by Spain, Laura
As coyly as she could manage it, she said, “I want you to catch him with her.”
“That is delicate,” I said. “You don’t strike me as the demure type, Mrs. Leblanc.”
With abrupt confidence she replied, “You strike me as the impertinent type.”
“Sometimes my line of work calls for it.”
“Does it?”
“I’ve been working it into a big ad campaign I’m planning: ‘Private & Personal Investigations. Discreet & Impertinent.’ Catchy, don’t you think?”
“It appears I’m wasting your time.”
“It’s just that matrimonial cases aren’t my usual line, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“Hmm. I would have thought that was bread and butter for a trade like yours.”
I said nothing.
“In that case,” she began to purr—she looked like she purred a lot—”What if we say this? Let us say my husband’s life has been threatened and I need you to follow him. Just in some off chance? As a precaution, let us say. To play it safe.”
“Just to play it safe.”
“I am prepared to pay handsomely, with an attractive bonus for results.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that.” She had a wicked smile. I liked it.
She worked a crisp $50 bill out of her clutch and placed it on the desk. She nudged it across the blotter. I kept my eyes on those eyes behind the veil.
“No,” she was purring again. She made purring seem like the most natural thing. “We’ll make that $100 to start.” Another Grant emerged from the bag. “I’ll pay an additional $100 if I get what I want.”
“You usually get what you want, Mrs. Leblanc?”
“Usually.” She wore that wicked smile like melted chocolate.
“I see.”
“What does that mean?”
“How do you know I can get you what you want?”
She surveyed the room. “You are a private detective, aren’t you?”
“The stencil on the door says so.”
“And you have followed people on occasion?”
“I’ve published monographs on it.”
“Then we shouldn’t have any trouble, should we?”
“Are you looking for trouble?”
“You’re becoming impertinent, again.”
“That one’s on the house, Mrs. Leblanc. So, all together, that’s $200.”
“That’s the offer,” purring through curled lips. “I like a man who can handle big math problems.”
“So does my accountant. But you wouldn’t like him. He’s not nearly as impertinent as I am.”
We kept up the clever banter while she carefully produced a small photograph of Mr. Leblanc.
“Is this recent?” I asked. “Somebody else has been torn out of it.”
“Yes, fairly recent. Taken in the last six months or so.”
“But the tear?”
“Will the picture do or not?”
“Sure, sure. It’ll do,” and I grinned as I considered the photo.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“You amuse me, Mrs. Leblanc, you really do, and no, I’m not being impertinent. I find it amusing that a lady such as yourself comes into my modest office. It amuses me that you’re willing to pay me liberally just to pretend that you’re not pretending why you’re here. It amuses me to think that you must be so used to getting whatever you want. Do I amuse you at all, Mrs. Leblanc?”
“Not in the least. And you are being impertinent again.” Her voice ran cold but her tongue traced that wicked smile.
I glanced at the man in black and white. Thinning, white hair. Pockets of shadows beneath the eyes. Hollows in the cheeks. He must’ve had a good 25 years on her. More like a bad 25 years. It didn’t add up that he should be the one stepping out. Complete confidence in a client is the exception in this racket. Everybody’s hiding something—I wouldn’t be in business, otherwise. But a certain level of belief is critical. The veil and the money were obvious. I could live with that. But the photo? That photo presented doubts.
“It’s a funny species,” I said.
“How’s that?”
“This’ll do. What makes you think he’s running around?”
“A woman knows these things.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Perhaps my generous proposal will overcome any second thoughts as well as your aversion to this kind of work.”
Second thoughts—she hit that one on the head. “Okay, sister, you got me. I’ll shadow your Romeo and see what gives.”
“I know he’ll be going out again tonight. He never leaves before seven. You can start tonight, can’t you?”
“I may have to shift around a few things, but I’ll pencil it in, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“I’m writing down our address. Also my telephone number. My private line. I’ll expect a full report in the morning. Will there be anything else?”
