Masters Of Noir Vol Iii Part 5

I nodded dumbly, unable to speak.

"It was for you," she said. "I liked your eyes on me. I liked the way you looked at me."

She smiled. "Come inside."

I hesitated. Was this a trap? Had she called the police?

"Come here," she said. "Come inside. Don't be afraid."

I followed her into the house, into the bedroom. "I want you," she said. "I want you." She slipped out of the housecoat and tossed it over a chair.

"Come on," she said. "I know you want me. I could tell from the way you looked at me. Come here."

She set the gun on the dresser and motioned for me to step closer. "I want you to make love to me," she said.

I walked over to her, and she threw her arms around me. "Take me," she moaned.

I pushed her away. "No," I said. "I don't want that. that. I just wanted to watch you. I wouldn't do I just wanted to watch you. I wouldn't do that." that."

She pressed against me again. "I want you," she insisted. She opened her arms and I felt her hot breath on my face.

There was only one way to stop her. I picked up the gun from the dresser. "Don't come any closer," I warned. "Leave me alone."

"Don't be silly." She smiled. "You want me and I want you." She kept coming closer as I retreated.

That's when it happened-when the gun went off. The noise resounded in the small bedroom, and she crumpled and fell. "Why?" she moaned. Then she died.

The police beat me. They beat me harder than last time, and they called me a pervert. They think I tried to rape her, but that's not true. I wouldn't do a thing like that.

PRECISE MOMENT by HENRY KANE

When you're alone in a graveyard, you have many thoughts. When you're alone in a graveyard, that is, and you're not dead.

And I was not dead.

I was, in fact-if one can be said to be-too much alive. Nervous. Jumpy. p.r.i.c.kles ridged along the back of my neck like the risen hackles of a fighting c.o.c.k. Nerve-ends jagged, and every fibre taut. And why not, at one o'clock in the morning of a silent fog-wisped night, alone in a stone-infested graveyard out at the eerie edge of Long Island? much alive. Nervous. Jumpy. p.r.i.c.kles ridged along the back of my neck like the risen hackles of a fighting c.o.c.k. Nerve-ends jagged, and every fibre taut. And why not, at one o'clock in the morning of a silent fog-wisped night, alone in a stone-infested graveyard out at the eerie edge of Long Island?

And what was I doing there?

Have a laugh.

I was there on business.

I had a flashlight in my left hand, and a brown-paper package in my right, and I was glued, like a peeping-Tom at an inviting aperture, to a flavorsome tombstone, enticingly inscribed, in curlicues yet: J. J. J. Tompkins, Rest In Peace. J. J. J. Tompkins, Rest In Peace.

Tompkins, I hoped, was resting more peacefully than I.

I shrugged, scratched, grimaced and clicked the flashlight again. It was five after one. I had been there, at Mr. Tompkins' tombstone-as directed-since twelve-thirty. I stiffened, stretched and returned to the whirligig of random thinking; but my unconscious mind must have sought succor, because it presented a picture of Trina Greco.

Ah, that Trina Greco. Tall, dark, lithe and graceful, she had the longest, shapeliest legs in New York, and they were legs that stood up against the staunchest of compet.i.tion-Trina was a ballet dancer. This very afternoon-before I had returned to the office, and before the call from Mrs. Florence Fleetwood Reed-I had attended a rehearsal with Trina. Legs, legs, legs ... legs and leotards ... but my Trina won hands down (or is it legs down?). Afterward, we had sat about sipping peaceful afternoon c.o.c.ktails in a peaceful afternoon tavern, and she had looked off wistfully-Trina, the unusual: with a brain to match the legs-and she had said, apropos of nothing: "A fragment of time in connection with a fragment of s.p.a.ce ... creates the precise moment."

"Wow," I had said. "In the middle of the afternoon. Just like that."

"It's from the Greek philosophers."

"Trina, my Greek."

"I am am of Greek extraction. You know that, Pete." of Greek extraction. You know that, Pete."

