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It wasn’t my habit to shoot a new client.
For Loren Collingswood, I made an exception.
“I’m told you’re one of the best detectives in Dayton,” he said as I unlocked the door to my office and flipped on the lights. It was half-past eight in the morning. He’d been waiting for me when I stepped off the elevator.
“That’s always nice to hear, Mr.—”
“Collingswood. Loren Collingswood.” He was somewhere past fifty with rounded shoulders and thoughtful eyes.
“Could I hang up your coat?”
“No thank you. I haven’t much time.”
Draping his folded coat over the arm of the chair in front of my desk, he sat down. My own found its usual peg on a wooden rack, followed by my red hat which was seasonally trimmed with a sprig of fake holly. I was five-foot-two and the coat rack was taller than I was, but I counted the stretching as exercise. As soon as I slid into place across from Collingswood, he launched in.
“My partner and I want to hire you, Miss Sullivan.”
“Maggie. Please.”
“Yes, very well.”
After the determined start, he faltered. His gaze moved to the calendar from my DeSoto dealer hanging drunkenly on its final page. The hole at the top had just about worn through on the nail that held it. Three days into December odds were the calendar would hit the floor before 1941 ended.
“What sort of problem are you having, Mr. Collingswood?” I asked softly.
People came to me scared or distressed, but almost invariably embarrassed at needing my services. Getting started was the hard part. Collingswood sighed.
“A man who works for us has disappeared. A brilliant young engineer.” He knitted salt-and-pepper brows that matched the hair retreating from his forehead. “Well, he’s in his thirties, but that’s young by my standards. A company’s coming in next week to talk to us about - about something he’s been working on. It’s absolutely vital that we find him. Without Gil—”
I held up a hand to halt his flow while I took out a lined tablet.
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’? We need to start with some basics.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“He’s an employee?”
“Yes. My partner and I have a company. C&S Signals.”
“You said the missing man’s an engineer. I take it that’s what you do?”
“Yes. We-we develop technology which we sell to other firms. We specialize in—”
I held up my hand again. I’d done okay at geometry and a year of algebra, and the nuns at Julienne High School could probably hold their own with most college professors, but I was pretty sure whatever C&S Signals specialized in was over my head. There were other aspects of finding someone which were more useful.
“What’s the man’s name and the last time you saw him?”
“Gilbert Tremain. Gil. He was in early Monday and left the building and that’s the last we’ve heard from him.”
Two days ago.
“Was that unusual?”
“Not coming in early. He did that quite often. But certainly going off and not coming back or calling. Gil’s extremely responsible. That’s what’s got us worried.”
“You’ve tried to reach him by phone?”
“Oh yes. And Frank — that’s my partner, Frank Scott — Frank went over yesterday and knocked, thinking perhaps he’d been taken ill or had an accident and couldn’t get to the phone.”
That implied Gilbert Tremain was single.
“We’d worry about him in any case. We’re small, C&S. He’s quite a resource for us. And the presentation next week... unless we find him, it can’t go forward.”
I saw him swallow.
“That’s why I - we - thought we should hire an investigator.”
“What do the police say?”
“We prefer not to involve the police. For business reasons.”
I’d heard that tune before. It was never music to my ears, and from what he’d told me, I knew what I had to ask next.
“Has there been a ransom request?”
“No, of course not, or-or—. Well, we would have gone to the police in that case, I suppose.”
I breathed easier.
“Do you have any reason to suspect foul play?”
“Good heavens no! Nothing like that. At least it hadn’t occurred to me... No, surely they couldn’t...”
“Who couldn’t what, Mr. Collingswood?”
“I-I-I don’t see how they could possibly be related, but...” He swallowed again. “I’ve had some phone calls.”
“What sort of phone calls?”
“Just a little odd, that’s all.” He gestured vaguely. “Wrong numbers, probably.”
“Since Gil Tremain has been missing.”
“Oh, no. No. They started about a month ago. Just a fluke, surely.”
Six years ago, at age twenty-one, I’d opened my office. Since then I’d learned coincidences seldom existed for people who came through my door seeking help.
“You’re probably right, but lots of what I do is hunt connections. What did the phone calls say?”
“Nothing. Mostly.” His voice dropped so much I wasn’t sure I’d heard the second word.
“How many calls have there been?”
“Half a dozen. Possibly eight.”
“And all you hear is silence? No breathing? No noises in the background?”
“Breathing, yes. Just that.” He steeled himself. “Until last week. It rang and I answered and someone said, ‘Be careful.’ Then they hung up.”
If possible, he looked more worried than when he’d come in.
“But it’s all got to be some ghastly mistake. It can’t have anything to do with Gil. It can’t have anything to do with me. Someone’s muddled a phone number.”
“You’re sure no one has a grievance against you? A reason they’d want to harass you? Maybe an employee you let go?”
If there was a connection, someone who knew the workings of his company was the obvious place to start. My would-be client was shaking his head.
“One of the girls who typed left last year to get married. But as far as firing anyone, it’s been three years. At least. And before you ask, I’m not involved with any women or — or anything of that nature.”
“Have there been any calls since the one that warned you to be careful?”
“No.” He said it too quickly. “Look, the main thing is to find Gil.”
The room was getting overly warm, a novelty since the radiator usually gave off only a trickle of heat. Removing the handkerchief from his breast pocket, Collingswood patted his forehead.
“I need to get to the office.” He edged forward on his chair. “Can you help us? Can you start today?”
I told him I would, and what I charged.
“I’m due to make a final report to another client in about an hour. I can stop by after I finish there.”
Something caught my eye. A movement in the pocket of Collingswood’s coat. Oblivious to my wandering gaze, he talked on.
“Here’s the address.” He slid a business card onto my desk. “I’ll have a check for a week’s wages waiting for you.”
A head emerged, swaying slowly above the narrow body oozing after. Eight inches, maybe less, separated it from Collingswood’s arm.
“If you find Gil in only a day or two, I’ll consider the rest of it money well spent,” he was saying.
It’s amazing how many thoughts fit into a split second:
That the snake might be harmless — or not.
That someone had warned the man across from me to be careful.
That this was the wrong time of year for snakes.
“Mr. Collingswood. Before you go, I need you to close your eyes and keep them closed until I tell you otherwise. Sit absolutely still. Try and remember, ah, everything Tremain said the last time you saw him.”
“But—”
“Now!”
My fingers already were closing around the Smith & Wesson I kept in a holster-like sling beneath my chair. Collingswood looked anything but happy, but his eyes were closed. I eased to my feet.
The snake emerged another inch. Pinkish belly. Dark splotches. It veered toward Collingswood. It veered away. I squeezed the trigger.