Comstock had a face only a myopic mother could love. The eyes, nose and mouth seemed to have come from three other faces. A sharp nose, small dark eyes set close together, a pouting mouth. The coat of his dark-striped gray suit looked ready to burst at the seams. He was all muscle. Even his face had muscle.
He smiled at me, showing sharp yellow teeth. It was not a nice smile. He said, “Hi, Kent.”
“Hello, Lieutenant. Is there something I can do for you?”
“There’s something you can do for yourself.” He dropped into my red client chair and for some reason it was a nice feeling knowing that he’d leave my office carrying fluff from Eddie’s cats with him. He crossed his legs. “You can level with me,” he said.
“About what?”
“About why that stool pigeon came to see you.”
“Stool pigeon?”
“Eddie McEvoy.” His small eyes probed mine. “He was here, wasn’t he?”
It was no time to lie; Comstock wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t know. “Yes,” I said.
“What did he want?”
“A friend of his was murdered.”
“Give his friend a name.”
“The name Eddie gave me was Stan White.”
“Meaning that wasn’t his real name?”
“Meaning nothing at all, Lieutenant.”
He uncrossed his legs. “I guess you know,” he said, speaking slowly, “that I had the creep tailed here.”
“Did you?”
Comstock’s mouth went sour. “Don’t play games with me, Kent.”
“I don’t know why you should say that, Lieutenant.”
“I say it because of the last time you played games with me. The Meadows case.”
“I was hired to investigate a killing that time.”
“But you didn’t come to me when you lucked onto some information that led you to the killer. You went to the newspapers instead.”
“If you’ll recall, Lieutenant, you told me to keep out of your way. That was what I did.”
He stared into my eyes, his small mouth curling. “You made me look like a damn fool. You knew that would happen.” He leaned forward. “Well, it better not happen again. If you get in my way just once more, you’re going to wish you were born in some other country. Now, I want the truth. Why did Eddie McEvoy come here?”
“He wanted me to investigate the murder of his friend.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“No.”
“What else did McEvoy say?”
“He told me his friend was a junkie.”
“And?”
“That he was shot through the head.”
Comstock produced a toothpick from his handkerchief pocket, and began to probe at his teeth. “What did McEvoy offer you?” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? You say he wanted you to investigate the case. He knows you don’t live on air. He must’ve made some kind of an offer of payment.”
“All right,” I said after a moment. “I’ll level with you, Lieutenant. Eddie figured I’d welcome the chance to cross swords with you again.”
“Did he put it into words?”
“More or less.”
“And what was your answer?”
“I told him there were enough troubles in this world without going out of my way to look for more.”
He grinned. “You’re learning, Kent.”
I shrugged. “What’s to learn? I’ve got my side of the street, you’ve got yours.”
His grin disappeared. “Wrong. I have both sides of the street.” He got up from the chair. “Remember that, Kent. Both sides of the street. I don’t care what you do in Canarsie or Cincinnati or Columbus—but here in New York you’ll feel a hand on your shoulder if you even look like you’re going to spit on the sidewalk. You got that?”
“You came through loud and clear, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t you forget it.”
“I’m not likely to.”
Comstock went to the door, turned, looked at me for a long moment, his eyes hungry. He said, “I’m almost sorry you finally learned how to show respect. For a long time now I’ve been itching to come down on you.”
I smiled at him. He slammed the door behind him. I bent over and retrieved Eddie McEvoy’s balled-up piece of paper from the wastepaper basket. I smoothed it out on my desk, and punched out numbers on my phone.
“Motor Vehicle Bureau,” said a too-sweet female voice on the other end of the line. “Good morning. Is there some way I can help you?”
“I’d like to talk to George Arnold,” I said.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Larry Patrick.” Patrick is my second name.
“Just a moment, Mr. Patrick.” A few clicks, a short wait, then her voice was in my ear again. “Mr. Patrick, I’m putting you through.”
“Thanks. Hello? George?”
“Yes, Larry. Look. I’m pretty busy, so make it quick, eh?”
