Kiss and Kill

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Do you hate me for it?” she asked quietly.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “No feelings.” I laughed, lifting her chin so that she had to look at me. “No feelings at all, after I’ve had another drink. But you’d better watch yourself from now on. Stick to Chester and you’ll be all right. Try your experiments on him.”

  “It’s an idea.”

  “He’ll crawl for you if you handle him the way you made passes at me a few minutes ago. Let yourself go the next time you have him here. Have yourself a couple of drinks and let yourself run wild.”

  I straightened my haberdashery. She would hold Chester forever if she approached him right. Against the cushions of the couch, she made a ravishing picture. Her black hair fell loose and free over her shoulders, the green smock open enough so that the soft shadows did things to her firm breasts. She was still breathing hard. If Chester saw her this way, he would blow a gasket.

  I returned to the gallery of portraits against the wall. I lifted the one on the end.

  “This fat man interests me,” I said, working to show enough curiosity over the canvas. “What’s his name?”

  “Sigmund Hess.”

  “That rings a bell. He worked at the store?”

  “Yes,” said Helen. “He quit about a month ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Sigmund was sick. He had sort of a nervous breakdown.” She eyed me with befuddlement. “It’s funny about Sigmund. Your partner was quite interested in him, too. I remember chatting with Chuck about where he might locate Sigmund. The fact is, nobody really knew where Sigmund went after he quit his job as manager of the Jewelry Department.”

  “Sigmund didn’t have a home? An apartment?”

  “A home,” she said. “A very nice place on the West Side, in the Eighties. I’ve been there, on parties. A remodeled brownstone.”

  “He owns the brownstone?”

  “I heard Sigmund sold it.”

  “And nobody knows where he lives now?”

  “That’s exactly what was bothering Chuck, too.” She made faces at her memory of Chuck Rosen. “Sigmund quit his job at the store because he needed a vacation badly. Doctor’s orders, Sig said. Everybody thought he went to Puerto Rico, of course. Sig always talked of living down there permanently. But nobody saw him off, if he did leave for the Caribbean. That’s the angle that seemed to interest Chuck a lot.”

  “When did you see Sigmund last?”

  “Up here,” she remembered. “About a week before he quit at the store. He sat for that portrait. Sigmund was awfully interested in art. He liked my work a lot. He was going to give me a commission to paint a real portrait of him.”

  “You liked Sigmund?”

  “He’s really a very nice man.” She blushed, unable to hold back a memory that bothered her. She turned away from me sharply.

  “Sigmund was hot about you?” I asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “But you didn’t go for him that way?”

  “Oh, no. We were just good friends.”

  “Not close?”

  “Oh, please,” she begged, still alive with embarrassment about Sigmund. “We were just good friends, really. Why must you insinuate—?”

  I didn’t have the chance to answer her question. We both turned at the sound of the rapping of the door. It was a weak and muffled thudding, without tempo. Helen whirled to answer the noise. But she didn’t make the door in time.

  It opened before she reached it.

  And Chester Carpenter walked in.

  Walked? He reeled over the threshold and stood dizzily on the mat inside. His lean frame swayed crazily. His eyes were out of focus. Somebody had lacerated Chester. He was bleeding from a wound high on his forehead, the blood trickling down his cheek in a slow, winding stream of crimson. His collar was loose and he no longer wore a tie. He blinked at me uncertainly.

  “Helen,” he said weakly.

  She reached out to grab him. But Chester went down in a heap.

  CHAPTER 11

  “No doctor,” Chester gurgled. “I don’t want any doctor, Conacher.”

  “That cut on your head looks bad,” I said.

  “No doctor,” he said again.

  “All right, dear,” Helen said. “We won’t call one. I’ll take care of you. I’ll fix you up.”

  She held his head in her lap and was clucking over him like a mother hen. She got an ice bag and fed him a sip of liquor with her free hand. Chester barely took the drink. Now that his face was cleaned up, he looked like something out of the chamber of horrors. Somebody had planted a fancy punch close to his right eye. There was a bump as big as an egg over his ear. And he was still half drunk.

