The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Deming, Richard

  After contemplating him for a moment I said, “The rumors you heard were all wrong. If you have business for The Arranger, go through proper channels. You must know some contacts.”

  “Sure,” he agreed. “Only through proper channels the fee is ten grand, and I can’t raise that much. I figure your cut must be about half. So why don’t we eliminate the middleman? I can go sixty-five hundred, so we’d both be ahead.”

  Before I tied in with The Arranger I used to free-lance, which had required working out my own deals. Nothing in my unwritten contract said I couldn’t take on an outside job, and I could certainly use the extra money. It was at least worth hearing out.

  I said, “Bargain-basement shopping, huh? Go ahead and talk. I’m listening.”

  He took a deep breath and said, “It’s my wife, Joan.”

  Already I didn’t like it. I have no objection to hitting women, but I prefer these matters on an impersonal plane. When I get an assignment from The Arranger, I never even know the subject’s name—which is the way I like it.

  In the old free-lance days I had frequently known who I was hitting, but I hadn’t worked a freelance job in a long time and had gotten in the habit of liking things the way they were. I even carried my preference for anonymous subjects to the point where I deliberately avoided newspapers, and radio and TV news reports, for days afterward—so I wouldn’t ever learn who the subject was.

  I not only knew Joan Thomas, but I rather liked her. I didn’t know her well of course, but I had talked to her at parties and had even danced with her once or twice. She was a busty blonde in her late twenties, with slanting green eyes and a come-on smile which had started my heart pounding the first time I met her—until I learned she was married. Then I had backed off fast, because I never play around with married women. There is enough risk in my business without sticking my neck out for trouble in other areas.

  I said, “I thought you and Joan got along pretty good.”

  “She’s playing around with Gyp Fallon. She doesn’t even try to hide it. She spends more nights in his apartment than she does at home.”

  “Then why don’t you get a divorce?” I suggested. “If what you say is true, it would be easy to get the evidence.”

  He let out a bitter laugh. “Drag Gyp Fallon into court as a correspondent? Are you kidding? I might as well commit suicide.”

  He had a point there. Gyp Fallon was a big-time bookie who had a small army of goons. He was nothing for me to worry about, because nobody pushed any of The Arranger’s boys; but I could understand how a small-timer like Joey wouldn’t want Gyp on his tail.

  I said, “So why don’t you just kick her out and let her move in with Gyp full time?”

  “Because I’ve got someone else on the string too. And I’m gonna lose her if I don’t get legally free of Joan soon. Joan would go for a friendly divorce, all right, but she wants an arm and leg. She’s asking twenty grand outright, plus five hundred a month alimony.”

  I formed my lips into a silent whistle. “You got that much?”

  “I average about twelve thousand a year, Speck, which means I’d have to turn over half my income. As for the cash settlement, I own some lots I could sell for twenty grand, but in another five years they’ll be worth two or three times that. She knows that’s all I own and wants to clean me out.”

  “If that’s all you have, how do you plan to get the sixty-five hundred you mentioned?”

  “Oh, I’ve got about two grand in the bank. I plan to borrow another five on the lots. That way I’ll still own them.”

  I rose to mix him another drink while I considered the proposition. If he had asked me to hit Gyp Fallon instead of his wife, it would be automatically out, because you don’t hit people of Fallon’s status without an okay from The Arranger. But Joan Thomas was nobody the upper echelon would care about. She was just a cute little blonde who used to work in a chorus line and was now married to a minor cog in the setup. Gyp Fallon might care, but while the top boys might frown on Gyp himself being hit without advance clearance, they wouldn’t give a hoot in Hades what happened to one of his female playmates.

  There was the consideration that I was acquainted with the woman, which intruded a personal element I didn’t like, but $6500 more than counterbalanced that small annoyance.

  When I handed Joey the fresh drink I said, “How soon can you come up with the money?”

  “How soon can you do the job?” he countered.

  “Let’s get something straight,” I said coldly. “I get paid the full amount in advance. Those are the terms. We don’t even discuss when I do the job until the money’s in my hand.”

  He flushed slightly. “The full amount?”

  “Every cent,” I assured him. “Apparently you didn’t hear those rumors from a very hep source.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you had you’d know I always get paid in advance.”

  After considering this he said, “I did hear you never let a client down. But suppose something goes wrong? Then I’m out six and a half grand for nothing.”

  “My jobs never go wrong. If, by some remote chance, this one does, you get your money back. Satisfaction guaranteed—clean hit or full refund.”

  When he continued to look doubtful I said testily, “I’ve never crossed a client yet. I have a reputation for professional ethics to maintain. I don’t accept money and then fall down on the job. If you don’t like my conditions, go find yourself another boy.”

  “I believe you,” he said quickly. “It may take me a few days to raise the money, though. How about Friday afternoon?”

  Friday evening was when my other job was scheduled. I said, “Make it before five or I won’t be here. Bring it in hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Okay,” he said, finishing his drink and rising. “Then the deal’s definitely on?”

  “It’s on,” I assured him.

