner, they’re prospective customers. I’m going to let them do a little bidding on it. Competition kind of ups the price.”

  “Now?”

  “No. I don’t have it here. Had it in the vault but I took it home. Got a safe in my cellar that’s rigged with more wires than a radar station. Tomorrow I bring it up and display it to my customers. That’s where you come in.”

  “Watch The Jools,” I mumbled.

  “What did you say?”

  “Didn’t say a thing.”

  “Either you’re becoming a mumbler, or I’m getting hard of hearing.”

  “What’s my job going to be, Mr. Tamville?”

  “First, now, you’re going to
listen to my talk with Mr. Benson and Mr. Blattner. Then, tomorrow evening, you come to my home, as guest at my masquerade. Everyone wears a different costume—but I make the selection of costume for each guest.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the way I want it. They either come dressed the way I want them to, or they don’t come at all.” He grinned, blinked both eyes. “Sonny, wait until you see the women. You’ll understand why I suggest the type of costume.”

  “I understand already,” I said. “Like The Lady Eve for Miss Rollins.”

  Tamville put a new light to his cigar. “All right. That’ll be your job. To keep your eyes and ears open at the party. I want a man of your talent, experience and resourcefulness to be present, period. Basically, it’s a damned small object, and damned small objects can disappear. So … I want you around. I’m taking other precautions, but you’re one of them. I’m going to be displaying the thing to my prospective buyers tomorrow night. Okay? Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, let’s see. You’ll come as a … a pirate. Fine. No other pirates at the party. Pirate. Fits you perfect.”

  “Me? Or you?”

  “Very funny, smart-aleck. Okay? Everything understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hit the button of his inter-com. He said, “Send the gentlemen in.”

  Benson and Blattner were both big and broad-shouldered. They were of similar height and of the same general build, but Benson was a good deal older. He was about fifty, flat-nosed, eager-smiling and frightened-eyed. Blattner was no more than thirty; black-eyed, black-haired, aristocratic and handsome.

  “Gentlemen,” Tamville said. “This is Peter Chambers. Mr. Blattner, Mr. Benson—Mr. Chambers.”

  We shook hands. Benson’s was soft and wet, Blattner’s firm, strong and dry.

  “Mr. Chambers is a private detective.” Tamville did not take his eyes from them as he spoke. “He’s a man whom I trust implicitly.”

  He got no reaction from either one of them.

  “In matters like these,” he went on, “I like to have a third party present, even in the initial discussions. Now, how about a drink, everybody?” He waved his cigar. “Right there, at the liquor cabinet. Help yourselves, please.”

  We helped ourselves. Each of us made his own highball, carried it to a chair, and we sat around, drinking and listening to Robby Tamville. “You’ll both come to my masquerade party, gentlemen. We’ll mix business with pleasure. You, Mr. Benson, I’d like you as a circus clown. And you, Mr. Blattner, as a Persian prince. That’s tomorrow night, you know. Business with pleasure. There’ll be lots of ladies present, gorgeous ladies. Business with pleasure.”

  “We see the ring then?” Blattner said. He had a soft resonant voice.

  “Correct,” Tamville said. “Be frank with you, gentlemen. I think I can get more from one or the other of you than by throwing the thing into the open market. Both of you, at one time or another, have expressed an interest. Tomorrow night, I’ll display the thing to you. And then, frankly, I shall pit one against the other. Best offer, gets the deal. That’s business. But remember, you’ve got to be up over a hundred thousand dollars—way over, if I have my way. Clear enough?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The rest was small talk and light chatter. Finally, Tamville said that he had to have a business talk with his partner, and right after that he was anxious to get home for a dip in the swimming pool. That was the cue that the interview was over. Blattner left first, then Benson, then I. When I went, I was preoccupied. I was so preoccupied that I forgot to look at Jessica Rollins, and more preoccupied than that you cannot get. What I was preoccupied about was Mr. Benson. He was either the most absent-minded man I had ever met or he was crazy. Because Mr. Benson had walked out of that office still holding on to a highball glass.

  Which one, I did not know.

  3

  I stopped at my bank and deposited a check for a thousand dollars and cash for five hundred dollars, and then I stopped at a tavern to slake some thirst and watch the baseball players on television. It was close enough to four o’clock to go back to Pine Street, but I was near my office, and I decided to pick up my hat. If the hat had been a symbol, the hell with the symbol. Fifteen hundred dollars and a slew of philosophical Scotches had revitalized my self-respect, despite the absurd combination of Watch The Jools and Louse The Spouse. A man has got to live, and as long as his toes are not too heavily trod upon, and as long as he can cling to a smidgeon of his integrity, he learns to live with himself no matter what his business. Especially after a slew of afternoon Scotches.