"Sure. Sure." I had pondered it. "Fragment of time ... fragment of s.p.a.ce ... precise moment."

"And that precise moment ... can be ecstatic or catastrophic."

"Wow. Again with the words. Slow down, my lady love. I'm only a detective taking off part of an afternoon."

"Even here ... " Her dark eyes crinkled in a grin. "You and I ... this might be ... a precise moment."

My grin had answered hers. "No, ma'am, and that's for sure. I can think of a better time and a more appropriate s.p.a.ce for our our precise moment. But I do believe I know what you mean, big words or little words." precise moment. But I do believe I know what you mean, big words or little words."

"Do you, Peter?"

"Sure. Something like this, let's say. Deciding game of the World Series. Last half of the ninth, home team at bat, one run behind. Bases full, two out. Third baseman moves a little to his left for some reason, just as the batter hits a screaming line drive. Third baseman lifts his glove, practically to protect himself ... and he's made a sensational catch. At the right fragment of time he was in the right fragment of s.p.a.ce ... and for him, it was the precise moment. Ecstatic for his team, catastrophic for the other."

"Very good, Peter. Very good, indeed."

The way she had said it, the way her dark eyes had narrowed down, the promise in the soft-sweet smile-right here in the fog-tipped graveyard, a pleasant little s.h.i.+ver ran through me. Everything else was forgotten-even Johnny Hays, small-time hood with big-ideas, good-looking lad with a smooth blue jaw-Johnny Hays, who had come up to me just after I had put Trina into her cab-Johnny Hays, talking through stiff lips: "You just beg for trouble, don't you, Mr. Chambers?"

"Like how, little man?"

"Like making with the pitch for this Trina Greco."

"That have any effect on you, little man?"

"It figures to have an effect on you, big man."

"Like how?"

"Like Nick Darrow."

"Darrow, huh?"

"Friendly warning, big man. When Nick don't like, Nick cuts you down to size. Then you're a little man, very little, and very dead. So smarten up. There's a million dames. Skip this one."

I forgot about Johnny Hays, thinking of the expression on Trina's face, of her dark eyes, of that secret little smile, and, as I clicked the flashlight, the pleasant little s.h.i.+ver went through me again-but then the s.h.i.+ver remained and all the pleasantness went out of it.

A quiet voice said, "Put that light out."

I put the light out. I was back in the graveyard working at my trade. I stood still and I said nothing. I saw n.o.body.

The quiet voice said, "You Peter Chambers?"

"I ain't J. J. J. Tompkins."

"Never mind the jokes. Turn around, and stay turned around."

"Yes, sir." I turned and stayed turned.

"Now reach your arm back and hand me that package."

"You're a little premature, pal."

"What?"

"You're supposed to give me the word, pal. This is a real eccentric bit, but my client is a real eccentric lady, and she's rich enough to afford her eccentricities. You're supposed to say a name. So, say it."

"Abner Reed."

"That's the jackpot answer. Reach, and grab your prize."

There were soft footsteps, then somebody reached, and somebody grabbed.

"Very good," somebody said. "Now stay the way you are. Stay like that for the next five minutes."

But I didn't "stay the way you are" for the next five minutes. Fast count, I'd say there were two reasons for that. First, five minutes in a graveyard, in the middle of the night, after your business is finished, is like, say, five years years on the French Riviera. And second, I'm blessed, or is it cursed, with a large lump of curiosity. I turned, and I didn't turn a second too soon, because I ran right smack up against Trina's "precise moment." Somewhere through the faint fog there was enough light to put a glint on metal-and I dropped-as five shots poured over me, and then ... nothing. on the French Riviera. And second, I'm blessed, or is it cursed, with a large lump of curiosity. I turned, and I didn't turn a second too soon, because I ran right smack up against Trina's "precise moment." Somewhere through the faint fog there was enough light to put a glint on metal-and I dropped-as five shots poured over me, and then ... nothing.

Running feet ... and nothing.

