Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

That was definite enough to be understood. I pushed back my chair, stood up and looked down at him. “Better bring your gang along to do it, Junior. I was weaned on wilder milk than you.”

He got out of his chair too, and when he started around the table, I thought he was coming after me. But he strode right on past toward the cocktail lounge.

Probably too angry to eat, I thought, and it gave me pleasure to think I might have spoiled his appetite. Then I shrugged, collected my hat from the cloak room and left.

It was six thirty when I left El Patio, and I was beginning to get hungry. But with the time I intended to spend on dinner, it would have been a waste of money to dine at El Patio.

I stopped at a hamburger stand for a sandwich, and was making my next call by seven. It was not a far drive from El Patio, for Willard Knight’s home was also on the South Side.

I was rather surprised at the lower-middle-class neighborhood Knight had picked for his home, for while it was not exactly a slum area, it hardly seemed the proper environment for an investment broker. The little frame cottage had no bell, so I pounded on the screen door. The inner door was open because of the heat, and when no one answered my knock, I peered through the screen door just in time to catch a woman peering at me also. She stood in a doorway across the small living room, and the moment my face neared the screen, she faded back out of sight.

Twice more I rapped, and when nothing happened, I tested the screen and found it unlatched. I brought the woman out of her hiding place by slamming it back and forth until it shook the house.

When she suddenly appeared the other side of the screen door, I saw she was a squat, middle-aged woman in a faded house dress. Her projecting lower lip and flaming eyes may have been generated by my knocking technique, but somehow I catalogued her as the type habitually discourteous to door salesmen. I could almost read her mind trying to classify me and settling on insurance salesman.

Before she could open her mouth to deliver the verbal blast I could feel coming, I said rapidly, “I’m investigating a murder. If you’re Mrs. Knight, I’m looking for your husband.”

Her lower lip remained outthrust, but all expression faded from her eyes and her face paled. After a moment of mental adjustment, she stepped aside and opened the door without saying a word. In her living room I picked a hard sofa as probably the most comfortable of an assortment of cheap furniture and settled myself at one end. Slowly lowering herself to the edge of a straight-backed chair, the woman clasped hands in her lap. Still she did not speak.

“You are Mrs. Knight, aren’t you?” I asked.

Her head gave a quick, frightened bob. For a woman who spit fire at door salesmen, she had certainly become a docile lamb.

“Where is your husband, Mrs. Knight?”

Instead of answering, she said in a scared voice, “What’s he done?” Her voice surprised me. It was more than merely husky. It was deep as a man’s.

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Nothing I know of. What do you think he did?”

She said, “Tell me. You can tell me. I’ll have to know anyway. What’s he done?” She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously.

“Don’t get excited,” I said soothingly. “A man your husband knew was killed. I’m just making a routine check.”

Her eyes searched mine with suspicion, then hope. “You’re not after him?”

I shook my head. “I think I’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m not from the police. I’m a private investigator.” Fishing my license from my wallet, I handed it to her. “I just want to talk to your husband.”

As she examined the license, some confidence returned to her bearing. “Moon,” she said, still looking at the license. Then she handed it back to me. “He’s out of town, Mr. Moon. On business.”

“What’s his out-of-town address?”

“I don’t know.”

I kept my eyes on her face until she flushed and looked at her hands. Then I said, “The information I have which connects your husband with the dead man I got from his secretary. She hasn’t told the police. If I can talk to your husband and get a reasonable explanation, maybe the police will never have to know Mr. Knight threatened the murdered man a few hours before the murder. But if I can’t, I’ll have to give what I know to them and let them pick him up. Do you have a phone?”

Fright showed in her expression again and her hands began to work together. “I really don’t know Willard’s address. He said he’d send it.”

“Why’d he leave?”

“I don’t know. Something he saw in the papers, I think.”

I didn’t say anything, merely continued to look at her. Her lips trembled and she went on.

“He was all right till breakfast. Well, maybe a little grumpy, but not excited like he was after he saw the paper. At first he seemed elated, like the stock market had boomed or something, but when I asked him what the good news was, he looked kind of thoughtful and told me maybe it was a mixed blessing. Then the more he thought about it, the more upset and less glad he seemed. He never did tell me what it was he saw in the paper, just told me to shut up when I asked a second time. Then he packed a suitcase and told me to phone the office he had a prospect who would keep him out of town a few days. He phoned a taxi, and when it came he said he’d write me.” Her voice turned faintly bitter. “I knew he wouldn’t tell me any more if I asked, so I never asked.”

“What taxi did he call?”

She thought a moment, then shook her head. “I didn’t pay any attention.”

“And you never found out what it was in the paper that upset him?”

She shook her head again. “I thought maybe it was something he saw in the financial section, because sometimes he gets upset over stock-market reports. I read over the market list after he left, but I couldn’t find anything about any sensational rises or drops in prices.” Her eyes widened at a sudden idea. “You said a murder. You don’t mean the one...” Her voice faded out.

I nodded. “Yes, I do. Where was your husband last night?”

“At a board meeting.”

“Where?”

“At his company. Jones and Knight Investment Company.”

My eyes flickered around the room, noting the flimsy wallboard construction and the second-rate furniture. It didn’t fit with a man who was one of the two principal stockholders in anything at all. She caught my appraising glance and flushed.

“It’s just a small company, and not very old,” she said.

“How long did the meeting last?”

“I don’t know. He was gone from six till after one in the morning.”

I rose. “I guess that covers things. Mind if I use your phone?”

She caught her breath. “You’re not — not going to phone the police?”

“I’m going to phone your husband’s partner.” Casually I added, “Jones flew to Kansas City last night. Seems funny he’d do that on the night of a board meeting, doesn’t it?”

Her face went pale. Without a word she rose and led me through a narrow dining room into a back hall where a phone sat on a table.

In the telephone book I found a residence listing for Harlan Jones and dialed the number. A female with an intriguingly throaty voice answered.

When I asked for Jones, she said, “Just a moment, please.” There was a suggestive croon to the voice which built interesting pictures in my mind.

I stared at the hall’s dim wallpaper design until a pompous voice said in my ear, “Jones speaking.”

“Manville Moon,” I said. “I’m trying to locate your partner.”

“Sorry, Mr. Moon. Knight is out of town. May I help your?”