David Bishop - The Original Alibi

“Anyway, the point is you helped her with her case. So, you still dig investigating stuff.”

“That was different. Clarice was a neighbor and a friend accused of killing her husband, Garson Talmadge. I handled the investigation for her defense attorney.”

“This case’ll be different too, boss,” he said while picking up the coffee carafe.

“How many times do I need to tell you to stop calling me boss? It’s not necessary.”

“Seems right to me, after all I work for you.”

“You can’t call me Matt, but you can wear my pants?” I held up my empty cup.

“Now you got it, boss.” He filled my cup with a smirk on his face.

“The appointment, fill me in.”

Axel took a seat and poured himself a little coffee. “Not much yet to tell. This guy, Franklin’s his name, Reginald Franklin III, how’s that for a handle, he’s an attorney with a client who needs your help. He freely admitted his client specified Matthew Kile as the investigator he wanted. Admitting that up front told me he ain’t shopping the job, so money’s not an issue. I told him it would be a grand for this morning, just to talk and see if you’ll handle the case. He understands that money’s gone whether or not you join up. He didn’t quibble. He’s bringing the check.”

I expected Axel would be around during the Franklin meeting. Axel didn’t really have a set schedule. If I needed him, I told him and he’d be there. Otherwise, he came and went as he pleased and when he wasn’t around I fended for myself. Like I said, his duties were evolving. I think Axel saw himself as my Kato or Dr. Watson or some such character. If I had my choice, I’d prefer him to be Archie Goodwin, the able assistant of Nero Wolfe, but then I would fail in comparison to Wolfe. My waistline was likely only half of Wolfe’s girth, not to mention my falling well short of his genius.

“So what do you have going today?” I asked.

“After our meeting with Franklin, I’ve got a few close-by errands then I’ll hoof it over and have lunch with the fellas at Mackie’s. Don’t worry, boss, Franklin won’t know I’m around unless you call for me.”

“You think Franklin could be the real client?”

“No way, he’s fronting for someone. I could tell by his voice. He wasn’t uptight. He did tell me it was some old case the cops have tossed aside. The dude’s a smoker, so get him out on the balcony if he tries to light up. A pipe, I think. I could hear him inhale and bite down on the stem the way pipers do.”

After all those years in the big house, as Axel still called prison, he had mastered reading the tone and pace of people’s voices. He can read body language or faces, cons or bulls. All the old timers could do it, at least the ones with an ample helping of brains and judgment.

“The odds say I won’t take this new case.”

“Why not? You’ve about done up the book you was working on. And, hey, a grand’s nothing to sneeze at. You know?”

It was the fourth of December, three weeks before Christmas to the day, when I parked my new Ford Expedition in the turnaround in front of the home of General Whittaker, the client of the attorney, Reginald Franklin III. The general’s home, an elegant place with a second floor, looked to be about six thousand square feet, and sat on a small cliff south of Long Beach, California, which backed up to the Pacific Ocean.

The door was opened by a man approximately fifty-five years of age. He appeared to be house staff. He wore a white shirt with a starched collar, the rest of his dress being black. He was a stout man, but not fat. His pants were hitched up closer to his neck than his navel. His ears reached out from his head like they were expected to catch fly balls rather than words.

He looked me up and down without disclosing the impression he gleaned from having done so. “Good evening, Mr. Kile. You’re expected.” Seeing my surprise at being recognized, he added, “Your picture is on the dust covers of your books. My name is Charles, Mr. Kile.”

Few people called them dust covers any longer so Charles was a reader and, apparently, one not yet converted to reading eBooks.

“Please follow me.” Charles was an average sized man. He looked fit and confident in his ability to do his job. He led me into a wide junction in the hallway, next to a wonderfully decorated Christmas tree, tall enough to grace both the ground floor and the second story which was open overhead. “Please wait here, Mr. Kile, while I let the general know you’ve arrived.”

Noise or movement caused me to step beyond the tree and look up the stairwell to my left. From the balcony, a nubile brunette wearing a black something that aggressively fell within the category of lingerie, said, “You must be Mr. Kile.” It wasn’t a question. Not the way she said it.

I smiled and nodded. One of the principles I live by is that seeing a woman in skimpy lingerie meant, at the very least, the relationship automatically advanced to a first name basis. I said, “Call me, Matt.” We exchanged smiles, only they weren’t equal. Hers was framed in red and had a gloss that reflected the top light on the Christmas tree.

“Well, Matt,” she said, “Charles sat a tray on the side table when he went to answer the door. Would you be a sweetheart and finish bringing it up?” She added, “Please,” while leaning her forearms on the banister, her brown hair sliding around her shoulders. At least I assumed her forearms were on the banister. I wanted to be a good sweetheart so I picked up the tray which held one glass and a decanter of something you and I would guess was alcoholic and started up the stairs.

“This is a lovely home,” I said after advancing a short distance.

“Yes it is. During the general’s career, toward the end when he was a member of the joint chiefs, this home entertained two U.S. presidents and one pope.”

“With you wearing a much different outfit, I’m sure.”

“I was living with my mother then, and a little young during those years to wear something like this.” She stood straight, bust out, and turned slowly to be certain I understood the full meaning of “something like this.”

I actually preferred her enhancing the banister, but if that sounded like a complaint, you know it lacked substance. I had come not expecting to see anyone more attractive than a long-retired general. I was ten steps from her when Charles silently arrived beside me and took the tray. I stopped, wishing that Charles had waited for me at the bottom of the stairs.

“The general will see you now, Mr. Kile. Please follow me back downstairs to the study.”

As we turned, she revealed her red, patent leather heels by coming down the stairs far enough to take the tray from Charles. She was old enough to realize that platform heels and skimpy lingerie went together like me and a warm feeling. Had I worn a hat, modesty would have required I hold it in front of myself as she came closer. She glanced down briefly then looked into my eyes. We exchanged one of those smiles that meant the kinds of things that smilers in such situations are never sure about. Then I switched my attention so as not to ruin her first impression by tripping and rolling down the stairs.

Her voice slid around me the way hot fudge slides around cold ice cream. “I hope we can continue getting acquainted some other time.” I held the railing and turned to see her again displayed on the banister.

“I’d like that,” I said. Then I followed Charles down the stairs. Well, I did after wishing I might one day be reincarnated as a banister, but not just any banister, her banister.

“Matt.” I turned back and looked up at her. “Ditch the tie. You can do better.” Then she turned her head, tossing her brown hair across her shoulders, and retreated into a room with double doors directly behind where she had stood.