Private Investigator, Manny Moon, was hired to protect a gal from her man-killing, ex-husband. He didn�t figure on getting the job as her late heart throb!
The first thing I noticed was her curves. Not that they were unusual either in number or softness, though they rated better than average on both counts. It was their behavior which fascinated me. They flowed as she walked.
I have watched women in high heels walk fast many times, and even the most streamlined tend to jiggle like a plate of jelly. But this woman�s heels striking the tile floor created not a single jiggle. She moved with as much oiled grace as though she were strolling barefoot instead of nearly trotting on three-inch heels. Her curves were dynaflow.
When it occurred to me if she kept moving straight toward me, she was bound to notice my preoccupation, and might resent it, I raised my eyes to her face.
And I got another surprise. Though she was a complete stranger, her expression was one of soulful delight at joining the one man in the world she loved.
She was beautiful, clear from the tip of her finely chiseled nose to the carmine tinted nails which peeped from her open-toed pumps. Her complexion was milk white, its whiteness stressed by jet black hair which framed her face in a long, pageboy bob. Her eyes were wide spaced and deep blue, and her only makeup was a vivid lipstick which matched the color of her toes.
Her figure equalled her face. It was her real figure too, without benefit of elastic support.
I was seated on a stool with my back to the bar, sipping a rye and water and idly gazing over the Sheridan�s cocktail hour crowd, when she entered. Her progress across the floor was so fast, I didn�t even have time to rise like a gentleman before she grasped my free hand in both of hers and breathed, �Darling, did I keep you waiting long?�
�Only all my life,� I breathed back, and then I noticed the man behind her.
Even before I spotted him, I should have realized it was not my beauty which plopped such a lovely gift in my lap. While not exactly revolting, even the kindest flatterer could only describe my face as battered. Once, before I learned all the tricks of dirty fighting ever invented, I stuck it in front of a brass knuckle duster, with the result I have a permanently bent nose and one eyelid which droops slightly. I don�t automatically repel women, but neither do they routinely single me out from a bar full of men. Not for romance anyway.
Her choice of me was for protection, I reluctantly decided after looking over her pursuer. And it didn�t swell my ego to suspect she had picked me for my lack of beauty, probably in the hope that my face would scare off her bogey man.
The man stopped when the woman and I exchanged greetings. He was a tall, lank individual with a cold gray face and smoky eyes deep set in dark circles.
Slipping from my stool in order to offer it to the lady with the curves, I deliberately kept my eyes on the man�s face. He returned my examination without expression, and finally gave a small shrug. The shrug was to let me know he was not impressed by my toughness, but was conceding the pot only because the Sheridan was jammed full of people.
Doing about-face, he disappeared through the street door.
�Thanks,� the girl said softly. �Thanks awfully.�
�You�re welcome,� I said. Since there were no vacant stools at the bar, I pressed between the one I had surrendered and the next one, and signaled the bartender for a drink. �I�m Manville Moon. Generally called Manny, unless you prefer to stick to darling.�
She smiled at rue, a smile not nearly as intimate as the first, but still friendly. �How do you do, Manny?�
The bartender arrived for our orders at that instant. I ordered my usual rye and water and she asked for straight gin with a water chaser. When the drinks came, she tossed hers off fast, made a face, and ignored the chaser.
�I�m Nina Darlene,� she said. �Not really, of course. That�s a stage name. I�m Doris Schwenk back in Centerville, Iowa, but Nina Darlene in the theater.�
I searched my memory for the name Nina Darlene, but drew a blank. �You�re an actress?� I asked.
�Cabaret. Not local. I�m from Chicago, but I start two weeks at the Golden Palms this Saturday.�
Again I searched my memory. I came up with a dim recollection of a dim but expensive night club which featured a floor show of naked women and an M. C. who didn�t mind a funny joke as long as it was dirty.
�Chorus girl?� I pursued.
She looked disdainful. �The feature act.�
�Oh. A stripper.�
Her nose elevated indignantly. �I am not! My act is an expression of artistry!�
Since all strippers insist they are guilty of art, I didn�t argue with her. �I�m sure it is,� I said soothingly. �Now let�s change the subject to who the guy is you were running from.�
She gave me a steady and decidedly less friendly look, but when she finally spoke, I discovered it was not my question about her pursuer which disturbed her.
