Читать книгу Kisses of Death - Henry Kane - Страница 7

FOUR

MARLA TRENT was Marla Trent Enterprises, 527 Madison Avenue, New York City. Marla Trent was a lady eye, the very tip of the top of the heap—the famous Private Eyeful. Marla Trent had no need to put her breast a foot forward to win, hands down and buttocks up, the accolade of Most Beautiful Private Detective In The World. Marla Trent was rich and successful, as were her clients. Marla Trent would as lief traffic with blackmail as a leaf would lief traffic with a whirlwind. Marla Trent was acute, astute, a beaut, and, of all things, a Ph.D., and with her figure yet. Marla Trent, in the preen of her teens, had once been runner-up to Miss America in Atlantic City, runner-up only because the dazed judges had not yet been ready to accept Juno as representative of the All-American Girl: Marla Trent stood five-six in stockingless feet and juttingly measured a justly proud 38-23-38 which is about as much woman as any man can dream to handle.

I admit to having dreamed but there had never been the opportunity to transfer the dream to reality. Marla Trent had always been the friendly enemy, the competition. Macy does not attempt to seduce Gimbel; nor Tiffany, Cartier; nor Lockheed, Boeing; nor Squibb, Parke Davis; etcetera all the way down to private detectives. There is a seemliness and a regard where mutual respect exists: the competition does not attempt to buck or pluck (or whatever rhyming word) the competition. I had worked in intimate concert with Marla Trent on intermittent and casual occasion but we had never worked in intimate concert for any length of time, to my regret.

Now at eleven o’clock Valerie Kiss and I presented ourselves at the spacious offices of Marla Trent Enterprises and I nodded to the receptionist, Miss Rebecca Asquiff, hatchet-faced and gimlet-sharp.

“Mrs. Kiss for Miss Trent,” I said.

“How do you do, Mr. Chambers,” gritted Rebecca. Miss Trent will be with you very shortly,” she said. “Please sit down.”

We sat together on a beautiful, custom-made, modern-type bench (modern-type means built for show but not for comfort) and as I wriggled to prevent the displacement of my coccyx, I said, “I’ll talk to her alone first. Sort of pave the way.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Chambers.”

A boy came out, tall and manly but more feminine than Rebecca Asquiff, and he smiled and said, “This way, Mrs. Kiss.”

“I’m Peter Chambers,” I said. “I’ll see Miss Trent alone first.”

“Well, she’s waiting in the library.”

That meant—why keep Mrs. Kiss sitting on a modern-type bench in the reception room when instead she could be comfortable in the library while you and Marla Trent talked in Miss Trent’s office?

We were led to the library which was a vast, cool, dim, book-lined room with an enormous mahogany library table and many mahogany armchairs. Marla Trent, quite the Private Eyeful, greeted us smilingly.

It was quite evident that Marla Trent was acquainted with Valerie Kiss. It was just as evident, however, that Valerie Kiss was totally unacquainted with Marla Trent. I was having a strange morning. Sometimes you can blame a strange morning on a hangover, but not this morning. I had retired the night before innocent of alochol; well, somewhat innocent; let us say sufficiently innocent not to be able to blame a strange morning-after on a familiar night-before.

Slightly slack-jawed Valerie Kiss said, “Are you, er, are you Marla Trent?”

Miss Trent nodded, still brightly smiling.

Mrs. Kiss swallowed. Who could blame her?

Marla Trent was unexpected when you expected a private detective. Marla Trent, in heels, was approximately five feet nine inches tall, all curves, all woman. Marla Trent was golden-haired, white-toothed, blue-eyed, red-lipped, creamy-skinned. Marla Trent was 38-23-38 and every splendid bulge of each astonishing statistic, unsuppressed by inhibiting undergarment, was as proudly displayed as a flag. She wore simple black pumps, no stockings, a simple black skirt, and a simple white scoop-necked blouse, the sum total of which simplicity was inordinately intricate in conjunction with Marla Trent. Certainly I could understand Valerie Kiss’s swallow of surprise. I was not surprised but I swallowed too before I said, “Could I talk with you alone a moment, Miss Trent?’’

She was gorgeous but she was a pro. There had been no squint of askance at my presence and now there was no ruffle of discomfiture at my request. She said, “Is that all right, Mrs. Kiss?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Kiss.

There was a door at either side of the far end of the library. The door to the left opened upon Marla Trent’s office, the door to the right upon the office of William Boyd Winkle, her associate. Within, the contiguous offices were connected by a heavy oak door which was closed when Miss Trent and I gathered in conclave. Quickly we grew chummy, out of earshot of the client, albeit we were separated by the bulk of her sturdy desk. Skirt up and smiling she swiveled in her swivel chair while I gaped.

“What are you doing here?” she inquired.

“Trying to earn a fee,” I said.

“How much?” she said.

“I don’t know yet but the lady I represent looks rich.”

“She’s rich. The husband is a highly rated vice president of the Corn Exchange National, Thirty-eighth Street Branch. Why does she think she needs to be represented?”

“She had an idea that your call this morning was a prelude to blackmail.”