There’s always something else. There had to be something else. Loads of something else. I simply shook my head.
Lucilla Leblanc snapped shut the little clutch, rose slowly, smoothed her skirt. She sauntered to the door, and lingered before it, laying her fingers on the doorknob. She pivoted towards me, gradual. She met me with a hard stare, a hint of that wicked smile arching her mouth. She breathed the word “impertinent” so faintly I barely got it. She threw the door wide and swung out.
I pushed back from the desk, crossed the office, and shoved the door shut. The echo of sharp high heels faded away in the corridor. It’s a quiet building. Sure, I didn’t buy her name, and her story played like a dodge. The one hundred bucks—that made me a believer. I picked up the two Grants, held them between my thumb and fingers, and slid them against one another. “Sure,” I thought to myself. “Impertinence pays. Sure it does.”
I spent part of my afternoon at the library. Who’s Who and the like led me to The Bankers’ Annual. I found Leblanc, all right, Mr. Peter-Louis Leblanc. Private banking, investment banking, etcetera, etcetera. The house of Mercer, Leblanc and Furst. Big money. Serious money. The kind of dough a flatfoot or P.I. dreams about when he sees an R.K.O movie. Everything jived with Lucilla’s info, right down to the exclusive address on North Lake Shore Drive.
As far as Lucilla Leblanc, I found something entirely different—zip. No listings, no society page blurbs, no nothing. For whatever reason, Mrs. Leblanc was under wraps. Way under.
After knocking off my homework, I blew in a call to the answering service. No messages. For better or worse, that made Lucilla the only game in town. I grabbed a quick bite in the Loop before heading to Leblanc’s.
At 6:45 I parked the coupe on the inner drive. My spot furnished a clear view of the Leblanc’s building, one of those gray stone monoliths opposite the lakefront. They lined them up that way, like a string of concrete forts, our last defense in case of Canadian attack. I lit a cigarette and waited.
At 6:55 a shining, black Packard pulled up. A hulking bus of a crate. Mr. Leblanc exited the lobby at seven on the dot, overdressed for the warm, fall evening. I recognized him easy, even bundled up. He displayed the enthusiasm of a hamper full of wet towels. He moved sluggishly, shuffling his way around the front of the Packard. I turned over the engine of my coupe and let her idle. The porter hopped out of the car and held the door. Leblanc, stiffly bent, worked himself in behind the steering wheel. He did not need, or did not want, a chauffeur. The porter let fly a goodbye salute. Leblanc did not.
You couldn’t ask for a better tail-job. A subject made to order. Dull, easy. The Packard circled the block, headed north, and hung a left on Fullerton. The old boy held his route due west for quite a ways, well beyond hitting the sticks. He took a right at River Road, winding north. I checked my fuel gauge.
Two miles up River Road, Leblanc swung into the drive of a sprawling, Colonial number. The Palmer Mansion had nothing on this baby. Tall, iron gates fronted the edge of the property for a good block or more. The expansive lawn served as a parking lot. I to
ok a quick tally, counted better than one hundred cars, and let loose a silent whistle.
Leblanc circled the rows of vehicles twice before parking his machine. He eased his way out the driver’s side, stiffly. He brushed his coat, and paraded down to the oversized double-doors of the mansion. A duo of solemn doormen gave him the nod. The entry doors swung wide open.
I settled for a spot on the side of the lawn opposite Leblanc’s. I took my time approaching the house, unsure if the doormen would hang out the welcome sign. Despite lollygagging, I overtook a pair of old dames strolling arm and arm. I meant to skirt them when one made a slight misstep—her upper body heaved forward, the arms snapped upward, and her evening bag sailed off for a good ten-foot trip.
“Oh heavens!”
“Allow me, mademoiselle,” I called.
