Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

She fell silent and thought wrinkles momentarily marred the smoothness of her brow. Then, lifting her shoulders deprecatingly, she said, “Will you have a drink?”

I nodded assent. “Been waiting for an offer.”

Her good humor returned at once. “You should have asked.” She rose and moved toward the hall, stopping in the doorway long enough to remark, “I forget everything else when I’m talking. I talk too much, don’t I?”

“Probably,” I said. “But it’s fun listening.”

She laughed and continued toward the back of the house. Immediately she returned.

“What do you drink?” she asked.

“What do you have?”

“Beer. Bourbon. Scotch.”

Without rye as a choice, I have no preference. But for some reason, possibly because the whole atmosphere surrounding Mrs. Jones was slightly mad, a slightly mad mixture I had not tasted for years popped into my mind. Once overseas I fell heir to a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of Scotch at the same time, and talked myself into thinking a mixture of the two tasted like rye. Probably a palate attuned to raw cognac and a three-year-dimmed memory of rye helped the delusion, but I liked the mixture. I hadn’t tried it since.

“Half a shot of bourbon, half a shot of Scotch, and plain water,” I said.

Her eyes widened. Then she laughed delightedly like a child with a new toy and returned to the kitchen. She had been gone about two minutes when I heard the front door open and close again.

A round little fat man carrying a carton of cigarettes came in from the hall. He stopped short when he saw me, then advanced diffidently.

I got out of my chair. “You Mr. Jones?”

“Yes.”

“Manville Moon,” I said, sticking out my hand. “I phoned earlier.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Moon.” He pumped my hand delightedly, and I got the impression he was quickly appraising the cut of my clothes in an attempt to size up my bank-roll.

Apparently my attire pleased him, for he beamed at me happily. But since the hundred and fifty dollars I paid for the suit I was wearing bore no resemblance to the size of my bank account, I decided to deflate his optimism before he sold me a block of General Motors.

“I took advantage of you over the phone,” I said. “I’m not in the market for stocks. I just wanted some fast information about Willard Knight.” For the fourth time I passed over my license.

His eyes grew round. “Private investigator.”’ he said uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”

Mrs. Knight came back into the room, bearing a tray with two glasses. “Are you back, Harlan? This is Mr. Moon. He’s a private eye. Isn’t that exciting?”

I winced, as I always do when anyone calls me a private eye.

“Yes,” Jones started to say. “We’ve—”

“We’re having a new drink,” she interrupted. “Scotch and bourbon mixed. Go make yourself one.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Jones said petulantly.

“Suit yourself.” She handed me one of the glasses, took the other herself and curled up in a chair with her legs under her.

Easing myself back into my own chair, I said, “Luck,” and tried a sip of the drink.

It did not taste like it had overseas. In fact it tasted lousy.

“That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Jones thrilled after her first sip. “Wherever did you discover it?”

“It was invented on the Continent,” I said with a straight face.

“See here,” Jones put in suddenly. “What’s all this about?”

His wife looked at him in surprise. “I told you. Scotch and bourbon. Why don’t you sit down? You make me nervous.”

“I mean this private investigator business. Mr. Moon here.”

He looked at us both in pouting uncertainty, then laid down his carton of cigarettes and seated himself on the couch. Immediately he picked up the carton again, broke it open and stripped the cellophane from a pack.

“Cigarette?” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said, then to Mrs. Jones, “Mind cigar smoke?”

“Love it. I like to see a man smoke a cigar.”

After politely holding a match for Jones and lighting up myself, I abruptly got to the point of my visit.

I said, “I’m here about the murder that took place last night, Mr. Jones.”

“Isn’t he dramatic?” his wife asked. Then her face stiffened and she said in a strangely hushed voice, “Not Willard?”

“He means Walter Lancaster, I presume,” Jones told her with mild impatience. To me he said, “I’ve already told the police everything I know about the man. What is it you want with me?”

“I want you to tell me where Knight is.”

He looked surprised and a little relieved. “I don’t know. Our secretary phoned his wife this morning when he didn’t come in, and Mrs. Knight said he left town to see a prospect. She didn’t seem to know where he went. Why don’t you ask her?”

“I did. She doesn’t know either.”

Mrs. Jones said, “No doubt he will wire in tomorrow. Can’t you wait?”

“No, he won’t wire,” I said. “He’s run.”

Nervously Jones punched out his cigarette. “I don’t understand this, Mr. Moon. Is Knight suspected of the crime?”

I shrugged. “Not exactly. But a few hours before the murder he threatened Lancaster, and now he’s dropped out of sight. When his wife last saw him, he was in a peculiar hurry. And he definitely was not where he told his wife he was last night. You established that on the phone.”

Mrs. Jones said, “Willard couldn’t have. Why he was...” Her voice trailed off and she finished lamely, “You have mentioned he has a temper though, haven’t you, Harlan?”

Abruptly she rose, excused herself and left the room.

Jones said, “This is all a great shock to me, Mr. Moon. But I’m sure my partner wouldn’t kill anyone. There must be some other explanation for his absence.”

“I haven’t accused him of murder,” I said. “I merely want to find him. And since you know his habits, maybe you can give me a lead. Where would he go to hide out?”

“Hide out? I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“He have a summer camp or a cottage anywhere?”

He moved his head back and forth slowly. “No. I’m sure he hasn’t.”

“Have friends in other cities?”

He screwed up his forehead and thought for a while. “No one special I can think of,” he said finally. “But I suppose he has some out-of-town friends.”

Mrs. Jones came back into the room carrying a single drink. “I fixed you one of the new drinks,” she told her husband, handing him the glass.

He accepted it as though he didn’t want it, but didn’t know how to refuse before company. As Mrs. Jones passed between us on the way back to her chair, she casually dropped a note in my lap, her body hiding the movement from her husband. Without looking down, I let one palm fall across it.

“You seem to know Knight as well as your husband does,” I said to Mrs. Jones. “Any idea where he’d hole up if he didn’t want to be found?”

“I’m sure Harlan knows him much better than I,” she said in a suddenly prim tone. “I know him only as my husband’s partner.”

“All right. As your husband’s partner, where would he go to hide?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

I got out of my chair, slipping the note in my pocket as I rose. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for the drink.” The drink stood, practically untouched, on the little cocktail table.

Jones said, “I’m afraid we haven’t helped much.”

“You’ve been fine,” I said politely, and bowed my way out.

A block from the house I pulled my car over to the curb, switched on the dome light and read the note Mrs. Jones had dropped in my lap.