Death on the Double Read online

  THE INVESTMENT BROKER

  with “wife” trouble was dead—murdered—that much was certain.

  The investment broker was dead—locked in an office twelve people had seen him enter alive—and outside the door were:

  • the gorgeous blonde (exhibit # 1 in the divorce proceedings)

  • the beautiful red-head (with some interesting angles—not to say curves—of her own)

  •two private richards with shady reps (but unbreakable alibis)

  • and eight employees

  The investment broker was sitting at his desk, suave, unruffled, and impeccably dressed as usual—yet the autopsy showed he had been DROWNED!

  DEATH

  ON

  THE

  DOUBLE

  HENRY KANE

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The Investment Broker

  Title Page

  Death One: Watch the Jools

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Death Two: Beautiful Day

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Death of a Hooker

  Also Available

  Copyright

  DEATH ONE:

  WATCH THE JOOLS

  1

  Watch The Jools is bread and butter for the private richard. There is Watch The Jools and there is Louse The Spouse, and both are bread and butter, and both are duller than delinquency in hell, but bread and butter is bread and butter, and a man must eat. Louse The Spouse is a private detective’s assignment to uncover incriminating evidence against a husband or wife (depending upon who employs him) which, eventually, will lead to divorce, separation, or settlement with proper pecuniary blandishments. Watch The Jools is standing about in the midst of crowded (and usually drunken) festivities to see that none of the silverware is displaced, that nothing of value magically vanishes into the perfumed air, and that milady’s baubles remain festooned within the copious crevice of her abundant bosom. There are many ramifications to these staple assignments—ranging from dull to duller—but when the call is from Robby Tamville, there is hope, at least, for a change from bread and butter—something like a taste of brandy which is so old you cannot pry the cork loose from the bottle (or some such other dandy divertissement for the dilettante). The call, in point of fact, turned out to result in a combination of both Watch The Jools and Louse The Spouse, which puts gilding the lily in the same category of whitewashing the barn door.

  The call came through at one o’clock of an afternoon which was running its own special preview of Indian Summer. It was muggy and sweaty and hotter than a cooch-grinder wriggling through an audition for a rhythm show in Vegas. My legs were up on the desk and I was dreamily debating a visit to a lady graphologist who had begun to prick at my libido. This being afternoon, it would be an afternoon visit, which would make it social, since the lady worked nights. The lady worked at reading handwriting in the plushest of New York bistros—Monte’s Cave on Fifty-seventh and Park. We had become acquainted after one of Monte’s famous informal introductions, and I was busily plighting my troth. The lady was quite wonderful at reading handwritings—but she was even more wonderful at doing handwritings, as a short check (which comes free when you’re in the business) disclosed. The lady had once been indicted and tried for a series of forgeries in Los Angeles, but a good lawyer, a shapely leg, and a sympathetic jury had got her off. She had since shifted to New York, was reading handwritings, and was doing right well. Of course I had not mentioned the results of my short check: who strews rocks on the pathway of the plighting of a troth? The lady’s name was Sunny Saunders (Sunny being a corruption of Sondra), and I had my feet off the desk, and my finger in the phone dial, when Tamville’s call came through.

  My buzzer buzzed and my secretary said: “Pick up the phone.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A Mr. Tamville.”

  “A who?”

  “A Mr. Tamville.”

  “A Mr. Who Tamville?”

  “A Mr. Robby Tamville.”

  “Robby Tamville!” Excitement nagged like a young wife at an old husband. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Okay. Enough already with the chit-chat. Put him on.”

  She grunted. I grunted back at her.

  She put him on.

  “Hello!” Tamville was crisp and peremptory. “How are you, Pete? Long time no see, and all the rest of that crap. Grab a hat and come down the office. Right away. Bye, now.”

  He hung up and I cursed and praised him in the same breath. I cursed because he was a mean little guy, a vicious little guy, a pompous little guy, and a demanding little guy. I praised because a call from Tamville represented business, and my business of late had been of the peanuts variety, and Tamville, whatever else he was, was not peanuts, and my yen for Sunny Saunders was no more than a twist away from boredom: I didn’t really have a yen at all.

  “Grab a hat!” he had ordered. “Come down the office! Right away!”

  I sighed.

  I went.

  Right away.

  But I did not grab a hat.

  I took a cab to Pine Street, where his office was. And I told the cabbie to use the Highway because I was in a hurry. But I left my hat smack-dab on a corner of my desk. What’s a hat on a corner of a desk? Nothing. To me, at the moment, it was something. It was a symbol of my trying to cling to my fleeting self-respect. True, it wasn’t much. But then, neither was Robby Tamville.

  2

  The offices of Tamville & Hart, 60 Pine Street, were high in the needle of the tower. You went through thick ground-glass doors, white as snow, and then you were in a reception room with a purple carpet. A gold plaque over the reception desk stated as simply as raised-gold can state: TAMVILLE & HART, INVESTMENT BROKERS. A girl behind the desk batted eyes at you that matched the carpet. Sweetly she said, though not encouragingly: “Yes, please?”

