Called by a Panther

by Michael Z. Lewin

  I felt various things, but among them was surprise that he had applied so much attention to someone other than himself.

  And then he said, “You are surprised I saw what you were going through, aren't you?”

  In the circumstances I had to say “Yes.”

  “So you see, we are soulmates, you and I.”

  “And you have a wife you want murdered.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And no.”

  I expelled a world-weary sigh.

  “I've always felt that poetry needs freedom, so I have never actually contracted myself in matrimony.”

  “You want your wife murdered, but you've never been married?”

  “Yes.”

  I said no words. My face might well have expressed something.

  “Whenever I meet a new woman, I tell her that I am married. It keeps her from expecting too much.”

  “Oh.”

  “But never for a single moment did I consider that this Middle American fortress of self-righteous materialism would contain a woman so thoroughly captivating as Charlotte. I am completely and utterly taken. So I want to get married. I need to get married. Therefore I must shed my `wife.’ ”

  “O.K. You tell her you aren't married after all.”

  “No.”

  “Too simple?”

  “Charlotte is well off. Vulgarly wealthy, in fact.”

  “Men have coped with marrying rich women before.”

  “Ah, but it's a problem for her. It affects the way she looks at men. Especially poorer ones. Like myself.”

  “Sounds a good, sensible Hoosier girl.”

  “So when I declare my love, Charlotte may have me investigated. She's done that before with men.”

  “I'm liking this gal better and better.”

  “Therefore, I need to be rid of my `wife' in such a way that there is no risk that she will come back to haunt me.”

  “You are worried about being haunted by the ghost of a made-up wife?”

  “I will devise a story to account for my wife's death. But I am not a storyteller. I am a poet. So what I need you for is to troubleshoot. I want you to analyze it from an investigator's point of view. To identify weaknesses from the perspective of how an investigator might work.”

  “But can't you just say your wife died suddenly and leave it at that?”

  “I have decided,” Quentin said, “to have her murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will make Charlotte sorry for me.”

  “You want me to help make a fictitious murder so convincing it will fool the woman you love into being sorry enough to marry you?”

  “I know it sounds pathetic,” he said.

  “I don't like it,” I said.

  “I'll pay you well.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “I brought you a retainer. Cash. That's how it's done, isn't it? So you can avoid paying tax on it. Is a thousand dollars enough?” He pushed the envelope across the desk to me.

  “A thousand dollars? For something like this?”

  “I know it's not nearly as much as you got for last night.”

  “I'm going to have to think about it.”

  “Well, why don't you keep the money until you decide. You can give it back if your scruples won't allow you to do the work. Less fifty, say, for your thinking time. Fair? Wait till you see exactly what I come up with.”

  I thought about it. My woman would say, “Fifty for nothing.”

  I said, “All right.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “But we do the paperwork. And, for your information, I pay my taxes.”

  “It's a deal,” he said. “And Albert, I'm sure you'll find no objection to what I ask of you in the end. I always know about things like that.”

  “You know shit, Poet,” I said, in my head.

  I took out my receipt book. I counted the money in the envelope. Twenty new fifty-dollar bills. I copied their serial numbers onto the receipt. “Now,” I said, “your name.”

  “Quayle,” he said,

  “What?”

  “Quentin Quayle. I have a middle name. Crispian.”

  “Your surname is Quayle? Like . . .”

  “That's right.”

  “Are you related?”

  “Not as far as I know, but it is a Manx name and I understand he has Manx antecedents.”

  “Manx?”

  “From the Isle of Man. It's part of Great Britain.”

  “Oh.”

  “It's what first drew Charlotte's attention to my work. The name. The coincidence.”

  “Oh. Right.” I made the receipt out to Quentin Crispian Quayle, took an address and phone number and sent him on his way.

  Chapter Seven

  MY WOMAN DIDN'T SEE the problem. “You don't owe Charlotte Vivien anything.”

  “I know.”

  “In fact, considering some of the things you said about her . . .”

  “She's got a dumb idea of what makes a good party, that's all. I never said she was a bad person.”

  “But you do divorce work when you can get it, don't you?”

  She knew I did.

  “And you investigate for lawyers without needing to approve of their clients or sometimes without even knowing what kind of argument your work is supporting.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So . . .?”

  “I just don't like the idea of being hired to deceive someone deliberately. Legal proceedings are adversarial and so are divorces. But one doesn't usually think about marriages that way.”

  “Your romanticism has always been part of your charm,” she said.

  “Oh, come on. You're not such a goddamn cynic about love.”

  “Love, no, but marriage, yes. Al, if the Vivien woman can't see through your friend Quentin's absurd manipulations, isn't it open season on her?”

  “Soulmate.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Quentin is my soulmate, not my friend.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “I understand what you're saying, but while Quentin was talking I found myself feeling protective. The poor woman has so much money that she has to be suspicious of every man who smiles.”

