Death on the Double

by Kane, Henry

“Then why can’t the transaction take place the next day, in the insurance company’s office?”

  “Because the eccentric Mr. Tamville wants our offers tomorrow night at his party.”

  “Why can’t you make your offer, and then complete the deal the next day?”

  “Because of the competitor, Mr. Blattner. I want the deal made and closed. I don’t want Mr. Blattner to have an opportunity to—what’s the expression?—throw a monkey-wrench into the works.”

  “I see. And do you always have a bank deposit of a quarter of a million?”

  “No.”

  “Does it have an explanation?”

  “It does. You see, Mr. Chambers, I’m a dealer in objects of art. I am, in a sense, the middleman. There is, right now, a Brazilian millionaire who has actually commissioned me to make this purchase.”

  “And how much is he paying?”

  “My client is a collector with limitless funds. This object of Ramses will, in a sense, complete a priceless collection of his.”

  “All I’m asking is—how much is he paying?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Naturally.”

  “He is paying three hundred thousand dollars. All of which he has already turned over to me. We’ve done business, of course, before.”

  “And that leaves you, does it not, a net profit of fifty thousand bananas?”

  “It does.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Please remember that he depends upon me unequivocally. Please remember that the object must be genuine, and that I am responsible if it is not. Please remember that I have had thirty years of experience in the field, that I am an expert.”

  “And what’s Timothy Blattner?”

  “As far as I know, Timothy Blattner is an adventurer.”

  “You do a check on him too?”

  “Yes, but not a thorough one. Although I’ve consistently made overtures to Mr. Tamville for this rare item, I learned, only recently, that Mr. Blattner was to be the one source of competition.”

  I helped myself to one of Benson’s cigarettes. It was filter-tipped and perfumed. I choked, spluttered, doused it, and helped myself to one of my own. “And what about this Timothy Blattner?” I said.

  “An adventurer. A small-time promoter. An opportunist. And,” he added, “quite the devil with the ladies.” He said that last as though it were nefarious.

  “The hell,” I said, “with the ladies. At least for the time being. How’s this bird fixed for loot?”

  “Poorly, I believe. Poorly, from my short investigation. I’m quite sure he cannot possibly match my offer. I’m also quite sure that he is representing a dealer. In the open market, at this time, the item may bring a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, a hundred and seventy-five at the most. I know my business, Mr. Chambers. I have a special client with a very special offer. I know that nobody in the trade can even come close to my offer. Which is why I know that I shall come away with the item. I’m sure that Mr. Tamville has made inquiries—and I’m certain that he’ll be both pleased and surprised at my offer.”

  “Then why the check on Blattner?”

  “Because I’ve been in this business a long, long time. I must always know about my competition. I want to know as much as I possibly can know. Which brings me to the second part of your job.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “the second part.” I sighed, blowing cigarette smoke. So far, I had not earned a quarter from this guy and now the job, already, had a second part. “What’s the second part?” I said.

  “Blattner.”

  “Still Blattner? What about Blattner?”

  “This.” He went to a mantel and gingerly he returned with a highball glass, holding it at its base. “I met Mr. Blattner for the first time today in Tamville’s office. I’d heard about him, but today was the first time I met him. Remember, we all made our own drinks there in Tamville’s office?”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “This was Blattner’s glass. Only he handled it, and I, when I carried it away. It should have two sets of fingerprints on it—his and mine. Can you arrange to have these prints checked?”

  “Both sets?”

  “Mine is of no interest—to either of us.” This time his chuckle was actually a giggle.

  I got rid of my cigarette. “What’s the tariff,” I said, “Mr. Benson?”

  “Tariff?”

  “My fee.”

  “You name it, sir.”

  “How’re you fixed for scratch?”

  “Scratch?”

  “Cash.”

  “Oh, cash. Very well. As a matter of fact, I’ve drawn some cash in prospect of this very interview.”

  “How much did you draw, Mr. Benson?”

  The soft brown eyes squinted humorously. “Again I’ll be frank, Mr. Chambers.”

  “And again I’ll say—naturally.”

