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TWO

SHE WAS tall and willowy with beautiful ankles. She was long legged and tiny waisted and high hipped and provocatively chested in an expensive green summer dress without sleeves. She had a small nose and enormous eyes, the nose tilted and the eyes brown. She had poise, she had posture, she had presence, she had luminous auburn hair expensively coiffured. She carried a black patent-leather handbag and the graceful ankles, nylon sheathed, rose up out of spike-heeled black patent-leather pumps. Her skin was fair, white, smooth, and carefully tended, and her hands were long-fingered and delicate. She was distressed; naturally she was distressed—she had insisted upon visiting a private detective early on a Saturday morning—but she did not stress her distress; she was contained, reasonably calm, somehow remote. She had quality. It was written all over her. She had class, Class A. She smiled and said, “Mr. Chambers?” and she extended her hand and I took it and shook it. It was cool and dry with a firm but not flirtatious clasp. She shook my hand and then let go. She said, “I know I am an intrusion so early on a Saturday morning but you must forgive me.”

“That’s the kind of business I’m in,” I said.

“Thank you for being so sweet,” she said. Her voice was deep, slow, trained, cultured, somehow familiar. All of her was somehow familiar but I could not place it.

She sat down in a soft-pillowed easy chair, sank in. She crossed her legs and the slender ankles plumped up to the kind of rounded calves that caused one to become rampantly curious about the thighs, so I looked away.

“Do I know you?” I said.

“Do you?” she said.

“I feel as though I do but I can’t put my finger on it.”

She looked upon her wrist watch which, like all the rest of her, was obviously expensive, and she said, “We have an appointment at eleven o’clock.”

“We?” I asked.

“At 527 Madison Avenue. At eleven o’clock. It’ll take us about ten minutes to get there from here, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Before that, I have about ten minutes of explanatory matter for you. But before that, if you so desire, you may talk about whatever you want, ask any questions you wish.”

“Do I know you?” I said again.

“My name is Valerie, Valerie Kiss, Mrs. Jonathan Kiss. Does any of that mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing. But I’d swear I—”

“My professional name was Valerie Dayton. Any bells?”

Bells, not gongs, little bells, began to tinkle. Valerie Dayton. Sure. Of course. Seven, eight years ago, it had been a stage name, a motion picture name, a television name. I had seen her in a couple of lead roles on Broadway, I had seen her in a couple of secondary roles in movies, and I had seen her in countless supporting roles in countless television epics: westerns, easterns, southerns, violence-shows, and emasculated social-significance dramas. “Sure,” I said. “Valerie Dayton. Sure.”

“I married,” she said, “and I married well. Second marriage, as a matter of fact. First marriage still had to do with the career, but I got wise, it was not for me. I didn’t have—” She shrugged and scraped out her cigarette. “—the guts, the drive, the perseverence. I had the talent and the training but I just couldn’t take the grind. I got married and quit show business.”

“When?”

“Three years ago. I married a rich-type fella, a banker-fella, and I retired, sour grapes sort of, from show biz.”

“Which explains the recommendation from Felix Davenport.”

“A long time ago Felix told me, ‘If you’re ever in real trouble, see Peter Chambers. He’s in the phone book.’ ”

“Are you in trouble, Mrs. Kiss?”

“I believe so.”

“You believe so?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What kind of trouble do you believe you’re in?”

“Blackmail trouble.”

That’s trouble, even if you only believe you’re in that kind of trouble. I sighed and extinguished my cigarette. It was not going to be easy for the lady. Blackmail trouble requires confession and confession is difficult when you must look upon the eyes of your confessor and is doubly difficult when the eyes of the confessor are straining not to look upon the curves of your calves. I glanced at my watch. There was time. I stood up and said, “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Kiss?”

“Oh yes, very much, thank you.”

“Be with you in a minute,” I said and went to the kitchen.