�I am
�I�ll have to take your word for it,� I told her. �I flunked art appreciation in high school, so I couldn�t possibly distinguish art from ordinary bump and grind. But to get back to the villain I saved you from...�
Her expression grew completely unfriendly and she let me look at her profile.
�Who is probably waiting for you outside,� I continued after a pause.
Her eyes jumped back to my face and her expression grew friendly again. �You deserve an explanation, I suppose,� she conceded.
When I merely waited, she went on, �His name is Jet Chard, and he has some kind of business connection with my husband. He was trying to kidnap me and take me back, I think.�
�Back?� I inquired.
�Back to my husband. He�s a rotten beast.�
�Jet Chard?�
�My husband, Gerald Patton, I left him in Chicago a week ago, and I suppose he sent Jet to try to drag me back by force. I didn�t wait to find out when Jet suddenly jumped out of a taxi a few minutes ago and started after me. I simply ran in here.�
Thoughtfully I considered the intimate manner in which she had greeted me for Jet Chard�s benefit.
�Look, Nina,� I said. �I don�t mind rescuing beautiful damsels from ogres, but I�ve no desire to become corespondent in a divorce suit.� I contemplated her moodily, then continued. �All you have to do is holler copper. Kidnapping is a federal offense.�
She gave a delicate shiver. �Gerald would kill me. He�s a � well � kind of a racketeer. He and Jet both. I�m frightened to death of both of them. Not only for myself, but for Henry too.�
�Henry?�
�Henry England. He�s a dear friend of mine who helped me escape from Gerald.� She added quickly, before I could get a wrong impression, �Just a friend. He�s old enough to be my father. I�m sure Gerald must have guessed it was Henry who helped me escape. I�m deathly afraid that if he catches Henry, he�ll kill him or have Jet kill him. Henry drove me here from Chicago and lent me enough money to last until I got an engagement. I didn�t have any money because Gerald took it all, you see.�
�I see. And where is Henry now?�
�I suppose he went back to Chicago. Would you be kind enough to take me home?�
I grinned at her. �I�ll be kind enough to call you a police escort. You�re an interesting gal in a slightly insane sort of way, but why should I get a couple of Chicago hoods mad at me?�
She pouted. �I suppose chivalry is too much to expect these days.�
�From me it is,� I assured her. �I�m a private investigator and I specialize in bodyguarding. You sound too much like a busman�s holiday.�
She gazed at me wide eyed. �You�re a professional bodyguard?�
�Mostly. I don�t restrict my cases to that, but that�s mostly what I get.�
�How much do you charge?�
�Twenty-five a day, plus expenses, if any.�
Delving in her purse, she produced a slim roll of bills, peeled off a twenty and a five and laid them on the bar. �Now will you kindly take me home?�
I eyed the bills dubiously. �I thought you were broke.�
�I told you Henry England is a dear friend. He is also generous.�
Shrugging, I picked up the money. �You�ve got me for twenty-four hours. Let�s see if your friend is still waiting outside.�
He was. We found him leaning against the building ten feet from the glass, entrance door. His smoky eyes watched us unwinkingly as I escorted Nina over to him.
I said, �My name is Manville Moon and I�m a private detective.�
�So?� he asked.
�So the lady thinks you�re bent on kidnapping her and dragging her back to her husband. She just hired me to guard her body, and I�d like either to verify or dissolve her fears.�
His dark circled eyes flicked at Nina with something like amused contempt. �When a dame runs out on Jerry Patton, he just crooks his finger and a dozen more come running. Jerry wouldn�t take you back if you came crawling. I just wanted to talk to you.�
�Then go ahead and talk to her,� I suggested.