  “I drew a thousand dollars.”

  “If you’ll hand it over, Mr. Benson, you’ve bought yourself a janissary.”

  “Janissary?”

  “A private richard.”

  He went out of the room, mincingly, and he came back, just as mincingly, but I was not interested in his mannerisms, I was interested in the ten bills of C-note denomination which he donated to the cause. Quite a day the peeper was having, and none the worse, as yet, except for a bump on back of his head. “Two hundred more,” I said, “will close the transaction.”

  “Pardon?” he said.

  “Look, sweetie, a man as shrewd as you, declaring a thousand, has probably drawn twice that much. But I’m being kind, Mr. Benson. Matter of fact, the extra couple of yards are for necessary expenses.”

  “Expenses?” His eyebrows fluttered over his soft-brown frightened eyes (and a chappie with his walk and his perfume and his giggle, I now understood why the eyes were frightened).

  “You’ll be present when the expenses are paid,” I said. “Two hundred dollars. Now please shake your can, Mr. Benson. I’m on your side.”

  He went off and fetched the additional two hundred and then I used his telephone to call Dan Axelrod. Danny was a fingerprint man with the Department but Danny, like any of us, had no horror of acquiring a couple of hundred additional canteloupes by dint of performing the same duties he performed for a salary, frequently inadequate. I got through to Danny and I gave him the address and I said, “Come on over and bring your dusting powder and equipment and camera, and earn yourself two hundred clams.”

  Danny was laconic. He said one word. “Legitimate?”

  “I’d have offered you more if it weren’t, Danny-boy.”

  “Legit?” he persisted.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there. Don’t go ‘way.”

  While we waited, I informed my client that I expected to be at Tamville’s place early, and that I would come as a pirate, and that I would be the only pirate there, since Tamville was the autocrat who directed the attire of his guests, and he wanted one of a kind. I also confirmed that Benson was to come as a circus clown. Then our conversation degenerated to gossip and politics until Danny arrived burdened with more equipment than a lecturer at a birth control clinic.

  I paid him his fee first. Then I told him our problem and he went to work. Half hour later, Danny and his equipment were gone and I was looking at a fine set of photographs of a fine set of fingerprints belonging to a stranger named Timothy Blattner.

  “How soon,” Benson said, “can we get results on that?”

  “Takes a little time,” I said.

  “How long?”

  “Depends. I’ve got to process these, and I’m without authority for process.”

  “More money, Mr. Chambers?” he said.

  “You tempt me, but I’ll resist. No. No more money, Mr. Benson. I have friends who’ll do it for me, and without money.” I went for my hat. “Figure I should have some information for you in time for Tamville’s party. Let’s say I deliver there. Good enough?”

  “Ye
s. You’re rather an honorable man, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Don’t push it too far, Mr. Benson. Bye, now. Got to run.”

  “Good bye, Mr. Chambers.”

  We shook hands and his clung like the mesh dress to the lush lass posing for pictures for a very confidential magazine. I couldn’t resist one last little crack. “Wanna kiss me good bye?” I said.

  “Tell you a secret,” he said. “I’d love it.”

  6

  The Park-Hedges was near enough to Thirty-eighth and Madison to be the natural next stop for the prancing private richard, although naturalness, in all truth, should not be expected from a guy staggering under the load of a single payday in the round and opulent figure of twenty-five hundred bountiful bucks, but proximity has an allure as, frequently, virgins have discovered. I was bent upon the more urgent business of evoking a modicum of mayhem upon an animal with the feather-like name of Finch, but proximity pointed to the abode of the brother of Mrs. Jonathan Hart, so I decided upon a temporary postponement of the mayhem in favor of a possible interview with the pedagogue from Britain.

  Professor Anthony Quigley was registered in Suite 401, and the good professor was at home and receiving. Professor Quigley was polite and impervious behind a seamed and ancient face. He tottered a good bit, a tenuous and sharp-boned figure in unmatched English tweeds. He had a long blue-veined nose and a shining bald un-veined scalp. He had tiny grey eyes that peered meekly from beneath a heavy ledge of forehead, a good-natured whiskey-rasped voice, a slight lisp, and large square teeth that hung out like the bosom of a bent-over debutante.

