Stuart Kaminsky - Never Cross A Vampire

“The only photograph I have of myself is when I was ten,” I said, reaching for my wallet and knowing I had no identification that would please her.

“Well, perhaps we can find a photograph of Jacques when he was ten,” she said. The widow’s grief had given way to determination. Kay Francis was running the company and she meant business. “Your identification.”

I pulled out my private investigator’s card and showed it to her.

“You said you were a police officer,” she hissed through even, white teeth.

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “You and your maid simply assumed I was. I’m working for Mr. Faulkner’s lawyer and…”

“Haliburton,” she shouted, her breast rising like a coloratura’s. An enormous figure in a black sweater, wearing as granite a face as could be carved, hurried into the hall from the rear of the house. He looked at Camile Shatzkin and at me, waiting for her orders.

“Now wait,” I said, holding up my hands and knowing I had no chance of making a run for it on my former leg. “We have a legal right to question witnesses. We could have done this through the district attorney’s office, but…”

“Haliburton,” she said firmly and left the room.

Haliburton had clearly spent his life lifting cars and putting them neatly on shelves. He advanced on me without emotion and with very little sound.

“Haliburton,” I said, “I know when I’ve had it. I’m leaving.”

His hand caught the back of my neck and spun me toward the door. Without thinking, I threw my left elbow back in the general direction of his face about half a foot up in the air. I caught him in the windpipe, and he let me go. I scrambled for the door, pulling my leg behind me without looking back. What I did was meant to be a run but probably looked like a Fourth of July handicap race. I heard the door open behind me as I made it to the car. The chauffeur stopped, wiped his hands, and watched from the garage as I opened my door and locked it just before Haliburton grabbed the handle. He was clearly angry.

“No hard feelings,” I said, putting the car in gear as he tried to put his fist through the roof. I could see the dent he made. I backed down the roadway fast, extinguishing a couple of well-trimmed shrubs. Haliburton must have been the gardener because my attack on the shrubs brought out the worst in him. He came thundering down the driveway, picking up a rock as he ran. On Chalon Road I straightened out and managed to avoid hitting him as I pulled away. The rock hit the hood, scratched its way along, and flew up the windshield, taking off into the air toward Uranus. I headed out of Bel Air, watching the receding dark figure of Haliburton in my rearview mirror.

Another day, another friendship formed. Dale Carnegie could have hired me cheap as a negative example. But I had learned something. Maybe.

Although she might come up with a more firm identification later, as of now Camile Shatzkin, who had identified William Faulkner as the murderer of her husband, couldn’t tell Faulkner from a trumpet player. I hummed “You Made Me Love You” to keep from thinking about my knee and headed for Sunset Boulevard and Jacques Shatzkin’s office.

The Jacques Shatzkin Agency was on the second floor of a two-story building on Sunset not too far from Bel Air. The first floor of the building housed some elegant stores-a women’s dress shop on one side and The Hollow Bean, an import shop, on the other. The flight of wooden steps was varnished and clean. There were twenty-two steps and each one sent an accordion of pain through my bandaged leg. The trick would be to avoid stairs and keep my leg straight.

The reception area inside the heavy wooden door was clean, bright, and comfortable. It was easily as big as Shelly’s office and mine combined, with room to spare for Union Station. There was no receptionist, but I could hear voices to the left through an open door. I now had a good sense of the decor of Jacques Shatzkin’s offices: elegant, homey. Carpets, thick and dark; chairs, low and soft. The desks were old and highly polished; the walls a light brown. Fluorescent lights twinkled overhead. It reminded me of a funeral parlor, except for the pictures on the wall of clients and near-clients and friends of the deceased. “To a good man Frank Fay,” “For my friend Jacques-Edward Everett Horton,” “I don’t see anything funny about it-Robert Benchley,” “To a guy who can be trusted-Preston Foster.”

“And they meant it,” a voice cut through my reading. I turned to a willow reed of a woman, a dry woman in her fifties with short brown hair and a brave smile on her face. She wasn’t beautiful and she wasn’t homely. She was simply a face in the crowd, but her efficiency was evident in her straight back, neat blue suit, and hands folded in front of her.

“Miss Summerland?” I said.

“Mrs. Summerland,” she corrected. “Those photographs are not just for show, Mr. Peters… You are Mr. Peters?”

“I am,” I confessed.

“Mr. Shatzkin was a very likable man,” she said with affection and a too-rigid control.

“I won’t take much of your time,” I said.

“That’s all right,” she said, stepping back from the doorway in which she was standing. “Please come into my office. Some of the other members of the agency are in the conference room worrying about the future. I’d rather cling to the past for at least a few days more.” I walked past her into the office, which was small and decorated in the same homey manner as the reception area. She went behind the desk but didn’t sit. I got off my leg and into the chair, knowing I would have to look up to and at her for the conversation. I could see she would be more comfortable that way and I didn’t want to make the mistake I had made with Mrs. Shatzkin.

“The police think William Faulkner killed Mr. Shatzkin,” I said.

“I know,” she returned flatly.

“I represent Mr. Faulkner. He says he didn’t do it. Had no reason to do it. Hardly knew Mr. Shatzkin.” I shut up and looked at her, waiting for a reply.

“As far as I know,” she said, “and as I told the police officer earlier, they met only once for lunch.”

I eased out my notebook and began writing.

“Did they get along at that meeting?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t there, and they did not come to the office, at least Mr. Faulkner didn’t. He simply called, asked to talk to Mr. Shatzkin, and the two of them arranged it. It’s right on Mr. Shatzkin’s calendar, if you’d like to see it. One o’clock lunch with W. Faulkner on Thursday.” “I believe you,” I said. “Do you know where they ate?”

“No,” she said.

“Did Shatzkin particularly like Bernstein’s Fish Grotto?”

She looked puzzled and shook her head.

“He never mentioned it. I doubt that he would go there for lunch unless Mr. Faulkner insisted. It’s too far away, and Mr. Shatzkin was not particularly fond of seafood.”

“Couple more questions and I’ll be done,” I said with a smile. “Do you know what they were supposed to talk about at the luncheon?”

“Mr. Peters, why do you not simply ask Mr. Faulkner?”

“Because,” I said, “some things are not making sense in this. I’m not quite sure what they are, but something is cock-eyed besides my old science teacher at Glendale High School.”

“I don’t know what Mr. Faulkner wanted to talk about, but I think it had something to do with getting Mr. Shatzkin to represent him.”

“Okay,” I said, standing up. “Do you have any photographs of Mr. Shatzkin, by any chance?” “No,” she said emphatically. “There was one on his desk, but Mrs. Shatzkin sent her handyman Haliburton to get his things, including the wedding photograph on his desk.”