“Sure, George. I was just wondering if you’d like to play golf at my club Saturday morning.”
“I’ll have to clear it with the wife, Larry. Where are you calling from?”
“The office. I’ll be here all day.”
“I’ll get back to you later.”
“Right, George.”
I cradled the phone. George would leave his office on some pretext or other and then he’d contact me from a public phone box. A little more than five minutes passed before my phone jangled. I put the receiver to my ear.
“Larry Kent, private investigations.”
“George here, Larry. What’s up?”
“The usual. I want the name and address that goes with a license number.”
“What’s the number?”
“LW three, five one,” I read from the piece of paper.
“A special,” George said. “We don’t give out the LW prefix—a plate starting like that would have to be ordered. Probably the owner’s initials. I’ll get back to you. I’m going to lunch in about forty minutes.”
“I’ll be here.”
George’s next call came forty-five minutes later. LW 351 was a registration number issued to a Lester Williamson, 25 Falcon Drive, White Plains. As soon as I hung up on George I put his name and home address on an envelope, affixed a stamp, enclosed a one-hundred-dollar bill and went out to the hall to drop the envelope in the letter slot. Only six months ago George’s “fee” was fifty dollars. Crooked public servants are masters of the art of keeping ahead of inflation.
I went down to the parking lot. Half an hour or so later I was in White Plains. Falcon Drive is in the moneyed part of the city. All houses here are mansions set well off the road. I looked at 25 through the thick iron bars of the main gate. It was a two-storey building of smooth stone. Rounded gables at the four corners helped give the place the look of a castle. Between me and it was about two hundred yards of well-kept lawn studded with shrubbery and small trees. DANGER, said a sign on the gate. VICIOUS PATROL DOGS ON GROUNDS.
“Yeah?” said a gruff voice. A uniformed guard emerged from behind a fir tree, his right hand on the butt of his holstered pistol.
I managed a smile. “Hi. I’d like to see Mr. Williamson.”
“Does Mr. Williamson know you?”
“Not yet.”
“Sorry, buddy. Get back in your car.”
“I think he’ll want to see me.” I said. I reached for my wallet and the guard pulled his gun clear. “Easy does it,” I said. “I just want to take out one of my cards. Tell Mr. Williamson who I am and then you can add that I’d like to talk to him about a fellow who was shot through the head in New York City, yesterday.”
I pushed one of my cards between the bars. The guard hesitated before snatching it away. My mention of the murder victim obviously meant something to the guard, so Eddie McEvoy was probably right about the old woman being related to the man who’d called himself Stan White.
“Stay right where you are,” the guard said.
He moved out of sight behind the fir tree. There was a click. I figured he’d uncradled a phone, and I knew I was right when he began to speak. But he kept his voice low and I was able to make out only an occasional word. Maybe half a minute passed, then he raised his voice to say “Yes, sir” and there was another click. A twig snapped and he appeared from behind the tree.
“Drive up to the entrance steps of the house,” he said. “A feller named Andrew will meet you there. He’s the butler.”
I thanked the guard and got back in the Corvette. The gates swung open—electronically, I figured. I drove slowly along a gravel-covered road. The massive, bolt-studded front door of the mansion opened as I braked to a stop. A tall, thin, gray-haired man in a black suit and black bow tie stepped out. I got out of the car and climbed the steps.
“Andrew?” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Kent.”
There was the unmistakable burr of Scotland in his voice. He had sharp gray eyes, a straight nose, firm lips, a stubborn jaw and chin. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. There was something about the set of him that made me think he’d be able to handle most men half his age.
“Mr. and Mrs. Williamson are waiting to see you in the study,” he said.
I followed Andrew through dark, gloomy rooms full of heavy furniture. There were large pictures on the walls; portraits and landscapes. Not one of the men and women in the portraits wore a smile. And there wasn’t much blue sky in any of the landscapes. I passed one wall adorned with mediaeval weapons. In the mailed fist of a suit of armor was a spiked mace.
The study was different. There were bright chintz covers on the chairs and sunlight flooded through uncovered French windows. A man and two women were seated in the room.
