James Chase: He Won't Need It Now

You either get a big kick out of tossing your weight around like that, or else you feel all hands and feet. Duffy felt all hands and feet.

The chef and Morgan got into a huddle with the bill of fare. He didn’t ask Duffy what he wanted and Duffy was glad of that. He just kept talking in his deep harsh voice and the chef squeaked back at him in broken English until they had put a meal together that seemed to satisfy him. After they had done that, they got some elbow-room. Then Morgan remembered that Duffy was sitting opposite him.

“You’ll excuse me for not asking you what you would like, but on these occasions I feel the choice of a good meal lies in the hands of the chef rather than in the hands of the diner. Consult the chef and you put him on his mettle. I think you will be satisfied.”

Duffy shrugged. He began to want another drink.

“I should like to confirm a few details,” Morgan went on; “forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but my questions will eventually be to your advantage, so I must ask for your patience.”

This long-winded stuff gave Duffy a pain, but he hadn’t had oysters for a couple of years, so he let himself go with them.

Morgan didn’t seem to expect an answer, but went straight on. “I believe you resigned from the Tribune this afternoon?” he said casually.

Duffy grinned. “You’re partly right there,” he said. “I didn’t resign, I was tossed out.”

“Arkwright is a difficult man.”

This bird seemed to know all the answers. Duffy laid his oyster-fork on the plate and looked regretfully at the glistening shells. “So what?” he said.

“You may find it difficult to get a job again.”

The soup and the sherry turned up then. Duffy looked at the sherry and then at Morgan. Morgan got it all right. “Perhaps you would prefer Scotch?” he asked.

“These sissy drinks upset my guts,” Duffy said, apologetically.

The wine waiter was called and a bottle of Scotch materialized. Duffy felt he could cope with anything with that at his elbow. He gave himself a generous shot and dived into his soup again.

“As I was saying…” Morgan began.

Duffy raised his head. His eyes were hard. “You seem to know a hell of a lot,” he said sharply, “who told you——?”

Morgan waved his hand. “Please,” he said, “let me continue. I was saying, you will find another job difficult to get.”

Duffy laid his spoon down with a sharp clatter. “You know, pal,” he said, “a guy with my experience seldom stands in the bread-line. I’ve got a swell equipment, I know my job, and if the worst comes, I could set up a studio. I guess you’re being mighty pleasant with your sympathy, but I ain’t worryin’ and I’d hate to have you worry for me.”

“I’m quite sure,” Morgan said, rather hastily, “you’ll get along all right, but I have a proposition that might be extremely useful to help you start that studio.”

“What is it?”

“Before we come to that, I wonder if you would enlighten me on a few technical points of your work?”

“Sure.” Duffy was getting bored with all this. “What’d you want to know?”

“Would it be possible to get pictures of a person who is unaware of you, in ordinary lighting, in an ordinary room, who probably would be moving about. I want good pictures, not just anything.”

“It depends a lot on the room,” Duffy said, pouring some more Scotch in his glass and forgetting to put the water in after it. “I wouldn’t like to say without seeing the room. It depends so much on the walls, if they reflect the light. If you don’t want real art, I could get you pictures all right. Pictures that would reproduce.”

“You could do that?”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be so hard.”

Morgan seemed satisfied with that and went off on another long-winded ramble about nothing at all. They went through the dinner without getting anywhere, and Duffy guessed Morgan was stalling until he had finished the meal. He was right, for when the coffee was served, Morgan lit a cigar for Duffy and one for himself and got down to business.

“This is a delicate situation,” he said, pursing his thick lips, and letting the heavy smoke slide, almost hiding his face. “I don’t want you to know too much about it. The less you know the better for both of us. My wife’s being blackmailed and I want to help her out.”

Duffy grunted. He was surprised, but then you never knew what was coming to you, he told himself.

“Unfortunately my wife and I don’t get on as well as we might.” Morgan fidgeted a little with his liqueur glass. “We don’t live together. However, that does not concern you. She is being blackmailed and I’m going to put a stop to it. She won’t come to me for help, but that does not alter the situation. I want to catch this blackmailer with the goods. This is where you come in. I want you to get pictures of her giving this crook money, then I can crack down on him. It is no use trying to co-operate with Mrs. Morgan, she wouldn’t want me to help her. I can get you into her apartment and you must do the rest. I shall pay you well.”

Duffy didn’t like this. He thought there was a phoney smell that went with it. He shifted in his chair.

“This sounds like a job for a private dick,” he said, without any enthusiasm.

Morgan seemed to expect opposition. “I want pictures,” he said with emphasis. “To get them, I must employ an expert. You’ll be wanting money pretty soon, and you’re an expert. I think it fits, don’t you?”

Duffy told himself that if he was going to pull this job, the dough had to be right.

“Now as to terms.” Morgan spread his big hands on the table-cloth and looked at them. “I will give you five hundred dollars down, and a thousand dollars for every good picture you turn in.”

Duffy got his nerve back with a long drink. He was getting pretty high by this time, but he was still cautious. “You must want those pictures mighty bad,” he said, thinking that he could do himself well with fifteen hundred bucks.

“I do,” Morgan said. “I want them fast too. Will you do it?”

Duffy waved a hand. “Take it easy,” he said, “you’re rushing me. I want to get this straight. You want me to go to your wife’s apartment and take pictures of her and someone else and turn these pictures over to you, that right?”

Morgan was getting impatient, Duffy could see that, but he held himself in with an effort. “That’s right,” he said.

“What happens if she spots me and sends out the riot call?”

“She won’t spot you,” Morgan said shortly. “Let me give you the idea. She is crazy about music and she’s rich enough to indulge herself. In her sitting-room she has a small organ loft. This loft’s a kind of balcony about ten feet from the floor, looking into the room. It’s reached by a special staircase and there is a back entrance to the staircase.”

Duffy reached for the Scotch, but Morgan put his hand on the bottle. “Don’t you think…?” he began, but Duffy took his hand away. He just lifted the fat man’s hand and flung it back at him. His eyes looked annoyed.

“Listen,” he said tersely, “if you think I’m gettin’ drunk, forget it. When I want a drink, I have a drink, see?”

Morgan shrugged. His face was pale and he gently rubbed his wrist. “Quite a grip you have there,” he said.

Duffy grinned. “Sure,” he said. He poured the Scotch into the glass and swallowed it. “Go on,” he said.

Morgan tapped on the table with his thick fingers. “You see, my wife didn’t want the musicians tramping through her room. They could come up the back entrance and get fixed without any fuss. All you have to do is to go up the stairs and lie on the floor in the dark and take photos of the room below. You can’t be spotted.”