Lively Game of Death
Page 18
But he couldn’t be found. His conscience may have forced him to tell all, but his sense of self-preservation hadn’t atrophied, either; all the while Wallis was standing trial, Jensen had been quietly selling off his company—machinery, fixtures, inventory—and then, just before disappearing, he sublet his showroom to none other than Goetz Sales.
“Ruth needed room for expansion,” Willie Frost told us. “Now the question is whether we can crack Sid’s will and/or get Wallis, in prison, to sell us the remainder of his shares.”
So they were keeping busy.
The other principals in the drama are about status quo, except that Abel Harrison turned out to have a hidden flair for advertising work. So he inherited Wallis’ job, much to the delight of his sister, his brother-in-law, and even Hilary, who much prefers working with him—though she hasn’t modified her views very much on other admen.
As for her views on me, they haven’t been all that great since I scooped her on finding the dowel.
She became even less cordial when she learned I took Penny Saxon to see Hamlet at the Scuttle-and Grate. (We saw only three acts. When Whelan tilted naked at the queen’s arras and skewered Polonius, they threw us out of the theater for laughing too loud.)
I was pretty damned surprised that Hilary might be the least bit jealous. But the feeling changed to anger when she passed a snide remark about cradle-snatching. So I made a crack about compulsive career women with ungovernable emasculatory urges.
And she slapped me.
My first impulse was to sock her. But, on reflection, I was rather pleased. I never knew it was possible for me to rattle her supercilious cool.
But later that night, I regretted the incident. I was just turning off the lights and double-checking to see that the doors were locked when I heard an odd sound from the back of the hall. I approached Hilary’s room, leaned my ear against her door and listened.
Oh, Christ, I thought! She’s crying.
What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl like that?
Fortunately, I’ve thought of a way to make up for that night. Hilary’s birthday is next week, and I’ve got a surprise for her ... one New York state-authorized private investigator’s license, gift-wrapped. Of course, it’ll be in my name, but I’ll have precious little use for it without Hilary’s brains backing it up.
It could work out into an interesting relationship—except for one potentially negative aspect. She’s bound to ask how the hell I can qualify for a detective’s license, because I never told her that I once worked for an investigation bureau. It was a sleazy divorce snapshot-procurement operation, and it soured me on snooping. I’m not particularly proud of that portion of my past, so I left it off my resume when I applied for the job with Hilary.
Knowing the way she works, I can foresee two possible outcomes, once I give Hilary her present. Either she’ll become so enamored of me that I’ll rate a warm handshake. Or else she’ll fire me.
But one thing’s for sure. I’m not going to wake her up to give it to her.
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copyright © 1972 by Marvin Kaye
cover design by Connie Gabbert
978-1-4532-9011-8
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