  That evening I waited until after midnight, then made a reconnaissance of the address listed in my instructions from The Arranger.

  The Sterling Road apartment house was near Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. The name Grandview was a grandiose misnomer, because the only view from it was an identical apartment building on either side and another across the street. They weren’t exactly tenement buildings, but they weren’t high-class either. It was a typical workingman’s neighborhood, neither classy nor slummy.

  There was no one on the street at that time of night and the March weather was too cold for anyone to be sitting outdoors on the stoops. I entered the building without anyone seeing me, bypassed a self-operated elevator, and took a flight of stairs to the third floor.

  The Yale key let me into 3-C. It was a furnished apartment consisting of a front room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. It was heated by hot-water radiators, and whoever had rented the place had adjusted the valves so that the rooms were comfortably warm.

  There was no back door, which I didn’t much like—it’s always nice to have a choice of exits. However, there was never any trouble when The Arranger planned things, so it didn’t worry me too much.

  I knew the planning had been thorough. For instance, I didn’t have to worry about the possibility of the subject arriving accompanied by some friend, because The Arranger would take care of that. How was none of my concern. Perhaps it was known that the subject never picked up winnings in front of witnesses—maybe because he owed too much money and didn’t want his creditors to find out he’d made a killing. Whatever the reason, The Arranger never left such matters to chance.

  Without removing my thin leather gloves, I took out the .38 automatic I had brought, fitted the silencer to it, and put it in the top drawer of the dresser in the bedroom. A gun with a foot-length silencer attached to it is a pretty bulky object, and I preferred not to bring it in with me the next time I came to the apart
ment, which would be early in the evening. There was always the chance that at that time I might be seen by some tenant in the hall, and that big bulge under my coat would make me remembered.

  After thoroughly checking the place, I turned off all the lights and left as quietly as I had arrived.

  * * * *

  About four p.m. on Friday afternoon Joey Thomas showed up as he had promised. He counted out 65 one-hundred-dollar bills.

  When I had recounted them, I took them into my bedroom, put them into my money belt, then strapped the belt around my waist under my shirt.

  Back in the front room I said, “All right. Now tell me something about your wife’s habits. You can skip any hen parties she goes to. I’m interested only in times and places she’ll be alone.”

  He thought this over for a while, then said, “Daytimes she’s home alone most of the time. Friday afternoon you’d be sure to find her. That’s when she washes her hair.

  “Good. What’s your living setup?”

  He described the Manhattan apartment where they lived. It was a fifth-floor apartment in a building so large that hardly anyone would know any of the other tenants, and no one would be likely to pay any attention to a stranger passing in the halls. Besides, I knew how to be unobtrusive, so there was little chance of my being noticed even if I did meet a tenant or two.

  “Got an extra key?” I asked.

  He said dubiously, “Won’t the cops think it funny if you get in by key?”

  “They won’t know it,” I told him. “They’ll figure I rang the bell, then forced my way inside when she answered the door. Don’t worry. When I leave, things will look as though it was done by a prowler. How about the key?”

  He produced a key ring; removed a key, and handed it to me. “I’ll have to ring to get in this afternoon. My extra key’s in a dresser drawer. Hope Joan’s home.”

  “Isn’t she always on Fridays?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, his face clearing. “About now she’s putting her hair up in rollers. She won’t show her face on the street until it’s all dry and combed out.”

  “Now about your alibi,” I said. “That’s important because the husband is always an automatic suspect when a woman gets hit. Can you arrange to be out of New York next Friday?”

  “How far out?”

  “The farther the better. Why don’t you fly down to Miami next Thursday? Let it be known that you plan to spend a week down there. Then just sit tight until the cops contact you to break the news. You can casually let a few friends know where you’re staying, so that you can be traced easily. Be sure to be seen in public—in the hotel bar or dining room—every minute of Friday until at least midnight. There should be no question about your actually being in Miami.”

  “You really do take your clients interests to heart, don’t you?” he said. “I think I can swing that. Joan will be glad to get me out of her hair for a week. She’ll figure it’ll give her a chance to spend every night at Gyp’s place.”

  “Then that’s that,” I said. “Don’t come here again and don’t phone me. If there’s any hitch, I’ll contact you. Otherwise, as of this minute, we no longer even know each other.”

  “Suits me,” he said in a tone suggesting he felt more relief than disappointment at losing me as an acquaintance.

  It was past 4:30 when he left. My bank was open until six on Friday, but I didn’t want to take the time to go all the way uptown before driving out to Brooklyn. The bank could wait until Monday. I like to get to my assignments a couple of hours in advance whenever it’s feasible.

  It took me nearly an hour to drive out to Flatbush. I stopped at a crowded restaurant where I wouldn’t be noticed for dinner, which killed another hour. On the way out of the restaurant I bought a newspaper.

  I parked on Underwood, just around the corner from the Grandview Apartments, and walked the rest of the way. Again I took the fire stairs, and was lucky enough not to meet anyone in the third-floor hall.

