David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 2

“Who supports her?”

“Supports her?” Grace Denney snorted politely. “Aunt Paula has annuities that pay her at least five hundred dollars a week. Her husband was my mother’s brother. Oscar Larsen, the candy man. Larsen’s Fine Chocolates. Stores all over the country. He put all his money into annuities before he retired. And shortly afterward he died.”

“You say you haven’t heard from your aunt?”

“Not since she entered that nursing home.”

“How long ago?”

“About two years.”

I looked at her curiously. “And you weren’t concerned about it until recently?”

She hastened to defend herself. “Let me explain. I used to live with Aunt Paula, until I met Charles. Charles Denney, my husband.” She paused, waiting for me to comment. When I remained silent, she raised a delicate eyebrow. “You never heard of Charles Denney?”

“Should I have?”

“He’d probably think so. Charles was in pictures, until the movies found their tongue. After that he just couldn’t seem to click. All they’d give him were minor roles, small bits where he didn’t have to talk much. It was quite a blow to Charles. He still fancies himself as an actor and thinks that there is a great Hollywood conspiracy against him.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Here in New York. Aunt Paula didn’t like him at all. She thought he was too old for me.” Grace Denney twisted her mouth wryly. “Which he was, of course, but I was too stubborn at the time. Aunt Paula was furious when I went to California with him. She swore she’d never talk to me until I was single again. I wrote once or twice, but she didn’t answer, and then I heard indirectly that she had entered this Vandam Nursing home. About a month ago I started writing to her, with no results at all.”

“Is that so surprising?” I asked. “You’re not single again, are you?”

“No, but I’m going to be. I intend to sue Charles for divorce. I thought that would please Aunt Paula, and I was very surprised when she didn’t answer my letters.”

“So you hired a private detective, this Lester Britt.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because I was worried.”

“About what?”

She shrugged vaguely, a troubled look in her eyes. “I can’t say exactly. I really don’t know. It’s just something I feel. And now with this private detective acting so peculiar...” She let her voice dwindle uncertainly and caught her full bottom lips between her teeth.

“Who recommended you to this Lester Britt?”

“Nobody. I found his number in a Manhattan directory at the Telephone Exchange.”

“What else did he say besides tell you to go home?”

“He said Aunt Paula never wanted to see me again, that she still hated me.” Grace Denney’s mouth tightened. “I don’t believe it.”

“Why didn’t you try to see her?”

“I did.” Bafflement squirmed in tiny wrinkles across her forehead. I went straight out to that Nursing Home on Long Island. The place is built like a fortress. I spoke to Dr. Albert Vandam, who runs the Home. He told me to wait in the office while he spoke to Aunt Paula. After a few minutes he came back, shrugging his shoulders. He said that she had developed an obsession. She absolutely refused to see me.”

“All right,” I said. “I’m a lawyer. What do you want me to do?”

She looked surprised. “Whatever lawyers are supposed to do in such cases. If Aunt Paula has become senile, if she’s incompetent to handle her own affairs, don’t you think a guardian ought to be appointed?”

“No doubt about it,” I said. “Who’s supposed to inherit her money?”

“I am. It was all arranged by Uncle Oscar when he set up the annuities.”

I looked at her with fresh respect. For looks and personality she already headed the list. Now she rated high on the financial scale too. I smelled a generous fee in the air. Though I would have handled her case anyhow, for a smile and a smaller fee.

“You have just retained yourself a lawyer, Mrs. Denney,” I said and stood up. “Suppose we pay a visit on this Lester Britt and see what he has to say for himself.”

She abandoned the chair with alacrity, a sudden smile warming her face. I got the full brunt of it and I could feel it all the way down to my shoes. “That’s what I like,” she said, “a man of action.”

We left the office together and she tucked her arm through mine with an easy familiarity, as if we had known each other a long time. She kept step with me across the lobby and I wasn’t ashamed to be seen with her. I could feel her pulsing aliveness and the fluid grace of her body.

But not for long.

She gave a sudden start and I felt her stiffen at my side. Then she jerked free and her heels clicked a sharp tattoo on the sidewalk as she steered straight for a man holding up the side of the building. I followed.

“Are you spying on me, Charles?” she demanded acidly. Her eyes were hot and her voice was cold. “When did you come to New York?”

He made a pacifying gesture and smiled affably. “Arrived yesterday, on the same train you did, my sweet.” He flicked his eyes significantly in my direction. “Could I talk to you alone, love?”

“No,” she snapped rudely. “We’re all washed up, Charles. I told you that months ago when I left the bungalow. Besides, I’m busy now. This is my lawyer, Scott Jordan.” She indicated the man with a carelessly deprecating gesture. “My husband, Charles Denney.”

“How do you do,” I said.

“Fine,” he said.

I understood now why he would never be a success in talking pictures. There was nothing wrong with his diction, nor with his charm. He looked like an aging playboy, but he spoke like the head chamberlain in a harem.

Grace Denney said between her teeth, “If you insist upon following me, Charles, I’ll complain to the police. That kind of publicity can hurt your career. Good-bye.”

He tried to detain her. He reached for her arm. She swung around furiously and slapped his face. A red welt blossomed on his cheek. He cried out in a thin womanly bleat and slapped her back. She gasped and looked stunned.

“Here,” I said. “Let’s have no more of that.”

He turned on me, teeth bared. “You stay out of it. She’s my wife.”

A crowd of curious onlookers had begun to collect. I took her elbow firmly and said, “Let’s go, Grace.”

Charles Denney surprised me. He struck out at the point of my jaw, and the sonovagun was in good condition. My head snapped back with a stab of pain. He was begging for it, so I obliged. I grinned wolfishly and aimed one at his stomach. It was a good shot and I felt my fist sink in to the wrist. Denney’s lungs collapsed like a punctured balloon, and the fight went out of him. He leaned against the building, his face pasty.

I turned and walked Grace to the curb and yanked open the door of a waiting cab, got her installed, climbed in beside her, and the driver gave it the gun. His engine roared and we spurted away.

He swiveled his head. “Hey, you ever fight professionally?”

“Golden gloves.”

“Look, buddy, you got a lot of promise in them dukes. I know a manager who can—”

“No soap,” I told him. “I’m perfectly satisfied with my own racket.”

He looked pained. “Okay,” he said. “Where we going?”

“Give him the address, Grace.”

It was all the way down on Park Row, one of those ancient musty seedy buildings that had served its purpose and was marking time until the wreckers pulled it down. Lester Britt had an office on the third floor. The naked-ribbed elevator cage took us up, squealing and groaning on its cables. The hall hadn’t seen a janitor’s mop in months. Grace made a rabbit’s nose and stepped quickly and lightly to a frosted glass door with Britt’s name and the legend: Investigations.