“Mr. Lawrence Kent,” Andrew announced, then he turned and went past me, closing the door behind him.
The man rose. He favored his left side and his left hand grasped the arm of the chair. He indicated the woman beside him.
“My wife.”
Her eyes surprised me. They were the cold blue of a mountain lake. Once she’d been a beautiful woman, and some of the beauty was still there. She nodded almost imperceptibly, her bright eyes studying me.
“Mr. Kent.”
I inclined my head. “Mrs. Williamson.”
“And our daughter, Joanne.”
The second woman had the blue eyes of Mrs. Williamson, but they seemed warmer, and in her face was the youthful beauty she’d inherited from her mother. She smiled, showing even white teeth. Her hair was the yellow of straw. She was in blue shorts and a blue tank top. Her legs were slim, her thighs firm. The tank top allowed the display of deep cleavage; her breasts were full and high. She offered her hand and I took it.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Kent.”
“And I you, Miss Williamson.”
Her eyes held me. They had a hypnotic quality. I had to force myself to turn away and look at her father. I took his proffered hand. He had a strong grip. Then I noticed the thick sole and heel of his left shoe and realized that he suffered from an abnormality of the foot.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“I would,” said Joanne, rising. “Anyone else? No?” She smiled at me. “I dislike drinking alone.”
“In that case I’ll have a scotch and water.”
“I thought private detectives preferred bourbon or sour mash,” she said.
“Only on television.”
She walked across the room. Her thighs were firm all right. And her derriere was provocative to say the least. The old man cleared his throat and once again I had to tear my eyes from Joanne Williamson.
“Please be seated, Mr. Kent.”
Williamson was still standing. He didn’t settle down in his chair until I was seated.
“Now,” Mrs. Williamson said.
I looked at her. “Yes, ma’am?”
She lifted her chin. Her blue eyes flashed. “I suggest, Mr. Kent, that we get right down to business.”
“All right,” I said. “This morning a fellow named Eddie McEvoy came to see me in my office. McEvoy has a room in the back of a building on the west side of New York City. A fellow named Stan White had an apartment in the same building. McEvoy told me that White was murdered—shot through the head. He also told me that White received a visit from a woman a few days ago. She wasn’t the type of woman you’d expect to see in that neighborhood, and she arrived in a limousine. He said he saw the woman arguing with White. To Eddie McEvoy it seemed to be a sort of family argument. He came to see me because he thought I might like to track the woman down. To him, she represented money. He thought she might be related to White, and that I might talk the woman into being my client. He figured I’d give him ten percent of my fee.”
“Your drink,” Joanne said.
“Thank you.” I took the scotch-and-water from her and placed the glass on a coffee table beside my chair.
“Go on,” said Mrs. Williamson. She and her husband were staring hard at me.
“McEvoy gave me the license number of the limousine. I traced it to you, Mr. Williamson.”
“I admit I was the woman your friend saw,” Mrs. Williamson said. “The young man I visited was my son.”
“Our son,” Williamson said. “Stanley was born two years before Joanne. As you have undoubtedly surmised, Mr. Kent, my wife and I married fairly late in life. By the way, we’ve already received a visit from the police. A Lt. Comstock.”
“I wrote a few letters to Stanley,” Mrs. Williamson explained. “Lt. Comstock found them and so he had no difficulty in tracking me down. And now ...” she smiled coldly “... now comes the important question. Why are you here?”
“To satisfy my curiosity,” I said.
Mr. Williamson said a nasty word, then he added: “Let us not play games with words, Mr. Kent. You came here with the hope of talking us into being your clients, isn’t that so?”
“Not really,” I said.
“I can see no other purpose behind your visit.”
“I can’t blame you for that.”
“Cheers,” Joanne said, her voice unnaturally loud. She lifted her drink.
I picked up my glass. “Cheers.” We drank. I put the nearly empty glass on the table and got to my feet. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m sure I can find my way out.”