  It was just 6:30 when I let myself into apartment 3-C. I left the door unlocked.

  I threw my topcoat and hat on the bed in the bedroom, but kept on my thin leather gloves. Removing the silenced automatic from the dresser drawer, I carried it into the front room.

  I didn’t have to rearrange any furniture, because the sofa was facing the front door. I switched on a bridge lamp and adjusted it so that it hit the door like a spotlight; then I turned off the overhead light: The sofa was still sufficiently illuminated so that I could have read the paper I had brought if I had been in the mood; but anyone entering by the door was going to have to shade his eyes against the bridge lamp to see me clearly.

  I sat on the sofa with the gun lying alongside of me and the newspaper folded in my lap and waited.

  Time dragged by. I am very patient, though. Waiting is part of my job.

  Exactly at 8:30 the doorbell rang. Picking up the gun, I unfolded the paper with my other hand and held it in front of me as though I were reading. It effectively concealed the gun from the view from the doorway.

  “Come in,” I called.

  The door opened and a man wearing a topcoat and hat entered. He squinted against the light in his face as he pushed the door closed behind him.

  To my surprise it was Joey Thomas.

  Letting the top half of the paper fold toward me on my lap, but still concealing the gun, I said, “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Joey moved farther into the room, out of the glare of the bridge lamp, and gazed at, me with equal surprise. “I might ask you the same thing. Since when did you hook up with Kuznicki?”

  I got it the instant he mentioned the name Kuznicki. The moment I realized it was Joey who had come into the apartment, I assumed that for some unknown reason he had followed me here; but now I realized that he fitted the description of my subject exactly.

  Anton Kuznicki was a runner for Gyp Fallon. Therefore, the winning bet the subject had been allowed to make had been arranged by bookie Fallon.

  It might have amused me to realize that Gyp Fallon’s plans for Joey were identical with Joey’s plans for his wife—if I possessed that type of sense of humor. But I dislike complications. They turn clean jobs into messy ones.

  I said, “You’d better sit down, Joey. We’ve got a problem.”

  He gave me a puzzled look, then walked over to adjust the lampshade downward before taking an easy chair about four feet in front of the sofa. The moment he sat down he realized what the problem was, and his face suddenly drained of color.

  “You just got it, huh?” I said.

  He started to get up, but quickly sat down again when I pushed the newspaper aside and let him see the silenced gun.

  Licking his lips, he said huskily, “I thought you were a square guy, Speck. They all told me you were a square guy.” He was beginning to babble.

  “I am,” I said. “I didn’t know you were the subject until you walked in. It complicates things. I can’t hit one of my own clients.”

  That seemed to make him feel better. After a prolonged silence during which his gaze never wavered from the gun he asked, “Who set me up?”

  “I never know, but in this case I can guess. It seems pretty obvious that Gyp Fallon bought the hit. Kuznicki’s one of his runners. Apparently Gyp thinks more of your wife than you do—enough to want her a widow.”

  “Why, that dirty rat,” he said indignantly.

  “How much were you supposed to have won?” I asked curiously.

  “Twelve hundred clams. The only good tip I was ever handed, and it turns out to be a phony! I wondered why the payoff had to be all the way out here, but for twelve hundred I would have driven clear to Albany.”

  I said, “The problem is that Gyp went through regular channels. I can’t hit a client, yet I can’t back down on an
assignment handed me by The Arranger. You see that, don’t you? It’s a hell of a problem.”

  “Mind if I leave while you figure it out?” he asked, making a cautious move to rise.

  I let the mouth of the silencer move back and forth. He quickly subsided in his chair. I creased my brow in thought and we sat in silence for some minutes.

  Finally my expression cleared. Without lowering the gun, I unbuttoned my shirt with my left hand, reached inside, and loosened the buckle of my money belt. Drawing out the belt, I tossed it in Joey’s lap.

  “Take all the money out of that, I said.

  Puzzled, he opened the belt and drew out all the bills.

  “Count it,” I instructed.

  Placing the stack on one knee, he rapidly fingered through it. When he looked up he said, “Why, this is what I paid you this afternoon—sixty-five hundred bucks.”

  “Uh-huh. Put it in your pocket—all of it.” He got it then, and he turned dead white. He held the money out at arm’s length toward me.

  “No, Speck! We have a contract. I’m your client. You said so yourself!”

  “How could you be?” I asked reasonably. “I’ve returned your money, just as I agreed I would if I didn’t go through with the assignment. So you’re no longer my client.”

  The sound wasn’t any louder than the pop of a burst balloon.

  My instructions had said it wasn’t necessary to clean up, which meant I could leave the body right there. I paused only long enough to clean up the spilled money, though.

  While I’m scrupulously honest in my dealings with clients, I don’t see anything ethically wrong in stealing from a deceased non-client. Do you?

  HONEYMOON CRUISE

  Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, October 1966.

  When the employment office sent me down to the Miami Yacht Club to be interviewed by the owner of the Princess II, I had no idea she was tin heiress Peggy Matthews. I was told to ask for a Mrs. Arden Trader.