  “If her money causes her so much grief, let her give it away. And if you want to protect somebody, how about muscling up for a deserving woman whose daughter absolutely refuses to benefit from her mother's painfully gained wisdom?”

  I muscled up.

  Sleep made me smarter. By the morning, Monday, I was ready to do whatever Poet wanted. I had a lot of years invested in the detective game. It was time to make them pay off. And I had to remember that I was going to have a hungry advertising budget to feed.

  I telephoned one of the city's major detective agencies. Luckily I was able to make an afternoon appointment to see Graham Parkis, the agency boss. If I became even a tenth as busy as Frank said I would, I'd need to subcontract work. Therefore I needed to negotiate a standing arrangement with a larger agency now.

  Parkis had done a great job for Frank's mother when she divorced his father. Found secret bank accounts and land and women and had left Frank's father a total wreck. So Frank recommended him. Not a sentimentalist, our Frank.

  Then, about ten-fifteen, I got a call from a minion at a downtown law firm. He said that one of the partners had been at Charlotte Vivien's murder meal with his wife.

  “Mr. Andrews says his wife thought you were cute,” the minion told me icily. “She wants her husband to use you. That's if you do investigative work. Or are you just a guy who does parties?”

  I assured the minion that I was a working detective.

  The minion asked my rates. I didn't follow Frank's instruction to double them, but as a gesture I added 25 percent. The minion didn't bat an eardrum. He was empowered to offer me a job immediately. It was a minuscule part of research for a client who was considering a merger. I signed on, figuring it would take about two days. The minion told me to appear at the firm's offices at noon.

  Pit
y I didn't remember which partygoer Mrs. Andrews was.

  But a Go-for-It Detective would find out. Get a copy of the party video tape for reference. Right?

  So I called Charlotte Vivien.

  Loring answered. He took my name and went to ask Mrs. Vivien if she was at home.

  “Mr. Samson,” Charlotte Vivien said. “How nice to hear from you. I've had no end of people tell me they enjoyed your contribution to my little evening.”

  “Oh. Well. Thanks.”

  “I know it was difficult for you, but I'm sure no one else could have done it better,” she said.

  “I tried not to let them see how much I felt out of my element.”

  “You handled the interviews particularly well.”

  “The novelty value was most of the battle. I don't think your guests would have found it half so entertaining if they were being interrogated for real.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But as a matter of fact the evening has led to two other jobs.”

  “You mean my guests have hired you?”

  “That's right.”

  “Heavens! Who?”

  I laughed. “I can't tell you that, Mrs. Vivien.”

  She didn't see the joke. With force, she said, “Oh, surely you can tell me the names. It's not as if I had asked you whether they were divorce jobs.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “I can't give you details of confidential cases. But neither is about a divorce.”

  “So you won't tell me?” This was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted.

  “No,” I said. “Look, I didn't call to get into an ethical dispute.”

  “What did you call for?”

  “You kindly offered me a tape of the party. I declined it on the night, but if it is still possible, I've decided that I would like a copy after all.”

  “You had your chance,” she said, and hung up.

  So, maybe she and Poet deserved each other.

  But I didn't get time to brood on the unexpected unpleasantness. Before I went out, the phone rang four more times. Two lawyers I had worked for in the past offered small jobs and two callers made appointments to talk about others. Not a single wrong number, wrong voice or heavy breather.

  It was Monday morning, we hadn't done the TV commercials yet and I was already hot.

  The daydream joyride with Frank was definitely on the agenda: “Get me an Albert Samson!”

  A character actor named Jack Elam was interviewed on a TV program I saw once. He described the stages of an actor's career in Hollywood. There are six: 1. Who is Jack Elam? 2. Can we save money if we use, say, Jack Elam? 3. Get me Jack Elam! 4. I suppose we'll have to find the money for Jack Elam. 5. Get me a Jack Elam type. 6. Who is Jack Elam?

  Maybe, just maybe, I was beginning to move from 1 to 2.

  Chapter Eight

  GRAHAM PARKIS WAS WAITING at the door when his secretary showed me in. We shook hands and I said, “Thanks for letting me come by at such short notice. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem, Samson. I always try to look out for other guys in the trade. We may compete for the money jobs using every known instrument of torture, but underneath the scabs and scars we've all got the same red runny stuff. It's a shit-hole way to make a living. Everybody hates you: the cops, the targets, even your clients. If we don't look out for the other guy a little bit, who can we turn to?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Make yourself at home,” he said. He waved me into the room.

  For a moment it was hard to tell where I was. Then I worked out that it must be an office because there was a computer terminal blinking on a walnut escritoire in a corner. Otherwise I would have guessed a Nevada whorehouse bar. It was that subtle.

  “Care for a snifter?” Parkis asked. He pulled two tall glasses from a gilt-edged shelf and then turned his back to open a small freezer.

  “Not for me,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Parkis drew out a white tub and flicked the top off. “Ice cream,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “Teetotal myself, so I know where you're coming from. But ice cream's my tipple.”

