by Kane, Henry
“Shut up,” Loretta said. “Shut up and sit still. Let him talk.”
“You told me,” I said, “that you never heard of a little dame by the name of Elsa Corey.” “That’s right. I told you. Never heard of her. Was I supposed to?”
“No. But bright-boy here heard of her. Knew her very well, very well indeed. She was second lead in his show. Second lead, Elsa Corey, a kid who didn’t know which end is up, first real job of her life. Plus she was Crazy about the Big Producer, they were kind of living it up together. She’s wide-eyed crazy about him, do anything in the world for the Big Producer.”
“Like what?” Loretta said. “Do anything—like what?”
“Like running a little errand for him. Like playing sort of a practical joke on a guy. This bastard can have a smooth tongue when he wants.”
“Practical joke?”
“Yah. He gives her a pearl-handled .38—the gun he’d used on Bruce, all wiped clean. He gives her the gun, and she’s wearing gloves, so it’s still clean.”
“And what is she supposed to do with this gun?”
“She’s supposed to come to me, because I’m lined up for the patsy, because Jackie-boy knows there’s supposed to be bad blood between me and Bruce. She’s supposed to come to me, and she’s supposed to threaten me with it—not shoot me.” I threw a glance at him. He was eating his underlip. “No, she’s not supposed to shoot me. Smooth-tongue briefed her on that. And … she’s supposed to tell me—I’m kind of supposed to pry it out of her—that Bruce sent her. The kid’s an actress, and Jack depended on that.”
“Bruce! That Bruce sent her? Why Bruce?”
“Because Jackie-boy figured on human nature. Figured it exactly as it happened.”
“What did happen?”
“Listen carefully now. I took the gun away from her, naturally, and, naturally, I questioned her closely. She told me she had just come from Bruce’s place, that he had given her the gun, that he had compelled her, under threats, to use it on me—”
“Not Bruce!” Loretta said agitatedly. “Oh, no. Not Bruce.”
“Easy,” I said. “Let me tell you.”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
“Of course not Bruce. It’s all Jackie-boy, the beautiful bit that Jackie-boy dreamed up. Anyway, I took the gun and I hot-footed it up to Bruce to find out what it was all about. Little Jackie-boy was parked downstairs outside my office. When he sees me steam out, he knows it’s working just as he had figured it. So, he makes an anonymous phone call to the police to go up there to Bruce’s joint, that there’s trouble there. Me, in the meantime, I arrive there like the real patsy that I was. I find the door conveniently open—no prints on the knob, of course, only mine when I use it. Inside, there’s your Bruce—just like this bastard left him—dead with two bullets in him. And right then and there the cop shows up, and me with the gun on my person, two bullets discharged from its barrel. Cute, my lady?”
“Just a minute, Mr. Chambers.” Loretta stood up out of her chair. The blood was drained from her face. Lipstick and rouge were harlequin smears on a dead-white canvas. “You’ve said your piece, Mr. Chambers. All right now. Where’s this girl? Where can I find her? Where’s this Elsa Corey?”
And Jack Burke scrambled out of his chair squealing: “Yeah. Yeah. You filthy lying bastard. Where is she? Where is she?”
“Look at him wriggle, the murderer. Look at the murderer wriggle. Where is she?” I clawed at my bandaged hand. “She’s dead. That’s where she is.” “What?” Loretta twisted toward me. “Dead. Dead, like Bruce. And dead because of Bruce, because of the planned little masterpiece our friend here dreamed up. Think, Loretta. He wasn’t going to let her testify against him when the thing broke wide open. No Elsa—no testimony. No testimony—and I’m in the alphabet soup with the letters spelling out ELECTRIC CHAIR. No testimony—and what am I left with? A crazy story that I figured out. A crazy story involving a complete stranger Jack Burke, and Jack Burke’s got round brown innocent eyes, and a hurt look, and a smooth-tongued denial. So it was very necessary that Elsa be disposed of. Ever hear of Willie?”
“Yes.”
“Willie choked her to death. She was found like that in her tiny little flat on 39th Street.”
