Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

There was a pause, then, “Want to marry me?”

“Oh, the hell with it,” I said, and retreating to the end table, drank both drinks one after the other.

As Fausta had warned, the day bed was not very comfortable.

The smell of frying bacon aroused me at the ungodly hour of eight A.M. Strapping on my leg, I shrugged on a robe, visited the bathroom long enough to brush my teeth, then went to investigate the smell.

I found Fausta before the stove fully dressed, if you could call the fraction of a yard of blue cotton comprising her sun suit fully dressed. Greeting me cheerily, just as though nothing out of the way had occurred between us the previous night, she set a steaming cup of coffee before me.

“Eggs and bacon in five minutes,” she said, and returned to the stove.

I said, “Back when I was a young wolf, we had a name for gals like you. We called them teasers.”

Without turning around she wiggled her hips at me like a puppy wagging its tail. “A woman has a right to protect her vanity.”

“Vanity? You mean her virtue.”

“I mean her vanity. A woman does not necessarily want a man to make love to her just because she wants him to want to make love to her.”

It required a bit of mental juggling, assisted by a sip of scalding coffee, to sort this out in my mind. I am not adept at following feminine logic at any time, but before coffee in the morning it escapes me completely.

When no comment was forthcoming from me, Fausta said, “If you did not always act so smug and bored, last night would not have happened.”

Her words started me on an attempted analysis of our relationship. If I acted smug and bored around Fausta, it was strictly an act, I thought. Smug possibly, I admitted to myself, though cautious was probably a better word choice. But bored? Offhand I could think of a dozen emotions she had at one time or another aroused in me. Everything from deep tenderness to my present impulse to upend her and apply the palm of my hand where it would do the most good. But I honestly couldn’t remember a single instant of boredom.

Again I said, “The hell with it,” but this time only to myself.

With Fausta in tow, I arrived at Warren Day’s office about nine A.M. The inspector looked up in simulated astonishment when we walked in.

“Still up from last night?” he asked. “You wouldn’t get up this early without a summons, so you must not have been to bed.”

I told him I had been asleep by midnight, and tossed my parking ticket on his desk.

Before he had a chance to refuse it, I said, “I got it on police business, and the business paid off. You may scratch Barney Seldon off your list of suspects.”

The abrupt way in which I made this announcement made Day blink. “What?”

“Barney Seldon.” I gave him a brief run-down of my previous evening’s activities. “So you may as well tear up that assault complaint against Percy Sweet and Seldon at the same time you tear up my ticket,” I concluded. “You only wanted it as an excuse to hold Seldon when you got your hands on him anyway. And since both Barney and Percy Sweet are clear on the Lancaster and Knight killings, I’m not interested in pressing charges.”

The inspector scratched his long nose. “Suppose Barney was selling you a bill of goods?”

“He wasn’t,” I assured him. “Aside from the fact that our killer tried to poison Fausta, which Barney would certainly never do, his hoods dumping me and scurrying to Fausta’s rescue the minute they learned she was in danger cinches it that Seldon was merely behaving like a jealous juvenile delinquent. And don’t tell me his actions were too childish to be plausible. You have to possess subnormal intelligence to be a hood in the first place.”

Reluctantly the inspector agreed with me. Apparently his reluctance stemmed from this leaving him only Laurie Davis as a suspect, whereas he would have preferred someone with less influence. Not that political influence could deter Warren Day an inch from what he regarded as his duty, even though it did tend to awe him, but from a practical point of view it made his task harder. Seldon he could have dragged in, placed under a white light and hammered with questions until he was groggy. With Laurie Davis he would have to have an airtight case before even approaching the man.

Hannegan stuck his head in the door, cocked an eyebrow at Day, and the inspector shook his head at him.

“Cancel it,” Day said. “I decided to go myself.”

Hannegan looked a mute inquiry.

“Why the hell can’t you talk?” Day blared at him. “I’m tired of your sign language.”

“Yes, sir,” Hannegan said. His head disappeared and the door closed.

Rising from behind his desk, Day reached for his flat straw hat.

“Where you bound?” I asked.

“Over to Jones and Knight Company,” he said without enthusiasm. “Come along if you want.”

The very fact that he issued an invitation convinced me he considered the visit unimportant. I asked, “What’s up?”

The inspector grimaced. “Jones phoned he’s completed examination of his books. He has all the data concerning Knight’s borrowings listed.”

His indifferent tone told me he had decided everything connecting Knight’s death to Lancaster’s had been uncovered when we ran into Ilco Utilities, but he could not pass up the remote chance of finding something which might point toward a less troublesome suspect than the political boss of Illinois. His treatment of Lieutenant Hannegan verified this reasoning also. Apparently he had instructed the lieutenant to make the trip to Jones and Knight Company, but changed his mind when he lost Barney Seldon as a suspect. The chief of Homicide per personally going on such a routine errand indicated the inspector had reached the point of desperately grasping at straws.

Having reached the same point myself, I told him we would go along.

This time when we arrived at the Jones and Knight Investment Company, Matilda Graves was not crying. She was filing letters, and she was being very brisk and businesslike for the benefit of the remaining partner’s wife. Isobel Jones sat in one of the three visitors’ chairs, watching her with amused disinterest.

The secretary-bookkeeper greeted Fausta and me, then looked inquiringly at Warren Day.

“Day of Homicide,” the inspector growled at her.

“Oh, yes, officer. Mr. Jones was expecting someone from the police, but he is in conference at the moment. I’m sure he’ll be through in a matter of minutes now. Do you mind waiting?”

It was obvious from the inspector’s expression that he not only minded, but considered the suggestion preposterous. As chief of Homicide he was used to others waiting on his convenience, and reversal of the usual procedure caught him off center. But it was equally obvious Matilda Graves had no idea she was speaking to the chief of Homicide, and assumed he was merely a plain-clothes policeman. Since he could hardly correct her impression without sounding pompous, he grunted something unintelligible, seated himself in the visitor’s chair farthest from Isobel Jones and glanced at Isobel obliquely. As usual he covered his unease at the presence of an attractive woman with a fierce scowl.

Isobel said, “Hello, Manny,” nodded at Fausta and favored the inspector with a dazzling smile.

With his eyes on Matilda Graves, who was too plain to upset him, Day muttered, “Morning, Mrs. Jones.”

I said, “Can’t even the wives of businessmen get in to see them when they’re in conference?”

“Not when they’re in conference with lawyers, apparently. This seems to have been a bad day to call for shopping money.”

Fausta had seated herself between Isobel and Day, which left me standing, as there were no more chairs.