by Parnell Hall
“I don’t blame you,” Taylor said to Tracy. “The guy’s a slave driver. He’s been overworking you, huh?”
“That’s right,” Steve said. “She can’t stand the pace.”
Taylor nodded, and slumped his bulk in the overstuffed clients’ chair. Mark Taylor was Steve Winslow’s age; in fact, they’d been roommates in college. But while Steve was tall and thin, Taylor was all beef. At six feet, 220 pounds, he had had professional football aspirations, before an injury cut short his career.
“So what’s up?” Taylor said.
“I want you to locate a client.”
“You have a client?”
“I will if you find him.”
“Skipped out?”
“No.”
“Police?”
Steve frowned. “No, but it’s an idea.”
“So who’s the client?”
“I don’t know.”
Taylor looked at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious.”
“You don’t know your own client?”
“No.”
Taylor ran his fingers through his curly red hair. “Now wait a minute. Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You want me to find a client for you, but you can’t tell me who the client is?”
“That’s right.”
“Could you give me a hint?”
Steve grinned and passed the envelope with the money over to him.
“What do you make of this?” Steve said.
Taylor opened the envelope and pulled out the thousand dollar bills. He riffled through them and whistled.
“Well?” Steve said.
“Well,” Taylor said. “This seems to be ten thousand smackers of genuine U.S. currency. The bills are old and are not in sequence.”
“That’s right,” Steve said. He handed him the note. “And what do you make of this?”
Taylor read it and looked it over.
“Well, this is your basic anonymous letter. It appears to have been written on a non-electric typewriter, with elite type. The r is slightly out of alignment.”
“Not bad. I don’t suppose you could tell me the make?”
“No, but I got an expert who could, if you want to pay the freight.”
“O.K., send it along,” Steve said. “And then start tracing the numbers on those bills. Cover all the banks. Today’s Tuesday, so the withdrawal was probably made yesterday.”
“Hell, Steve, you don’t have to tell me how to do that. With a withdrawal of that size it should be a snap.” Mark hefted the envelope. “I suppose you’d like me to take these along with me.”
“I don’t think so,” Steve said, grinning. “Tracy?”
Tracy, who had been watching wide-eyed, was startled at being addressed. “Yes?”
“If you could type up a list of the serial numbers on these bills.”
“Sure.”
Tracy took the envelope from Taylor and hurried to her desk.
Mark Taylor watched her go.
“Nice looking girl,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Why’s she really leaving?”
Steve shrugged. “Bored. Says I’m never here and there’s nothing for her to do.”
“Now where would she get an idea like that?” Mark Taylor said. He leaned back in his chair and yawned. “You know, when I got you an office in my building, I figured I might run into you now and then.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So how come you never come in to work?”
Steve shrugged. “I just can’t bring myself to come in here when there’s nothing to do.”
Taylor nodded. “Makes sense.” He grinned and jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the outer office. “But I suppose you find her attitude unreasonable.”
Steve grinned. “Of course I do. She’s young and impressionable. She wants everything to be exciting and fun. I, on the other hand, am a cynical old fogy—just on the near side of senile—and I happen to know that nothing is exciting and fun, and I’d be happy to settle for interesting.”
“An anonymous ten thousand dollar retainer’s rather interesting.”
“It is for a fact. It’s also a pain in the ass.”
“Maybe for you,” Taylor said. “I can always use the work.”
“Things slow?”
“Not slow. Just dull. Lotta personal injury shit.”
“You got some men on tap to put on this?”
“No problem.”
Tracy returned from the outer office and handed a typewritten list to Mark Taylor and the bills to Steve Winslow.
“Thanks,” Taylor said. He glanced at the list, folded it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “I’ll get right on this. Anything else?”
“Yeah. When you find my client, put a tail on him. Don’t let him out of your sight, but don’t let him know he’s being tailed.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Why’s that?”
“Sounds expensive.”
“I’m sure it is. Just don’t pad your bill too much, ’cause I may have to eat it.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that particularly offensive remark. But for the sake of future argument, let’s pin down exactly what you want.”
“I want you to find my client. I want you to tail him. I don’t want him to know he’s being tailed.”
“And you want to pay a buck ninety-five.”
“Exactly.”
Taylor nodded. “That gives me a pretty good idea. And how extensive do you want the surveillance?”
“Total. I want to know where he goes and who he sees.”
“That’s a problem.”
“Why?”
Taylor shrugged. “Well, this may surprise you, but there’s a lot of people still don’t walk around with name tags on their chests. Which means I gotta tail the people he talks to in order to find out who they are.”
“Of course.”
“And I presume these people can’t know they’re being tailed.”
“Naturally.”
“I don’t want to ruin your day, but if this guy has an active social life, this just could run more than a buck ninety-five.”
“Just remember it’s coming out of my own pocket.”
“Well, it’s a pretty deep pocket. I see a ten thousand dollar retainer in it.”
“Yeah, well I can’t keep it till I know whose it is. I can’t even put it in the bank.”
