The Blonde Wore Black

by Peter Chambers

  A name like Poetry Brookman seemed trouble enough for one man, but Brookman also owed money to bookie Jake Martello, until somebody ended his misery one dark night. Martello hired Mark Preston to look into it, and he ran into some odd people: like Hugo Somerset, who promoted everybody; a new-style college hoodlum, Clyde Hamilton; and the regular variety in the shape of Legs McCann.

  Preston preferred the shape of blackmail victim Eve Prince, but time was running out. People were getting killed, the Martello brothers impatient, and Homicide suspicious. Preston knew he’d need a lot of luck this time, if he was to stay out of trouble.

  THE BLONDE

  WORE BLACK

  PETER CHAMBERS

  New York 10021

  ROY PUBLISHERS, INC.

  © Peter Chambers 1968

  Library of Congress Number 68–15897

  CHAPTER ONE

  I NEVER HEARD of Poetry Brookman till the day they found him smashed up on the rocks below Indian Point. Even then he didn’t rate too much space, just one half column on the front page of the Bugle. It’s tricky up there on the point, and we get an average of two or three people every year winding up at the bottom. Some are plain suicides, some plain unlucky, caught in the sudden alarming gusts of wind which are a peculiarity of the place.

  So I wasn’t too interested in Brookman, despite the fancy name. After noting that he was thirty-one years old, and a poet—that was a twist—I got down to the serious reading. I was half way through a biased report on the game the Buffaloes played the preceding evening when Florence Digby came in. Shuffling feverishly at the papers, I tried to get the financial section to the top before she reached the desk.

  Her frosty and knowing smile told me I was wasting my time.

  “There is a client here, if you’re not too busy Mr. Preston.”

  “What kind of client?”

  La Digby always seems to be on the winning team in this private war we have. An employer ought to get more respect.

  “His name is Clyde F. Hamilton. A business counsellor,” she added portentously.

  Anybody listening was permitted to assume that a business counsellor was a person of position, and entitled to some respect. He was not under any circumstances to be bracketed with persons of low repute and intellect, particularly people like private investigators.

  “Usher the gentleman in,” I said loftily.

  She went and held open the door.

  “Will you come in, Mr. Hamilton?”

  He came in young and confident, treating Florence to a half-bow as he passed. She swept out feeling like a queen. I took a look at my visitor. He was in his middle twenties, and everything about him, from the handsome close-cropped head to the hand-made tooled leather shoes shouted Ivy League.

  “How are you Mr. Preston?”

  We shook hands and he lowered himself into a chair with the grace of a trained athlete.

  “Football?” I queried.

  He laughed, and it was a pleasant sight.

  “Not any more. I played a lot in my college days, but I just missed out on AH-American. After that I let it drop. Nowadays it’s just a little track work and a spell in the gym now and then.”

  “So it isn’t any use my offering you a cigaret,” I said.

  I stuck an Old Favorite in my face and had another look at him through the flame of the lighter. There was something about the open clean cut face that I didn’t care for, but I was probably just being unreasonable. Or plain jealous.

  “I have a feeling you’re not a Monkton man,” I told him. “Not that I know everybody in town.”

  “No, you’re absolutely right. I’m from all over. My business takes me over half the country. Right now I’m having a short spell in your city. Liking it, too. There’s some fine swimming.”

  Instinctively I glanced out of the window towards the sparkling blue of the Pacific.

  “Yeah,” I admitted regretfully. “Trouble is, it tends to make it all the more difficult to stick to work, when other people are splashing around out there.”

  Which led us nicely, I hoped, away from the pleasantries and into the hard facts of whatever was troubling Clyde F. Hamilton.

  “Perhaps I should tell you why I’m here,” he began. “The fact is, I’m little more than a messenger. A client of mine would like you to call and see him.”

  “O.K. What about?”

  He made deprecatory faces.

  “I’m afraid that’s something he would have to discuss with you direct.”

  “Fair enough. What’s his name?”

  I had a pencil over a nice clean sheet of paper. People prefer it when you take notes. It looks more professional.

  “Mr. J. J. Martello,” he said carefully.

  I put the pencil down incredulously.

  “Jake the Take Martello?” I asked.

  He frowned, and suddenly his lips were much thinner.

  “Mr. Martello’s given name is Jacob. I don’t much care for gutter nicknames, nor for people who use them.”

  Jake Martello was one of the biggest bookmakers in town. A one-time barber, who made book on the side, he had grown steadily bigger for twenty years, and the lather brush was a long way behind him now. And now I realized what it was about Hamilton. The old-style mobster with the blue shave and the fedora hat was a figure in a history book. The big organization men now hired young college guys like Hamilton, people with appearance and background, people who could mix in any circles. But they don’t impress me. You can give a rat a shave and a three hundred dollar suit, and to me he still stinks of the sewers. I was all through smiling at Mr. Hamilton.

  “Nobody’s interested in what you care about,” I assured him. “You said you were a messenger boy. Well, get it said and get out.”

  His smile was even thinner and there was death in his eyes.