  Anyway, I went back for my hat, and when I got to the office, there was a message for me. A George Benson had called, had left a number and had asked that I kindly call back. I kindly called back, and Mr. Benson informed me that he was at home, which was at Thirty-eighth and Madison, and would I drop over right away because it was important. I told him it couldn’t be right away, because there was other business, and that was also important. He asked me when I could make it, and I said as soon as I was through with my business, which was going to start at four o’clock. He said fine, he would wait, and I said fine, thank you.

  Then I took my hat and went to Pine Street.

  The girl with the purple eyes said she doubted whether Mr. Hart would see me. I pulled back my chin and tried to look indignant and used my most cultured tones to declare that it so happened that I had an appointment and would she kindly let me talk with Mr. Hart’s secretary. She said she would be glad to let me talk to Mr. Hart’s secretary, and I was glad that she was glad, and I was even gladder when Jessica Rollins came out and motioned me to a seat and sat down beside me. I moved closer near her and tried to play kneesies but she discouraged that by crossing her legs and talking quickly and intensely.

  She told me that Hart and Tamville had had a severe argument, and that after Tamville had left Hart’s office, Hart had suffered a mild heart attack. This did not cause undue emergency-excitement because Mr. Hart had had these attacks before. Mr. Hart had cardiac trouble. Anyway, a doctor in the building, a Dr. Waterman, had been called, had treated Hart, and had advised him to go right home. Mr. Hart had not gone right home. He had, instead, given her some dictation, and had remained in his office, informing her that he was not to be disturbed.

  I explained that what he had meant was that he was not to be disturbed by anyone—but me. I explained that that was probably why he had remained in his office. I explained that he had specifically instructed me to return at four o’clock, that he was certainly waiting for me, and that it had to do with a personal matter of his own. With that she sighed, shrugged and asked me to follow her. Following her was, of course, a distinct ophthalmic pleasure.

  Inside, past the barrier, she knocked once on Hart’s door, received no answer, opened the door, and we pushed through. The reason that Hart had not answered was eloquently obvious. The bottom half of him reposed in his desk-chair and the top half was indiscriminately sprawled over the desk-top, showing absolutely no sign of life. I sent her posthaste hurry-up-like-hell for Dr. Waterman, but I did not touch him. With these cardiac cases, anything a layman does, it is always the wrong thing.

  I worked around him. First I fanned him with my handkerchief. That did nothing. Then I pulled the windows open, but that hardly created a draft. I wanted ventilation in the room, a breeze. So I went to open the rear-wall door. It was the kind of door with an inside turn-lock. I turned the inside turn-lock and opened the door, which provided an immediate cross-breeze for Mr. Hart, and an immediate shock for me.

  Shock was in the small person of a man named Johnson, who stared at me, goggle-eyed. Johnson was one of the reasons my profession has a disreputable reputation. Johnson was a skin-of-the-teeth private peeper whose license had thrice been revoked by honorable means and had thrice been restored by dishonorable means which is otherwise pronounced dirty politician. Johnson worked with a partner by the nam
e of Finch, and one was never without the other.

  “What the hell!” I said.

  Johnson said nothing.

  “What the hell,” I said, “are you doing here!”

  Reasonably he replied, “Who the hell wants to know?”

  “Me,” I said.

  “And who the hell do you think you are?”

  “You know damn well who I am.”

  “I mean what gives you the office to ask questions?”

  “Never mind. Come on in here.”

  “Like hell I’m coming in there.”

  “Move your ass. Come in here, Johnson.”

  “Not me. I ain’t going nowhere.”

  He was the small member of the concern. Finch was the bruiser. Suddenly, he turned and scampered. I scampered after him, grabbed at his collar, caught it, pulled him to me, and turned him around. “What goes?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Where’s Finch?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  I found out—right then. Something hit me on back of the head. I heard myself thud to the floor but I did not feel it. Then I heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing.

  4

  When I came to, I was on the floor of Jonathan Hart’s office and Dr. Waterman was saying something like, “Hematoma and slight concussion.” I knew he was Dr. Waterman because a Detective-sergeant whose name was Ernest Falkner was saying, “Treat him gently, Dr. Waterman. He’s a fine man and a valuable person. He’s a friend of mine, and a friend of my superior, Lieutenant Parker.”

  Ernest Falkner, Homicide, New York City, was a modern-crop cop. He was a college graduate, a career man. He had none of the old-fashioned hatred for the private operator. I had met him through Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, and I had found him to be bright, intelligent, congenial, honest. He was young though already cynical, but perhaps he had been cynical even before he had become a cop. He was lank and lean and pale, with large luminous lugubrious eyes, a quick fresh smile, and straight black hair that always needed cutting. “How is he, Doc?” he said.

  “I’m fine,” I said, beginning to sit up, and then I saw that I had company on the floor. Company was Jonathan Hart and though I was still as groggy as a swilling soubrette, it came to me that Jonathan Hart was rather dead. I pointed a finger at him.