Bounding beyond the couple, I snatched up the purse and wiped it on the sleeve of my coat with exaggerated delicacy. I returned to offer up the bag with a slight bow. I straightened up with a start, as if seeing double. Turned out I was seeing double. Turned out I was in the presence of Doreen and Laureen Messmer, identical twins. Kind of sweet and cute types, modeled in that overweight, spinsterish manner. They giggled as Doreen accepted her bag. Or maybe it was Laureen. I never did get the names straight—the only name that interested me was Leblanc.
I expressed mock outrage that these two damsels arrived unescorted. I worked my way between them and offered each my arm. They tittered in their fashion and smiled at each other and tittered some more. I sauntered through the double doors, a Messmer on each arm. The solemn doormen made extra room for us as we barely squeezed by.
The telltale sounds struck home as soon as you passed through those oversized, double doors. The mechanical whirring and chunking of slots, the flapping burps of cards shuffling, the sharp rattling of dice being shaken. Just inside I spied a cloakroom to the left, a wide staircase to the far right. An enormous bar began beneath the stairs that extended the length of the room. The rest of the first floor gave over to the crowded gaming tables.
“Do you partake?” one of the twins turned to me. “I’m sure my sister could use one, and I don’t know why that I should feel so parched myself.”
“That’s because you’re just an old lush, my dear,” the other said with a smile.
I replied it was oak with me.
On the way to the bar we passed the roulette table. I got myself a gander at a painfully serious Leblanc. Impressive stacks of chips towered in front of him. His coat remained buttoned. Either the old boy had thin blood or he didn’t expect to stay long.
I made sure we found just the right barstools, close enough to the action. I could keep an eye on Leblanc in the bar mirrors with a strategic turn of my seat. I witnessed the old man’s folly—nothing but straight number bets. To be precise, he played one number and only one number. Bet after bet, turn after turn of the wheel. Even the simple Messmer twins could’ve predicted Leblanc’s fate.
Leblanc lost an entire stack of chips by the time we knocked off our first drink. His stakes shrank by half as we finished our second round. When Doreen, or maybe Laureen, raised her third nip, she spilled it in her sister’s lap. I glanced over at the roulette table. Leblanc had gone bust.
The Messmer sisters excused themselves to the powder room. Leblanc stood to leave. He tossed a large, glittering coin to the croupier and plodded in the direction of the door. I casually approached the roulette table and leaned in with, “The old boy had it bad tonight.”
“Sometimes you wins, mister,” the croupier said. “Sometimes you lose.”
I spied Leblanc at the exit. “He must have lost a small fortune.”
“We don’t keep no score, mister.”
It felt good to step outside, away from the stale casino atmosphere. The air had that crisp autumn snap to it, the type that wakes up your spirits. The soft moonlight renewed things. It could fool you into thinking the world’s at peace, we’re all good, we’re all innocent.
I reached for a cigarette, eyeballing Leblanc’s silhouette shambling down the line of silent automobiles. As I struck a match, the sulphur flared up and died down, and the silhouette dropped out of sight like a shot.
I zigzagged down the lot, hunting for Leblanc. I found the old bird doubled over on elbows and knees. He strained to breathe, slow and shallow, in a rasp that outdid the crickets. He didn’t look injured any. I bent down and braced his shoulders with my hands.
“What is it?”
He shook his head.
“You want a doctor?”
He shook his head. “A moment,” he gasped. That’s all he said.
I glanced up. No one to the left, the right, or behind us. We were alone. “You want to sit up?”
“A moment.” That’s all.
We held our wrestlers’ posture for five minutes before he felt steady. I helped him onto the running board of the car next to us. His breaths grew longer and deeper. He managed, “Thank you, sir.”
“I still think I should get you a doc.”
“No, no, I don’t think that will be required. Merely a moment’s rest.”
“Perhaps you’d like to duck back inside.”
“I will not spend one minute more in that place than I have to.”
So we sat. We cooled our heels on that strange running board in the middle of nowhere way the hell up River Road. I couldn’t puzzle out what we were doing there, or whether it had anything to do with Lucilla Leblanc.