“You’re kidding.”
Steve shook his head. “Depositing it in my account might be considered tantamount to accepting employment.”
“So what you gonna do with it?”
Steve jerked his thumb. In the corner was an old office safe he had inherited from the previous tenant. “Tracy, we got the combination to the safe somewhere?”
“I don’t know,” Tracy said. “If you did, it was before I started work.”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “The guy gave it to me, and I’m not sure what I did with it.”
“Probably locked it in the safe,” Taylor said.
“Yeah, right. Well, if I can find it, I’ll put the money in there. Otherwise, I’ll have to rent a safe deposit box. But the one thing I’m not going to do is deposit it in my account.” Steve frowned. “O.K., Mark. Get me off the hook. Tell me who my client is.”
“No problem,” Taylor said, getting up. “I’ll get right on it.”
“How soon you think you’ll have it for me?”
Taylor shrugged. “I should have it before lunch.”
Tracy had been standing there, hanging on every word. She was obviously very excited, and was making a great effort not to show it. But this was too much. In spite of herself, she blurted, “You’re kidding.”
Mark Taylor looked at her and smiled. “No, I’ll have it. It’s just routine.”
Mark Taylor meant his remark to be friendly and reassuring. And perhaps to impress this attractive young woman with his efficiency.
But the effect he achieved c
ouldn’t have been worse. Tracy looked as if he’d just told her there was no Santa Claus.
4.
IT WASN’T QUITE THAT EASY. Actually, it was closer to two-thirty when Mark Taylor finally got back with the information.
In the meantime, Tracy had been giving her best impression of someone who was not excited out of her mind. It was easy at first because she was occupied—the combination to the safe had to be found. An exhaustive search of the office had finally located it where Steve had shoved it, among the papers in one of his desk drawers. And it had been interesting to watch Steve try the numbers on the antique safe and see if the combination actually worked. But after it had, and the ten thousand dollars had been safely locked inside, Tracy had come full face up against her original problem—there was nothing to do. It had been boring before. In light of the anonymous letter, it was excruciating.
Steve was keyed up too, but on a different scale. Tracy was like a kid with a new toy. She accepted the letter as a matter of course. She was young enough and romantic enough and so conditioned by a steady diet of detective novels, that she expected anonymous cash retainers sent in the mail. Steve was old enough and cynical enough to realize such things were fantastic and totally unreal and therefore to be regarded with the utmost skepticism.
Which didn’t stop from making them interesting as hell.
When the intercom buzzed at two-thirty, Steve Winslow picked up the phone and Tracy Garvin in the outer office said, “Mark Taylor on 2.”
“Thanks,” Steve said. “Stay on the line and take notes.” He pressed the blinking button. “Yes, Mark.”
“Got him, Steve.”
“Great. Who is he?”
“His name is David C. Bradshaw. He’s around forty-five, short, wiry, dark hair. He lives in an apartment on East 3rd Street.”
“Good work. How’d you find him?”
“Just routine. I covered the banks. The withdrawal was unusual enough that the teller took down the serial numbers. Fortunately, it was a bank I’d done a few favors for in the past, so they were most cooperative. Naturally they wouldn’t tell me anything about the account, other than when it had been opened, which was about a month ago. But they did confirm the withdrawal and gave me a pretty good description to go on.”
“Where is he now?”
“Apparently he’s home.”
“How do you know?”
“As soon as I got the address I sewed up the apartment building. Five minutes after my man got on the job, a young woman showed up, pressed the button for 2A, and was buzzed upstairs.”
“Got a description of the girl?”
“I’ll say. My man says she’s a baby-faced blonde of about twenty-five with a hell of a nice ass.”
“Miss Garvin is taking notes on the line, Mark. Let’s not bog her down with too many details.”
“Right.”
“Where’s the girl now?”
“Still up there.”
“How many men you got covering the apartment?”
“Two.”
“Put another one on. Two if you have to. Tail the girl when she leaves. Slap a tail on anyone else who calls on Bradshaw. Use as many men as you have to, but keep that apartment covered. When the girl leaves, let me know.”
“No problem. You going to go see him?”
“Not just yet. I want to be a little more sure of my ground before I actually talk to him. You don’t have anything else on him?”
“How could I, Steve? You said don’t let the guy know he’s being tailed.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I’ll get the dope, but it’s gonna take some time.”
“O.K. Call me as soon as something breaks.”
Tracy was in the door practically before Steve hung up the phone.
“He got him,” Tracy said.
“Yes.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s a start.”
“It’s more than a start. Now you know who the client is. Now you can keep the retainer.”
“No I can’t.”
“Sure you can. The client’s David C. Bradshaw. He has nothing whatever to do with Sheila Benton.”
“How do you know?”
Her eyes were wide. “How do I know? I’ve been handling the business for months. There’s been nothing even remotely connected with any David C. Bradshaw.”
“I’m sure there hasn’t. But that’s not conclusive proof.”
