Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

“Are you going to keep this up all night?” he demanded. “I don’t work on the night shift.”

“How does this strike you?” I asked, ignoring his complaint. “This evening before I called you the first time, I questioned Barney Seldon about the Lancaster killing. A little while ago one of his goons tried to beat me up.”

“How do you know it was his goon?”

“He took pains to inform me before he went to work. It was supposed to scare me out of Barney’s hair.”

“Hmm,” the inspector said. “Think I’ll talk to Barney again. Where’s the goon?”

“Outside waiting for an ambulance.”

“You preferring charges?”

“You’re damn right,” I said. “Against both the goon and Barney. We have enough local hoods to worry about without letting a couple of out-of-town punks get away with anything.”

“Fine,” he said, pleased with me for a change. “I’ll have Barney picked up if he’s still in town, and you can swear out a complaint in the morning.”

I knew what pleased him, and it wasn’t my sentiments about out-of-towners. He was simply glad of an excuse to hold the mobster while he worked him over about the Lancaster killing.

I said, “You haven’t inquired about my damages. If I didn’t know you regarded me practically as a foster son, I’d suspect you weren’t worried.”

Day grunted. “Where’d you get hit?”

“In the head. Twice.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” he growled, and hung up.

I stood at the bar in the Sheridan from ten of eleven until a quarter after, and was about to forget the whole thing and leave when Mrs. Jones came in from the street door.

Smiling in my direction, she made straight for a corner table. I moved over from the bar and joined her.

“I’m late,” she said brightly.

“Yes. I noticed.”

Curiously she eyed the black and blue mark which had formed on my chin. “What happened to your face?”

“I had to break another date to get here. The woman was angry.”

She grinned at me. “You got off easy. Break a date with me sometime and see what happens to you.”

A white-coated waiter glided over to our table and bent from the waist, then waited soundlessly.

Mrs. Jones said, “Half a shot of Scotch, half a shot of bourbon, and water. Two of them.”

“One of them,” I corrected. “And a rye and water.”

When the waiter moved off, I said, “Well, Mrs. Jones?”

“Don’t be so formal. My name’s Isobel.”

“All right. Isobel. How’d you get out of the house?”

“Walked out. Harlan goes to bed on the stroke of ten, and an earthquake couldn’t wake him. We have separate rooms, so if I leave the house after ten thirty, he never knows it.” She laughed aloud, enjoying her cleverness. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

The waiter brought our drinks and neither of us spoke until he departed again.

Then I asked, “What’s on your mind, Isobel?”

She looked at me archly. “What’s on your mind?”

“Sleep, mainly,” I said dryly. “But I can spare a few minutes.”

She pouted. “If you’re going to be mean, I wish I hadn’t come.”

“I’m not being mean. But I assume you have something to tell me, or you wouldn’t be here. Spill it and I’ll be playful with you afterward.”

“How playful?”

I said cautiously, “As much as you can be in a place as public as the Sheridan Lounge.”

“Don’t you have an apartment?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “But it’s only one room and my poor old mother is a light sleeper.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“So what’s on your mind?” I asked again.

Reluctantly she brought her thoughts around to business. “It’s about Willard Knight.”

I waited.

“You’re wasting your time looking for him. He couldn’t possibly have killed that man last night.”

“Why not?”

“He just couldn’t have.”

I waited for more, but apparently no more was forthcoming.

“Look, Isobel,” I said finally. “You’re a nice gal in an unbalanced sort of way, and I’d enjoy wasting time with you if I wasn’t busy looking for a killer. What do you expect me to do now? Say thanks very much and forget Knight?”

She nodded vigorously. “I’m sure he’s innocent.”

“Why? Do you know where he was last night?”

“I know he wasn’t near that night club.”

“How do you know? Were you with him?”

She looked offended. “If you’re intimating I’d have an affair with anyone,” she said with illogical virtue, “I’ll have you know I’m a respectable married woman. I just know Willard Knight wouldn’t commit murder.”

At that moment a tall, shaggy-haired man with a gaunt, Lincolnesque face entered the bar from the hotel’s downstairs hall. Isobel emitted a small shriek when she saw him. I looked at her inquiringly, noticing her face lose color.

“What’s the matter?”

“That man!” She faltered, then went on. “I know him. I mean he knows me. He’ll see us together.”

I glanced over at the man, who was approaching the bar. “And tell your husband?”

“No, not that. I mean yes, he’ll tell my husband.” She was so agitated, she didn’t know what she meant.

When the man reached the bar, he turned and glanced casually around the room. His eyes stopped at our table, blazed with amazement, and at once he moved directly toward us. He kept his gaze unwaveringly on Isobel’s face until the edge of our table prevented him from getting any closer to her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked harshly.

Isobel’s face had turned dead white. “This — this is Mr. Moon. George Smith, Mr. Moon.”

I looked him over. “Sit down and have a drink, George.”

Paying no attention to me, he repeated, “What are you doing here?”

Isobel said desperately, “Mr. Moon and I are having a business meeting. It’s — well, he’s a private detective.”

Smith’s eyes swung sharply down at me. He gave me a thorough examination, shifted his glance back at Isobel, and comprehension broke over his face.

“Hired by your husband, was he?” he asked, and when she simply looked at him blankly, added, “And now he’s offering to sell you the data he’s collected instead of turning it over to your husband.”

I said in a bored tone, “Back off of that one fast, Buster, or you’ll find your teeth all over the floor.”

Isobel didn’t even know what we were talking about. In a bewildered voice she said, “Mr. Moon is hunting a murderer. That Lancaster affair that was in all the papers. I’m just one of hundreds of witnesses he’s questioning.”

Again Smith looked down at me. “Hundreds, eh? You question them all in night clubs?”

“About the blackmail crack,” I reminded him. “Take all the time you want to apologize. Anything up to three seconds.”

He started to form a sneer on his face, then changed his mind and said indifferently, “I withdraw the remark. Nice seeing you again, Isobel. Give my regards to what’s-his-name, your husband.”

Without another word he turned and left the room by the same way he had entered.

“Queer friends you have,” I remarked.

Isobel was sliding from her chair, collecting her bag and gloves as she moved. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

Dropping two one-dollar bills on the table, I followed her through the street exit. She made straight for a cab standing at the curb, glancing nervously over her shoulder once before climbing through the door I held open.

“Where to?” I asked when I had joined her.

“Anywhere. Just so it’s far.”

To the cabdriver I said, “Straight ahead three blocks.”