  “I must be sure to remember that, Mr. Preston. And I’ve told you why I came. Mr. Martello wants you to see him.”

  “Can’t he pay his telephone bill?” I demanded.

  He stood up.

  “It would take a better man than you to make me lose my temper,” he assured me. “As for telephones, they are not suitable for delicate business matters. When will you call on Mr. Martello?”

  I yawned, and looked at my watch.

  “Where will he be around noon?”

  “He is normally at a place called the Oyster’s Cloister at noon. Mr. Martello usually takes coffee and brandy at that hour.”

  “I’ll get down there if I can.”

  He nodded coldly and went out. Before I’d picked up the newspaper, Florence Digby was back.

  “What did you say to Mr. Hamilton,” she queried indignantly. “He didn’t even say good morning.”

  “You ought not to judge by appearances, Miss Digby. Your nice young man is a thug. A well-dressed, well-spoken thug, but a thug just the same.”

  She sniffed in evident disbelief, and went away. I was intrigued to know what Jake Martello wanted with me. He could hire a small army if he wanted, and I didn’t see what I could do that they couldn’t. There was just one comfort. It had to be something legal. Jake would never look at an outsider for the other kind of work.

  I parked half a block away from the Oyster’s Cloister and walked the rest. The place is run by a friend of mine, Reuben Krantz, and I hadn’t given him a play in months. The Cloister has a jealous reputation for its fine cuisine, and people said the chef, Armand, was the highest paid chef in the city, if not along the entire coast. In the ordinary way, the eating prices are out of my bracket, but there’s a pleasant bar attached. It’s one of those spots where you can imagine you’re wealthy for the price of a scotch and soda, watching other people diving into the twelve fifty filet mignon. It is
one of those little peculiarities of life that Krantz personally is unable to join in on the eating spree. He has this stomach condition that normally restricts him to simple plain foods. One of his excesses is a special brew of pigs knuckles, and this is where he and Armand differ. The chef maintains he is not employed to boil up swill, and simply will not deliver knuckles, special recipe or no. So if you happen to be passing the Oyster’s Cloister one evening around nine thirty, you may be in time to see a steaming dish being carried over from the delicatessen across the street.

  The doorman is a big husky named Biff, and his leathery face split open when he saw me.

  “Well well Mr. Preston. I thought maybe you left town.”

  “Hi, Biff. Boss around?”

  “In the office.” He patted at his stomach. “It’s not one of those good days.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  I went through the glass doors and peeked in the bar. There were four or five people in there, none familiar. Then I tapped on the door marked “Manager”.

  “Come in.”

  Krantz was seated behind his green leather-topped desk. Beside the wall was a table with a crystal water jug, and enough pills and powders in heaped boxes to stock a small druggists.

  “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me—I have the name on the tip of my tongue,” he greeted.

  “Hallo Ben. I’ve been busy lately, thought it was time I looked in.”

  “It is, it is,” he confirmed. “How’re things?”

  We chatted away about this and that for a few minutes. Then he suddenly clutched at his stomach and an expression of resigned agony came over his face.

  “No improvement huh?” I asked.

  He shook his head and waited till the spasm passed.

  “I tell you, there’s an overnight fortune for the guy who really finds out how to deal with these things.”

  “I imagine. I was talking to a guy a month or two back who did something with seaweed.”

  His eyes brightened.

  “Seaweed huh? You remember the details?”

  “No,” I confessed. “But next time I see him I’ll get him to tell me what it’s all about.”

  He nodded eagerly.

  “Fine. Make it soon huh? You want to call him from here?”

  He began pushing a telephone forward.

  “No thanks,” I hedged, “I don’t even know his number. But I’ll get on it. By the way, I hear Jake Martello gets in here some mornings.”

  The brightness went from his eyes at the mention of the name, and the normal obscure look took its place.

  “Sometimes. What about it?”

  “Nothing. Just want to have a talk with him, that’s all.”

  Now the whole face was suspicious.

  “Talk? Not trouble talk? The Cloister ain’t built for it.”

  “You know I wouldn’t do anything like that here.”

  He wanted to say something but natural caution caused him to hesitate.

  “Look Preston, Jake can be bad company if he don’t get along with people. I’m running low on friends as it is.”

  And even in saying that much, Krantz was coming further out of his shell for me than most people would see him do in a lifetime. And he’d done it for me before.[1]

  I grinned and shook my head.

  “Thanks Ben, but this is just routine. Anyway, nice to see you.”

  We shook hands, and he reminded me of my promise to get him the seaweed prescription. Then I left him brooding over which pill to try today, and went out to the bar.

  The early drinkers looked at me incuriously, in that casual impersonal way peculiar to early morning barflies. I walked through and looked into the restaurant. Only two tables were in use that early, and at one of them a young fellow was talking earnestly to a woman ten years older. The table in the far corner was the one for me. Martello sat with his back to the wall. Next to him was another man his own age, a stranger. The third man was my earlier visitor, Hamilton. Opening the door, I trod the deep carpeted steps down inside. The head waiter swept up, smile becoming a little fixed when he saw who it was.

  “Hallo Ernie. I don’t need a table thanks. I’ll join Mr. Martello.”

