The past week seemed to have lasted longer than most pregnancies. The last few minutes had been more drawn-out than a Billy Sunday sermon. But, finally, it looked as if the night’s efforts were going to give me a sweet payoff.
The attractive woman I’d picked up in the hotel bar downstairs threw me her best alluring smile. I tried to return the favor before standing and walking to my room’s dresser to freshen her drink. In the reflection provided by the darkened window next to the bureau, I glimpsed her furtive movements. The double-crossing doll removed a small bottle from her handbag and quickly poured its contents into my whiskey, hastily stirring it with a finger.
The double-crossing doll removed a small bottle from her handbag and quickly poured its contents into my whiskey. . . .
Nonchalantly, I walked back to the settee and handed her the fresh drink. The sultry blonde eagerly took her glass and raised it toward me in a silent toast. Hoisting my cocktail from the table to my lips, I paused and looked over the rim at her widening eyes and voluptuous, smiling lips. The frail sipped, dragged in a lungful of smoke from her cigarette, and crossed her legs seductively. Her slit skirt fell away, showing a generous portion of creamy skin above bare knees.
“Gimme a second, Lillian.” A flicker of uncertainty or impatience–I wasn’t sure which–flashed in the woman’s eyes. “I just remembered something,” I said over my shoulder, taking my drink and moving toward the door to the adjoining suite.
I gave the dame a sideways glance, smiled, opened the door, and nodded. Detective Sergeant Robert Waddell stepped into the room. I handed him my glass. His lanky form made what I could best describe as a casual beeline to my startled guest.
“Lenora Parrish,” he said sharply, using her correct name and flashing his badge with his free hand, “you need to come with me. You’re under arrest for extortion, attempted extortion, and whatever the hell else I can think of between now and your arraignment.”
“What? I don’t understand!” She smiled sweetly at my friend, but it was a wasted effort. “I haven’t done anything illegal,” she asserted, jutting her jaw out defiantly, confidently. “Just having a quiet drink with my companion here.”
“Really? Just a ‘quiet drink,’ huh? If that’s the case, you won’t mind taking a long slug of his concoction,” he said, extending the glass of amber liquid I’d given him. Lenora swiped a hand at it. Waddell deftly pulled the hooch back from harm’s way. “Uh–uh, doll face. Not before the lab boys have had a chance to analyze it. I’m sure they’ll find it heavily laden with a Mickey Finn. Maybe chloral hydrate?”
My would-be “lover” bowed up further and thrust her chin in my direction. “Well, perhaps this jerk was trying to slip me the mickey! Possibly he’s–”
“Yeah? Then whose drink are you holding?” the tall copper tossed back. Her eyes shot down to the glass in her hands.
She gasped in surprise as I snatched her purse from the table and handed it to Waddell. “The bottle’s in the bag, Rob.”
The detective waved the handbag at her. “I’m sure the guys in the lab are gonna find something of interest in here, too. Something they can match it to what’s in his whiskey.”
As my friend spoke, I retrieved a clean mason jar I’d placed in a dresser drawer earlier. He handed me my glass. I poured the thing into the container for safekeeping. “Besides, Lenora,” I smiled at the skirt, “your version of this little melodrama won’t play. I’m a private investigator representing a man you’re blackmailing. My client has steadfastly denied beating and raping you in one of this hotel’s rooms.
“Besides, Lenora,” I smiled at the skirt, “your version of this little melodrama won’t play.”
“Oh, sure,” I added, “he admits meeting you in the bar downstairs and going back to a room with you. And he says he uncharacteristically passed out after a couple of drinks. The fellow even reluctantly acknowledges being shaken awake by Broussard, the house detective, only to find himself lying on the bed nude with you next to him, also naked and crying. He saw some kind of bruise–if it were a contusion and not theatrical makeup–on your puss. My guy was pretty groggy at the time. But he absolutely denies any allegations of physical and / or sexual assault.”
“But the–”
“Oh, yeah, I know Broussard informed him he’d come to the room because of complaints made by the occupants of the adjoining rooms. A fight of some sort and a woman screaming. When the keyhole peeper came in, he told your victim, he found him on top of you in flagrante delicto, as the highbrows might say.” I snickered, “But the way the house dick described it was not in cultured terms. You, your accomplice claimed, were crying and struggling before he pulled the man off you.”
Lenora started to speak, but I threw up a hand to stop her. “Problem is, girlie, the story won’t hold water. You counted on the fear of exposure to keep your mark quietly paying you. After the sucker paid you the cash you demanded, he didn’t expect your squeeze to end. The gentleman had second thoughts. That’s when he came to me for help. I checked on you and your boyfriend, Broussard. Seems this sort of thing has transpired before.
“When I looked into the circumstances, I learned a room beside the one you were in on the night in question was vacant. It was easy to track the couple who’d occupied the space on the other side where the supposed complaints might have come from. They happened to be a minister and his wife, traveling to be missionaries in the Far East. The pair gave affidavits regarding that night to a lawyer in front of a judge before they boarded a freighter in San Francisco. In their sworn statements, the deeply religious couple claim to have spent a quiet evening in their room, praying for divine guidance on their mission. They swear they never heard a peep from the rooms on either side the entire time.
The pair gave affidavits regarding that night to a lawyer in front of a judge before they boarded a freighter in San Francisco.
“You see, it’s one thing to con a doughboy or an average citizen once in a while. I can tell you the local coppers frown on such endeavors, though,” I added with a smile and a nod to Detective Waddell. “But it’s a whole other kettle of fish when your mark is a well-to-do, highly respected, albeit oversexed, roving-eyed pillar of the community. Then politics and influence come down on you. And so, they have.”
Parrish’s shoulders drooped and her chin dropped to her chest as I’d explained the results of my investigation. She jerked back to life the moment Waddell roughly grabbed her arm and pulled her from the settee. As she rose, the broad angrily threw her drink in my face. At least it didn’t have ice and wasn’t spiked. I tossed her a big grin. She shot me a nasty glare as Rob moved her toward the door.
“I still don’t understand,” she protested weakly.
“Yeah, you stick with that fairytale,” Waddell replied harshly. “Put on your hat, sister. You’re coming with me. And we’ll snag your boyfriend on the way out of this joint. He’s probably lurking just around the corner, waiting for your signal.”
“Thanks, Rob. I’ll let my client know of your help. He may share the news of your efforts with his influential political friends–at least to the extent he wants them to learn of his human failings.” My detective friend smiled, nodded, and pushed the lovely and talented Parrish broad into the hall.
It was around midnight, and I could hear my Murphy bed calling my name clear across town. But I had a report to make first. My employer had insisted on knowing the results of my work as soon as possible, regardless of the hour.
* * *
Midmorning the next day, I shuffled to breakfast at The Wayside Café. After the late night before, I felt like I was moving under water. Before leaving the eatery, I made a date for that evening with the waitress, Agnes Corbett, my new love interest. We were fresh from spending an extended weekend at the lodge on Lake Mohkih. The young strawberry blonde’s smile gave me renewed energy, to an extent, anyway. There was more bounce in my step as I moved to my agency’s fourth-floor office in the Belvedere Building.
Before leaving the eatery, I made a date for that evening with the waitress, Agnes Corbett, my new love interest.
* * *
While updating my accounts book, there came a sharp rap on the door. Now, mine was a one-man private investigative outfit. It muddled along without the office luxuries you see depicted in the motion pictures or read of in dime novels from the drugstore or for which I might have hoped. A secretary was one of those. “Yeah? It’s open!” I called from my desk.
The door cracked enough for an aristocratic head–you know the type: hair graying at the temples and parted down the middle, sharp eyes, Roman nose set among finely chiseled features–to push into the room. Those keen peepers crawled their way to me. “I’m seeking Mr. Gilbert Tanner, the …,” here he swallowed hard as if what followed was extremely distasteful, “the private detective.” He spoke with a slight Beacon Hill accent.
“I’m Gil Tanner,” I answered, stubbing out my half-smoked gasper and leaning back in my swivel chair. Standing and greeting the man wasn’t in my plans at the moment. I usually don’t get too ceremonial until I find the need. Besides, the way the jasper had forced himself to say ‘private detective’ had put me off.
With that, the lug eased his tall, angular body into the room. He wore black, formal attire with a black bowtie and a winged collar. He carried a derby hat. It was before eleven a.m. Either he was just now returning from a night on the town or was prepared to get a jump on the rest of the nightclub set before the sun set. He aroused my curiosity.
Either he was just now returning from a night on the town or was prepared to get a jump on the rest of the nightclub set before the sun set.
“Mr. Tanner,” he started hesitantly as he approached my desk, “Mrs. Althea Dewitt has dispatched me to deliver a message to you.”
I tugged my earlobe in thought. The name meant nothing to me. “So what’re you? Her mouthpiece?”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Her mouthpiece.” I chuckled at his unfamiliarity with everyday language. “Her lawyer.”
“Oh, no, sir. I have the privilege of serving as her butler.”
Well, that explained the stiff clothes at this hour. Butlers. I didn’t know they still existed except in books or in the movies. “Have a seat.”
“No, thank you, sir. I shan’t be here long.”
‘Shan’t’? So it was going to be one of those deals. “Okay. So what’s the message?”
