Masters Of Noir Vol Ii Part 12

But the dog, he's different. All he ever wanted to do was please the doc and this old doll. He's old and crippled and blind and he's got sores on him and he hurts all over, but he kept right on trying to please the doc and the old doll by sitting up on his rump and doing tricks for them.

So I say it's not right what the doc did to the old dog.

He made the dog a murderer, that's what he did.

BUILD ANOTHER COFFIN by HAROLD Q. MASUR

He's crazy!" she said. "Stark, raving mad! How can they let such a man be a private detective? I never saw anybody act like him in all my life. Why, it's ridiculous! He simply hasn't got all his b.u.t.tons. Do you know what he did, Mr. Jordan?"

"What did he do?"

"He made faces at me and told me to go home." She expelled a short gasp of utter frustration.

"Please, Mrs. Denney," I said, "try to relax."

"Relax?" Her voice went up a full octave. "How can I after talking to such a lunatic?"

What she needed was a shot of brandy to quiet her nerves. I reached behind me into the telephone table and got out the office bottle and poured. "Say when." But she seemed to have lost her voice, or else she was very thirsty, because I had to quit pouring in order to save my good Napoleon brandy from slopping over the rim of the gla.s.s onto the lap of my gray tweed pants.

She drank it like water, with no perceptible effect. Her nostrils were still distended, her bosom continued to heave, and she couldn't find a comfortable spot in the red leather client's chair. She had walked unannounced into my office ten minutes before. Her name was Grace Denney and she was married, which seemed a bit unfair, since an architectural design like hers isn't constructed every day and ought not to be taken out of circulation, though I couldn't blame any man for wanting an exclusive on it.

She was tall, a lithe, sleek, supple item, slender at the hips, rising like an hourgla.s.s to emerge burstingly from the square-cut neckline of a simple dress, wondrously and sumptuously a.s.sembled. When you came to her face, reluctantly, you saw luminous brown eyes and cherry-red lips, full and shining. From Cleopatra on down, she had them all stopped. Whatever you might need, wherever you were, she had it, in spades. It made no difference, your age or your physical condition, here was a girl who could put spring in an old man's legs and fire in a young man's blood.

Emotional pressure had made her story a little disjointed. I had gathered only that she was from California, that she had written to a private detective named Lester Britt, asking him to find out why an aunt of hers never answered any letters, that she had arrived yesterday, paid a visit on Mr. Britt, and found his behavior most unorthodox, to say the least.

The brandy, I saw, was beginning to work. She settled back in the chair, breathing easier.

"That's better," I said. "Now, Mrs. Denney, let's get the facts untangled. This aunt of yours, tell me about her."

She moistened her lips. "Aunt Paula. Mrs. Paula La.r.s.en. She's a widow, about eighty, I'd say, maybe more. She lives at the Vandam Nursing Home on Long Island."

"Who supports her?"

"Supports her?" Grace Denney snorted politely. "Aunt Paula has annuities that pay her at least five hundred dollars a week. Her husband was my mother's brother. Oscar La.r.s.en, the candy man. La.r.s.en's Fine Chocolates. Stores all over the country. He put all his money into annuities before he retired. And shortly afterward he died."

"You say you haven't heard from your aunt?"

"Not since she entered that nursing home."

"How long ago?"

"About two years."

I looked at her curiously. "And you weren't concerned about it until recently?"

She hastened to defend herself. "Let me explain. I used to live with Aunt Paula, until I met Charles. Charles Denney, my husband." She paused, waiting for me to comment. When I remained silent, she raised a delicate eyebrow. "You never heard of Charles Denney?"

"Should I have?"

"He'd probably think so. Charles was in pictures, until the movies found their tongue. After that he just couldn't seem to click. All they'd give him were minor roles, small bits where he didn't have to talk much. It was quite a blow to Charles. He still fancies himself as an actor and thinks that there is a great Hollywood conspiracy against him."

"Where did you meet him?"

"Here in New York. Aunt Paula didn't like him at all. She thought he was too old for me." Grace Denney twisted her mouth wryly. "Which he was, of course, but I was too stubborn at the time. Aunt Paula was furious when I went to California with him. She swore she'd never talk to me until I was single again. I wrote once or twice, but she didn't answer, and then I heard indirectly that she had entered this Vandam Nursing home. About a month ago I started writing to her, with no results at all."

"Is that so surprising?" I asked. "You're not single again, are you?"

"No, but I'm going to be. I intend to sue Charles for divorce. I thought that would please Aunt Paula, and I was very surprised when she didn't answer my letters."

"So you hired a private detective, this Lester Britt."

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Because I was worried."

"About what?"

