by Kane, Henry
“But why late?”
“I expect to be tired.”
“You expect to be …?” But he let it lie and fairly scurried to the door and woebegone was gone.
Softly she said, “I tried to be polite but I’m so glad he didn’t stay.”
“Why?” I said, my Adam’s apple contracting to a squeeze of cider in my throat. That perfume was something.
“Thanks for the flowers,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“I love what you’re wearing,” she said. “It’s so … so masculine.”
“It is?” Each to his own. “I love what you’re wearing,” I said.
“But you haven’t even seen.”
“What I see is lovely.”
The sloe-eyes glinted with quick mischief and a slow smile was wicked on her mouth. Nimble fingers untied the neck-noose of the cape and it fluttered to the floor and I almost fluttered to the floor on top of it. She was wearing a silk silver-flowered geisha-type dress and nothing else. Nothing else could possibly have been compressed beneath that sheath of silver silk except her skin. Please remember that Topsy Twits was a famous specialty dancer with a body to match. Please remember that Topsy Twits had a figure that had launched a thousand flips. Please remember that Topsy Twits was tall and tawny and measured, as well advertised, 36-23-36. And remembering all please try to imagine, without bursting your seams, Topsy Twits in a high-necked shimmering geisha-sheath that clung like an ambitious leech to a full-blooded mammal, with slits up the sides and no stockings yet. And to top my climax the purple orchid, like a purple heart, was pinned above her left breast.
I stumbled away to the champagne and popped a cork. I poured into long-stemmed glasses and we clinked and we drank and then we set the glasses away and we danced to the warm music and I nudged the lobe of her ear with a kiss and she nudged the lobe of my ear with, “Remember, we’re going to discuss.”
“Of course,” I said. “What else?”
And so we drank champagne, and we danced, and we nudged our lobes, and then we sat around for the rest of the night discussing Topsy Of The Twitching Twits.
Yeah.
If you liked Dead in a Bed check out:
Death is the Last Lover
ONE
I was lying around the house like a lox.
Lying around the house like a lox!
For the outlanders: explanation.
House, in the seaport town of New York, is colloquial for abode, any abode, be it a one-room folding apartment near the Battery or a glass mansion on the very easterly edge of the chic East Side. Lox, in the seaport town of New York, is colloquial for smoked salmon. Smoked salmon, in the seaport town of New York, lies about in shameless display, belly-side up and inert, in the front windows of the appetizing stores. An appetizing store, in the seaport town of New York, is not at all a store that is appetizing. Appetizing store, in the seaport town of New York, is a store that trades in a type of comestible which purports to give one an appetite for the further comestibles of a civilized meal. Generally, it does not give one an appetite. Generally, it gives one heartburn in the schmaltz region. Heartburn in the schmaltz region, in the seaport town of New York—
Oh no!
Please!
Let us start all over again.
Me, I was lying around the house (which is a three-room apartment with a terrace on Central Park South) like a smoked salmon in an appetizing store, belly-side up and inert. I was lying around like a smoked salmon because I was bored. Even private detectives—and all you aficionados may now rise in high dudgeon and scoff in low moans—get bored. I was bored with skip tracings, and bill collectings, and tracking erring husbands, and untracking erring wives—I was bored with the routine of my racket. Nothing of real interest had happened for months, and I’d had it—right up to the gullet. So this day I had packed up and gone home. I had told my secretary that I was going to lazy the day, that I would be at home, and that I was not to be disturbed unless it was something special.
Turned out it was something extra, extra special.
I was lying around, in comfortable briefs, lapping up the scandal of the tabloids—when the bell rang. Unthinking, I shoved out from beneath the newspapers, crawled off the couch, ambled to the door, opened it, and felt myself grow reverently rigid at the pulchritude so unexpectedly delineated in my doorway.
“Mr. Chambers?” she inquired.
“Mr. Chambers,” I replied.
“I am Sophia Sierra,” she declared.
Sophia Sierra, so help me. That was the name.
“Please come in,” I said. She crossed the threshold, and I closed the door, but I held on to the knob for succor. “I don’t quite understand …” I began.
“The lady in your office,” said Sophia Sierra. “She told me I would find you here.”