  The desk-man downstairs had referred to him as Professor Quigley, so I did too. I told him that I was in the employ of Mr. Jonathan Hart, making no mention of the fact that Jonathan had repaired to his ancestors, and I informed him that Mr. Hart was flutteringly concerned about the sudden take-off of the good lady who was his wife.

  “Delores, you mean?”

  “Mr. Hart never mentioned her first name, sir.”

  “Delores Quigley Hart, young man. Delores—with an e as the second letter.”

  “Whatever you say, Professor.”

  “Left her husband, has she? Calls for a drink, does it not?”

  “You mean you’re glad?”

  “Neither glad nor regretful, young man. Simply calls for a drink—the fact of the disassociation of any two who were associated. Will you join me, young man?”

  “No, thank you, Professor. Never touch the stuff.”

  “Good for you, young man.” He grunted. “Vile habit, truly.”

  He poured lengthily of the vile habit—bourbon yet for a British professor—and he drank noisily, but he drank right down to the bottom of the glass. “Vile,” he said, wiping slack lips with the back of a gnarled hand.

  “About Delores?” I prompted.

  “Had a tiff with the old man, did she?”

  “No tiff, Professor. Just packed, lit out, and lumped it.”

  “Very unlike Delores, truth to tell. Not quite that precipitous, dear Delores.”

  “When did you see her last, Professor?”

  “Oh, about a month ago, I’d say. Sure you won’t have a drink, young man?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Mind if I do?”

  “Not at all.”

  He poured the bourbon like the glass had no bottom and he knocked it down like he had no bottom. “Vile habit,” he said.

  “A month ago?” I said. “Did she give you any idea that she intended to sort of pull up stakes?”

  “No idea at all, young man. No idea, whatever. Not at all like her, matter of fact. Grown quite stuffy in her years, old Delores. Disapproved of Professor Quigley, matter of fact. Visited as a masochistic penance, matter of fact. Left her husband? Quite unbelievable, matter of fact. Stuffy in her years, old Delores. Was quite gay in her youth, was Delores. Ah, youth. Once was the vaudeville team of Rose and Quigley. That’s when old Jonathan met her, when she was part of Rose and Quigley.”

  “Rose and Quigley?”

  “Quite.”

  “I take it she was Quigley?”

  “Quite.”

  “How long have they been married—Jonathan and Delores?”

  “Oh … say, twenty years, give or take a few. Quite gay in those days, old Delores. Didn’t disapprove of the drinking of her brother in those days. Vile habit. Quite.”

  “Rose and Quigley,” I said. “I think that was before my time. Never heard of them.”

  He straightened up and a long lip came down over the hung-out teeth. “Never heard of Rose and Quigley, young man! For shame! Quite wonderful, Rose and Quigley. Gay in those days, old Delores. Rose was the real artist, though. Delores was arranger and accompanist, but she was quite good too, damn her old hide. Did quite a bit of drinking herself then, vile old habit. You sure you won’t have a tiny dram of warmth, young man?”

  “Never touch it, sir.”

  “Good. Good for you, young man. Good, good, good. Vile habit.” He poured again, and drank again.

  The young man’s throat was getting a parch. The young man cleared his parched throat. “What happened,” the young man said, “to Rose? Delores married Jonathan. But what happened to Rose?”

  “Never married, Rose. Married to the bottle, Rose. Vile habit. Oh, she is still singing, Rose, old Rose, croaking her songs. Real artist, that one, bottle or no bottle, vile habit. You have never heard of Gladys Rose?”