“Wait,” Williamson said. He frowned. He had a sensitive face, the face of a musician, an artist, a poet.
“Yes?” I said.
“What could you possibly have gained by coming here?”
“Well, now I know that Stan White was Stanley Williamson, your son.”
“Why should that information be of interest to you?”
“I don’t think you’d understand, sir.”
“I might.” Joanne said.
“That’s possible.” I grinned at her. “Even so, I think I’ll just be moving along.”
“Please, Mr. Kent.” It was Mrs. Williamson. “Please tell us why the murder of our son ... of Joanne’s brother ... should be of interest to you.”
“Lt. Comstock,” I said. “One of his men shadowed Eddie McEvoy to my office. Comstock told me not to stick my nose into the case. I wasn’t too happy about the way he said it.”
“I take it that you don’t like the lieutenant,” Williamson said.
“I don’t. It goes back a few years. But that’s my problem, not yours. You have enough to concern yourselves with. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Mr. Kent.” Mrs. Williamson again.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Would you please leave your card?”
“I’ll take it,” Joanne said, her hand out.
I gave Joanne one of my cards.
“You may be hearing from us,” Mrs. Williamson said.
“And you may not,” her husband put in.
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks again.”
I left the room. Andrew was waiting for me a few feet from the study door. He saw me out, not saying a word.
The phone in my apartment rang at 11.10 p.m. Joanne Williamson was at the other end.
“I’m in town,” she said. “May I come to see you?”
“Sure. Can I pick you up?”
“I have a cab waiting.”
My door buzzer went off less than ten minutes later. I looked through the peephole—I always look through the peephole—and saw Joanne Williamson. She was in a trench coat belted tightly at the waist. There was a funny little nothing of a hat perched on the side of her head. I unlocked and opened the door and she stepped in, smiling.
“Well,” she said, turning as she looked over my living room. “I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Why ... why, that looks like a Harrison.” She walked across the room and looked at the signature at the bottom of one of my paintings showing an old grist mill on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. She gasped. “It is a Harrison!”
“I bought it about twelve years ago,” I said.
“Before he became popular. And when did you buy this Wentworth?”
“Nine years ago.”
“What did you pay?”
“Three hundred.”
“A friend of mine bought a Wentworth just the other day. It was only a sketch and it was half this size. She paid four thousand. You could get at least eight for this.”
“Eleven.”
She moved along and stopped before the portrait of a slum child. In the background was a mound of garbage.
“Reilly,” she said, reading the signature of the artist.
“Sean Reilly.”
“I don’t know his work.”
“It’s good but he’ll never be fashionable. He paints reality. If I put it up for auction I’d be lucky to get back the two hundred I paid for it.”
“I’ll give you five hundred.”
“No deal.”
“A thousand.”
“No.”
“Two thousand.”
“Stop right there. I don’t want to sell, Miss Williamson.”
“Joanne. Why don’t you want to sell?”
“I like the portrait.”
“Do you like me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you paint?”
“No.”
“Did you ever try?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I discovered I was a very good private detective and a very bad artist.”
“A shame.”
“Why?”
“I’d like to pose for you.”
“I agree—it is a shame. On the other hand, I’m a very good photographer.”
“Where’s your camera?”
“In my bedroom.”
“Get it.”
I went into the bedroom, took my Nikon from the shelf, added the flash attachment, and returned to the living room. Joanne’s trench coat was over a chair. She lay on the floor on her stomach, naked except for striped socks, her derriere a delightfully provocative love mound. I aimed at her with the camera.
“Get your feet up in the air, Joanne. Good.” I snapped the picture. “Only two shots left.”
“Then you’ll want some standing poses.”
“Yes.”
She got to her feet with the grace of a forest animal. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go into some poses. I’ll stop you when I like one.”
She placed her left hand on her left hip, smiled. She cupped her right breast in her left hand and bent her head to kiss the nipple. She turned so that she was in profile to me, her high, firm breasts jutting out proudly. I worked the shutter and the bulb flashed. She turned her back to me.