“But—”
“Look. As I said, it’s a start. Mark Taylor’s getting the dope on him. As soon as he does, I’ll talk to the guy and we’ll work something out. At least the situation will be clarified. In the meantime there’s nothing to do but wait.”
Tracy gave him a pout. “And what are we supposed to do while we wait?”
Steve shrugged. “Why don’t you read your book?”
Tracy gave him a look and flounced out.
Mark Taylor called back a half an hour later.
“She left the apartment, Steve, and Bradshaw left right after her.”
“Your men pick them up?”
“Uh huh. I had four men on the apartment. Two of them took Bradshaw, and two of them took the girl.”
“Any idea where they’re headed?”
“The girl hailed a taxi and started uptown. Bradshaw went to the corner drugstore and made a phone call.”
“Your man listen in?”
“He couldn’t get that close, Steve. You told me you didn’t want Bradshaw to know he was being tailed, and my man couldn’t take any chances. But he thinks the number Bradshaw called was busy.”
“Why?”
“Because Bradshaw was only in there a minute. Then he came out and walked a block, and made another phone call from the booth on the corner. He got a busy signal again. He tried two more times before he got through. He talked on the phone a few minutes, then hailed a cab and headed uptown. So my man figures Bradshaw got a busy signal on the first call and knew his party was in, so he walked down to where he could get a cab, called his party again, made a date, and that’s where he’s going.”
“O.K. Just keep him in sight and let me know where he goes.”
“Will do.”
Fifteen minutes later an apologetic Mark Taylor was back on the phone.
“They lost him, Steve.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, but what can I say. He got out of the cab, walked into a hotel lobby, and disappeared.”
“Was he wise?”
“I don’t think so. The two guys I had on him were pros, and they had specific instructions not to tip their hands. I’m afraid it’s just one of those unlucky flukes.”
“What hotel?”
“42nd Street and Third Avenue. That was part of the problem. My guys were in a car. You know what parking’s like midtown. There’s none. So one guy stayed with the car, and the other hopped out and followed him into the hotel. When he got into the lobby, the guy was gone.”
“Hell. Where are your men now?”
“One’s gone back to cover the apartment in case Bradshaw shows up. The other’s covering the hotel just in case.”
Steve sighed. “O.K. I guess that’s the best you can do under the circumstances. What about the girl?”
“She seems to be on a shopping spree. At the moment she’s in Bloomingdale’s trying on clothes.”
“Got a line on her yet?”
“Are you kidding? You said you wanted this handled discreetly. I could have my men start shaking down salesgirls and maybe get a look at a charge card receipt, but then the cat would be out of the bag. I’m hoping the girl will go home, so I can get a line on her, but now she’s shopping and there’s nothing much I can do.”
“O.K., Mark. Do the best you can.”
Steve Winslow hung up the phone and rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. Tracy, who had been listening on the other line, came in the door.
“You heard?” Steve asked.
“Yeah. They lost him.”
“Yeah. And Mark thinks it was an accident.”
“And you don’t?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. But here’s a guy who sends an anonymous ten thousand dollar retainer. He obviously doesn’t want to be found. But I hire detectives and find him. And as soon as I do, he gives the detectives the slip. Now am I supposed to believe that’s just coincidence?”
Tracy shook her head. “It couldn’t be. He has to be wise. But what’s the point? If the detectives picked him up at his apartment, there’s no way he can keep you from finding out who he is.”
“Right.”
“So what’s the point?”
“He must want to keep me from finding out where he’s going.”
Tracy’s eyes widened. “Of course. That’s it.” Her face fell. “And now you’ll never know. He’s done it.”
Steve shook his head. “This is true.”
“But—”
The sound of the outer office door opening and closing cut Tracy off.
“Someone in the outer office,” she said.
“Our busy day,” Steve said. “Better see who it is.”
Tracy went out, closing the door behind her.
She was back moments later. She slipped in theatrically, closing the door behind her, and said, in an exaggerated stage whisper, “He’s here!”
5.
DAVID C. BRADSHAW MATCHED MARK TAYLOR’S description—short, tough, scrappy. He also matched Tracy Garvin’s description—pissed off. He had a thin moustache under a narrow, protruding nose, which gave him an insolent quality. He was wearing a gray suit that on someone else might have looked fine, but on him somehow looked cheap. Steve Winslow’s first impression was sleaze.
Bradshaw’s eyes flickered when they took in Steve Winslow—Steve was obviously not what he’d expected—and Steve thought he saw a flash of doubt. It was momentary, however. Bradshaw scowled, marched up to the desk, and stuck his finger in Steve’s face.
“All right, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Steve shrugged. “I think I’m running a law practice. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bradshaw frowned. “What are you, some sort of clown? I warn you, you better have a pretty good explanation.”
“I assume if we talk long enough, you’ll get around to telling me for what,” Steve said. He glanced over to the doorway where Tracy, who was supposed to call Mark Taylor, was hovering, unable to tear herself away from the scene. “Miss Garvin,” he said, “if you would take care of that other business.”