  “Mr. Tamville.”

  “Who shall I say, please?”

  “Peter Chambers.”

  “One moment, please.” She talked into her telephone.

  The moment dragged to ten minutes. The girl talked into her phone again, batted her eyes again, said, “Very soon now, sir.” I walked. I wore out some of the purple carpet, kicking up little purple tufts. It helped—like leaving the hat at the office—but it didn’t help much—like leaving the hat at the office didn’t help much. Finally her phone tinkled and she talked to it and listened and hung up and said, “Mr. Tamville will see you now.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “a lump.”

  “Through the swinging doors,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I know.”

  Through the swinging doors was a large room that was set up to impress the customers. There were four desks on either side of the room, to the left and to the right. At each desk, there was a cluster of telephones and a small ticker. At each desk there was also a bright and busy young man, either talking on a telephone, or checking with the ticker-tape, or working on a pad with a sharp-pointed pencil. The room ended in a hip-high barrier somewhat like a picket fence, only the spikes on this one were solid tubes of mahogany. There was a swinging gate in the middle.

  Beyond the swinging gate�
��and all on wall to wall soft-grey carpeting—was the spacious ante-room to the offices of Mr. Tamville and Mr. Hart, respectively. To the right—with Tamville’s door in the background—was a catty-corner desk presided over by an attractive redheaded secretary. To the left—with Hart’s door in the background—was another cattycorner desk facing the first catty-corner desk. Hart’s secretary sat behind that, and Hart’s secretary set me back on my heels and made the trip worthwhile, come what may. She was bright-blonde and blue-eyed, red-lipped and pert-nosed, and could be inadequately described as perfectly gorgeous. She reminded me of Sunny Saunders—the coloring and general characteristics were the same—but try and compare the masterpiece at the Louvre with the lithograph of the same which you picked up for twenty bucks to cover the crack on the wall of the attic. You cannot.

  I sighed and steered my course to the left.

  “I’m to see Mr. Tamville,” I said.

  The blue eyes crinkled and the hint of a smile played around the full red lips. She pointed a crimson-tipped finger. “That would be the young lady over there.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss, Miss …”

  “Rollins. I’m the other fella’s secretary. Mr. Hart’s.”

  “Bully,” I said, “for Mr. Hart.” I tore myself away and presented myself to the redhead. “Seems,” I said, “I made an error. Seems I’m irresistibly drawn to hard-eyed blondes. Please forgive me. I am to see Mr. Tamville.”

  She smiled a pleasant smile. “It is an error quite frequently made here,” she said. “Are you Mr. Chambers?”

  “I am.”

  “Please go right in. Mr. Tamville is expecting you.”

  “Thank you. And thank Miss Rollins for her able directions.”

  The redhead winked and I went away from her. I turned the knob on his door, pushed in, and closed it behind me. I said, “Hi.”

  “It’s about time you got here,” he said.

  “Been here, Mr. Tamville, for the past ten, fifteen minutes. Something special?”

  “With me, everything’s special.”

  “I mean something special in a hurry?”

  “No particular hurry.”

  “But you said ‘right away.’ ”

  “And I meant right away. When I’m paying people, I expect them to jump.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I jumped.”

  “Okay,” he said, “and you’re being paid. Right now.” He drew out a wallet, extracted five bills, each for a hundred, and handed them to me. “Fair enough?”

  “Depends,” I said, “on what I’m being paid for.”

  “Look, my friend, I don’t underpay. Matter of fact, I’m notorious for over-paying.”

  “Might be one of the reasons I jumped.”

  “Sit down, Peter. Spread yourself. Rest. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Yes, sir.” I sat down and I spread myself.

  “I’ve always had a lot of respect for you, Peter.”

  “Yes, sir.” I thought of my hat on the corner of my desk.

  “I respect a man who delivers. Any time you’ve ever worked for me—you’ve delivered.”

  “Thank you. What am I supposed to deliver this time?”

  “Don’t rush me.” He looked at his watch. “Just sit. Rest.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sitting and I’m resting.”

  He reached for a large cigar, clipped the point, lit it, turned in his swivel chair and gazed out of the window. He was a small man with sparse hair on a pale pate. He had squint eyes, thin lips and soft nervous hands. He was a millionaire many times over, had been married six times, and was at present in the unusual state (for him) of bachelorhood. He was regarded as a tough man to deal with: cruel, belligerent, whip-snapping. Seems a frequent trait in men who have inherited enormous wealth. Robby Tamville had inherited enormous wealth—unless you are an Oriental potentate who regards fifty million dollars as a piffle. I’m not and I don’t. At any rate, little Robby had inherited his piffle at age thirty, was presently at age sixty, and dwelt in splendor at the Tamville mansion up on the outskirts of Riverdale.

  I coughed. Mildly.

  Little Robby turned from his contemplation of the sky to a contemplation of me. “I didn’t keep you waiting out in the reception room on purpose,” he said. “If that’s why you’re wearing the scowl.”