Jack Burke was squealing again.
“Lie! Lie! Filthy lie! Words! Not proof! Proof. Proof. Not words. Not a crazy fairy story. Proof!”
“Shut up,” Loretta said.
“Willie would have been next on his list,” I said, “and his masterpiece would have been complete. But I caught up with Willie, or vice versa. He had him planted here, out by the parking lot, to take care of me, just in case I was moving in too close.”
“But why?”
“Easy enough, my lady. Elsa Corey was out of the way. Either the police have finally caught up with me, or they have not. If they have, good—I’m also out of the way; and Willie would have been next. But if the police have not yet caught up with me—then I’d be catching up with Jackie-boy soon enough: he knew I was working on the thing. So—he had Willie staked out here. If I showed—Willie would do the job on me. I’d be dead, but I’d still be the guy that murdered Bruce, and that would be full clearance for Jackie. Then, Willie would have an accident—and the deal would be complete. Four dead—Bruce, Elsa, me and Willie—and no connection to the man with the innocent brown eyes, little Jackie-boy Burke.”
“And Willie? What happened to Willie?”
“Me.” I said. “I happened to Willie. And Willie’s now in communion with the law down at Police Headquarters, and Willie’s yodeling like a broken-down juke box.”
Jack Burke jumped about, his mouth working, his arms flapping.
“That’s proof against Willie!” he screamed. “Proof against Willie, not proof against me!” And then he was quiet, still, exhausted, leaning against the desk; only his mouth twitched, writhing against his teeth.
“Look at him,” I said and I went near to him. “Look at him, squirming like a rat with his tail caught in a trap. Look at him! How much more proof do you want?”
The lady looked. Guilt was scribbled on him like the devil had written on his forehead. The lady looked, standing tall, rigid as in death. The lady looked, from him to me, and back to him, and back to me. And then the lady lifted the gun, and for a moment I thought it was for me, but it was not. She used the gun three times, each bullet hitting him in the face, and it was a dead red smear without a nose and with one eye, when I bent to him. I got up and turned away and fell into a chair. The lady in red seemed in full control, but the pin-point eyes were magnified by tears.
“All right,” she said, “it’s over and done with.”
I gulped.
I heard myself saying: “It … it was a beautiful day, real beautiful, before it shaped up cloudy …”
And it was as though the casual hysteria were contagious.
Almost conversationally she said, “I beg your pardon?”
“… beautiful day,” I said. “And then a dame comes in and threatens me with a gun, and then I get jammed up with the law, and I get jammed up with a Jack Burke, and I get pushed around by an ape named Willie, and a sweet little dame gets strangled, and then I get Willie again right out here in the parking lot, and then I almost catch up with the wrong end of a .45.” I stood up and it was like coming out of a fog. “And me, all I was trying to do was hustle up a little business.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I let her in because I’d hoped she was business.”
“Who?”
“That little girl. That Elsa Corey. I’d figured her for a client.”
“Sit down, please.”
“No, ma’am. I’m not sitting. I’ve had it. I’ve had it up to here. I’m going. It’s been nice, Mrs. Burke. See you, like the man says, in Court.”
“Sit down!”
She was pointing the gun.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Please. Let’s not start that again.”
“Sit down!” I sat.<
br />
She went around the desk and slid into her chair.
“Maybe,” she said, “you’ve got yourself a client, after all.”
“Client?”
“Me.”
“I don’t get it.”
She laid the gun away. She was crying but there was no grimace on her face. She was very beautiful.
“I’m in a jam,” she said. “No question. But I’m not a dope, I never was, never will be. I killed him, no question, I killed him. But there are points here, points in my favor, points that can add up to justifiable homicide. Right or wrong?”
“Right,” I said, “I think.”
“But I’m going to need help.”
“Get a lawyer.”
“I’m going to need your help.”
“I’m not a lawyer.”
“I’ll have a lawyer. I’ll have the best. But I’ll still need your help. We’ll both need your help, me and the lawyer. We’re going to need the testimony of an eye-witness, and you’re an eye-witness.”