I got up, but I didn't even try going after him. The guy was gone. Go search for a needle in a haystack. You You go-but at least you've got a chance. The needle is inanimate, and it go-but at least you've got a chance. The needle is inanimate, and it is is in the haystack. But searching for a gunman in a graveyard ... no, sir. I'll take the needle-in-the-haystack deal. in the haystack. But searching for a gunman in a graveyard ... no, sir. I'll take the needle-in-the-haystack deal.

Anyway, I brushed at my clothes, and I got out of there, and I was d.a.m.n glad to get get out of there. My car was parked about a quarter of a mile down, and when I slammed the door behind me and pushed down the b.u.t.tons, I permitted myself the luxury of a couple of real deep-down shudders, and then I turned over the motor and went away from there, fast. When the cl.u.s.tered lights of civilization finally rose up before me, I visited the most civilized place I could think of-a bar-where I had three quick const.i.tuents of resuscitation and a slow chaser. Then I went back to the car and my progress to Manhattan was less precipitate and more thoughtful. out of there. My car was parked about a quarter of a mile down, and when I slammed the door behind me and pushed down the b.u.t.tons, I permitted myself the luxury of a couple of real deep-down shudders, and then I turned over the motor and went away from there, fast. When the cl.u.s.tered lights of civilization finally rose up before me, I visited the most civilized place I could think of-a bar-where I had three quick const.i.tuents of resuscitation and a slow chaser. Then I went back to the car and my progress to Manhattan was less precipitate and more thoughtful.

Names ran through my mind like tape running through a clinking cash register. Trina Greco, Johnny Hays, Nick Darrow, Florence Fleetwood Reed. I gave the first three a quick-think, so I'd have time to concentrate on the last, and then, perhaps, hash them all up together. I was relaxed now, and moving without hurry. I was heading for the Reed mansion at Gramercy Park, and it figured for about an hour.

Trina Greco. A dish for a king, and I make no pretense at royalty. I had seen her once, about six months back, dancing at the Copa (and had admired her from afar), but I'd met her at a party about two weeks ago (admiring her from very near), and had commenced a small but concentrated campaign. She had quit the night-club job (which was bread and b.u.t.ter) and was rehearsing now with a ballet company, for which she had been trained most of her life. I knew very little about her, but was eagerly trying to learn much more.

Johnny Hays. A good-looking kid who had been inoculated by slick-type movie heavies in his early youth. A no-brains young man who would wind up, one day, neatly dressed, but grotesquely sprawled in a gutter with a generous portion of his intestines splattered beside him. Meanwhile, he was a killer-diller with the ladies, and drew his pay within one of the varied echelons which went to make up the intricate empire of Nick Darrow.

Nick Darrow, very much more important. Brains, cunning and the conscience of a crawling lobster. Neat, young enough, and at the height of his ambition. Politically well-connected, reasonably cautious, and one of the top ten narcotics outlets in the United States. Owner of the Club Trippa, Club Trippa, on Madison Avenue. on Madison Avenue.

Florence Fleetwood Reed, completely removed from any of the others. Until late this past afternoon, unknown to me, except through legend. Cafe society, real society, and sn.o.b-rich to the tune of a hundred million dollars inherited from a five-and-dime pappy who had pa.s.sed away leaving little Florence as his sole and avaricious beneficiary. Reputed to be inordinately shrewd in business, stuffily stingy, and weirdly eccentric. Young, beautiful, headstrong, imperious, commanding. Married once, a long time ago, to a movie actor, divorced, and recently, about six months ago, re-married.