“I just realized, sir,” he found his breath, “I must be keeping you from something.”
“Don’t give it a thought. You well enough to get on?”
“Certainly, sir. Yes. A little strain is all. Business concerns, you know.”
“Sure. Maybe you need some time off.”
“Ah. Yes, I shouldn’t be surprised. But then there are obligations, aren’t there?”
“I don’t know. Are there?”
“Partners, wives, employees.”
“I always considered myself a pretty good first obligation.”
“Ah. What you’ve got there is a young man’s game.” As he spoke he raised his shoulders and crossed his arms. Thin fingers kneaded the upper arms.
“You getting a chill?”
“I worry most for my wife,” said. “The poor, lost thing. Lost for some time. Perhaps I’ve lost my way, too, from time to time. There are those who say, those who advise me, I shouldn’t trouble about her. But confound it if that doesn’t go against the grain. I don’t believe that should be so difficult to understand.”
“I get you.”
“Do you, sir?”
“Sure, sure. You’re okay. A little balled up, maybe, but you’ll make out.”
“Balled up!” he laughed, and he smiled to himself. He turned the smile on me, and I have to say it was a good smile. It tempted me to come clean, but I resisted.
“Think you can tool home all right?”
“Tut! I know I can, sir. I thank you, but I don’t require looking after.”
That’s the first time a tail job told me the tail wasn’t necessary. Of course, I followed him all the way back to North Lake Shore Drive. Leblanc arrived in one piece, without incident.
From that moment, I took his side. I was all for Leblanc, all right. I didn’t know the score, but that made no difference. You’re always taking sides, and I knew it like you know right from wrong—I’d stand against anyone who wasn’t for Leblanc.
I rang up Lucilla the following morning at nine a.m. sharp. She picked up on the second ring. She played it cool, her tone dismissive, her words abrupt. Kitten had lost her purr.
“I’ve been waiting for your call. You always sleep in so late?”
“I wanted to make sure I didn’t disturb you, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“Never mind that. Did you catch them together?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So where did he go?”
“He drove out to a club in the boo
ndocks. Up north on River Road.”
“Not that awful gambling house.”
“I’ve seen worse, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“How’d he make out?”
“He dropped a pile.”
“He can afford it.”
“Then he collapsed in the parking lot.”
“Collapsed?”
“Your husband may not be a well man, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“I see. Where did he go after that?”
“Did you get what I said about his health?”
“We already have a family physician. I asked where he went after that.”
“Straight home, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“I see.” The line went quiet for a moment. “You better try again tonight.”
“Yes, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“He’ll see her again. I know he’s going to see her soon. I want you there, and I want you to call me as soon as you catch them together.”
“Yes, Mrs. Leblanc.”
Somehow, with Kitten’s purr lost in the shuffle, I began to care even less for my client. As for Mr. Leblanc, I’d figured on tailing him again no matter what—wild Lucilla’s couldn’t keep me away. I couldn’t put my finger on the trouble, but it was there, all right. I’d decided to stick around awhile longer.
Leblanc followed his casino routine for the next three nights. Those solemn doormen at the club on River Road let me come and go without any static. I played my part, sitting in for a few hands of blackjack, throwing craps, just for show. As far as concerns Leblanc, I always made sure to blend in, just another faceless sucker among the crowd.
Leblanc opened each night with a pile of chips that could buy and sell anyone of us several times over. And each night he threw it away at the roulette table. Betting always on thirty-three. Always going belly up. The ritual went like clockwork save for one detail: it struck me that his table stakes grew smaller, one night to the next. I chewed it over plenty, and the more I chewed on it, the less I came up with.
I fell into the habit easy. I knew what to expect and faithfully phoned in my non-reports to Kitten every morning. She offered nothing much in the way of response. I had to confess to her that I didn’t see what I was getting paid for. Kitten insisted I keep at it, so we left it at that. Not that I was looking for her permission, but I didn’t tell her that.