“I’ll testify, don’t worry.”
“And we’re going to need somebody to run around and gather up a lot of little facts. And, at the end of each fact, it seems—there’s you.”
“Lady,” I said, “do I smell a bribe? Because if I do—I pass. I don’t play that way.” “No. No bribe. But your facts—all your facts—are to my benefit. Your story proves that Jack killed my husband—and it’s your story, and you worked damned hard to get it together, and you ought to be paid for that work, and I’m willing to pay for it.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “You need my testimony. Okay, all your lawyer has to do is subpoena me—and I’ll testify. That makes it for free.”
She shook her head. “Look. You did a job and a good job. Somebody ought to pay for it. I want to pay for it. I can afford it.”
“That all you want to pay for?”
“There’s more, and it’s all legit. I’m going to have to stand trial for this, of course. I’ll pick the best lawyer, but every lawyer needs an investigator. You have most of the facts right now, but there’ll be more, I’m sure there’ll be more that will have to be brought forward.”
“Lawyers have their own investigators,” I said.
“They may have theirs, but I want mine. And you’re it. Sound legit?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a smart man, Mr. Chambers.” She smiled a sweet, tired, tear-blurred smile. “I’m smart enough to want a smart man on my side. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes.”
She opened a deskdrawer, laid out a checkbook, pulled a pen, scribbled, tore out the check and handed it to me.
I didn’t look at it.
“How do you think I’m going to make out?” she said.
“Can’t miss,” I said.
“You mean that?”
“Even before I look at your check—I mean it. Lady’s husband gets killed, and somebody springs the murderer on her all of a sudden. Lady shoots him up. What you call a heat-of-passion killing. I don’t know how justifiable it is, but I just don’t think there’s a jury in the world that would convict the lady.”
“As a slightly interested party,” she said, “I hope you’re right. What do I do now?”
“Now you call the cops.”
She reached for the phone.
“And what are you going to do?” she said.
“I’m going to stay with you.”
Her hand stopped at the receiver. Her green eyes flicked up at me suddenly, curiously. Her tone, in the midst of all, was very woman-like.
“Pardon?” she said.
“I’m going to stay with you.”
“Are you?” she said and the voice had a soft peculiar lilt. “I may hold you to that.” And then the receiver came off the hook and a long white finger poked at the hole for Operator.
I looked at the check.
It was for ten thousand dollars.
My eyes came up.
And met hers.
And they held,
Clinging,
Like a kiss.
As so
It turned out to be
A beautiful day
After all….
If you liked Death on the Double check out:
Death of a Hooker
ONE
A hooker is many different things to many different people in many different places. In Holland, a hooker is a frigate, two-masted. In Ireland, a hooker is a fishing smack, one-masted. In England, a hooker is the individual who hooks the hoisting chain to the bucket in a coal mine. In the United States, a hooker is a prostitute.
A prostitute is a female who practices the world’s second oldest profession. (Quick now!—what is the world’s oldest profession?) In Broadway plays, a prostitute is respectful, reliable, insouciant, winsome, empathetic, and semi-respectable. In the fat-bellied books of old (Dostoyevsky) and the fat-bellied books of new (O’Hara), a prostitute is a soulful and sympathetic creature of circumstance with caustic wit, brackish humor, and heart of gold. In my book, a professional prostitute is a vicious harpy, without moral or scruple, closely akin to a psychopath.