  “I’ll kill the bastard,” he muttered. “I’ll murder him for what he did to me.”

  “Murder who?” I asked.

  “Wilkinson, the fat leech.”

  “You mustn’t talk,” Helen said soothingly. “You must lie still, dear.”

  “Hit me from behind,” Chester went on, brushing Helen’s hand away from him savagely. “He’ll pay for this.”

  “Where did it happen?” I asked.

  “In the street,” Carpenter mumbled. “Common street brawl, he made of it. Common, all the way through. He knocked me down, suddenly, in front of Lila’s apartment. I was escorting her to the elevator, on my way into the lobby.”

  “Are you sure it was Greg Wilkinson?’

  “Fat bastard. There’s only one Greg Wilkinson. I saw him clearly. I kicked him once. He’ll carry the scar for a long time.” Chester buried his head in his hands as he slobbered on with his story. “He won’t get away with this. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe I’d better take you home, Chester. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Don’t want to go home.”

  “He can stay here,” Helen Sutton said hopefully. “He can sleep on the couch. It’s better that way.”

  “Better that way,” said Chester.

  “You won’t say anything about this?” Helen took me to the door. She was saddened and pale from the adventures of the night. But deep behind her clear eyes, a spark of pleasure glowed. Now she had Chester where she wanted him. He was weak and he was drunk. She would be a different girl in the morning.

  “It’ll be our secret,” I said, and chucked her under the chin. “Keep the ice packs on his head, baby. If he overheats, it may be bad for him.”

  “I’ll take care of him, Steve.” She reached for me and grabbed me impulsively. She pecked at me. “If I can ever do you a favor, Steve, promise you’ll call on me?”

  “It’s a promise,” I said. “Now get back in there and start pitching for Chester. The way I see it, he’s wide open now. A girl like you could wrap him up and hold him forever if you put your mind to it.”

  “Only my mind?”

  “The mind moves the muscles.”

  “I think I see what you mean.”

  “Prove it.”

  She winked at me and let me go.

  It was after one when I hit the street, walking uptown slowly, to clear my head and feel my body come awake in the crisp November night. I took a cab to Cumber’s. A variety of impulses drew me to the store. My mind simmered with recent memories, especially Fred Pate and his boss, Malman, the kingpin of all heist men on the East Coast. Malman wasn’t the type of cheap crook who hung around at night outside the employees’ entrance of one of the world’s biggest department stores. Malman did not waste time, nor move his body unless he smelled big money. What was he doing on the prowl an hour or so ago? And why was Fred Pate on his heels?

  I got out of the cab and stared up at the Cumber store façade. There were lights on up there, on the fifth floor, a line of brightness that stood out against the gray walls of the rest of the building.
For a few minutes I let myself think of the cast of characters in the advertising hole at Cumber’s. The whole group of them irritated me, all the way down the line, beginning with Kutner himself, because the idea of the Christmas Toy House must have come from him. The gimmick worked to irritate my cautious nature. No detective in his right mind could ever approve a deal that allows a Santa Claus to roam and wander among a million-dollar inventory.

  I crossed the street and approached the night entrance. A weak light glowed from inside the lobby. The boss of the night squad, a little Irishman named Coyle, let me in.

  “Just in time for coffee, Steve,” he said. There was a big bag of doughnuts and a few containers of java on his dirty desk. “Help yourself,” Coyle invited.

  “I can use a cup, Coyle. How are things going?”

  “Things? Everything’s under control.”

  “How about the Santa Claus?”

  “Last I saw him, he was sitting up there, finishing a bottle.” Coyle laughed. “Real nice guy, Steve. He wasn’t half a pig about that liquor.”

  “He was drunk?”

  “Tight as Aunt Megg’s britches.”

  “You know him?”