“Yes, yes,” I mumbled. “The lady in my office …”
Ah, secretaries. Ah, the impishness in the impish hearts of the ladies of the office in all the offices all over the world. Ah, the devious twists in the peculiar psyches of staid secretaries. Ah, ah, ah. A hunk of stuff turns up that is enough to rock you on your heels and start you talking to yourself, but the lady of your office, in perverse abandon, and knowing full well it is perverse abandon, does not even lift a finger to ring you on the phone in order to warn you of the impending onslaught of an emotional blockbuster. But she had not sent her away! She had sent her through! And just for that, if for nothing else, the lady of the office was entitled to a substantial increase in salary come Christmas (triggered now, but an increase which had been scatteringly contemplated prior to now).
And suddenly, hanging on to a doorknob and ogling a Sophia Sierra, I realized I was utterly unclad except for the skimpiest of shorts.
“Forgive me,” I said, relinquishing the doorknob and making a grotesque effort at a gentlemanly bow. “I … I didn’t expect company. I … I’ll go … make myself presentable.”
“You’re presentable,” she said. “Quite presentable. Quite, indeed.”
“I am?” I said like an oaf, and I stood there, and we ogled one another, and I do not know what thoughts she had, but the thoughts I had might make themselves too obviously apparent, so I waved her to the living room, scampered to the bedroom, donned a T-shirt, slacks, socks and loafers, and scampered back to the living room—but not before I had had a fast glance at the mirror and a fast comb at the hair. She was out on the terrace.
It was warm for the time of year and she had removed her coat. She was leaning on the balustrade—elbows resting and hands clasped—looking out upon the city: which gave me a moment to look out upon her.
She was something to look out upon.
Her close-fitting dress was black, her high-heeled pumps were black, her stockings were the sheerest of jet black nylon. Her flesh was cream-soft white, the dress so cut that much of the cream-soft whiteness was enticingly exposed. It was a sleeveless, clinging, knitted black dress, cut deep in front, deep in back, and deep at the arms.
She turned, suddenly, from the balustrade, and paced slowly, regarding me. She regarded me—I regarded her.
I insist: she was something to be regarded.
Black and white. That was the picture. Flesh white, all else black. Her hair was curl-heavy black worn long behind small ears and falling below the nape of the neck; eyes wide and black, so black the pupils merged with the irises; eyebrows black and bold and long; black and white—except for the glistening red of a pouting full-lipped mouth. She was tall, with an absurdly exaggerated figure, but not too absurd not to be taken most seriously: protruding breasts; tiny cinched-in waist; firm, round, ungirdled buttocks; long powerful strong thighs; sturdy calves and slender ankles. Snap judgment, she was either a neck-moving elbow-pointing modern-type dancer, or a rump-moving nipple-pointing specialty-type stripper, or a showgirl with Cadillacs waiting at the stage-door.
“I’m a messenger,” she said.
“Messengers like this,” I said, “should happen
to me the rest of my life. Your name really Sophia Sierra?”
“Sophia Sierra,” she said. “I’m Cuban.”
“But you speak English perfectly.”
“Oh, I was born here. I mean I’m of Cuban extraction.”
“Like a drink?” I said, touching her elbow, moving her back to the living room.
“No, thank you.” And in the living room she stood stockstill, long-fingered hands on her hips, eyes moving over me. “I’ve heard about you,” she said. She had a voice that came from deep in her throat, soft, smooth and pitched low. “So?” I said.
“Heard you’re kind of a ladies’ man.”
“So?” I said.
“Nothing,” she said, “except that, kind of, I can understand it.” Her smile showed high square teeth and there was suddenly a curiously wicked expression around her eyes. Almost defiantly, she strode to me, moved close. “I eat ladykillers,” she said. Her face was inches away from mine, but parts of her were touching me; she was built like that.
“I’m willing to be devoured,” I said.
“Crazy, huh?” she said.
“What’s crazy?” I said.
“People going for people, bang, just like that.”
“What’s crazy about it?” I said. “Happens all the time.”
I reached for her. She moved away.
“I’m a messenger,” she said.
“I got that message. I’m getting other messages.”
“Skip that for now, will you?”
“Only if you promise a raincheck.”
“I promise,” she said. “I’m really here with a message.”
“From whom?” I said.
“George Phillips,” she said.
“Who?” I said.
“George Phillips,” she said.
“I don’t know any George Phillips,” I said.
She went to her handbag, took out a yellow sheet of paper, and brought it to me. It was a telegram addressed to S. SIERRA, 11 EAST 45th STREET. It said: PLEASE CONTACT PETER CHAMBERS AT ONCE. HAVE HIM GET IN TOUCH WITH ME. TELL HIM WHERE. I MUST SEE HIM IMMEDIATELY. HE IS A FRIEND. G. PHILLIPS.