Late in the afternoon, I'd had a call at the office ... from Florence Fleetwood Reed. I'd been summoned to her home, and I had answered the summons. I had met her alone, at her Gramercy Park home, a firm-hipped blonde with a lot of control and hard grey eyes within an almost imperceptible network of crepe-like wrinkles. I had been informed that I had been selected as a final cog in a peculiar business transaction. I was told that I was not to ask questions, was to return at eleven o'clock, was to pick up a package, was to go to a cemetery on Long Island, find a tombstone marked J. J. J. Tompkins, wait J. J. J. Tompkins, wait until somebody came there who asked for me by name, and then mentioned the name Abner Reed. I was then to turn the package over to him, and return to Gramercy Park and collect my fee. Said fee, one thousand dollars. Time of appointment at said J. J. J. Tompkins' resting place, twelve-thirty, and wait if the caller is late. until somebody came there who asked for me by name, and then mentioned the name Abner Reed. I was then to turn the package over to him, and return to Gramercy Park and collect my fee. Said fee, one thousand dollars. Time of appointment at said J. J. J. Tompkins' resting place, twelve-thirty, and wait if the caller is late.

In case you haven't heard, I'm a private detective, which is synonymous with anything confidential, including c.o.c.keyed-type messenger boy (if the fee is large enough). In my business, if the client is right, you ask no questions, you give not whit nor wisdom (unless requested); you take it, leave it and forget about it unless an acute or wildly unforeseeable incident occurs.

Gunplay in a graveyard, when your client is the esteemed Florence Fleetwood Reed, is both acute and wildly unforeseeable.

Was the gunplay, then, connected with your client, or was it mixed up with Trina, Hays and Darrow? True enough, it was a vastly populated cemetery, but just as truly you were the only one present upon whom bullets could have even the slightest effect, so, as you turned into the driveway of the Reed home, you were grimly determined to breach the canons of your profession and fling questions until a couple of appropriate answers bounced back.

A sleepy-eyed maid ushered me into the downstairs living room and vanished. Uncomfortably, I waited alone, and then a door opened and Florence Fleetwood Reed strode in. And, striding behind her, in measured steps, like a couple of pallbearers-a tall silver-haired man and a tall silver-haired woman.

"All right, Mr. Chambers?"

"Yes, Mrs. Reed."

"You made your delivery?"

"Yes, Mrs. Reed."

She had blue eyes and blonde hair and a patrician nose with easily quivering nostrils. She was in her young thirties, thin-lipped and severe, but plenty good-looking, with a firm full figure, ramrod-straight, but a little bulgy in spots if you're inclined to be critical. She flung a hand over a shoulder and introduced me to the pallbearers. "My uncle and my aunt. Mr. Harry Fleetwood and Mrs. Ethel Fleetwood."

The man smiled and said, "Uncle Harry."

The lady smiled and said, "Aunt Ethel."

I smiled and said, "How do you do?"

The guy was about sixty, hawk-nosed and yellow-toothed, with a deep gruff voice slightly British in accent. The lady had a round smooth face and a porcelain smile and more flirtatious sparkle to her eyes than double the girls half her age.

Mrs. Reed snapped her fingers at Uncle Harry and Uncle Harry drew an envelope from his jacket pocket.

"Uh, excuse me," Mrs. Reed said. "That was a one-sided introduction. This is Mr. Chambers, Peter Chambers, and that envelope, Uncle Harry, is for him."

Uncle Harry came to me, bowed somewhat, and handed it to me.

Mrs. Reed said, "As per agreement. One thousand dollars."

I took it and I said, "Thank you, ma'am," and then I said, "For what?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's this all about, Mrs. Reed?"

"I beg beg your pardon?" your pardon?"

"Look, lady, after I completed your c.o.c.keyed business transaction, somebody took a couple of pot-shots at me. Could be part of your business, or could be some business of my own. Before I go to the cops with it ... I'm asking."

"Cops?" Uncle Harry brought bushy eyebrows down over the hawk-nose.

"No," Mrs. Reed said. "No." The nostrils quivered and for the first time the eyes betrayed agitation.

Right then I knew I was in on a deal and some of the flop-sweat shook off me. High society or low-society, thousand-dollar fee or more, mansion on Gramercy Park and a lady reputed to be worth a hundred million bucks ... suddenly I shook it all off and I was treading on familiar ground. Because something around here stank. Out loud.