The fellow reached into an inside coat pocket, withdrew a document, and extended it to me.
Pulling myself to the desk, I took the envelope. It was an expensive weight with the initials “A. D.” embossed across the flap. Not the stuff I bought for my agency at the Kresge’s over on Broad Street. I freed the contents with a letter opener from the belly drawer of my desk and unfolded the sheet of paper. The handwritten note read:
“Mr. Tanner: I was given your name by a close confidant. My friend
told me you are known for your sagaciousness in your particular field
of endeavor. I ask you to present yourself at my home this
afternoon at 3:00 in order to discuss with you a most private matter
and possibly engage your services. Your discretion will be most
appreciated. With regards, Althea Dewitt.”
‘Sagaciousness.’ Another word to look up. I gazed across the desk at the man standing ramrod straight. “So what’s this about?”
He smiled faintly. I expected his pan to crack. “Well, Mr. Tanner, while I have enjoyed a position of trust in the household for a number of years, I’m not privy to my mistress’s every thought or communication.”
“Say, is this the wife of the old man who owns the big dairy farm out on Route 51?” For whatever reason, I didn’t want to reveal the woman’s name didn’t ring any bells.
The butler’s lips turned up slightly at the corners again. “No, sir. Mr. Bernhard Dewitt was involved, before his semiretirement, in many mining, manufacturing, and railroad interests.” His tone was condescending. He was still putting me off, but I let it drift. “He now plays a very active role, if I may say so, on the boards of several large corporations.”
His tone was condescending. He was still putting me off, but I let it drift.
Oh, Bernhard Dewitt. Now that was a name I recognized, although I couldn’t put a face with it. The old guy drew a lot of water in our fair city, in our state, and in this part of the country. Possibly across the continent, for that matter. My grasp of national affairs probably wasn’t always what it should have been. I rubbed my stubbled chin, thinking. This would be as moneyed a client as I’d ever had. It could open a few doors, was crossing my mind when my visitor brought me back to the here and now.
“…, sir? May I tell her, sir?”
My eyes moved to the butler in mild surprise. “What? What d’you say?”
“May I inform my mistress of your answer, sir?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Tell the lady I’ll be there this afternoon.”
The man then handed me a card with an address embossed on it. He departed as stiffly as he’d arrived. As the door shut behind “Jeeves,” I looked closer at the card. The home was in the well-to-do Hammond Hills section on the east side of the city, home to the top of the upper crust our burg had to offer. The idea of a fresh shave, a shower, and a clean shirt momentarily crossed my mind, but I’d only done those things in the last several hours. Anyway, my racket didn’t pay well enough to put on airs. Old lady Dewitt would have to take Mrs. Tanner’s youngest boy just as he was.
. . . my racket didn’t pay well enough to put on airs.
One thing I needed to do was learn a little more about the couple, if possible. Although the man’s name was vaguely familiar to me, I still wanted more background. And Mrs. Althea Dewitt was a complete unknown in my book. My usual source for the lore and gossip about our fellow citizens’ history was a local bookstore owner by the name of Micah Kaplan. But it was Saturday. That meant Micah was observing Shabbat and unavailable. So I was relying on Andy Carnegie to fill me in.
* * *
A short time later, I read the names of several renowned authors carved across the library’s façade, as I passed between massive, smooth columns. The last name I saw was that of the building’s benefactor inscribed above the front door. Inside, I settled in at a reading room table and pored over old newspapers and business publications. I easily obtained information about Bernhard Lynnwood Dewitt. The septuagenarian, the son of a poor Dutch immigrant and an American mother, had started out working in a foundry as a youngster. From there, reports stated he’d moved on and relatively quickly made his first million in a railroad venture. That undertaking expanded to mining. The rest, as they say, was history.
The old boy had always been, it appeared, a bit of a recluse who clung to his privacy. There was an obit when the first Mrs. Dewitt died unexpectedly several years back while traveling in the south of France. The lady’s brief death notice didn’t refer to any children, but I wasn’t certain whether it meant there had been none. I couldn’t locate anything mentioning the current wife, including any wedding announcement. My guess was they’d met elsewhere and married somewhere other than our city not too long before.
* * *
A few minutes before three o’clock found me in my LaSalle, turning in to the driveway and through the formidable gates of the Dewitt estate. As I did, a new, dark-gray Buick exited past me hell-bent for leather, nearly running my boiler off the drive. In an instant, the mug was gone in a cloud of dust. Slightly annoyed, I recovered and cruised up a long, crushed-stone roadway to an elaborate, gabled mansion. The estate’s home was set in a sumptuously manicured landscape, which was being tended to by several of the lord’s “serfs.” So this is how the other half lives, I thought. Then again, I reflected, in this economy, it was likely far fewer than half.
Emerging from my heap, I took a deep breath. Even the air in this neck of the woods tasted more refined. At a massive oak door, I used a knocker the size of a boat anchor to announce my presence. A familiar face opened the door. “Jeeves” bid me welcome in his reserved manner, but otherwise gave no hint of having ever met me before. The man was all business. The butler was wearing different duds than when he came to my office. Seems he had one getup for morning, another for afternoon.
After showing me into an enormous room, which I suspected was a library, he left without saying anything. The first clue I was standing in the home’s library was the built-in bookcases lining the walls, except the areas boasting a massive stone fireplace and three huge windows. Their fine hardwoods gleamed. The shelves were above waist-high cabinets and reached to a high ceiling. Other than a few photographs, mementos, and objets d’art here and there, books filled the spaces. Yeah, I was a detective, after all.
The first clue I was standing in the home’s library was the built-in bookcases lining the walls . . . . Yeah, I was a detective, after all.
I was still standing, twirling my fedora in my hands, when the butler returned. “Madam will receive you in her private sitting room upstairs. Please walk this way.”
As I followed up the wide winding staircase, my notion was to tell him, if I walked that “way,” I’d have the laundry reduce the starch in my pants. But I thought the better of it. He led me along a hallway to a door, which he opened. “Jeeves” told me to wait inside. Again, he left me without saying another word and closed the door behind him. I supposed the man still found someone of my ilk rather distasteful to deal with.
The room, which was filled with natural light from its large windows, was unoccupied. It was obviously decorated for a lady of refinement with the appropriate froufrou adornments. The only sound was the ticking of an eight-day mantel clock on a nearby cellarette. A framed photograph of a gaunt, older man standing beside and shaking hands with former President Hoover sat next to the timepiece. Suddenly, a door to one side opened. A tall, good-looking, honey-haired woman I suspected was in her mid-thirties swept in. She wore a flowing dressing gown. The statuesque dame glided to a chaise longue and arranged herself in a formal posture on it, smiling in a stiff, businesslike manner.
“There must be some mistake,” I chuckled, thinking I’d roused the old man’s daughter. “I’m here to see Althea Dewitt. ‘Jeeves’ must have announced my arrival to the wrong lady.”
Her carefully cared-for eyebrows arched as if she had sniffed a milk bottle, which had spent way too much time in the icebox. “I am Althea Dewitt, Mr. Tanner. And his name is Norris.” Her voice was high-toned, refined, but with an edge to it I couldn’t quite place. Maybe I’d hit a nerve by saying something she’d heard too often to be happy with.
Her voice was high-toned, refined, but with an edge to it I couldn’t quite place.
I stopped twirling my hat. “Oh, I see. Well, I wasn’t expecting someone … such as you, Mrs. Dewitt.”
The lady stiffened. “That’s not very diplomatic, Mr. Tanner.”
I laughed quietly. “In my racket, diplomacy is overrated. You see, people hire me to do work on their behalf, and sometimes I have to lie to achieve their objectives. Often I have to speak a truth which may hurt. In both instances, the message might be aimed at my client. But, then, you haven’t hired me yet.” An expression of surprise crossed her face. It was obvious the dame wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to so frankly. I hoped I hadn’t overplayed my hand. After a second of looking at her, I tried to smooth any ruffled feathers. “And you can call me Gil, if it’s all the same to you.”
“In my racket, diplomacy is overrated.”
“You may continue to address me as Mrs. Dewitt,” she replied tautly. I smiled and nodded. My frankness and the subtle, unintended observation regarding the age difference between her and Bernhard hadn’t played well. “And one would think a little mendaciousness, at the right moment, might serve you well, Mr. Tanner.”
Ignoring her comment and glancing around, I asked, “Do you mind if I sit down? I had a long day on the job last night.” When she hesitated, as if a person off the street sitting in her presence were unheard of or she feared I might muss the furniture, I added, impatiently, “It’s copacetic. I’m housebroken.” My hostess bristled perceptibly. I liked it. I lose what little tolerance I can claim when I’m tired. My mood wasn’t helped any by the periodic pain in my left shoulder, the lingering result of a bullet I’d stopped in its tracks earlier that summer.
Those brows shot up again. She’d caught the edge to my tone. “Yes,” she said haughtily. “Please, do sit.”
“Mind if I smoke?” I asked, retrieving a deck of butts from a coat pocket.
“I’d prefer you not.” Her voice had plenty of frost. The cigarettes returned to their resting place.