  Coyle looked up from his soggy doughnut. He munched it and gummed it and swallowed it, all the time thinking hard. “Know him I don’t, Steve. Come to think of it, how could I? He was put on through regular channels. Personnel and all, you know.” He wiped the drooling coffee from his ancient chin. “Should I know him, now?”

  “I suppose not, Coyle. I was just bothered by the whole stinking idea. No private investigator likes a man loose up there with all that important merchandise. Suppose the stinker gets it into his head to make a small raid down in the jewelry section?”

  “We check him every half hour or so, Steve.”

  “He could do a lot of damage in a half hour, couldn’t he?”

  “He could,” Coyle smiled wisely. “But he won’t. He’s as stiff as my granddaddy’s shillelagh. Furthermore, he looks plenty scared to be alone up there. He seems to like it when I walk my beat past the Toy House. Forget about him, boy.”

  “What time do you go off duty, Coyle?”

  “Just before the store opens in the morning.”

  “Here’s my phone number, chum. If anything goes wrong, call me first. Is that clear?”

  Coyle scratched his stubbled chin and stared at me with open amazement. He pocketed the slip of paper with my phone number on it. He went back to slurping his last soggy doughnut.

  “You look like you could use some sleep,” he advised. “Go home and forget about the fool store, will you?”

  “I’m going.”

  So I went back to my cave in the Torrington Hotel. I found my pillow and put my head on it and the lights went out for me fast. I fell asleep and had no dreams. The events of the past few hours had leveled me with the force of a right cross to the button.

  My phone rang at ten minutes to nine in the morning.

  And it was my good friend Coyle, the night watchman.

  “Gurghhz?” I asked.

  “I’ve got bad news for you, Steve,” Coyle shouted into my fuzzed ear. “We just made the rounds up at the Toy House. We didn’t find the bastard.”

  “What bastard?” I said vaguely.

  “The Santee Claws,” said Coyle. “He’s gone. Vanished. Flew the coop!”

  CHAPTER 12

  My rat-nest office in Cumber’s was a small hole behind the third floor stockroom, an out-of-the-way place for early morning callers. But they were keeping me busy this morning. In the corner, his rheumy eyes damp with regret, sat Coyle. The old night man was blubbering his excuses for the store misfortune. He feared for his job.

  “Thirty-one years with Cumber’s,” he muttered. “But nothing like this ever happened before, so help me, Steve.”

  “Relax,” I told him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Who would have thought Santee Claws would turn out to be a crook?”

  “You had a man on the door downstairs all morning?”

  “Petersen was down there,” said Coyle. “But Petersen is a lying dog, and that’s a fact. I’ve caught him snoozing many’s the time. Petersen could have taken a nap for a few minutes. Santee Claws might have walked out of the store right under Petersen’s fat nose.”

  “He may still be in the store, Coyle. I’ve got a squad working all the way down on a search. He may be drunk in some corner.”

  The old man’s eyes brightened a bit with hope. “If we could only keep it quiet, boy,” he pleaded. “If we could only keep it from Kutner for a little while. I’m sure we’ll find Santee Claws and everything’ll be all right.”

  “I won’t tell Kutner,” I promised.

  “You’re a good boy, Steve. I’ll not forget this.”

  “Get off your tail now, Coyle. I want you to check through on all the departments Santa might have visited. Shake your tail up to Jewelry and Silverware and Furs. Check through every counter where he might have used his fingers and scrammed with the merchandise. Report back to me just as soon as you’ve checked with the managers. Now move.”

  Coyle moved with sudden vigor. He was barely through the door when Greg Wilkinson replaced him. Wilkinson puffed into my office in a burst of panic. His usually ruddy face was a bit on the pea-soup side. He leaned his pudgy hands on my blotter and mopped the sweat off his ample brow.

  “Any news, Conacher?”

  “Santa,” I said, “is still among the missing.”

  “Good God,” he muttered, and sank into the chair near me. His usual bluster and blow were gone now. He seemed out of character—beaten, crushed and ready for the wringer. He looked at his wrist watch and shook his head sadly. “Only a few more minutes before the doors open.”