She shrugged vaguely, a troubled look in her eyes. "I can't say exactly. I really don't know. It's just something I feel. And now with this private detective acting so peculiar ... " She let her voice dwindle uncertainly and caught her full bottom lips between her teeth.

"Who recommended you to this Lester Britt?"

"n.o.body. I found his number in a Manhattan directory at the Telephone Exchange."

"What else did he say besides tell you to go home?"

"He said Aunt Paula never wanted to see me again, that she still hated me." Grace Denney's mouth tightened. "I don't believe it."

"Why didn't you try to see her?"

"I did." Bafflement squirmed in tiny wrinkles across her forehead. I went straight out to that Nursing Home on Long Island. The place is built like a fortress. I spoke to Dr. Albert Vandam, who runs the Home. He told me to wait in the office while he spoke to Aunt Paula. After a few minutes he came back, shrugging his shoulders. He said that she had developed an obsession. She absolutely refused to see me."

"All right," I said. "I'm a lawyer. What do you want me to do?"

She looked surprised. "Whatever lawyers are supposed to do in such cases. If Aunt Paula has become senile, if she's incompetent to handle her own affairs, don't you think a guardian ought to be appointed?"

"No doubt about it," I said. "Who's supposed to inherit her money?"

"I am. It was all arranged by Uncle Oscar when he set up the annuities."

I looked at her with fresh respect. For looks and personality she already headed the list. Now she rated high on the financial scale too. I smelled a generous fee in the air. Though I would have handled her case anyhow, for a smile and a smaller fee.

"You have just retained yourself a lawyer, Mrs. Denney," I said and stood up. "Suppose we pay a visit on this Lester Britt and see what he has to say for himself."

She abandoned the chair with alacrity, a sudden smile warming her face. I got the full brunt of it and I could feel it all the way down to my shoes. "That's what I like," she said, "a man of action."

We left the office together and she tucked her arm through mine with an easy familiarity, as if we had known each other a long time. She kept step with me across the lobby and I wasn't ashamed to be seen with her. I could feel her pulsing aliveness and the fluid grace of her body.

But not for long.

She gave a sudden start and I felt her stiffen at my side. Then she jerked free and her heels clicked a sharp tattoo on the sidewalk as she steered straight for a man holding up the side of the building. I followed.

"Are you spying on me, Charles?" she demanded acidly. Her eyes were hot and her voice was cold. "When did you come to New York?"

He made a pacifying gesture and smiled affably. "Arrived yesterday, on the same train you did, my sweet." He flicked his eyes significantly in my direction. "Could I talk to you alone, love?"

"No," she snapped rudely. "We're all washed up, Charles. I told you that months ago when I left the bungalow. Besides, I'm busy now. This is my lawyer, Scott Jordan." She indicated the man with a carelessly deprecating gesture. "My husband, Charles Denney."

"How do you do," I said.

"Fine," he said.

I understood now why he would never be a success in talking pictures. There was nothing wrong with his diction, nor with his charm. He looked like an aging playboy, but he spoke like the head chamberlain in a harem.

Grace Denney said between her teeth, "If you insist upon following me, Charles, I'll complain to the police. That kind of publicity can hurt your career. Good-bye."

He tried to detain her. He reached for her arm. She swung around furiously and slapped his face. A red welt blossomed on his cheek. He cried out in a thin womanly bleat and slapped her back. She gasped and looked stunned.

"Here," I said. "Let's have no more of that."

He turned on me, teeth bared. "You stay out of it. She's my wife."

A crowd of curious onlookers had begun to collect. I took her elbow firmly and said, "Let's go, Grace."

Charles Denney surprised me. He struck out at the point of my jaw, and the sonovagun was in good condition. My head snapped back with a stab of pain. He was begging for it, so I obliged. I grinned wolfishly and aimed one at his stomach. It was a good shot and I felt my fist sink in to the wrist. Denney's lungs collapsed like a punctured balloon, and the fight went out of him. He leaned against the building, his face pasty.

I turned and walked Grace to the curb and yanked open the door of a waiting cab, got her installed, climbed in beside her, and the driver gave it the gun. His engine roared and we spurted away.

He swiveled his head. "Hey, you ever fight professionally?"

"Golden gloves."

"Look, buddy, you got a lot of promise in them dukes. I know a manager who can-"

"No soap," I told him. "I'm perfectly satisfied with my own racket."

He looked pained. "Okay," he said. "Where we going?"

"Give him the address, Grace."

It was all the way down on Park Row, one of those ancient musty seedy buildings that had served its purpose and was marking time until the wreckers pulled it down. Lester Britt had an office on the third floor. The naked-ribbed elevator cage took us up, squealing and groaning on its cables. The hall hadn't seen a janitor's mop in months. Grace made a rabbit's nose and stepped quickly and lightly to a frosted gla.s.s door with Britt's name and the legend: Investigations. Investigations.