The hall door opened and Norris, as I now knew him, entered. He carried a silver tray. After setting it on the table between us, he removed a silver cloche from a serving dish, revealing small finger sandwiches. He poured two cups of coffee into fine Limoges china and departed quietly. Just because I don’t normally rub shoulders with high society doesn’t mean I don’t know of and recognize the accouterments of class. Despite the hunger gnawing at my insides, I passed on the food. The joe, however, was a welcomed thing. I downed the first cup and served myself another.
After a few seconds of her quietly studying me, I broke the silence. “You wanted to see me concerning a personal matter?”
“Yes, Mr. Tanner. It’s my husband.” Here, she paused and, it seemed to me, did her best to tear up. She just couldn’t pull it off. Perhaps I was taking her the wrong way. Like I’ve said before, I have reading my fellow man down to a science, but dames are a whole other story. “I think he may be in danger. I’m worried for his safety.”
I have reading my fellow man down to a science, but dames are a whole other story.
Following a second or so of thought, I asked, “Has he told you he’s fearful of some harm coming to him?”
“Oh, no. Bernhard is too proud a man ever to admit something such as that. He’s much too closemouthed to mention such a thing to me. And he values his privacy too much to go to the police with any problem.”
That last comment answered my next question. “So, what’s brought on your concern? Have there been any incidents that’ve led you to your conclusion?” She shook her head. “Well, does your husband have any enemies you know of, or has anyone threatened him?” I paused as she stared at me vacantly, then pressed on, “Could this be related to something which happened before the two of you met?”
“No.” Looking away to a window, she dabbed her eyes with a lace hankie. “Nothing such as those things you mentioned has occurred.” She turned back and leaned toward me. “See here, my husband is a tough businessman. I’m certain he has upset any number of people in his dealings, but there’s nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just a feeling. Call it a woman’s intuition, if you like.” After a moment, she followed with, “But he’s started carrying a handgun everywhere he goes.”
Her statement caught me by surprise. In my racket, gats were an everyday thing, but, I supposed, not in the business world Bernhard Dewitt inhabited. “Are you sure of that?” She nodded a sobbing reply. “Maybe I should just speak with your husband.”
Althea’s eyes shot back to me with a scared, pitiful look. “Oh, no! You mustn’t do that, Mr. Tanner!” She drew a deep breath. “Being the private person he is, he could never forgive me for coming to you with this.”
“So, what is it exactly you want from me then?”
Before answering, the lady gave a slight tug to a fabric cord hanging against a wall behind her. We sat in silence. I waited. Norris returned after a time. Her man replaced the cloche on the silver serving dish, gathered the coffee cups and saucers, and departed with the tray. My third cup of java had been only half finished.
“I want you to follow Bernhard. Perhaps look into his affairs–discreetly, of course–to determine whether you detect anything or anyone who might bring my husband harm,” she said softly when the door had closed. “I’ll pay you a cash retainer of thousand dollars to start with. You will please advise me when you require more remuneration.”
That thousand smackers made my mouth water, but I had to ask an obvious question. “Why not just hire a bodyguard or two to accompany Mr. Dewitt as he goes about his business?”
The blonde threw me an odd, momentary gaze. “The same answer as before, Mr. Tanner. Bernhard would never stand for it. He’s too much a private person to agree to such a thing. And, he comes from penury, what some might see as a cruel and tough background. He sees himself as a man capable of taking care of anything that arises. Despite my pleas, he will not even tolerate a chauffeur for himself, although he provides me one.”
“I’ll be happy to investigate the situation for you. A week or two should resolve the question to your satisfaction.” I tried to reassure her, “But I have a feeling there won’t be anything to confirm your worries.”
“I envy you your certitude, Mr. Tanner.” The response struck me as odd, but I remained silent. Sagaciousness? Mendaciousness? Penury? Certitude? My guess was this broad must have swallowed a dictionary somewhere along the line. I let it drift.
“Does your husband have a set schedule he adheres to? Some way I might know where he’ll be and when?”
“No. Bernhard’s associated with the boards of several corporations, so his comings and goings vary from day to day. He maintains an office in the Manders Building and uses it as his ‘headquarters’.” My library research had revealed the old fellow owned the building.
“Where is he now?”
“He told me he was spending the day in his office. You should be able to find him there, Mr. Tanner. But, again, he mustn’t know you are watching him.” She handed me a piece of paper with a description of his car and its tag number jotted down. If my client wrote the message her butler had delivered to my office, someone else had made this scrawl. The automobile Dewitt drove was not the Buick, which had nearly sideswiped me earlier. I tucked the note into my pocket.
She handed me a piece of paper with a description of his car and its tag number jotted down.
The lady of the house gave another slight tug to the fabric cord. Norris appeared at the doorway after a minute. It was my cue to take my leave of the woman. I stood and moved toward the door held by the butler, then stopped and nodded to the framed photograph on the cellarette. “Your husband, I presume?”
“Why, yes. Yes, it is. That’s from several years ago during a meeting Bernhard had at the White House with the President regarding something or other. I don’t recall the purpose of the conference. There’s another somewhere of him and Mr. Roosevelt, but I’m uncertain where it is.” As I said, old man Dewitt drew a lot of water. “Is it important, Mr. Tanner? Do you require a photograph of my husband?”
I tried my best to show her a condescending smirk. “No, not now,” I replied sarcastically. “I’m just getting an idea of the description of the person you’re paying me good money to shadow.” Knocking highfalutin folks off their high horses was a favorite pastime of mine. “I’ll be in touch.” She merely nodded her dismissal of me. Before going through the door, I turned back to my hostess. “One last thing. You need to let Norris here know the term ‘private detective’ isn’t necessarily a pejorative.” She threw me a slant of mild bewilderment. This honey’s not the only one who’s perused a Webster’s occasionally. Not waiting for any response, I left the room. Again, without uttering a word, the butler escorted me to the front door, where he handed me an envelope containing my retainer.
Back outside, I thumbed through the thousand bucks and tucked the packet in a coat pocket before setting fire to a Chesterfield. There was no rush to leave. My bank had closed by this time of the day. Thoughts of my encounter with the Dewitt tomato ran through my mind. A sudden uneasiness over this case came to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on just why. In my racket, most of the dames I run into are a tad on the tawdry side. Once in a while, I have to deal with a blue blood. I preferred the cheap types.
Regardless of which way things might go in this investigation, I certainly could use the money and the contacts on this side of the railroad tracks the job might bring. My old man used to tell me money wouldn’t make me happy. Funny thing coming from a guy who was too often in the bottle to earn much. Anyway, a while back, I had decided I’d like to have more of it just so I could be sure.
I dropped my smoke and crushed it in the driveway. Opening my crate’s door, I caught sight of a gardener glaring at my cigarette butt on the ground. His eyes rose to meet mine with a look of stern condemnation. Apparently, I had violated some section of his landscaping code. The man’s admonishing stare worried me almost as far as the front gate.
* * *
With a good idea of what Mr. Dewitt looked like and a description of his automobile in hand, I drove to the Manders Building to get a fix on him. He’d parked his car in a slot marked “reserved” in the lot next to the structure. The name Bernard Dewitt-only his moniker, with no company attachment or other affiliation-was on the tenant list in the building’s lobby. It showed he had an office on the fifth floor. Upon my arrival there, I found it was just across the hall at a slight angle from the self-service elevator. Pebbled glass in its door displayed the man’s name, same as the atrium directory. The sound of someone busily typing drifted into the corridor from inside.
Fishing out one of my business cards, I entered the work space and found a matronly, gray-haired woman sitting at a typewriter table. She showed a solid form in a floral print frock with a fashionable belt secured around what had once been her waist. Having just finished whatever document she’d been working on, the lady stood as she removed a page from the machine and added it to the bottom of others lying on her work surface. A nameplate, bearing the name Josey Johansson, sat on her desk. The murmur of a man’s voice came through the door, labeled ‘Private’, behind her.
“May I help you?” Mrs. Johansson inquired sweetly.
I vaguely glanced at the card in my hand, waved it, and asked for the location of a doctor whose name I’d also seen on the directory downstairs.
“Yes. Dr. Radke’s surgery is located directly above us on the sixth floor. You must have gotten off the elevator too early.” The smile which accompanied her reply was in stark contrast to the icy demeanor of her boss’s wife.
A raised voice came from the inner office. “J. J., please come here! I need help with this file!”
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, moving to that private entrance.
When she opened it, I saw my target, holding a telephone, standing at a desk littered with files and loose papers. He threw his hands up in an exasperated manner but laughed out loud. The old fella glanced in my direction and nodded in a friendly way as the door closed behind his secretary. Something struck me at that point. Mr. Dewitt appeared not as much a stuffed shirt as his wife. Anyway, I now had what I needed to keep an eye on the man. My bet was he’d be safe enough in his office for the moment with Mrs. Johansson close at hand.
The old fella glanced in my direction and nodded in a friendly way as the door closed behind his secretary.
Returning to my LaSalle, I spent the rest of the afternoon in the parking lot, smoking, reading the latest edition of a local broadsheet, and keeping watch for Dewitt’s departure.
