Stuart Kaminsky - Never Cross A Vampire

I checked my gun and opened my jacket to be able to flash it or even reach it if necessary. From the point of view of a nearly middle-aged mess of a detective, it was necessary. I felt noble and stupid as hell at the same time.

The chauffeur wasn’t in the garage. Before I parked the car, Haliburton was outside, hurrying toward me, his white shirt billowing in the breeze, a look of vengeful joy in his red eyes. He was the five o’clock commuter train ignoring the closed gate. I got out quickly, acutely aware of the crunch of gravel under his flying feet. When he was ten feet away, I opened my jacket so he could see the.38. That slowed him, but he didn’t stop. I lifted the gun out and cocked it. He stopped almost within touching distance. The run had been short, but he was panting with excitement.

“You’re not going to shoot anyone,” he said.

“Is that a question?”

He took a step forward and I fired a bullet between his legs. Since my intent had been to shoot a safe five feet to his left side, he didn’t know how lucky he was to survive. He backed away a few feet, shaken badly enough not to notice that I was shaking too.

“Assault and attempted murder,” he said.

“Hell,” I said putting the gun away. “I’ve been lying with a straight face all my life. I didn’t shoot at you. I don’t even have a gun with me. I’m an ex-cop with a brother on the force. I’ll lay three to one you’ve got some reason why the police won’t take your word.”

“I’ll get you alone, without the gun, little man,” he said, pointing at me with his right hand and using his left to push the long hair from his face.

“That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Shatzkin said from the door. I turned toward her. Her widow’s black was still with her, but the outfit was more clinging and less somber. By the fourth day after her husband’s death, she would probably be wearing white with flowers. “I’ve called the police.”

“I suggest you call them back and tell them it was a mistake,” I said.

She had already started to close the door, but I blurted out quickly, “They might want to know about a little apartment Mrs. Offen rents in Culver City.” The door stopped closing and opened. Mrs. Shatzkin turned to me, the sun in her face. For the first time, she looked as if grief had touched her.

“Haliburton,” she said, her voice almost cracking. “Call the police. Tell them it was a mistake, that I thought I heard a prowler but was wrong. Tell them anything.”

Haliburton looked from her to me in stupid puzzlement.

“I can…” Haliburton began, facing at me with clenched teeth and fists.

“Mr.-” she started.

“Peters,” I said.

“Mr. Peters is coming in briefly. And I think it would be best if you forgot your quarrel with him. I was angry Saturday and very upset.”

“You want us to shake hands?” I asked her.

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Mr. Peters,” she said.

“Sorry about your teddy bear,” I said to Haliburton, walking right past him toward the door. My back went tight, knowing he was behind me, but I kept walking. It was one of those times. The adrenalin was running, and a Dybbuk was driving me. I entered the house and followed Mrs. Shatzkin into a comfortable deep-brown living room with thick, soft carpeting that looked as if no human feet had touched it.

She sat in a single seat, indicated the couch across from her, and then folded her hands in her lap. The red of her fingernails caught a flash of sun from outside. She was composed again.

“Are you a blackmailer, Mr. Peters?” she asked, her chin going up to show her contempt for such things.

“No,” I said, taking off my hat and putting it on my lap. “I’m what I claim to be, a private detective doing my best to find out who killed your husband and hoping it won’t turn out to be my client.”

“Mr. Faulkner killed Jacques,” she said emphatically. “I was…”

My head had been nodding a steady no from the instant she began, and she stopped abruptly.

“Who do you share that apartment with over in Culver City?” I asked softly.

Her face flushed. Camile Shatzkin looked like a human being instead of a mannequin for an instant, but she went back into her act.

“That has nothing to do with Jacques’s murder,” she said. “He is an actor, Thayer Newcomb. He would have absolutely nothing to gain by Jacques’s death. He knows I would never marry him and that I would despise him if he hurt Jacques. As it is, I never intend to see him again. All of this has made it clear to me how much I really loved Jacques.”

Her head was down again, and a handkerchief had appeared from nowhere. She pulled herself together and came up for another try.

“Mr. Peters, in spite of these surroundings and Jacques’ business…”

“And his insurance?” I continued.

“… and his insurance,” she agreed, “I am not really a wealthy woman. I doubt if there is even a total of $800,000 after taxes.”

“You had that figure on the tip of your grief,” I said.

She stood up in anger, looked at my calm, mashed face, and sat down again.

“Just for the sake of Jacques’s reputation and-I must admit-my own, I would like to offer you a fee for your services to keep the information you have discovered private.”

“How much of a fee?” I asked.

“Well, let’s say $20,000,” she said.

“Let’s say $50,000,” I said.

“Very well,” she said. “I would need a written statement from you guaranteeing that you would seek no further fee on this matter.”

My head was shaking again.

“No money,” I said.

She went flush again and bit her red lower lip. “I could offer…”

“And no offers of flesh, either,” I added. “I have no ambition,” I explained. “Absolutely none. I don’t want or need a lot of money. I have no dreams money can buy. What I always need is just a little more than I’ve got, not a lot more, and I’m not about to be bought for a few hundred dollars. It’s a bind, but it keeps my reputation clean and my suits old.”

“And when you go to that great Pinkerton agency in the sky, they may reward you by making you a night watchman on the gate of heaven,” she spat.

“Or the gate of hell,” I added. “I’d like that. As for you and me having a social life together, I can’t see you warm and friendly and sitting next to me tonight at the Wild Red Berry and Yukon Jake wrestling matches at the Hollywood Legion. No, Mrs. Shatzkin, I’ll just have to amble out of here with my curiosity about your friend and a little more faith in the innocence of William Faulkner.” “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Peters,” she said, rising. I joined her. “If you should change your mind, please feel free to call me. Am I to assume, however, that you plan to take your information about my private life to the police?”

“No,” I said, heading for the door. “I think I’ll just find Mr. Thayer Newcomb and have a chat. You wouldn’t want to make my job easier and give me an address, would you?”

Her lips tightened and her breasts rose. She was Joan of Arc defending her voices, a noble figure.

I went outside without an escort, closing the door behind me. Haliburton was at the car. He had obviously stopped the cops, but he hadn’t stopped his mind, what there was of it, from working.

“No trouble,” I said, holding my jacket open.

“No trouble,” he said meekly. “I… what did you mean about Culver City and… what did you mean?”

Haliburton was a hurt and jealous lap dog, waiting to be whipped or given an order. I wasn’t going to do either.

“I can’t talk much about it,” I said, easing into my car. He held the door firmly so I couldn’t close it. “It has something to do with a private transaction Mr. Shatzkin made.” He let go of the door and I closed it, but I opened the window to add, “Haliburton, I’d suggest you pack up your suitcase and head out someplace clean if I thought you’d listen, but you won’t listen. You can’t. The Medusa has made you stone deaf.”