  Gladys Rose! I certainly had heard of Gladys Rose! Gladys Rose had only been great! I had seen her around, here and there, on the town—but I had heard Gladys Rose all the way back since I was a boy. I had listened to records, and I owned records of the great Gladys Rose, records of her early days, before the alcohol had burned ulcers in her voice box. Gladys Rose. Only the greatest. One of the wonderful old-timers. And she was still around, sure she was still around, she was belting it out right now, in a juke-joint at Seventy-third and Third, MacKenzie’s, throwing a still-smooth chest out at the boys, knocking off her songs in a soprano voice grown tenor. Couldn’t sing a lick any more, Gladys Rose, but she still had the beat, they all had the beat, the great ones, until they died.

  “Sure,” I said. “Gladys Rose.”

  “Fine old gal. Knew all about life, that Gladys, knew everything, heart as big as that fat old body of hers, Gladys Rose. Sure you don’t want a bit of the fire, young man? Bound to kill you, if you take too hard to it. I ought to know. I’ve been around, as they say. Be seventy-six my next birthday …”

  7

  Johnson and Finch were located on Houston Street near Second Avenue. The office was a side-street store with much gilt lettering on an unwashed window. The window needed no washing because it was not transparent: it was painted black on the inside. There was more lettering on that window than appears on the special stationery of a specious charity appeal—lettering in English, Spanish, Hebrew, Chinese, Polish, and Yiddish—all surrounded by the imposing, red, many-pointed seals of the notary public. The lettering recited the virtues and professed accomplishments of Johnson and Finch—very private investigations, very confidential follow-ups, happy solutions to unhappy marriages, skip-tracings of the slipperiest skippers, old judgments revived, witnesses procured, any and all bills collected. The large wooden-door entrance was painted a bright and shining scarlet, and many an important person had gone through that scarlet door—Johnson and Finch were considered sturdy if quaint off-beat characters—and they were frequently and vociferously recommended by the most prim and proper of clients, who never realized they had been trimmed, poor souls.

  The prospect of a face-to-face meeting with the lovely Finch—directly after the observance of the repeated practice of a vile habit by a retired British professor—drove me to a combination delicatessen-and-gin-mill across the street from the scarlet door. Soothed by Scotch, and inspired by a divine pastrami-on-rye, I sallied forth, derring-do and all-hail, pushed at the large red door, and went in.

  Finch was broad-beamed
bent over a large safe, his back to the door. He started to unbend, but he never quite made it. My right knee went up, my right foot went up, my right knee straightened, and my right foot shot out, meeting the broad beam of Finch with delightful enthusiasm. Finch catapulted into the open safe, and I was tempted to swing the door shut and twirl the dial, but I resisted the temptation. Instead, I went after him, yanked him out, and, taking full and adequate measure, I belted him.

  He hit the floor but he bounced right up again.

  Now he came at me, mouthing excellent curses. His intent was to tear me limb from limb, but he was lumbering rather than sprightly. That first kick and that first belt had taken effect. Though he flailed powerful arms, and threw piston fists, there was no steam behind his punches. I scampered around him, jabbing like a lightweight, flicking knuckles at his nose until the blood popped and sopped down his lip. Then he swung hard, and missed, and he was half-turned, motionless, his chin stuck out like the rear end of a movie starlet. I wound up and I launched a big one and it caught him square. He went down with a thunderous thump, twitched once, and then he spread out, comfortable and relaxed, like he was alone at the seashore and he liked the sun.

  I locked the door and stood over him.

  He was big, was Finch, he was a powerhouse. He had a square face (decorated with crimson designs at this moment), a wide cruel mouth, a stubborn jaw, and tiny eyes surrounded by crinkled fat. His chest was barrel-broad, his shoulders like kegs, his hands like bunched bananas. I thought about waking him and taunting him to tussle again, but I had evened the score on hematoma and concussion, and I had business with him. So, instead, I took the strap off his trousers, turned him over, and fastened his wrists behind him. I used my handkerchief, rolled to rope, for his ankles. Then I turned him face up and slapped him, urgently, back to consciousness. He squirmed, but I’m an old hand at tying knots.

  “What the hell?” he said. “Now what the hell …?”

  “This the hell,” I said. “What were you doing outside of Jonathan Hart’s office on Pine Street?”

  “None of your goddamned business,” he said.

  “We’ll come to that. Why’d you slug me?”