In another story on the assassination of Yugoslavia’s king earlier in the month, the newspaper gave no sign of the event spiraling the world into a catastrophic war. It appeared we’d avoid the horrific consequences that followed the slaying of Archduke Ferdinand back in 1914. Of course, here in the States, coverage of a recent congressional committee on un-American activities hearing in New York quickly displaced news of the king’s murder. Around three hundred members of the Friends of New Germany had disrupted the proceedings several times with jeers and shouts of “Heil Hitler”. When the session let out, a fistfight had almost broken out between Jews and Nazi sympathizers in the hall. These “Friends” goons left me with a foreboding in the pit of my stomach.
Then, of course, there was the news of the St. Louis Cardinals thrashing of the Detroit Tigers 11-0 in game seven of the World Series. The newsreels since had been full of the Dean brothers, each of whom had won two games in the series, getting their jibes in about the winning the championship. It seemed Dizzy never met a camera or a microphone he didn’t love.
The movie newreels also contained footage of Ducky Medwick being removed from game seven by Commissioner Landis. His hard slide into third base on a triple had resulted in a fight. Anyway, considering the year my Cincinnati Reds had had, I was glad the season had ended. Rumors were circulating over the ball club’s new owners installing lights at the stadium and trying night baseball in ’35. I wasn’t sure whether playing after dark would help, but figured it couldn’t hurt a team who’d lost nearly a hundred games this past season. Wait’ll next year, I told myself yet again.
Closer to home, the dailies reported the FBI had killed Pretty Boy Floyd in a shoot-out in the last several days. The article ended with speculation whether history might view Floyd as a notorious killer or merely as a tragic figure, partly a victim of the hard times of the Great Depression. That debate could prove interesting to watch. I didn’t know Floyd’s entire story. But, the financial downturn notwithstanding, it’s my experience that sometimes a person does bad things because they’re just damned evil. All the theories of every social do-gooder in the world won’t change that. Something told me this argument, regarding the reason criminals are who they are and do what they do, would go on for some time to come.
. . . it’s my experience that sometimes a person does bad things because they’re just damned evil.
As the afternoon wore on, the skies darkened and the downpour, which had been threatening during the day, moved into the city. I didn’t mind. I liked rain–the smell, the sound, the feel of it.
Around six o’clock, Bernhard emerged from the building into the growing darkness and followed his umbrella and briefcase onto the front seat of his shiny maroon Cadillac. On the roads leading to his estate, Dewitt drove the Fleetwood Town Sedan through the storm carefully, but as if a man on a mission. I reckoned the septuagenarian to be single-minded in whatever he did. Back at the “homestead,” I kept watch on the home’s entry gate until it was clear the couple had settled in for the night. The storm had subsided, but the rain dripped softly from the surrounding trees. I assumed the man to be safe, if there were any threat, within the confines of his own home. Cranking my machine’s motor to life, I made my way to my date.
* * *
My girl had planned a movie and a late dinner at Cappacino’s Restaurant for that night. But minding the old boy caused me to be tardy. The woman was standing on the front porch of Mrs. Yonce’s boardinghouse, tapping her foot impatiently when I climbed the steps. She feigned being upset with me, but didn’t hold the stern countenance for long. We broke up in laughter and kissed. In the car, Agnes said she wanted to see A Lost Lady. The flick was not at the top of my list, but Barbara Stanwyck was, as far as Hollywood types went. Since the time in Baby Face she seductively told Maynard Holmes she’d had plenty of “experience,” she made me ache in a good way.
Between my running later than we’d planned and the girl having to open the diner early the next morning, we didn’t get around to too much serious adult activity after the flick and dinner. During the return drive to her digs, the woman hummed the tune Stanwyck and a couple of mugs had danced to in the movie. Catchy melody sweetly purred. We kissed goodnight at her front door. I left, promising to see her in the morning for breakfast. My love life had never been better.
* * *
By the time I reached The Wayside Café the next morning, the place had a decent crowd clamoring for a hot meal. Oscar, owner of and fry cook at the joint, worked overtime, keeping up with the orders. I grabbed a stool at the counter and waited. The waitress knew what I was having. Sometimes, I’m a creature of habit.
While waiting, I watched the tender firmness of the redhead’s body as she moved around the eatery. I loved the flawless whiteness of her young throat and her pert, tilted nose. Her hair was redder than I remembered when I’d first seen her. She had a knack for making everyone she met feel special, no matter what their station in life. My mind drifted back to the faint fragrance which wafted from the loose waves of her tousled locks during the nights we’d spent at the lakefront lodge. She had a figure so vibrant it seemed a sensuous invitation at her every move. I felt a tingling sensation in my veins.
I loved the flawless whiteness of her young throat and her pert, tilted nose.
At one point, a fella I knew to be a traveling salesman came into the café. He was always playfully trying to make love to the waitress. He plopped onto a stool several seats away from me. She handed him a menu, asking, “So, Smitty, you back in town for a while?”
“Oh, yeah, sweetie, and this time I have a whole new line.”
Agnes rolled her eyes and smirked. “No doubt! You’ve always got a ‘new line’! And, as usual, I ain’t buyin’ any of it.” Everybody laughed at the exchange. That’s my girl.
* * *
My curiosity required me to spend a little time looking into what kind of marriage the Dewitts had, how their relationship stood. By every account, Bernhard deeply loved his “child bride” and doted on her constantly. Althea appeared to hold the same devotion to him. But several million bucks can bring a lot of apparent loyalty with no genuine love to accompany it. However, my investigation into their marital bond brought me no closer to learning more about the wife’s background. So, without more to go on, I set aside my skeptical outlook for the time being.
I spent the next two weeks trailing the relatively boring Mr. Dewitt from one corporate meeting to another. He interspersed those sessions with periods of time at his office and several golf matches. The old guy let no grass grow beneath his feet. He moved with a brisk springiness that belied his age. It seemed he could run circles around many younger men. There were no indications, however, of any threats to his safety. Nobody besides me followed him, and no seedy characters lurked on the edges of his life. I felt compelled to report back to my client what I’d found so far.
With my mark safely ensconced in his office for what looked to be the entire afternoon, I called their residence and arranged to meet with my client. As I rolled along the extended driveway, I met the same Buick again departing the estate. I didn’t get a good look at the driver, but it provoked my curiosity. When laugh-a-minute Norris answered my knock at the door, I inquired whether his master had started driving the car I had seen leaving. He smiled stiffly and told me the car belonged to Dr. Benjamin Grayle, Mrs. Dewitt’s personal physician. I’d been wrong. Norris’s countenance never cracked.
. . . I met the same Buick again departing the estate. I didn’t get a good look at the driver, . . . .
Our second meeting took place in the same sitting room as the first. Althea presently swept in wearing a chiffon dressing gown. I wondered whether the dame ever actually got dressed for the day. When she’d settled in to her perch on the boudoir chair, I didn’t wait to be invited to sit down. Explaining what I’d been doing and the results of my efforts, I finished with my conclusion her husband was in no apparent danger. It appeared my words made her uneasy. For nearly a minute, she toyed with the lavaliere she wore around her neck.
Suddenly, she unwound her gams, stood abruptly, and stiffly moved across the room. The shapely blonde looked out a window, then fleetingly at me, and then beyond the window again. Abruptly, she turned back to me, wringing her hands. “I am not satisfied Bernhard is safe, Mr. Tanner. I want you to continue to follow him. The two weeks you’ve been working on the inquiry cannot be sufficient to come to your conclusion, can it? Besides, the thousand dollars should entitle me to more of your time,” she insisted, returning to her chair.
Abruptly, she turned back to me, wringing her hands. “I am not satisfied Bernhard is safe, Mr. Tanner.”
Despite my certainty the old man was in no obvious danger, I couldn’t argue with her last statement. But she’d set the amount of the retainer, not me. I’d safely stashed the dough in my usually unstable bank account. I was loath to let go of it. And it wasn’t as if Althea felt a pinch because of its absence. It likely didn’t matter much if you were rich. “All right. I’ll stay on the job for now. But a grand won’t entitle you to the rest of my life. I have other clients, other cases, you know.”
The woman’s body bristled slightly. Again, she showed she wasn’t accustomed to anyone speaking to her that way. “You’re not exactly my cup of tea, Mr. Tanner,” she offered with disdain.
I didn’t feel like taking her lip. “Well, I’d rather be somebody’s shot of whiskey than anyone’s cup of tea.”
Then she smiled tightly and tried again to bring tears to her eyes. From behind a hankie, she moaned, “I’m certain you understand my worry for the well-being of my husband. Please continue for at least two weeks more.”
Her words rang hollow to me. The luster in her voice was cracking slightly. Sometimes a detective has to search a person’s face to see his or her thoughts, especially when he thinks he’s heard the sound of a lie. As I gave her a harder look, Mrs. Dewitt crossed her long legs uncomfortably. I was still processing when she spoke again. “But you needn’t concern yourself with the evening of the seventeenth. We’ll be hosting a gala here, and we’ll be in all night.” She paused for a moment, as if calculating something. “In fact, Bernhard will probably be here the entire day.” Another hesitation was followed by, “I’ll insist on it. I’ll tell him I need his help with the preparations.”
We parted with the understanding I’d continue on the job for at least two more weeks. Her thousand dollars had bought her that much, anyway.