He looked me over deliberately, then said in a quiet voice, �Sure. You know what I�m after, Nina. Just tell me and step aside.�
�Then nobody�s going to bother you any more.�
�You mean about Henry England?�
�You know what I mean.�
�I don�t know where he is,� Nina said. �I haven�t seen or heard from him since he dropped me at my hotel five days ago. I suppose he went back to Chicago.�
He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. �Okay, if you want to play games, Nina. But don�t cry when you get burnt.�
I said, �Listen, buster, I know you�re a tough Chicago hood and probably scare hell out of people in Chicago, but if that�s meant as a threat to my client, back off of it fast.�
He stared at me until a tic began to develop in his cheek. Finally, in a tone suggesting he was resisting mayhem only by supreme effort, he said, �I never buy trouble unless it�s going to get me something. Tangling with you wouldn�t get me anything but busted knuckles. I don�t think you have to worry about Nina being in any physical danger.�
�Good,� I said agreeably. �Then I probably won�t have to kill anyone.�
For a bare instant his mask slipped and allowed him to look startled. But it soon settled over his face again. He smiled with bleak amusement, turned without saying goodbye, and entered the Sheridan Lounge.
Nina said, �I guessed right about Henry�s danger. Gerald has sent Jet to kill him.�
�But you don�t seem to be in much danger,� I said. �Want your money back?� She grabbed my arm. �Don�t you dare leave me! I won�t feel safe until Jet leaves town.�
My Plymouth was parked in the Sheridan Hotel�s parking lot. As we pulled from the lot I had to brake for a passing car, and Nina glanced down at my feet with a startled expression when I used only one foot for both pedals. Since my right leg is made of cork and aluminum below the knee, when I brake I turn my left foot sidewise, the heel hitting the brake and the toe the clutch.
Catching her expression, I explained it all to her.
�Oh,� she said, and looked embarrassed.
Why, I don�t know. People accept false teeth, wigs, and even glass eyes as a matter of course, but a false limb seems to throw them.
I told her I wasn�t sensitive, and she needn�t worry about my infirmity lessening my efficiency as a bodyguard, as I customarily squeezed a trigger with my fingers rather than my toes.
�I was just surprised because I hadn�t noticed any limp,� she said.
Nina decided I should have a room next to hers at the Sennett, the second class hotel where she stayed. We drove to my flat first, where I packed a small bag and strapped on a shoulder holster containing my P-38.
Then we started toward the hotel, but changed our course after we heard a news announcement over the car radio. A newscaster reported that a man registered at the Sennett Hotel under the name of Howard Smith, but whose papers indicated he was actually a Henry England of Chicago, had been found dead under suspicious circumstances in his room about noon that day. The body had been moved to the city morgue, but the police had issued no statement concerning the case so far.
I cocked an eyebrow at Nina. �Be quite a coincidence if this guy was the same Henry England. You know he was staying at your hotel?�
�Of course not.� She had turned pale and looked quite frightened. �Jet must have killed him.�
�And then forgot he did it?� I asked. �Fifteen minutes ago he was still looking for Henry.�
Changing direction, I drove to police headquarters. We found Inspector Warren Day in his office giving his chief satellite, Lieutenant Hannegan, hell about something or other.
The chief of homicide lowered his skinny, bald head to peer at us over thick glasses. He scowled at me and blinked rapidly when he looked at Nina. Hannegan gave both of us a grateful look and scuttled from the room.
�I must not have heard your knock, Moon,� Day said sarcastically.
�The door was open,� I said, and introduced Nina.
Ordinarily Day would have pursued the subject of knocking on doors until he ran it into the ground, but, as always, the presence of a beautiful woman left him momentarily speechless. The inspector isn�t exactly afraid of beautiful women. He just doesn�t know where to look or what to do with his hands when one is around.
I said, �We heard over the radio you�ve got a corpse named Henry England. Nina knows a man by that name, so I brought her down to tell about it.�
Nina said quickly, �I don�t know him well, Inspector. I don�t even know what his business was. He was a customer at a club I worked at in Chicago, and I used to sit at his table occasionally.�
�You knew him well enough to hitch a ride here from Chicago with him,� I suggested helpfully.
�Well, that,� she said with a dismissing gesture. �That was nearly a week ago, and I thought he�d returned to Chicago.�
Warren Day rose from his chair. �Before we go any farther, let�s make sure this is the same guy.�
So we took a trip to the morgue and viewed the body of a middle-aged, fat man with gray hair. An ugly knife wound was high on the left side of his chest.