She turned the k.n.o.b and went in. I was right at her heels when she stopped short and I had to clamp my brakes to keep from knocking her over. She was making sick, gurgling noises and trying to backtrack, but I was in the way. Then she turned and buried her face against my shoulder, clinging to me, trembling along the full length of her body. Another time this might have been a pleasant experience.

Not now. Not with this sight.

Now I could see over her shoulder. I saw Mr. Lester Britt, private eye, seated behind his desk, with a letter opener sticking out of his throat at right angles. The blade had failed to seal his wound. His jugular had spurted like a punctured wine gourd, and the whole front of his vest was sticky and viscous with the blood from his emptied veins.

He was a small man with a round face and a balding head. His eyes were glazed and his lips skinned back, leaving his teeth naked to the gums. I knew the kind of private eye he was. His office and everything about him told me. You can buy them for a dollar a dozen, the divorce specialists, the transom peepers, the deadbeat d.i.c.ks hounding wage slaves who can't meet the last installment on a set of Grand Rapids furniture worth exactly ten percent of the sale price. Lester Britt, with a license in his pocket and a tin badge that permitted him to park anywhere he liked, providing he paid the fine. He had taken a job and bucked some customers who were too fast for him. A knife or a bullet or a broken skull, this was bound to happen to him sooner or later.

Grace Denney was still shivering in my arms like a woman suffering from malaria. But she hadn't screamed and I was thankful for that. "All right," I said close to her ear. "Let's get out of here." I almost had to carry her.

I held her hand in the elevator and it was cold as ice. Our first stop was a bar across the street, a small oasis with booths and checkered tableclothes.

"Two double brandies," I told the waiter.

"I'll take the same," she said.

He gave her a double-take, blinking in surprise, then shrugged and shuffled off to fill the order. I told her to wait and went up front to patronize the telephone booth. I made an anonymous call to Headquarters and hung up. I was in no mood to stick around for a long investigation, trying to convince them I didn't know the answers to any of their questions.

Back at the table, I said, "You all right, Grace?"

She swallowed hugely and nodded.

"Good," I said. "Now listen to me. I have a hunch. What happened to Britt is probably the result of handling your case. That's why he got all worked up when you suddenly appeared at his office yesterday. Chances are he learned something he didn't want you to know. And I think the explanation can be found at the Vandam Nursing Home. I'm going out there."

She tossed off the second brandy like an aspirin tablet. It settled her nerves and put some of the color back in her cheeks. "Can I go along?" she asked.

"If you'll stay in the car and let me handle it."

She nodded quickly. "Of course."

I paid the check and we took a cab uptown to the garage and I got out the Buick. We drove across the Queensboro Bridge, heading out towards the South Sh.o.r.e. Grace Denney was silent, her eyes remote, sitting prim and straight, with her hands folded stiffly in her lap and the wind whipping back through her l.u.s.trous ebony hair.

At this time of the day traffic was light and the parkway unraveled swiftly under our wheels. Overhead, the sky was clear, a canopy of rich cobalt, and presently I spied a few seagulls wheeling against the horizon and I knew we were approaching the sea. I saw directions and turned off the main artery and drove along a very narrow macadam road. Every now and then a flash of blue water reeled past and the crisp tang of salt was in the air.

This was a choice expanse of realty, with entrenched wealth in fifteen room chateaus, looking out on their own private botanical gardens.

"This is it," Grace said, stirring at my side.

All I saw was a six foot wall into the top of which had been cemented chunks of broken gla.s.s. A pole vaulter might scale the barrier, but the average trespa.s.ser would most likely try another route.

"Where's the entrance?" I asked.

"Around the bend."

I pulled up near a wrought iron gate that hung open between a pair of concrete columns, and debarked. I stuck my head through the window on the other side. "I'll try not to be long," I said.

"Be careful," she said, and took my face between her palms and leaned towards me. It was supposed to be a simple kiss of encouragement. But something happened. Our lips met and the contact triggered a whole set of electrical impulses that went through me like a searing flame.

Call it chemistry, anything you like. Sometimes, rarely, it just happens this way. We were a pair of catalytic agents working on each other. The hunger must have been building up inside her for a long time, like a full head of steam in a boiler. A sob caught at her throat and there was a soft sighing exhalation. Her mouth opened on mine, our breaths intermingled, and her fingernails gouged into my shoulders and for a moment there I thought she was going to haul me right through the closed door into the car. Her body seemed to grow tense and I felt my knees grow wobbly.