Back at the LaSalle, I stopped long enough to fire up a gasper. As smoke seeped into my lungs, my mind wandered back to my client. That uneasiness I had felt after my initial meeting with Althea only grew. In her, I saw what I took to be a woman who had only recently become acquainted with the finer things in life. Her sensibilities still fought to catch up. Her hesitant, uncertain pronunciation of those two-dollar words she used during our first conversation kept returning to me. They spoke volumes. Had she been a chorine? A secretary? A shop girl? Maybe a nurse of some sort who’d caught the elder guy’s eye during a business trip? Was she an example of the same old story repeated hundreds of times a day: an unrepentant gold digger who luckily latches onto the golden goose?
The blonde conveyed the impression of a wild, untamed body in someone trying to become an exquisitely civilized woman. “Boston in public and Paris in private,” as my old man might have sized her up. I shook my head and snickered. Now, she stomps on folks with diamond-studded heels. I had come to suspect they had weaned Althea on an icicle. My suspicious and cynical attitude toward my fellow human beings was well set. In times past, I’d struggled to think the best of people, tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. The trouble was, folks continued to disappoint me.
I had come to suspect they had weaned Althea on an icicle.
One thing I knew for certain: the old fella had kept me on the move the whole time I had been following him. With the spryness he showed, he might live another twenty years. Perhaps the missus didn’t want to wait that long to be handed sole control of hubby’s vast fortune. Impatience has brought down many a wicked plan.
Around that time, I sensed someone’s eyes on me. Scanning the landscape, I saw the same gardener I’d encountered during my first visit to the Dewitt mansion. He was across the wide parking area, raking leaves, glaring at me, his eyebrows knotted disapprovingly. Unconcerned, I pulled one last long draw on the butt and snapped the burning cigarette as hard as possible in his direction. I shot him a snarl through a plume of smoke, slowly climbed into my bucket, and drove away.
* * *
My target took the next day, a Friday, off and stayed around his home, doing I’m not sure what. I know he never left the premises.
Convinced he was safely entrenched in the manor for the evening, I motored to Harry’s Paradise Tavern. I’d missed haunting the place for the past week while I followed Althea’s husband and his demanding schedule. Harry laughed when he saw me and claimed to have been checking car trunks for my corpse because of my absence. As I expected an early start following the old fellow the next day, I limited myself to only a couple of drinks before calling it a night.
Saturday morning, Dewitt met three other men for a foursome of golf. Two of the group I recognized from previous outings. The fourth looked to be the unassertive, unassuming type to me. The round came off without a hitch. Dewitt made one quick stop by his office on his way home, where he stayed the rest of the day. His routine the following week comprised the same activities as the first two I’d shadowed him. It passed uneventfully. And throughout that time, I never shook my restlessness concerning Althea. Could the dame do something dodgy? What was her angle, if she even had one, in hiring me if she had nefarious plans for her husband? Maybe I was just reading too much into the woman. Time would tell.
* * *
I looked forward to Saturday the seventeenth for two reasons. First, my client had assured me Bernhard would not be leaving their home before the big shindig they were throwing that evening. Second, with no work to interfere, the night was open for a date with my babe. When we planned to see each other that evening, she suggested we take in the fights at the Municipal Arena. We enjoyed going to prizefights together. The boxing card held five bouts, including a clash featuring a homegrown, undefeated middleweight, who went by the ring name “Kid Curry.” I learned, when I wanted to buy a piece of him, our city’s south side mob, known as The League, controlled the young man.
Anyhow, the locals thought he might be a genuine contender one day. The citizens’ enthusiasm for the pug’s chances had increased when Teddy Yarosz took the title from Vince Dundee at Forbes Field a month earlier. I’d seen Yarosz’s likeness on the cover of The Ring magazine in a barbershop back in February. Even then, the periodical had proclaimed him the “uncrowned middleweight king.”
* * *
Saturday morning, the seventeenth, finally rolled around. From the hall telephone in my apartment building, I called Althea and confirmed Bernhard would not be leaving their home during the day because of the big party that night. Her voice sounded anxious, tentative. Although I couldn’t put a label on it, I was still uneasy concerning the situation. Trying to shake the feeling, I consoled myself with the fact the way was clear for my date with Corbett.
Her voice sounded anxious, tentative.
I made the trek to the Wayside for breakfast and arranged the time to pick up my girl. She suggested, for supper, we just grab something to eat from the concession stands and vendors at the auditorium. So, arena red hots, peanuts, popcorn, and beer it would be.
* * *
At the appointed time, I stood on the front porch of Agnes’s boardinghouse, twisting the doorbell key. Presently, Mrs. Yonce, the rooming house’s proprietor, opened the door with a big smile and invited me into the parlor to wait for her. As I sat there, I tried my damnedest to put the Dewitts and their issues out of my mind. My effort proved only partly successful.
My date appeared, looking good enough to eat. On the drive to the auditorium, she seemed preoccupied. When asked about it, she looked away and shrugged it off to a long day at the café.
The fight card was pretty entertaining for the most part. Only one match disappointed those in attendance. Two heavyweights appeared more interested in not getting hurt than in out-boxing their opponent. The consensus of those at ringside was they should’ve signed each other’s dance cards. Kid Curry didn’t disappoint the hometown crowd, though. He scored a TKO in the seventh round. The packed house went crazy. As we left the place later, talk about the Kid’s future rose to a fever pitch.
Despite the great bouts we watched during the evening, I couldn’t stop reflecting on my conversations with Althea. Once or twice, I caught the strawberry-blonde Agnes looking as if her mind was a thousand miles away. A couple of times, I started to tease her about ogling the muscular forms of the boxers but decided against it. She seemed too edgy to be pushed just then. Besides, I thought maybe the problem related to my anxiety about my client.
. . . I caught the strawberry-blonde Agnes looking as if her mind was a thousand miles away.
While I hated to waste a gibbous moon with a lovely girl on my arm, Agnes and I agreed to forgo spending any more of the evening together. I needed to get an early start the following morning in the event the old man played another round of golf. We drove to her place in silence. After we kissed goodnight under the front porch light, I left her at the door and strolled to the LaSalle, parked across the street.
As I did, I spied an imposing figure lurking in the shadows cast by Mrs. Yonce’s place. A backward glance told me the woman, still standing at the door, apparently hadn’t noticed him. I slid behind the wheel of my heap and pressed the starter. Driving along the block, I circled back to the rooming house and coasted to a stop.
A lug was now on the porch with my girl. They were having a heated, nose-to-nose discussion. I scrambled out of the car and hustled to them, bounding up the front steps. The tall, broad-shouldered guy looked to be around the same age as her. She finished some point with, “No! Never again!”
I wedged myself between them, confronted the bully, and demanded, “What’s all the noise about, bub?”
He scowled at me and pressed his chest to mine threateningly. “It’s none of your business, mister! You’ll keep outta this, if ya know what’s good for ya!” His words nearly drowned out Agnes’s appeal for me to let her handle the thing.
“Since you’re arguing with my girl, I’m making it my business, sport!”
Turning to the redhead, I started to ask who the mug was. Before I spoke, he landed a hard, meaty fist square on my right eye. It was immediately followed by a hard jab to my jaw. Although stunned by the sucker wallops, I somehow kept my feet, spun, and clocked him pretty good on the side of his head. As he faltered from the blow, I followed with a fierce kidney punch, carrying everything I could muster. It had the desired effect. He released a harsh groan, flailed at his back, and quickly hobbled away into the darkness. I let him go, but caught the girl staring at the departing figure with a look of concern.
Before I spoke, he landed a hard, meaty fist square on my right eye.
“Who the hell was that jerk?”
“Nobody, Gil.” She paused and looked into my doubting face. “Really.”
I didn’t buy it. Still smarting from the pain of the blow to my head, my annoyance grew. “Well, you and ‘nobody’ certainly were having a hot chinning session! Was he the father–?”
“No!” she cut me off. “Leave that be!” Her shoulders drooped. Her eyes watered. She exhaled audibly. “All right. He’s someone I knew before I moved here. Be–before I met you. His name is Newc. We… we dated until I broke it off.”
“Was it serious? The way the two of you were going at it, it looked like you guys had had a fairly deep relationship.” She nodded as a tear rolled down her cheek, glistening in the porch light. “What happened? Why d’you end it?”
“We talked about getting married. Things were great.” She paused, blinking back tears. My heart ached for her. “Then, one night, he had too much to drink. We argued, and he hit me.” A look of angry determination played across her face. “I’ll not be laid hands on by any man, Gil.”
“The son of a bitch doesn’t deserve someone such as you, Agnes,” I put in bitterly, pointing my chin in the direction Newc had departed.
Her expression softened. Again, she sighed. “He said he was sorry.”
I took hold of her elbows, firmly yet gently. “Look at me,” I implored. Her soft eyes drifted to mine. “He’ll be sorry every time.” As the energy left me, I had to ask, “Are you still in love with him?”
When the woman didn’t answer immediately, my heart sank. I swallowed hard. I wasn’t always as tough as I liked to appear. “No… no,” she moaned, finally. Her hesitancy scared me, but she followed by assuring me she was over the man. “I care a great deal for you, Gil,” she finished, giving me a solid kiss on the cheek.
After a long, sluggish minute of silence, I understood there was no more to be said at the moment. We left it at that, and I reluctantly turned and moved to my LaSalle. As I walked, the little voice inside my head kept telling me that kiss would leave a scar. I knew I was going to have another white night.