�That�s Henry,� Nina said without visible emotion. �Didn�t he have any clothes on when you found him?�
�The morgue attendants remove them,� the inspector explained. �Though as a matter of fact, he was only wearing undershorts.�
When we got back to Warren Day�s office, Nina repeated the tale of her flight from her husband with Henry England�s aid, and her suspicion that Jet Chard had been sent by her husband to drag her back by force. Parenthetically she added that her husband, Gerald Patton, was some kind of racketeer, but she didn�t know just what his racket was.
�Probably every racket, if he was tied in with this Henry England,� the inspector growled. �We phoned Chicago about Henry, and he�s got a record covering everything from extortion to narcotic peddling.�
Nina looked surprised. �Henry? He seemed such a gentleman.�
Day asked, �Did your husband know it was England you ran off with?�
�He probably guessed. He knew we were friendly, and I never talked much to other men at the club because Gerald was so jealous. He didn�t seem to mind Henry, because Henry was older and never made passes at me.�
�It�s pretty obvious he knew,� I put in. �Jet Chard was looking for Henry.�
�I�ll put out a pickup order on this Jet Chard,� the inspector said. �Also on Gerald Patton, on the off chance he�s in town too.�
Day took Nina�s address, and when he learned it was the Sennett Hotel, he asked if she had any idea why England had registered under an assumed name at the same place she was staying, but made no attempt to contact her.
Nina shook her head. �Maybe he knew Jet was after him, and didn�t want me involved. But then I should think he�d have picked a different hotel.�
The inspector told her not to leave town.
Before we left, I got some details of the killing from the inspector. Henry England�s room had been on the floor below Nina�s. A chambermaid had discovered the body just before noon. He was lying on the bed in his undershorts with the six inch blade of a clasp knife in his heart. The knife apparently was his own and there was no sign of a struggle, but the medical examiner had ruled out suicide because of the angle of the thrust and because the knife haft had been wiped clear of fingerprints. Time of death was estimated at sometime between eight and eleven that morning.
There had been signs that the room had been thoroughly ransacked.
At the Sennett we learned a room adjoining Nina�s on the fourth floor was vacant, and I registered. I was pleasantly surprised to find my room, while hardly luxurious, was both comfortable and clean.
When I had dumped my bag, I went next door to Nina�s room. By now it was nearly seven, and I asked if she was ready to eat.
�When I change my dress,� she said, and disappeared into the bathroom.
While waiting, I glanced about the room and noted on the floor under the window what I took to be a small suitcase. Then I saw the folding crank sticking from its side and realized it was a portable phonograph.
Idly I lifted the lid, the underside of which had a compartment holding a dozen records. Choosing one at random, I wound the machine and a moment later was treated to the tinny strains of
Nina came out of the bathroom like an arrow shot from a bow. She had changed to a shoulderless dinner dress of blue, but she had not quite completed the change, for the zipper at her side gaped wide, exposing a foot long strip of milk white flesh.
Rapidly she crossed to the phonograph, glanced from it to me in a worried manner, then recovered her aplomb and carefully closed her zipper.
I said, �Don�t you like people to touch your music box?�
�It�s a little temperamental,� she explained. �Unless you set the needle just right, it can ruin a record. I wouldn�t care except I need the thing. I have to practice my dance act an hour every day or my muscles get flabby and I lose control.�
Moving to the dresser, she began to brush her hair. When
�Maybe later tonight I�ll let you watch me practice,� she said.
It was an hour and a half before we returned from dinner. Nina unlocked the door, pushed it half open, then abruptly stepped backward and planted a sharp heel down heavily on the instep of my only good foot.
I started to say, Ouch, but couldn�t when I looked into the glittering bore of a thirty-eight revolver. The man pointing it opened the door wide and gestured us in.
He was a tall, good-looking fellow with an athletic build and hair nearly as jet black as Nina�s. His face was square and almost good-natured except for his eyes, which looked as though they would emit sparks if you struck them with a piece of flint.