The white teeth glistened in an amiable smile. “You know, I don’t blame her.”

“I talked her out of that. But quick.”

“Well, thank you. You’re sweet.”

“Sweet as sugar, lady, but you wouldn’t know.”

“I can imagine.”

I had made my stab, ponderously subtle, but the retort was cryptic, subject to either interpretation: crusty or encouraging. I was not taking any chances this early in the reestablishment of business relations, so I let it lie where she had dropped it. “Blackmail is the gambit of a second-rater,” I said. “Actually, my opinion is no compliment to you. Simply, you don’t need it, Miss Trent.”

“Why the formality, Peter? The client is in the library, remember?”

“I keep forgetting. Quite a beautiful chick, eh?” That was a second stab, even more ponderously subtle.

“A bitch.” That retort was disappointing, too typical.

“Bitch?” I said trying to sound horrified.

“A cheater. A cheater is a bitch. I don’t like cheaters.”

“The lady is a cheater?”

“The lady is a bitch. If you’re in love with a bartender, then toss up the vice president, I always say.”

“A bartender?” I said. “She doesn’t appear to be the type.”

“The vice president is handsome, but so is the bartender. I cannot speak for the husband’s bedroom proclivities, but the bartender is quite an agile performer.”

“Were you there?” I said.

“I’ve looked at pictures,” she said.

“So that’s the bit?” I said.

“Frankly,” she said, “I don’t know what in hell the bit is. At first I thought it was the normal desire for the acquisition of evidence for divorce. Now I’m beginning to believe it’s something far more complex. The vice president may even be bitchier than the bitch.”

“The vice president, I take it, is your client?”

“Sorry, confidential,” she said.

“He retained you to gather up the evidence, I take it.”

“Sorry, confidential,” she said.

“I stood up staunch for you against the blackmail.”

“I repeat, you’re sweet.”

“I am also trying, pulled away from breakfast on a Saturday morning, to earn a fee.”

“Noblesse oblige,” she said. “Professional courtesy can be broadened to professional confidence. You are sweet and I do believe you did stand up for me.”

I beheld in awe, as she clicked a peg of her intercom and said, “Willie, would you go get the Kiss file and bring it in to me, please?”

“Your wish is my command, dearly beloved.”

Hurriedly, I lit a cigarette. The blue eyes regarded me enigmatically. I smoked with all the deliberate insouciance I could muster. Natuarlly I choked, restraining a cough, but coughing enough to demolish any cigarette commercial.

“I’ve begun to believe that it’s the husband that’s the weirdo.”

“Beg pardon?” I said.

“Willie agrees with me. It began as a simple matter of obtaining evidence for divorce, except that the client was willing to pay real good. Ten thousand bucks, the expenses ours.”

“That’s good enough unless it’s complicated.”

“No complications. Straight adultery.”

“When did it start?”

“The adultery?”

“Your being retained.”

She closed her eyes, thinking, and it was restful: it was as though Klieg lights had been turned off. Then she opened her eyes and I was back to smoking, furiously.

“Right after New Years,” she said. “January Third. The guy called for an appointment, came into the office, and told us his story. The old story. He had a feeling his wife was cheating and he wanted to know. He wanted to know with all the proof. He wanted tape recordings and he wanted pictures. On the pictures he wanted a double-header.”

“You lost me,” I said.

“Tapes are tapes. Now look, Peter, don’t go ingenuous on me. You seem to be in the mood to play the little boy this morning, but sweetie, I know how much you’ve been around.”

That finished the cigarette. I squeezed it out, said, “So?”

“Tapes are aural, practically secondary evidence in a courtroom.”

“Plus you have to prove the voices.”

“And tapes can be faked.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Also, as you very well know, tapes are mostly for the masochistic kick, to listen, to hear what’s going on. If all he would have required was tape, then we’d have known he was a weirdo right off the bat.”

“But he also wanted pictures. A double-header.”

“Which made him a husband seeking evidence for divorce.”

“Provided the double-header on the pictures means what I think it means.”

“You’re in the business. You know. The tape and one set of pictures for him. The second set of pictures kept right here in the office. Dig?”

“I do,” I said. “No weirdo. Straight goods. Par for the course. It takes a lot of doing, time and expense, to obtain the evidence, but if the wife catches up with the bit, she might destroy tape and pictures, and the guy’s got nothing to show for his trouble. And once she’s wise, she also reforms, or she does her cheating more carefully, and the guy can’t even get himself his divorce. With a duplicate set of pictures in the office of his operator, he’s got insurance.”

“Very good, dear Peter. It’s nice to have you coming out of your Saturday morning fog.”

“Not fog, dear Marla. Daze. Whoever isn’t dazed by your dazzling presence ought to go see his doctor to check his reactions.”

“Well, thank you. Not bad for Saturday morning. Not at all bad.”

“Thank you. So let’s get back to Jonathan Kiss.”

“He laid ten big ones on the line, and he was a client. Actually, it was routine stuff. Willie handled it, with, of course, Willie’s customary skill.”

“So when did he become a weirdo?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

The door between the offices swung open and William Boyd Winkle’s broad bulk filled the doorway, jamb to jamb.