  “I’m wearing a scowl?”

  “Damn right you are.”

  “Must be because I’m doing one of my silent imitations.”

  “Imitation?”

  “Uh huh. A drunken potentate being snobbish.”

  His eyebrows soared. “Drunken potentate being snobbish?”

  “Yeah. I call it Pickled Potentate Ponders A Piffle.”

  “What the hell are you talking about!”

  “Nothing, really. I’m sitting, spreading, resting—obeying orders.”

  “I’ve got another assignment for you.”

  “You mean in addition to the sitting, spreading and resting?”

  “Sarcastic bastard, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t mean to be, Mr. Tamville. Only you said another assignment, and I don’t know what the first one—”

  “Sit up, will you? And listen. It’s money.”

  “Money?” I sat up and listened.

  He chewed on his cigar. “Had an argument with my partner. I’m breaking up our partnership. He’s gotten himself into trouble again.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Income tax trouble, and this time he’s gotten himself deep into trouble. There’s been an investigation, and there’s going to be a trial. They’ve impounded our records here, and today they even tied up his bank vault. Who needs that kind of fiddle-dee-daddle? Can’t do this company any good, can it?”

  Rhetorically I said, “No, sir.”

  “I suppose, in a way, I’m sorry for him.” He blew smoke at the ceiling. “Anyway, he wants to see you.”

  “Me?” I came to the edge of my chair.

  “Yeah, you. I mentioned you were coming here, and he asked if he could see you. Not averse to a little extra business, are you?”

  “Never averse.”

  “Didn’t think you’d be.” He sniffed. “My thing’ll keep. Why don’t you go and see him now?”

  “It’ll be a pleasure.” I stood up.

  “Pleasure? You ever meet him before?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the pleasure?”

  “The pleasure’s right outside his office. Seated at a cattycorner desk.”

  He smiled around his cigar. “Some hunk, huh?”

  “The hunkiest.”

  “Been here only six months, and already she’s got him where the hair is short.”

  “Like that, huh?”

  “I don’t know like what. But she’s got the old bastard where the hair is short, You’re going to see more of her.”

  “Me?” I said with favor.

  “Yeah. She’s coming to my masquerade party tomorrow night. You’re coming too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The squinty eyes squinted further in anticipation. “She’s coming as The Lady Eve.”

  “I certainly will see more of her, won’t I?”

  “You and me, kid. Thanks to Mr. Timothy Blattner.”

  “Who he?”

  “Fella that recommended her here for the job. Client. Little client with big ideas. You’re going to get to meet him too. Quite soon. But now you’d better go talk to Jonathan Hart.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and moved with alacrity, and outside I touched Miss Rollins’ elbow. She looked up from reading a book, and frowned. “Mr. Chambers,” I said, “for Mr. Hart Mr. Tamville insists.”

  She laid away the book. She stood up. She said, “Please wait here.”

  Sitting she was something. Standing she was much more: tall and erect, round and full on top, narrow in the middle, and round and full on bottom. And going away, going toward Hart’s door, she was even more: charming faint ungirdled wiggle, full thig
hs in a sheathed skirt, tapering calves in flesh nylons, and the trimmest of ankles. I watched until she disappeared and waited for her re-appearance. When it happened, she said: “Please go right in.”

  “You’re beautiful,” I said.

  “You bore me,” she said.

  “I’d love to,” I said.

  “He’s waiting,” she said.

  “Let him wait,” I said.

  She sat down abruptly, grabbed at her book, and applied herself to it. I stood there like a guy with his foot in a hole. The redhead smiled and lifted her hands in a gesture of accustomed compassion. I nodded, shrugged sadly, and went into Hart’s office.

  “I’m Jonathan Hart,” he said, coming forward, hand outstretched.

  “Peter Chambers.” We shook hands.

  “Like a drink, Mr. Chambers?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He opened a cabinet which had all the fixings including refrigeration. He dumped cubes into an ice-bucket, brought out bottles of carbonated water, said, “Please help yourself.” I made a highball, and then watched while he made his.

  He was tall and slender, with white hair, a ruddy tight-skinned face, small hands, small feet, and a habit of grinding his teeth so that his jaw muscles quivered. The ruddiness of his face was sunburn but you cannot put sunburn onto your eyes. His eyes were tired and lifeless with loose-wrinkled pouches beneath them. His shoulders drooped, and when he talked, he sighed frequently, as though gasping for air.

  “Mr. Tamville,” he said, “thinks very highly of you.”

  “I’m glad,” I said.

  “I … I … uh … I have a rather delicate problem, Mr. Chambers.” He fidgeted. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never employed a private detective before—don’t quite know how to go about it.”

  “Simple.” I said. “You state your delicate problem. If it’s acceptable to the private detective, he states his fee. If that’s acceptable, you have employed your private detective.”

  He sipped of his drink, set it down. “I want to divorce my wife. And I want you to turn up the evidence. If any.”

  “Louse The Spouse.” I groaned.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Any leads?”

  “Leads?”