* * *
Confused thoughts about Agnes and us raced through my mind as I traveled toward my apartment. I’d fallen pretty hard for the girl. It had looked to be mutual, and now she sounded uncertain. I was miserable.
As I drove, one of my ‘gut feelings’ overcame me from out of left field. On a hunch, I changed directions and started home from Agnes’s lodgings by way of the Manders Building. Reaching the office building, I pulled into the parking lot. My headlamps washed across Bernhard’s maroon Fleetwood, sitting in the reserved spot where I’d first seen it. I turned around and eased to the curb just down the street from the place.
On a hunch, I changed directions and started home from Agnes’s lodgings by way of the Manders Building.
Cutting my machine’s motor and snapping off the headlamps, I spotted another automobile parked further along the deserted block. Between the moon and the illumination from a nearby streetlight, I recognized it to be one I had a passing knowledge of. It only added to the sense of urgency already tugging at my brain. I grabbed my shoulder holster from under my seat and put it on. After climbing from behind the wheel, I hustled across the sidewalk.
When I tried to push through the building’s brass-edged, glass swinging doors, I found they were locked. My effort made enough noise, though, for a rotund night watchman to appear from somewhere inside. Through the door, he shouted the building was closed and I couldn’t come in. Only one gambit came to mind. I told him I had an urgent appointment with Mr. Dewitt, who’d probably already arrived. I figured he knew the man was there. He chewed on the idea for a second before unlocking the entrance and letting me in. “Fifth floor!” he hollered after me as I raced for the elevator.
The lift’s indicator showed it sat on the fifth floor. Not wanting to take the time required for the car to come down and then haul me back up, I hustled through the stairwell door and started climbing. Given my fondness for whiskey and smokes, it was a grueling effort, but, gasping desperately for air with each step, I finally reached my objective.
I took one last, labored deep breath and pushed through the door into the hall. Mr. Dewitt was just stepping out of his office across the way. Lamplight coming from Johansson’s desk, showing through the open door, backlighted him. Simultaneously, a figure stepped to the center of the corridor at the far end, silhouetted by bright moonlight slanting through a hallway window behind him. The person appeared to raise an outstretched arm in our direction. Instinctively, I charged the unsuspecting Bernhard, pushing him back toward his office. As we tumbled, three shots rang out. One round whistled uncomfortably close to my head before I got both of us into his secretary’s work space. After the man assured me he was unharmed by the blasts, I whispered to him to stay put until I came back.
The person appeared to raise an outstretched arm in our direction.
Unleathering my gat and returning to the door, I carefully peered around the doorjamb to the last location of the shooter. The shadowy person still stood in the hall’s dim light. Without sighting my iron, I eased it out from the doorjamb, pointed in the shooter’s general direction. My gun belched fire twice, but the shots missed their mark. I leaned ever so slightly into the passageway to get a better aim.
Before I fired again, the figure hastily folded into a nearby doorway. No sound of a door opening or shutting came to me. I pulled back into the office and glanced at Dewitt. He’d stood and supported himself against Josey’s desk. His face revealed not fear but a determination to play a part in this scenario. I raised my hand, indicating for him not to move. Then I pointed to the lamp and ran a finger across my throat. He got the message and quickly killed the light.
Bernhard’s office sat between our assailant and the elevator and the stairs. His only way out would be if a fire escape happened to be at the window behind him. Not having heard any noises indicating to me he was trying to leave that way, I concluded he continued to hug the door tightly. After a minute of no sounds of movement at that end, I moved into the hallway and crept along the wall toward his position. My heart pounded, my pulse throbbed in my temples. My mouth, still aching from the blow Newc had dealt me, was dry and stiff. As I neared the figure, the sound of raspy, fearful breathing came to me.
Gun at the ready, I slammed myself against the wall opposite with my handgun aimed at his head. In the low light, the man half raised his weapon, his hand shaking violently. I screamed, “Hold it right there!” He lowered his arm. “You’d better drop the gun before I paint that door with the back of your skull!” Tears glistened in his deep-set eyes. With a mournful sob, he dropped the rod. Then, a second one fell to the floor. I didn’t know the shooter by sight, but I knew who he was without asking. A button man, he wasn’t.
“You’d better drop the gun before I paint that door with the back of your skull!”
After carefully collecting the man’s guns so as not to mess up any fingerprints they might hold, I walked him to Dewitt’s office. As we entered the room, I turned on the overhead light and kicked the door shut behind me. When Bernhard saw the man, he exclaimed, “Dr. Grayle! What… what are you doing here? What’s the meaning of this?” The good doctor simply hung his head in reply. As I’d expected, both men wore formal evening attire. I patted Benjamin down before shoving him into a visitor’s chair.
“He came here to kill you, sir.”
“What? No!” Bernhard shouted as he shot me a confused expression. “You must be mistaken, young man! It’s simply not possible! I know this man! He was at my home not more than an hour ago.” He paused as he turned something over in his mind. “Tell me, doc, why d’you leave the party? Why’re you here?”
“I already gave you the answer to that question,” I said evenly.
The septuagenarian moved around the desk and dropped into Johansson’s chair. He shook his noggin in disbelief, then looked hard at my face. “Say, you’re the young fella who was in my office a couple of weeks ago, aren’t you?”
I nodded and smiled. Despite his age, nothing seemed to get past the old guy. Then I thought of his situation. Well, almost nothing made it past him. “It’s time for some law,” I proclaimed, reaching for the blower. Dr. Grayle grunted but didn’t stir. Dewitt stared at him, still trying to make sense of the circumstances. I leaned against the edge of Johansson’s desk, lifted the receiver off the prongs, and dialed police headquarters. After asking for the detectives’ bureau, I was lucky enough to be put through to Detective Waddell. “Hey, Rob, it’s Gil. You busy?” I asked when he came on the wire and identified himself.
“Like a one-armed paperhanger. We just returned from nabbing a habitual armed robber right after he hit another gas station. Seems he didn’t want to join our little soiree here at the station house. Started throwing lead our way. A uniform’s blast clipped him in the shoulder. Too bad,” he chuckled. “I’m sending the officer to the practice range for practice first thing in the morning. Anyway, that’s when the punk decided he’d had enough. We had to run by the receiving hospital to patch him up before coming back here. We’re getting ready to interrogate the goon. But no more about my joyful existence. What’s coming off with you?”
“You have time for an attempted murder? I’m sitting on one right now, here at the Manders Building. Fifth floor. Got the intended victim and the would-be killer sitting in an office with me as we speak.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Nah.”
“Who was the target?” When I told him, Waddell let out a long, low whistle. “Do tell?” He, too, knew of the old fella.
“Yeah. We’re in his office on the fifth floor of the Manders Building. Can you spare me a bit of help? I’ll give you chapter and verse when you get here.”
“Sure, Gil. We’ll head your way after I set Donovan up to do the interrogation of this lug. He’ll be glad to do it. He loves grilling hard cases. Sees it as a contest of wills.”
I laughed. “Uh-huh. It’s a contest of wills, right enough. Will his arm’s ability to swing a metropolitan telephone directory outlast the suspect’s will not to confess anything?” Rumor had it a thick phone directory was Detective Donovan’s instrument of choice for “coaxing” confessions out of thugs.
“C’mon, Gil!” the detective replied disapprovingly. Air stirred at both ends of the phone line. Waddell knew what low regard I held for Donovan. “I’ll see ya soon,” he murmured, after a short time.
“Oh, and, Rob?”
“Yeah?”
“You’ll need to have somebody swing by the Dewitt mansion and pick up his bitter half.”
“You mean his ‘better half’?”
I looked at the confused, dejected Bernhard and regretted what I was going to say. “No. She’s behind this whole affair. I said it right the first time.” With a chuckle, Waddell rang off. Dewitt didn’t react to my last statements. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t hear me or was too much in shock to understand the implication.
Pegging the receiver, I glanced between the men, telling them the coppers were on their way. It occurred to me to collect the hardware before the detective arrived. I had the two rods the doctor had been brandishing. Turning to Bernhard, I asked for his gun. He turned a bit rigid at my question. “What handgun? I don’t have one, mister. Say, what’s your name? How did you happen to be here, and what’s your part in this?”
“My name is Gil Tanner. I’m a private detective, hired by your wife to look after you for the last several weeks.”
“What?” He harrumphed at the idea and glared at me. I nodded sharply in reply and handed him one of my business cards. He studied it for longer than necessary and swore under his breath. Dewitt offered, after a pause, “Well, I guess, all things considered, it was a good thing my wife hired you!” I added nothing in return. Apparently, he hadn’t heard my conversation with the cops.
He studied it for longer than necessary and swore under his breath.
With the man’s answer to my question about carrying a gun, a few matters fell into place. But, if he was still in the dark, I wasn’t ready to share my slant on the situation with the elderly guy just yet. So no reply came from me. Instead, my eyes crawled to Dr. Grayle, who licked his parched lips with the tip of his dry tongue and turned his face away. His large ears reddened.