When we had obeyed his gesture and he had closed the door, Nina belatedly squeaked, �Gerald!�
�Yeah, baby,� Gerald said. �Your loving ex-meal ticket.�
Across the room. Jet Chard had stopped rummaging through one of Nina�s suitcases in order to examine us without expression.
I said to the man with the gun, �You must be Gerald Patton. I�ve already met your partner. You boys know the cops want you on suspicion of homicide?�
Ignoring me, Gerald said, �Where is it, baby? You got about ten seconds to tell, if you don�t want a slug between those pretty eyes.�
Nina was dead white. �I don�t know what you mean, Gerald. Why did you kill Henry?�
I wouldn�t have believed it possible, but Gerald�s eyes became even harder. �We heard on the radio Henry was dead. That�s why we�re here. Quit stalling. We�ve turned this joint inside out without finding it, but we know it�s here. Now you got about five seconds.�
�What is it you�re looking for?� I asked.
His eyes briefly swept my face, then returned to Nina. �Three seconds.�
�Maybe I�ve got it,� I said.
Abruptly his head turned to me. �Yeah,� he said after a moment. �Maybe
�Go ahead and shoot,� I said cheerfully. �I�ve got it hidden where you�d never find it, and even Nina doesn�t know where it is.�
Gerald glanced back at Nina, who wet her lips and whispered, �He�s telling the truth, Gerald.�
Jet Chard said tonelessly, �Maybe I can get it out of him.� He drew a shiny set of brass knuckles from his pocket.
�Maybe we both can,� Gerald remarked, drawing his gun back to his left ear and swiping it viciously at my face.
Unfortunately, for Gerald, this required momentarily not aiming it at me, and gave me time to employ a dirty trick taught me by a Paris apache during the war. Leaning away from him, I brought up my aluminum foot and planted it solidly beneath his handsome jaw.
He decided to lie down and take a rest without even bothering to uncross his eyes.
With his fingers laced through the holes of a knuckle duster, Jet was in no position to make a pass for his gun. Instead he swung his fist.
Moving my head just enough to avoid the brass studs, I flattened his nose with a right cross. When he took an involuntary step backward, I kicked him in the groin.
He sat on the floor and began to make whimpering sounds.
Nina had picked up the gun dropped by Gerald. Dipping under Jet�s coat, I acquired his and dropped it in my pocket. Then I crossed to the phone.
�What are you going to do?� Nina asked.
�Call the cops.�
�No!� she said, and her voice was so tinged with hysteria, I glanced at her in surprise.
She was pointing the thirty-eight straight at me.
I took my hand away from the phone.
�Let them go,� she said. �Get them out of here, but don�t call the police.�
�Why?� I asked reasonably.
�Gerald would kill me if I turned him in.�
�Looks like he intends to anyway. Put down that gun.�
She shook her head. �If I have to, I�ll shoot you in the leg. The good one.�
Short of suddenly dropping to the floor, drawing my gun and attempting to out-shoot her, I couldn�t think of much I could do. And since I have an aversion to shooting beautiful women, particularly when I have been engaged professionally to prevent their being shot, I simply did nothing.
It was ten minutes before Jet could navigate, and another ten before Gerald could make it, but eventually both were able to walk somewhat unsteadily. I took no further part in activities during this time, contenting myself with leaning against the dresser and eyeing Nina�s gun with disapproval.
Before they left, Nina made it clear to them she was allowing them to escape only because Gerald once meant so much to her. But she warned them the police wanted them for murder, and she was letting them go only in the expectation they would return to Chicago at once.
After she had locked the door behind them, she laid her pistol on the dresser. I laid Jet�s next to it and scowled at her.
�Don�t be mad at me, Manny,� she said. �I couldn�t turn Gerald in.�
I said, �What were they looking for?�
�I have no idea.�
�You do,� I said irritably. �You knew when Jet asked you about it this afternoon too.�
I walked about the room examining the evidence of an intensive search and decided there was no point in going over things again, because they obviously had missed nothing. Finally I lifted the lid of the portable phonograph, pulled out the records and peered into the compartment. It was empty.