  He nodded and escorted me across the small dance floor. Martello saw me coming and waved. When I reached him the other man looked at me with interest. Hamilton just looked.

  “Hi ya Preston. Long time no see.”

  Martello held out a soft pudgy hand sparkling with diamonds. I held it briefly.

  “Hallo Jake. You wanted to see me.”

  “Sure, sure, they’s plenty time. Why doncha siddown. Take a cuppa coffee maybe, little brandy?”

  “I’ll take the brandy, leave the coffee.”

  He sighed.

  “So many people just don’t know what’s good. Coffee is good, brandy is good, fine. But together, man that’s an experience.”

  To show he was a man who believed in his own theories, he tipped most of his brandy into the half empty coffee cup and gulped at the mixture. When he put down the cup his face was wreathed in smiles.

  “That’s a real breakfast,” he beamed. “Oh say, I nearly forgot. This here’s my brother Charlie. He’s down from Frisco. You know Clyde.” The brother nodded, Hamilton stared at the table, Charlie was not unlike Jake, fifty-ish black curly hair going thin on top, heavy jowled face that needed two shaves a day and got them. I’d never heard of any brother before, it might be worth having him looked up. His voice had the same nasal twang to it.

  “We don’t say Frisco, Mr. Preston, We say San Francisco. Only outsiders like Jake here say Frisco.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Jake chuckled.

  “Always he tells me about it, always I forget. Some brandy for my guest here, the best in the house.”

  A waiter had materialized behind me and Jake waved him on his way. I noticed Hamilton was only drinking coffee.

  “You on vacation, Mr. Martello?”

  I knew Jake wouldn’t talk until the waiter had carried out his mission, and I had to say something. Charlie nodded slowly.

  “Kind of. Little family business, I like to keep in touch.”

  “That’s the trouble with the world today,” sighed Jake. “People don’t have proper respect for the family no more. All these terrible things going on, they wouldn’t happen if people paid attention to their families.”

  All I knew about Jake’s family was that he had an uncle shot down in a bank stick-up back in the thirties. But this was not the occasion for little reminiscences of the kind.

  “Guess that’s true,” I muttered.

  My drink came then and I sipped at it.

  “Luck,” I said to Jake.

  “Bottoms up,” he counselled. “Now then, there’s a little thing I’d like you to be looking at, Preston.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “There was a guy bumped off last night, or maybe early this morning. Name of Poetry Brookman, if you can believe it.”

  “Bumped off?” I queried. “It said in the paper he fell off Indian Point, or else he jumped.”

  “You musta caught an early edition,” Jake told me. “Fact is the guy’s head was all stoved in by them rocks. It wasn’t till the doc got a good look at him they found there was two slugs in his head. The back of his head.”

  “All right, somebody knocked him off. What about it?”

  Jake leaned forward, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “This about it. This Brookman was in to me for nearly eight grand. Today is payday. Only Jake don’t get no payday. And I don’t like that.”

  Now it was clearer. In the bookie business you don’t get to be a big name like Martello by having people go around welshing on you. Not even corpses.

  “You got the message now?” he asked.

  “Sure. You want me to dig around, find out who took care of him.”

  “Right.”

  “I hear tell we have a police force in town. You don’t suppose they might
do just as well without me?”

  “Maybe. But to them this is just another number. In this fine city last year we had one hundred and sixty seven killings. That’s better’n three a week. What chance has Homicide got with that little squad of theirs? The odds are way out.”

  “They have a good record,” I pointed out.

  “By comparison with other cities, sure. But they still come up with less than forty per cent answers. Those kinda odds are no use to me with this Brookman thing. You can hire all the help you need, spend whatever you want. Spread around plenty of the sugar. That’s the kind of thing brings up answers. The cops can’t do that.”

  “I can’t guarantee results,” I reminded.

  “I know that. But I know you’ll sure as hell try. And that’s all I’m asking. Is it a deal?”

  I took another sip at the brandy. The golden glow of the first was just beginning to spread through my body.

  “You say spend money. With a thing like this I might even spend the eight grand.”

  He made a face of disgust.

  “Eight grand. I’d spend that on a good dinner if I wanted. Spend it, spend eighty if you need. I want answers.”

  It wasn’t a question of money. It was a matter of professional standing. Somebody had cost Jake the Take Martello money, and somebody had to be told what a bad idea that was.

  “And suppose I get lucky?” I questioned. “What happens then?”

  He flapped a hand and the sun struck colored sparks from the bedecked fingers.

  “Maybe nothing. If it was personal, like you know his wife maybe, or some guy fighting over a broad, well that’s O.K. I don’t want to interfere with personal people. These things happen.”

  “And if it wasn’t like that?”

  His eyes became heavy and the voice was flat.

  “If it was other people, then they have to be told about the eight g’s. Some mob guys or like that, they’ll have to be told. They’d pay most likely. No, I’m not really worried about personal people or hard guys. What I want to know is, where’s the dough? If this Brookman had it ready, it just could be somebody figured to take it away from him. That’s the guy I want, the one who stole my money.”