I lit up a smoke and offered one to my companions. Bernhard waved it off. Benjamin looked at me when he felt my nudge and pulled a fag from my pack. I tossed him my box of matches. His piercing black eyes were constantly moving, as if a desperate animal caught in a trap. I removed the doctor’s two handguns from my coat by their barrels. The culprit’s worried eyes watched my moves. He said nothing, though. His weapon was your standard .32 revolver. The extra one he’d been toting was a small .25 caliber job. I dropped both back into my pockets.
I leaned over the desk toward my client’s husband. “So, let me ask you a question for a change, Mr. Dewitt. You don’t have a gun on you?” He waggled his head with a negative response. “And you haven’t started carrying one recently?” He gave me the same rejoinder with an odd look. “So, how did you come to be here tonight? I mean, what with the big bash at your place.”
“My wife came to me and said she’d received word from J. J.–Mrs. Johansson, my secretary–that she had an emergency and needed me here at the office immediately. Althea didn’t want to alarm our guests.” Following a pause, he continued, “J. J. has been with me for many years. She’s not only a loyal employee, but a close friend. Naturally, if I could help her in a time of need, I’d do so.” A puzzled look crossed his mug. “I never stopped to consider why we had to meet here. I left the party without ado, hoping to return before its conclusion, never having been missed. But J. J. wasn’t here. I couldn’t reach her by telephone.” He looked from me to Grayle and back again. “See here, I still don’t understand this. Can you explain it to me, Mr. Tanner?”
I ignored his question and pursued getting the facts from Bernhard that I figured Waddell would want when he arrived. “There’s an alley running behind this building, right?” When he nodded and started to speak, a raised hand stopped him for the moment. “And there is a locked entrance from there into the building?”
“Yes. It’s used for deliveries by those tenants who have a need for such services. The building has a rear hallway leading from it to the elevator and stairs.” He swallowed hard and his voice cracked slightly. “Just what the hell are you–?” He stopped short of finishing his question to me. A sudden glint of recognition played across his face. The man leaned forward, dropping his hands between his knees and clasping them together. He exhaled shakily. Tears welled in the aged man’s eyes as his countenance took on an anguished look. Dewitt was a sad sight. He rose sluggishly and trudged into his private office, closing the door quietly behind him as if he were leaving a funeral parlor viewing area. After a second or so, the sound of heavy sobbing came to us from the next room. I shot Grayle a glower. He looked away again.
Tears welled in the aged man’s eyes as his countenance took on an anguished look.
A short time later, a tired-looking Detective Waddell appeared at the door. The night watchman and a uniformed officer I recognized accompanied him. “Rob. Officer Lipscomb,” I greeted. The custodian departed.
The detective noticed my swelling cheek and darkening eye. “What the hell happened to you, Gil? What’s with the goog?”
Involuntarily, my hand went to the injury. “Oh, I met a new friend a short time ago.” I laughed. “This was an icebreaker.”
Rob shook his head and blew it off. “So what’s all the hubbub about?”
“First, let me introduce Dr. Benjamin Grayle to you. He’s one of the primary, but not the only actor in our little vignette played out here tonight.” The doctor’s firm mouth compressed even more. “He came here to kill Bernhard Dewitt at the behest of the man’s wife, Althea. I screwed up their plans. I can give you the evidence to start you on your way to tying up the matter.”
Nodding to the inner office door, I added, “The intended victim is in there, unhurt. Physically, anyway,” I sighed. When Waddell stepped in that direction, I grabbed his arm. “Though not hurt bodily, Rob, the old guy’s in severe emotional pain at the moment. I asked enough questions for him to piece together what happened here, including, I figure, his wife’s involvement. He needs a little more time to gather himself. Right now, he’s having one of those ‘road to Damascus moments.’” My friend waggled his head in understanding.
Waddell turned to the doctor. “Well, what do you have to say, Grayle?”
“I–I,” he began, then paused. He stubbed out his smoke and exhaled slowly.
“Get this guy outta here, Lipscomb,” Rob grumbled impatiently. “Take him to the station house and lock him up. Don’t let anyone near him. I’ll be there shortly to get his statement.” The detective grabbed the doctor’s lapel as he stood and shook him. “And you will talk to me!”
“Wait a second, Jack,” I told the officer. “Check his right front pants pocket. I felt a key there when I frisked him earlier. My guess is it’s one to this building, which he used to let himself in. There’s a separate ring of keys in the left pocket. Probably those are to his house, car, office, and so on. Likely one to the Dewitts’ home, too.”
Detective Waddell reached over and retrieved the key. The doctor’s face took on even more of a hangdog look. With that, Lipscomb slapped cuffs on Grayle and led him away. When they’d disappeared, my pal turned back to me. “Okay, Gil, so what have you got on this incident?”
“Several weeks ago, a relatively young Mrs. Dewitt summoned me to her home with a note. There, she gave me a sob story about fearing harm might come to her husband. Afterward, she hired me to shadow the old man and keep an eye on him. I–”
“Wait! Why did she employ you to bird-dog Dewitt if she planned to do him in?”
“I’m not exactly sure, Rob. But what better way to divert suspicion away from herself than for a supposedly caring, fearful Althea to hire someone to look after her ‘threatened’ husband, who ends up getting murdered? Plus, she threw enough money at me for the job that, I suspect, she figured I’d be dazzled sufficiently to accept her every word as gospel.”
“A double bluff, huh?”
“You said it, brother! But based on what I now know, my hunch is Althea and Benny have been doing the horizontal rumba for a while. He seemed to spend a lot of time at their mansion. Anyway, she said Bernhard had started carrying a gun for protection, which he denies emphatically.” Before Rob could speak, I continued, “The couple threw a big party at their home this evening. Mrs. Dewitt had told me, with the event occupying her husband, she didn’t need me tonight.
“So, Agnes and I took in the fight card at the arena. On a whim, I drove past here on the way to my apartment and saw my mark’s car in the parking lot. I smelled a rat and hauled it up here to check on him. Fortunately, I got here just as Dr. Grayle tried to shoot his lover’s mate. He almost rubbed both of us out.
“According to Bernhard, his wife approached him during the gathering tonight and told him he was needed for an emergency involving his longtime secretary. The unsuspecting husband quietly left his home and drove here to help an old friend. I’ll lay odds she convinced him to depart with no fuss, so no one at the shindig might notice. She probably planned his departure to occur around the time her lover escaped the gala unobserved.
“Grayle carried that key to the building I figure she’d given him. He entered through the back-alley access, so the night watchman in the lobby area wouldn’t see him. My theory is, after getting to the fifth floor, the doctor lay in wait for his target to leave. When a very confused Dewitt came out of his office, Benjamin was ready, gun in hand. As luck would have it, I showed in time to throw a monkey wrench into the plan.”
My theory is, after getting to the fifth floor, the doctor lay in wait for his target to leave.
“Anything else, Gil?”
“Yeah.” I carefully retrieved the hardware Grayle had been carrying and laid them on the desk. “The doctor had these on him when he tried to kill Dewitt. I took ‘em off him, trying to preserve any fingerprints they may have. You may find both Grayle’s and Althea’s prints on one or both. Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, that’s your bailiwick. But the good doctor likely intended to leave the .25 caliber with Bernhard’s body to bolster my client’s story that he feared for his life from an unnamed threat and had started packing.
“Finally, I have the letter Mrs. Dewitt sent to summon me to the mansion and a note she gave me with the description and tag number of her husband’s Cadillac. They’re in different handwriting. My bet is the first is her writing and the second one is Grayle’s scrawl. If my guess is correct, they’ll show a direct connection between the co-conspirators since both came to me from Althea. Both notes are in the file at my office. I can pick them up on the way to headquarters. My assumption is you’ll want to take my statement tonight, right?”
“Yeah, thanks, Gil. This is a pretty good start toward putting the case together.”
“Say, before you retrieve Bernhard and go to question the doc, do you mind if I throw in an angle for you to try on Benny?” Waddell smiled condescendingly and nodded. I caught the gist of his sarcastic thought, but moved on. “You might use the slant on Grayle that his lover set him up to kill her husband, intending to disavow any knowledge of his plans. That way, she could get rid of hubby and wash her hands of him to boot. She’d then have those millions, which also give her a great motive, to herself.”
“You think it’s the truth of the matter, Gil? That she simply used Grayle?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” I advanced, laughing. “But if you and I aren’t sure, possibly you can convince the doctor he’s not certain either. Maybe he’ll buy it wasn’t gonna happen how he thought and that Althea had other plans. Try it on him. See if he bites and starts singing to get back at her and to save his own hide. My investigation tells me she’s behind this all the way. Beautiful, smart, and conniving! It’s only speculation, but I think the weak-chinned Dr. Grayle is a namby-pamby who could easily be convinced he’s merely a pawn in her little game.”
The detective absentmindedly rubbed the side of his nose with a forefinger in thought. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, and have someone monitor the old boy tonight. He’s pretty torn up. We don’t want him pulling a Brodie.”
He moaned and passed his hand wearily across his eyes. “That’s just what I need to make this day complete. Yeah, sure. Will do.”
When Waddell opened the door to the private office and told Bernhard he needed to take his statement at the police station, the man shuffled out slowly. For the first time since I’d come in contact with Bernhard Dewitt, he looked and acted his age. Perhaps older. Much older.