  There was a spoon in the tub. He dropped two large clots into one of the glasses.

  “Want some? Vanilla.”

  “No thanks.”

  He nodded, and put the ice cream back in the freezer. But before he returned to me he filled his glass with cola. The liquid fizzed around the colder ice cream. Parkis smiled broadly. “Called it a brown cow when I was a kid. Love it. What can I do for you, Samson?”

  I explained that I wanted cover in case I became too busy to handle all my business myself.

  “No problem about the personnel,” he said. “I've got lots of guys and gals on standby for me. But what kind of money did you have in mind?”

  I told him what I planned to charge.

  “Oh dear,” he said. He stirred his cow. “I suppose a few people would work down there.” He thought some more. He decided to be generous to a red-runny-stuff brother. “Yeah. I can swing it. There's not going to be much left for you, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I can see how you could look to go for the cheap end of the market hoping it will parlay into bigger things later on. Yeah, I can see that.” He tasted the brown runny stuff in his glass and found it to his satisfaction.

  Frank, in his pep talk, got his facts wrong. I may not have a receptionist, but when people call an Albert Samson they do not always get the man himself. Sometimes they get his machine.

  That said, since I moved above the luncheonette I have a classy model. It takes long messages. I can debrief it by calling in. I can change my customer-interface content by phone.

  Also it works.

  Over the course of the week my answering machine earned its electrons by dealing with a string of calls including what turned out to be two more “now” jobs.

  But there was no further contact from Poet. I didn't think a lot about it. Perhaps poets get writer's block when they're murdering fictional wives.

  Somewhat more surprising, I did not hear from Frank. However, I was not moved to call him.

  I was impressively, satisfyingly busy all week long.

  But Saturday in the middle of the afternoon I was in my office again. My Time Management Flow Chart™ showed clearly that I was typing invoices, 3:15-3:35. In fact I was reading, a book. Just for a few minutes. Like I used to in the old days. Before I was a success.

  And then my doorbell rang.

  It surprised me. Not because I wasn't getting used to the little ways clients have of getting attention, but because I hadn't heard anyone come up the stairs. The stairs may be on the outside of the building, but they are metal and they make no concessions to noise pollution.

  I put the book down and went to the door.

  I found a young woman standing outside. “Yes?” I said.

  She wore a brown coat which was ankle length but open enough in front for me to see sneakers.

  “Are you . . . are you . . .?” The voice, such as it was, came from under a floppy hat and from behind a threadbare mask of bright yellow hair.

  “I are,” I said. “Do you want to come in?”

  She glanced away and by doing so drew my attention to a pale green station wagon parked in front of the gas station down the street. I couldn't tell if anybody was in it but I would have bet the young woman wasn't friendless.

  “Uh, you're the detective, right?” she said.

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, I'll come in.”

  The glance to the road had helped my visitor find her words. We went in and sat in the positions that befitted our respective roles.

  My Client's Chair used to need dusting. Now I indulge in the fantasy that one day it might wear out.

  It was hard to assess the age of my visitor at first. Twenty and tired? Thirty-five and in great shape?

  “My name is Albert Samson.”

  “Uh, Kate King,” she said.

  “Can
I help you in some way, Ms King?”

  “It's a little complicated.”

  “I'm a little simple. That usually evens things out.”

  The idea, see, was to put her at her ease.

  I had no visible success.

  “Uh, look, I need to know, like, how confidentiality works with people like you. Uh, I don't mean people as people like you, but, like, detective-type people.”

  Oh.

  “The laws of the state say that only you, as a client, may be given any information I obtain while I work for you. Is that what you mean?”

  “Uh, yeah. Partly. But what, say, if somebody else, not your client, came to you and said, `Hey, so and so that you're working for, tell me who they are and what they want.' What do you do when that happens?”

  “I die with my lips sealed.”

  She studied me. “Is that serious?”

  She was certainly serious.

  I said, “The only time it doesn't apply is when criminal matters are involved. In that case the law says that I have an obligation to cooperate with the police.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  This was not a reassurance to her. She said, “And what about you? How do you decide when to go to the cops? Just as soon as there's a traffic ticket, do you go and pour it out to them or what?”

  I decided she was twenty and tired.

  “I don't involve the police unless I feel I have to,” I said in as avuncular a tone as I could. “But nobody in my business can survive without reasonable relations with our friends in blue.”

  That didn't reassure her either.

  I said, “You have some sort of problem, right?”

  “Uh, I might have.”

  “And you think that I might be able to help you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And would I be right to suspect you would have to be pretty desperate to bring me into it?”

  “You can say that again.”

  In some company I might have. But not with Twenty, Tired and Humorless.

  I said, “What I suggest is that you take the chance and tell me what's on your mind. Then I will tell you whether I think I can help. I won't take you for a ride. I won't charge you anything.”

  “Money's not a problem,” she said.