Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

“Oh, I’ve got about two grand in the bank. I plan to borrow another five on the lots. That way I’ll still own them.”

I rose to mix him another drink while I considered the proposition. If he had asked me to hit Gyp Fallon instead of his wife, it would be automatically out, because you don’t hit people of Fallon’s status without an okay from The Arranger. But Joan Thomas was nobody the upper echelon would care about. She was just a cute little blonde who used to work in a chorus line and was now married to a minor cog in the setup. Gyp Fallon might care, but while the top boys might frown on Gyp himself being hit without advance clearance, they wouldn’t give a hoot in Hades what happened to one of his female playmates.

There was the consideration that I was acquainted with the woman, which intruded a personal element I didn’t like, but $6500 more than counterbalanced that small annoyance.

When I handed Joey the fresh drink I said, “How soon can you come up with the money?”

“How soon can you do the job?” he countered.

“Let’s get something straight,” I said coldly. “I get paid the full amount in advance. Those are the terms. We don’t even discuss when I do the job until the money’s in my hand.”

He flushed slightly. “The full amount?”

“Every cent,” I assured him. “Apparently you didn’t hear those rumors from a very hep source.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you had you’d know I always get paid in advance.”

After considering this he said, “I did hear you never let a client down. But suppose something goes wrong? Then I’m out six and a half grand for nothing.”

“My jobs never go wrong. If, by some remote chance, this one does, you get your money back. Satisfaction guaranteed—clean hit or full refund.”

When he continued to look doubtful I said testily, “I’ve never crossed a client yet. I have a reputation for professional ethics to maintain. I don’t accept money and then fall down on the job. If you don’t like my conditions, go find yourself another boy.”

“I believe you,” he said quickly. “It may take me a few days to raise the money, though. How about Friday afternoon?”

Friday evening was when my other job was scheduled. I said, “Make it before five or I won’t be here. Bring it in hundred-dollar bills.”

“Okay,” he said, finishing his drink and rising. “Then the deal’s definitely on?”

“It’s on,” I assured him.

That evening I waited until after midnight, then made a reconnaissance of the address listed in my instructions from The Arranger.

The Sterling Road apartment house was near Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. The name Grandview was a grandiose misnomer, because the only view from it was an identical apartment building on either side and another across the street. They weren’t exactly tenement buildings, but they weren’t high-class either. It was a typical workingman’s neighborhood, neither classy nor slummy.

There was no one on the street at that time of night and the March weather was too cold for anyone to be sitting outdoors on the stoops. I entered the building without anyone seeing me, bypassed a self-operated elevator, and took a flight of stairs to the third floor.

The Yale key let me into 3-C. It was a furnished apartment consisting of a front room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. It was heated by hot-water radiators, and whoever had rented the place had adjusted the valves so that the rooms were comfortably warm.

There was no back door, which I didn’t much like—it’s always nice to have a choice of exits. However, there was never any trouble when The Arranger planned things, so it didn’t worry me too much.

I knew the planning had been thorough. For instance, I didn’t have to worry about the possibility of the subject arriving accompanied by some friend, because The Arranger would take care of that. How was none of my concern. Perhaps it was known that the subject never picked up winnings in front of witnesses—maybe because he owed too much money and didn’t want his creditors to find out he’d made a killing. Whatever the reason, The Arranger never left such matters to chance.

Without removing my thin leather gloves, I took out the .38 automatic I had brought, fitted the silencer to it, and put it in the top drawer of the dresser in the bedroom. A gun with a foot-length silencer attached to it is a pretty bulky object, and I preferred not to bring it in with me the next time I came to the apartment, which would be early in the evening. There was always the chance that at that time I might be seen by some tenant in the hall, and that big bulge under my coat would make me remembered.

After thoroughly checking the place, I turned off all the lights and left as quietly as I had arrived.

About four p.m. on Friday afternoon Joey Thomas showed up as he had promised. He counted out 65 one-hundred-dollar bills.

When I had recounted them, I took them into my bedroom, put them into my money belt, then strapped the belt around my waist under my shirt.

Back in the front room I said, “All right. Now tell me something about your wife’s habits. You can skip any hen parties she goes to. I’m interested only in times and places she’ll be alone.”

He thought this over for a while, then said, “Daytimes she’s home alone most of the time. Friday afternoon you’d be sure to find her. That’s when she washes her hair.

“Good. What’s your living setup?”

He described the Manhattan apartment where they lived. It was a fifth-floor apartment in a building so large that hardly anyone would know any of the other tenants, and no one would be likely to pay any attention to a stranger passing in the halls. Besides, I knew how to be unobtrusive, so there was little chance of my being noticed even if I did meet a tenant or two.

“Got an extra key?” I asked.

He said dubiously, “Won’t the cops think it funny if you get in by key?”

“They won’t know it,” I told him. “They’ll figure I rang the bell, then forced my way inside when she answered the door. Don’t worry. When I leave, things will look as though it was done by a prowler. How about the key?”

He produced a key ring; removed a key, and handed it to me. “I’ll have to ring to get in this afternoon. My extra key’s in a dresser drawer. Hope Joan’s home.”

“Isn’t she always on Fridays?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he said, his face clearing. “About now she’s putting her hair up in rollers. She won’t show her face on the street until it’s all dry and combed out.”

“Now about your alibi,” I said. “That’s important because the husband is always an automatic suspect when a woman gets hit. Can you arrange to be out of New York next Friday?”

“How far out?”

“The farther the better. Why don’t you fly down to Miami next Thursday? Let it be known that you plan to spend a week down there. Then just sit tight until the cops contact you to break the news. You can casually let a few friends know where you’re staying, so that you can be traced easily. Be sure to be seen in public—in the hotel bar or dining room—every minute of Friday until at least midnight. There should be no question about your actually being in Miami.”

“You really do take your clients interests to heart, don’t you?” he said. “I think I can swing that. Joan will be glad to get me out of her hair for a week. She’ll figure it’ll give her a chance to spend every night at Gyp’s place.”

“Then that’s that,” I said. “Don’t come here again and don’t phone me. If there’s any hitch, I’ll contact you. Otherwise, as of this minute, we no longer even know each other.”

“Suits me,” he said in a tone suggesting he felt more relief than disappointment at losing me as an acquaintance.