* * *
Later, at the headquarters, they put me in the same hallway where Mr. Dewitt was already sitting on a wooden bench. The old fellow was leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He appeared to be a broken man. So I said nothing initially. I found a place at the other end of the seat. We were both waiting to speak with Detective Waddell.
After a time, my companion muttered, but I couldn’t quite make it out. “I’m sorry. Did you say something to me?” I inquired gently.
“Said ‘thanks’, young fella. I never thanked you for saving my life tonight.” Bleary-eyed, he glanced up at the clock hanging above the door. “Factually, I guess it was last night.”
Uncertain of what to say, I tried to ease the tension of the moment. “Well, Mr. Dewitt, if the truth be known, I was only trying to get out of harm’s way and you happened to be in the doorway to your office.”
He smiled sadly. “So you say.” He slapped his thighs gently. “I suddenly feel ten years older. Speaking of which, you’re awfully old to be calling me ‘Mister Dewitt’ all the time, Mr. Tanner.” His smile broadened slightly.
I chuckled, “With respect, you’re too old for me to be calling you anything else.”
Another small grin broke through, but didn’t linger. Bernhard’s eyes swam as his mouth twisted in agony. “If what you implied back there in my office is true…,” he sobbed. “I… I just cannot believe it.”
“You’re lucky Grayle didn’t kill you.”
“Yeah, lucky,” he replied cynically. Dewitt relapsed into a sorrowful, frowning meditation. Through tears he mumbled what I heard to be “Matthew 10:36.”
At that moment, a cop came to take the other man to speak with Detective Waddell. Before the elderly fellow departed, he sauntered over to where I sat. I looked up into his reddened, sunken eyes. “Are you certain of what you told me in my office tonight?” I could only offer a lamentable nod. Bernhard took a deep breath and released it mournfully. After an interval, he asked, “You married, young fella?” When I shook my head, he added, “Let me pass on a word of warning written a long time ago by an English poet. ‘A woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dresses her not.’” He turned slowly and shuffled away.
“Are you certain of what you told me in my office tonight?” I could only offer a lamentable nod.
* * *
Because the Saturday night had bled long into Sunday morning at police headquarters, I slept in. At least I stayed in my Murphy bed until the competition between thirst and hunger raged unbearably. While shaving, I realized how swollen the right side of my face surrounding the mouse had become. Before I left my apartment, I pulled my mother’s family Bible out of the drawer I kept it in. Locating Matthew 10:36, I read, “And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household.” I shook my head with a heavy sigh as I returned the book.
* * *
The Wayside Café was open on Sundays, but so was my favorite watering hole. After weighing my options, I ankled into Harry’s Paradise Tavern shortly after one in the afternoon. I don’t like to eat on an empty stomach. My pal was already pouring my usual fare by the time I finished greeting my fellow patrons and found my customary barstool. That took care of the thirst part of my issues. Harry made a wisecrack about my shiner and moved along the bar to another dry soul.
In response to the hunger aspect of the moment, I did something I’d sworn I would never do. I got a few pickled eggs from the big jar at the end of the counter. The bet among the regulars at Harry’s was that the container and its contents were left over from rations which had accompanied Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders up San Juan Hill. When I reached for the jar, it riveted the attention of those gathered. More than a few catcalls came my way. Despite our skepticism, the eggs weren’t half bad.
As I nibbled on an egg and washed it down with a splash of Jack Daniels, I thought over everything that had happened the night before. I wondered where the coppers stood with the case I’d turned over to them and how Mr. Dewitt was coping with the devastating news I’d handed him. I decided to catch up with my friend later in the day and find out what he’d learned.
My thoughts moved to Agnes. If I were honest with myself, I was sitting in Harry’s instead of going to Mrs. Yonce’s boardinghouse to see her, because I was a little afraid of the outcome. The girl’s hesitation when I asked her whether she still loved that mug Newc had me knotted up inside. Eventually, I’d have to face the music, but not right then. Confronting an angry goon pointing a roscoe at me was one thing. Facing the woman I loved, who may now be uncertain of her feelings for me, was another. Just wait, I told myself.
In due course, Detective Waddell moseyed into the joint and took the stool next to me. “Hey, Gil. I figured I’d find you here.” Stating the obvious was a powerful part of his personality. He ordered a beer and continued, “I thought I might bring you up to date on the Dewitt caper.” The bull was eying the pickled egg in my hand. He smirked and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Rob was a frequent enough visitor to Harry’s to have heard the wagers pertaining to the jar and its contents.
“Funny thing,” I replied, stuffing the egg into my mouth for effect. “I was just thinking of calling you later to ask.”
“Well, after you left, I got into a serious interrogation of Dr. Grayle. I used what some might call the direct approach at first, but he was being singularly obtuse. Taking a cue from you, I let him have both barrels concerning how Althea had manipulated him. I asserted she was using him to get her husband’s millions. Then she could deny any knowledge of his actions, cut him adrift, and ride off into the sunset a beautiful, young, free, and enormously rich woman. I pointed out how easy it would be for her to separate herself from what he’d tried to pull. After fifteen minutes of it, he was crying like a baby and spilling his guts. With a little help from me, the doc concluded that, if he didn’t tell us the truth of the conspiracy, she’d get off scot-free, but he wouldn’t.”
After fifteen minutes of it, he was crying like a baby and spilling his guts.
He smiled and downed his beer as if it was an aspirin tablet. Rob got Harry’s attention and bought us another round before continuing. “In the meantime, Dewitt had decided he wasn’t returning to his home until I had the evidence to arrest his wife and, I quote, ‘drag her double-crossing ass out of the place’. He also vowed she won’t be using his dough to hire a mouthpiece. Anyway, he stayed at the St. James Hotel last night. And,” he added, raising a restraining hand at me before I could speak, “I had an officer stay with him to watch him as you suggested.” Knowing the reaction he’d get from me, he paused before finishing, “It was Gus Donovan.”
I leaned back from him, feigning astonishment. “Donovan stayed with Mr. Dewitt overnight?” Rob nodded as he sipped his beer. “If that doesn’t push a guy to suicide, nothing will,” I laughed. After a pause, I asked, “Well, did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Arrest the missus and drag her ass out of the mansion.”
“The warrant’s being drawn up as we speak. Gus is gonna meet me here with it, and we’ll head over to their place to pinch her. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot to tell you we lifted fingerprints from both guns. The ones on the .38 matched Grayle’s. On the .25, we found his and a couple of unknown partials. There’s enough for a match, though, if we find the person who left them. And we’ll be checking the wife’s prints against them when we pick her up.” He slapped me on the back and chortled. We shared a laugh. And we continued to drink. Okay, mostly I drank with Rob by my side until Detective Donovan appeared brandishing an arrest warrant with the name “Althea Reynolds Dewitt” typed neatly at the top.
Incidentally, I never saw Bernhard Dewitt again. Both conspirators later pleaded guilty before their trial was to start. Since that day, it’s been my policy never to trust any woman named Althea–or any man, for that matter.
Anyway, I stayed on the barstool long into the evening, then crawled back to my apartment like a craven coward. I was hurting but decided to deal with my strawberry blonde issue the next day.
* * *
Early the following morning, I made the trip to The Wayside Café. The place was in total chaos when I arrived. Oscar was doing double duty, cooking and trying to wait on customers at the same time. He was not happy.
I squeezed into the counter space by the griddle. “Hey, Oscar! Where’s Agnes?”
The scowl I received from him spoke volumes. “Hell if I know! She’s late, is what I do know! And your girlfriend had better have a damned good reason!”
I stepped back from the scrum at the counter and made my way outside. No getting around it: it was time to go find the girl. I hopped into the LaSalle and drove to the rooming house.
* * *
The boardinghouse matron answered the door, smiling reservedly. “Good morning, Mrs. Yonce. I need to see Agnes.”
Her face showed mild shock and concern as she wrung her hands in her apron and glanced back over her shoulder. “Well, Gil, I’m not sure what to say.”
“Whaddya mean, ma’am?”
“Why, she checked out of her room and left early this morning.”
Despite not being completely taken by surprise, my heart broke at that moment. It was as if someone had kicked out my insides. “Did she leave a forwarding address?” The lady shook her head. “Was… was she alone when she left here?”
The woman hesitated, looking past me to the road in front of the house. Then her sad eyes met mine. She didn’t have to say what came next. I already knew. She swallowed hard. “No, Gil. She was with a tall blond fella. Broad shouldered, he was. Didn’t catch his name.” She kept talking, but I didn’t hear a word for a minute or so.
Then her sad eyes met mine. She didn’t have to say what came next.
I know I went ashen as my mouth dried. Never given to crying jags, I nearly turned over a new leaf. I started to leave but looked back to the lady. “Thanks, Mrs. Yonce.”
“I’m truly sorry, Gil,” she breathed.
“Yeah, me, too,” I somehow managed to croak. I drove to Harry’s. Going to the office was not in my near future. I was hurting much deeper than I had in a long time. As if it might never end. Maybe it was like what Mr. Dewitt had felt. Perhaps, but probably not as deep a pain. It only seemed that way.
I read that a Frenchy wrote something to the effect “the heart has reasons that reason never knew.” My hunch was he’d had an Agnes in his life somewhere along the line, too. ©