If my opinion strikes you as being particularly harsh, I agree; but permit me to add that in my business, perforce, I have met more prostitutes than you have in your business, perforce, unless you are a pimp. Again, please understand, I am passing an opinion—I am not passing judgment; I am making a flat statement of opinion and a rather unpopular statement in this era of the willful coddling of the wicked. A hooker is not good, is not sweet, is not kind, is not trustworthy, is not true-blue, and she does not have a heart of gold. She has a heart in the mold of a cash register, and any gold involved is any gold she can grasp. Inquire, if you please. Ask of those who must deal with them. Ask a policeman. Ask a social worker. Ask a welfare investigator. Ask a probation officer. Do not ask a psychiatrist because a psychiatrist by profession bleeds for all humanity (except his relatives), has compassion for all youngsters (except his children), and understands the transgressions of all women (except his wife’s). I am attempting to set the scales straight. I am attempting to subtract some of the glamour that has been wrapped around our strumpets by naive playwrights and fat-bellied novelists. A woman must be of a certain stripe—bad—to be able to enter into the most intimate of physical relations with a constant succession of men, each a paying customer. I am not talking about the chick who needs loot and flips for a guy with money. I am not talking about the casual gal who accepts cab fare from her boy friend (though where the devil can she live when the “cab fare” has a spread of anywhere from twenty to fifty dollars)? I am not talking about the demure little flower who shyly accepts gifts (ranging from clothes and confections to cars and cottages) from her benificent, elderly, and slightly-impotent heart-of-hearts. Nor am I talking about the rapacious, tempestuous mistress to a single (though married) man. Nor even about the haughty lady who weds the man of great wealth for whom she does not give one whit and takes unto herself a lover or two, or three or four, or five or six, and fits them in among her other activities such as churchgoing, antique-buying, poetry seminars, and PTA meetings.
I am talking about the professional prostitute whom, as a class, and despite the trumpetings of the couch-washed playwrights and analysis-drenched novelists, I would not trust as far as I could throw a ton of wet cement. So how did it come about—you have the right to ask—that I lent $6,000, cold cash, without chit or collateral, to a hooker named Beverly Crystal whom I knew to be all whore?
You have a right to ask, which gives me the opportunity to answer.
Bend an ear, fellow human. In a sense, we all suffer together.
It was eleven o’clock of a sunsplashed Tuesday of a warm September in my office in the City of New York. I was engaged in preliminary conversation with a client of long standing. My client was 46 years of age. My client had red hair, white skin, a good figure, and cold grey eyes. By dint of diet, exercise, cosmetics, and the best of beauty salons (she could
afford the best), my client made a stern attempt to look younger than her 46 years of age, and she just about succeeded. She looked like a well-kept, well-coiffed, well-boffed forty-five. Her name was Mrs. Astrid Kalmar Lund, but the Mrs. was somewhat of an honorary title because her husband, Leopold Lund, was dead for the past twenty years and she had never remarried. I had met her, years ago, through her brother, Olaf Kalmar, whom I respected and admired. She lived with her mother-in-law, Mrs. Barbara Lund, whom I also respected and admired. Mrs. Barbara Lund, now a childless widow, was very old and very ill with an inoperable malignancy, but she staunchly disregarded age and illness; she was ambulatory, active, ever-smiling, busy, and fighting all the way. Mrs. Barbara Lund was extremely wealthy, a millionairess many times over, which did no harm to the only living relative left to her, albeit a relative by marriage, her daughter-in-law Astrid, and which perhaps explains why the said daughter-in-law never remarried. However, although I admired and respected Mr. Olaf Kalmar, and I admired and respected Mrs. Barbara Lund, it does not necessarily follow, of course, that I admired and respected Mrs. Astrid Kalmar Lund. As a matter of fact, I did not. Astrid Kalmar Lund was a client and, since she lived for kicks and dwelt along the edges of forbidden excitement, she constantly fell into scrapes, which made her frequent fodder for the private richard, and I was her choice in that category.
We had talked about the weather, we had made desultory inquiries about the respective states of our health, we had exchanged some titillating tidbits of gossip, and she was just about girding for the recital of whatever her emergency, when the telephone rang. Since I had made no request of my secretary not to be disturbed, I was angry at no one but myself. I said “Excuse me” to my client and “Hello” to the telephone.
“Beverly here,” said the voice.
“Who?” I said.
“Is this Mr. Chambers?”
“This is Mr. Chambers.”
“Peter Chambers?”
“Peter Chambers.”
“Don’t sound so cranky. I just wanted to be sure.”
“Beverly who?” I said.