As I slid the records back in place, Nina pulled me around, took my chin in one hand and planted a light kiss on my lips. �Would you stop being mad at me if I let you watch me practice my new routine?�
�No,� I said shortly.
�I want to prove to you there�s a difference between burlesque and art,� she said.
Pushing me gently to one side, she put on a record, wound the machine and carefully set the needle. In its tinny tone the machine again began to emit
�Look, Nina,� I told her. �
Pushing her gently to one side, I switched off the phonograph, removed the record and began to lift the record disc from its spindle. With a hand on my shoulder she swung me around, twined her arms about my neck and flattened her body against mine. Then she kissed me as I�ve never been kissed before.
There was no coyness in this kiss, no assumed reluctance such as the gentler sex generally exhibits during a first kiss in order to convince the man he is the aggressor. As a matter of fact, I would have had to break her arms to avoid it. She got a stranglehold on my head, pulled my face down to hers and went after my lips like a trout after a fly. After about a minute she let me come up for air.
With her lips still nearly touching mine, she asked, �Still mad?� in a sultry voice.
Reaching behind my head, I grasped both her wrists and pried her loose. �Still a little mad,� I said. �Enough to take a look in the one place your friends probably missed.�
In self-defense I still had hold of her wrists, and I could feel her arms stiffen.
�Where�s that?� she asked.
�The place you keep steering me away from,� I said. �First you don�t want anyone but yourself to operate the thing. Then when I merely start to look at it, you try to divert my attention by offering to do your artistic act, and when I won�t bite on that, you become suddenly amorous.�
�What are you going to do?� she asked as I turned toward the portable phonograph.
�Unscrew the top of this thing. There�s lots of empty space in the part containing the works.�
�Don�t you dare harm my phonograph!� she said, and tried to sidetrack me by again twining herself around me.
Reaching out to her, I administered a caress on one of her rosy cheeks with such enthusiasm, it made a noise like a pistol shot. Her mouth popped open, and she stepped back and began to rub the caressed spot. Then suddenly she rushed toward the dresser.
I grabbed a wrist as she went by, tossed her none too gently on the bed, and transferred the two guns on the dresser to my pockets.
She sat on the bed alternately rubbing her wrist and her cheek while I went to work on the phonograph. And as I had suspected, it was the hiding place. In each of the box�s four corners I found a square cardboard carton taped to the wall of the box. They were about three inches square and felt as though they weighed about a half pound each.
When I opened one, I discovered it was filled with a white, fluffy powder.
�Heroin?� I asked casually.
Nina merely watched me.
�About two pounds,� I guessed. �Cut ten to one with sugar and powdered milk, you�d have twenty pounds. How much would that bring you on the retail market?�
�Between thirty-five and forty thousand dollars,� Nina whispered. �It�s half yours, with me thrown in the bargain. Come over here and get better acquainted.�
�I�m already getting better acquainted by the minute,� I said. �I�m beginning to understand everything.�
Nina said nothing, but her eyes contained a mixture of invitation and pleading.
�Your husband�s racket is narcotics,� I said. �And your platonic friend, Henry England, not only helped you escape Gerald, he helped one of Gerald�s narcotic shipments escape too. Jet and Gerald didn�t come here after you. They came after their merchandise. How�d you get it?�
�Henry gave it to me to keep for him,� Nina whispered.
I shook my head at her. �A guy low enough to peddle this stuff would be too greedy to let it out of his sight. Both his informal attire when he died and the fact there was no struggle, indicates Henry was taken by surprise by someone he knew well. He wouldn�t have given either Gerald or Jet a chance to surprise him. Was he watching you practice your art when he got it?�
She slid from the bed and came toward me with an expression of entreaty in her eyes. Her arms reached out to encircle my neck, and I caught the glint of metal in her right hand just in time. She must have had the knife under her pillow.
My left hand grasped her wrist as my right caught her openhanded alongside the jaw. As the knife clattered to the floor, she stumbled backward, tripped and sprawled on her hands and knees.
She stayed there on all fours like an animal, mouthing curses at me all the time I was talking to Inspector Warren Day on the phone.