“Maybe I am a friend of G. Phillips,” I said, “but you wouldn’t know it from me. Honest, I never heard of a G. Phillips in my life.”
“Ever hear of a Gordon Phelps?”
“Gordon Phelps I heard of.”
“George Phillips is Gordon Phelps.”
“Gordon Phelps!” I brushed past her and lifted one of the tabloids, turned to page three, and pointed. “This Gordon Phelps?” I said.
“That’s the one,” she said.
The prize item on page three had to do with the death of Vivian Frayne. Vivian Frayne had been a hostess in a dance hall called the Nirvana Ballroom. There was a photo of Vivian Frayne, a theatrical photo of a lush blonde revealingly swathed in diaphanous veils. Vivian Frayne had been murdered. She had been found early this morning in her two-room apartment attired in lounging pajamas. Five bullets had penetrated the lounging pajamas, indenting Vivian Frayne. Three of the bullets, although lodged in attractive sites, had been of no lethal consequence, but either of the other two—one just above the heart and the other in the region of the stomach—had served as the proximate cause of her decease. A gun had been found on the premises but the newspaper did not elaborate on its significance, merely making the bald statement: “A gun was discovered in the apartment.” The last paragraph reported: “The police are seeking one Gordon Phelps, millionaire playboy, in connection with their investigation.”
“Gordon Phelps,” I said, laying away the paper, “is G. Phillips?”
“Uh, huh,” said Sophia Sierra. “And he sent you to contact me?”
“Just like it says in the telegram.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Why not?”
“Couldn’t he contact me himself?”
“Cops are looking for him. You just read it in the paper, didn’t you?”
“He could have called me on the phone, couldn’t he? I’m in the book, both office and home.”
“He couldn’t have called you.”
“Why not?” I said. “He’s got no phone.”
“Gordon Phelps? No phone? Gordon Phelps owns a thirty-room mansion on Fifth Avenue. Thirty-room mansions generally have phones.”
“If the cops are looking for him,” she said, “he doesn’t figure to be in his thirty-room mansion, does he?”
“Check,” I said. “But there are phones outside of thirty-room mansions.”
“There’s no phone where he is.”
“Where the hell is he?”
“In a little hideaway he’s got—that only a few of his intimate friends know about.”
“You one of his intimate friends?”
“Let’s say I’m one of his … good friends.”
“Okay, good friend, so where’s this hideaway?”
“Down in the village. 11 Charles Street. Apartment 2A. He’s listed as G. Phillips. And that’s where you’re supposed to go.”
“Okay, I’m going,” I said. “So how come there’s no phone there?”
“Because it’s a hideaway.”
“Hideaways can’t have phones?”
“Not this hideaway.”
“All right,” I said, “the hell with it. Now what about—our raincheck?”
She went for her coat, slung it over one shoulder.
“I’d like,” she said, “if you’d like.”
“I like, I like,” I said. “How about this evening?”
“I’m working this evening.”
“All right. How about after work?”
“How about during work?” she said.
I lifted my eyebrows for her. “What kind of work do you do?”
“Just like Vivian Frayne,” she said. “Pardon?” I said.
“I’m a hostess at the Nirvana Ballroom.”
“I’ll be there,” I said. “That’s a wild business, isn’t it?”
“You have your freedom,” she said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Once you’re a regular, it’s kind of like piece-work. You show up whenever you feel like it. You throw on an evening gown and you’re working—at fifty percent of whatever the suckers contribute. I mean, you’ve got anything else to do, you just don’t show up.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“Swell,” she said. “For you I’ll wear my red gown.”
“Special, the red gown?”
“Wait’ll you see me in it. You’ll die.”
“I’m dying right now,” I said.
She smiled her wicked smile, waved, went to the door and opened it.
“I’m looking forward,” she said. “I’ll cancel the G. Phillips if you say so.”
“I’m not saying so. Bye, now. I’m looking forward.” She was already outside the door when I called, “Oh! About Vivian Frayne. Did you know her? Vivian Frayne.” She stuck her head back. “I knew her,” she said. And she closed her door behind her. And I was left with the faint musk of her perfume.
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Copyright © 1961 by Henry Kane, Registration Renewed 1989
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
; eISBN 10: 1-4405-4134-5
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4134-6