  “I wish I could give you hope,” I said.

  “No chance to find him?”

  “He may be out of the store, Wilkinson.”

  “What a horrible mess.”

  “I warned you it might happen.”

  “So you did,” said Wilkinson wearily. “But it didn’t seem possible.”

  “Why not? He had the run of the store.”

  “The watchmen. How could he possibly steal?”

  “The watchmen make their rounds every hour or so. He had plenty of time in the gaps.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that angle.” He sighed and shook his head hopelessly. His face reflected a deep and stinging headache. I felt sorry for him in this emergency. The crisis had softened him and brought out some of his more acceptable traits. He was almost humble now, a big fat boy in a big fat mess. “I’m beginning to wish I didn’t drink so much last night, Conacher. I’ve got a head full of sand this morning. This is my moment for cleverness. This is my moment to shine. Instead, I feel like hiding my head in a bucket.”

  “Forget about Saint Nick,” I suggested. “We’ll dig him up sooner or later.”

  “But I need another one. In a hurry.”

  “Can’t you order one?”

  “Not in time. The doors will be open to the public in a few minutes.”

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  “I’d appreciate anything you suggest.”

  “Why don’t you play Saint Nick yourself? You’ve got the build for it.”

  “Why don’t I?” he asked himself, brightening. “I’ve got an extra costume for the job, too.” His larded face broke into a thankful smile. He pumped my hand strongly. “You’ve saved the day, Conacher.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  He jumped to his feet and bounced for the door. He turned to show me his gratitude again.

  “You’ve been a real help. I appreciate it, Conacher, believe me. I’ve misjudged you.” He considered me with something resembling fondness. Then he stepped back to my desk for a brief pause. “In the department store business,
a man sometimes has to put on an act. Maybe I played to the wrong audience when I met you. I’m sorry about the way I’ve acted.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “Maybe we can help each other from now on. Maybe you can give me some important information.”

  “Anything,” he promised. “But later. Right now, I’ve got a date with a Santa Claus costume.”

  “How about the missing Santa?” I asked, trying to hold him at the door. “Who was he? Where did you hire him?”

  “I’ll talk to you about it in a little while, Conacher. Right now, duty calls.”

  I shouldn’t have let him go. I should have sat on him until he gave me the information I needed. But the emergency overcame my natural stubbornness, my professional doggedness about detail. Wilkinson had his duty to perform. The doors would soon swing open and the mobs would swell the aisles and crowd the elevators on the way to the Toy House on the fifth floor. There would be thousands of small fry, burning with the yen for a squint at Saint Nick. And the Cumber store would fail badly if no Father Christmas appeared to keep the kids happy.

  A bell sounded outside. Now the street doors were opening. I left my cubbyhole and boarded an escalator for the fifth floor. I dallied on the side of the Sporting Goods section, studying the carefully channeled aisles that had been set up to control the surging crowds. There was a roped-off area in the far distance where the cocktail party had taken place last night. Here would be room for a few hundred parents and kids to assemble before Santa’s house. As I watched, the crowds poured in, from elevators and escalators, across the floor and between the ropes, hundreds of milling kids, squealing with the first anticipatory yelps of delight.

  On the elevator side of the place, a carload of employees from Advertising entered the mob. I spotted Vivian Debevoise in conversation with Horace Kutner. They surveyed the throng. Kutner squinted smilingly, relishing the strength of the promotion stunt as his merchandising mind tallied the possible take for the day. He beamed at Vivian and made proud gestures that seemed to take in the Toy House, the aisles and each feature of the display. In the pantomime, he looked more than ever the picture of the military man who plans his strategy while on the move among the shock troops. He said a final word to Vivian. She smiled her saccharine and mechanical grin at him as he stepped away from her and lost himself in the crowds. But she was butchering him with her volatile eyes as she followed his starched back down the line of aisles.