“Hold that,” I said. “Now, slowly, move your head so that you’re looking at me over your shoulder. Fine. Hands on your hips. Good. Now. You’re a trifle annoyed. Pout.”
I took the last picture.
“You’ll have to give me a set when they’re developed,” she said.
“I will.”
“May I have a drink?”
“Scotch?”
“Please. Just water with it.”
I made two drinks. She sat on the edge of the table, completely at ease despite the fact that she was naked. I handed her a glass and she said thanks with her extraordinary blue eyes.
“Cheers,” she said.
“Three loud ones,” I said, my gaze running over her lush curves.
She smiled at that and drank. “By the way,” she said, “I’m not a tramp. I’m very selective about the men who see me without my clothes.”
I looked around but could see only her coat and a pair of high black boots. “Where are the rest of your things?” I asked.
“I didn’t bother to put them on. You see, I had ideas about what I’d do when I got here.”
“Oh.”
“Do you like what you see?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you come closer?”
“I thought we might have a talk first.”
“About what?”
“About your real reason for coming here tonight.”
“I came for two reasons. Both should be obvious.”
“Let’s concentrate for the time being on one of the reasons: your brother.”
“I want you to investigate his murder.”
“Do your parents know you came here?”
“I don’t see how that can be of any importance.”
“Before I accept a case, Joanne, I have to know everything. Please answer the question.”
“They don’t know.”
“What would be their reaction if they found out?”
“They would be very angry.”
“One more than the other?”
“Mother always goes along with what Daddy says. Well ...” she looked down at her drink “... almost always. She didn’t tell Daddy about Stanley, not in the beginning.”
“Please explain that.”
“Stanley left home fourteen or fifteen months ago. He just packed some things in a bag and left. We didn’t hear from him until about a month ago. He sent Mother a letter, and in the letter he asked her not to give his address to Daddy. She went to see him. She thought she might be able to talk him into coming home. But he didn’t want to return. Mother was worried. Finally she told Daddy about it.”
“When?”
“She didn’t tell him until after Stanley was killed. But she didn’t know about the murder at the time.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes. She told Daddy in the garden. I was listening. That was hardly an hour before Lt. Comstock called at the house.”
“Were you present when the lieutenant spoke to your parents?”
“Yes.”
“What did they tell him?”
“The truth.”
“Now, Joanne, an important question. You say your parents would be angry if they find out you’ve come to see me about investigating the murder. Why?”
“They feel there’ll be enough scandal as it is.”
“Did your parents know that Stanley was a drug addict?”
“No. Not until Lt. Comstock told them.”
“Did you know?”
She looked into my eyes. “You’re guessing.”
“I’m asking.”
She dropped her gaze. “Yes. I knew.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Stanley knew I played tennis every Wednesday afternoon at the club. When I left the club one day he was sitting in my car in the parking lot. He said he needed money. The bank was still open so I drove straight there and drew out three thousand. He was nervous, very nervous, and his eyes were running and he had to keep blowing his nose. I had a girlfriend who went on drugs and tried to get off. Her withdrawal symptoms were the same as Stanley’s.”
“Did you say anything about it to him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He denied being on drugs. He said he had a cold and was very tired. I started to ask him another question and he got out of the car and just ran away.”
“When was that?”
“Two months ago.” There was a catch in her voice. “I ... I never saw him again.” Her face suddenly looked hard and there was a cold light in her blue eyes. “I want the man who killed Stanley to suffer for what he did. And that’s why I came here, Larry—to hire you to find him.”
“I can’t give any guarantees, you know.”
“I realize that. I brought some money with me—a retainer.” She slid from the edge of the table. Her purse was on a chair. She began to walk towards the chair.
“Hold it,” I said.
She looked at me questioningly.
“Once I accept your retainer,” I said, “you’re my client.”
“Well, that’s the general idea, isn’t it?”
“If you give me the money right now, Joanne, you might as well put that coat on.”
“Why?”
“I have a rule. I never make love to a client.”
She smiled. “In that case I’ll give you the money later.” She walked to me. “Perhaps in the morning ...”