Kisses of Death. Henry Kane
used and I was willing to accept a fee. It was the age-old deal: hanky panky. A married lady had indulged herself in hanky panky. Hanky panky requires a partner. The partner had arranged for pictures and now he was maneuvering to make the hanky panky pay off. Sure she needed protection. Smart gal. If he was selling and she was buying, it was smart to bring an expert to consummate the deal, to pull in all the loose ends, to make it one deal, finished and final. Caveat emptor! Let the buyer beware! Smart gal, and smart to prefer not to answer. Why bleat the whole deal to the private richard before you know how bad the evidence is? A couple of night club photos drinking at The Stork could be explained away, without pay, and without incrimination. Let us wait and see before we bleat. Hanky had called to make the panky pay off, but a woman had called!
“You said,” I said, “it was a woman who called. Correct?”
“Yes. A private detective.”
Private detective. Smart, all around. It wasn’t a couple of drinking photos, hanky and panky slobbering drunk, grinning into a camera at The Stork. It was a real deal with all the trimmings.
“Who was the woman who called?”
“Marla Trent.”
“Stinks,” I said. “You’re all wet on the blackmail.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“I know Marla Trent. You remember the recommendation Felix Davenport gave me? That recommendation goes double in spades for Marla Trent—from me. Marla Trent wouldn’t mix in blackmail, not on your life, or her life, or mine.”
“Please, Mr. Chambers, let’s go and find out.”
“You bet,” I said. “I’m quite anxious now because I’m curious. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“There’s nothing.”
My client was still under wraps, hoping against hope, but the glint of sweat on her forehead had now accumulated to beads. She stood up, opened her bag, and patted powder on her face. It was a hot morning.
FOUR
MARLA TRENT was Marla Trent Enterprises, 527 Madison Avenue, New York City. Marla Trent was a lady eye, the very tip of the top of the heap—the famous Private Eyeful. Marla Trent had no need to put her breast a foot forward to win, hands down and buttocks up, the accolade of Most Beautiful Private Detective In The World. Marla Trent was rich and successful, as were her clients. Marla Trent would as lief traffic with blackmail as a leaf would lief traffic with a whirlwind. Marla Trent was acute, astute, a beaut, and, of all things, a Ph.D., and with her figure yet. Marla Trent, in the preen of her teens, had once been runner-up to Miss America in Atlantic City, runner-up only because the dazed judges had not yet been ready to accept Juno as representative of the All-American Girl: Marla Trent stood five-six in stockingless feet and juttingly measured a justly proud 38-23-38 which is about as much woman as any man can dream to handle.
I admit to having dreamed but there had never been the opportunity to transfer the dream to reality. Marla Trent had always been the friendly enemy, the competition. Macy does not attempt to seduce Gimbel; nor Tiffany, Cartier; nor Lockheed, Boeing; nor Squibb, Parke Davis; etcetera all the way down to private detectives. There is a seemliness and a regard where mutual respect exists: the competition does not attempt to buck or pluck (or whatever rhyming word) the competition. I had worked in intimate concert with Marla Trent on intermittent and casual occasion but we had never worked in intimate concert for any length of time, to my regret.
Now at eleven o’clock Valerie Kiss and I presented ourselves at the spacious offices of Marla Trent Enterprises and I nodded to the receptionist, Miss Rebecca Asquiff, hatchet-faced and gimlet-sharp.
“Mrs. Kiss for Miss Trent,” I said.
“How do you do, Mr. Chambers,” gritted Rebecca. Miss Trent will be with you very shortly,” she said. “Please sit down.”
We sat together on a beautiful, custom-made, modern-type bench (modern-type means built for show but not for comfort) and as I wriggled to prevent the displacement of my coccyx, I said, “I’ll talk to her alone first. Sort of pave the way.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Chambers.”
A boy came out, tall and manly but more feminine than Rebecca Asquiff, and he smiled and said, “This way, Mrs. Kiss.”
“I’m Peter Chambers,” I said. “I’ll see Miss Trent alone first.”
“Well, she’s waiting in the library.”
That meant—why keep Mrs. Kiss sitting on a modern-type bench in the reception room when instead she could be comfortable in the library while you and Marla Trent talked in Miss Trent’s office?
We were led to the library which was a vast, cool, dim, book-lined room with an enormous mahogany library table and many mahogany armchairs. Marla Trent, quite the Private Eyeful, greeted us smilingly.
It was quite evident that Marla Trent was acquainted with Valerie Kiss. It was just as evident, however, that Valerie Kiss was totally unacquainted with Marla Trent. I was having a strange morning. Sometimes you can blame a strange morning on a hangover, but not this morning. I had retired the night before innocent of alochol; well, somewhat innocent; let us say sufficiently innocent not to be able to blame a strange morning-after on a familiar night-before.
Slightly slack-jawed Valerie Kiss said, “Are you, er, are you Marla Trent?”
Miss Trent nodded, still brightly smiling.
Mrs. Kiss swallowed. Who could blame her?
Marla Trent was unexpected when you expected a private detective. Marla Trent, in heels, was approximately five feet nine inches tall, all curves, all woman. Marla Trent was golden-haired, white-toothed, blue-eyed, red-lipped, creamy-skinned. Marla Trent was 38-23-38 and every splendid bulge of each astonishing statistic, unsuppressed by inhibiting undergarment, was as proudly displayed as a flag. She wore simple black pumps, no stockings, a simple black skirt, and a simple white scoop-necked blouse, the sum total of which simplicity was inordinately intricate in conjunction with Marla Trent. Certainly I could understand Valerie Kiss’s swallow of surprise. I was not surprised but I swallowed too before I said, “Could I talk with you alone a moment, Miss Trent?’’
She was gorgeous but she was a pro. There had been no squint of askance at my presence and now there was no ruffle of discomfiture at my request. She said, “Is that all right, Mrs. Kiss?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Kiss.
There was a door at either side of the far end of the library. The door to the left opened upon Marla Trent’s office, the door to the right upon the office of William Boyd Winkle, her associate. Within, the contiguous offices were connected by a heavy oak door which was closed when Miss Trent and I gathered in conclave. Quickly we grew chummy, out of earshot of the client, albeit we were separated by the bulk of her sturdy desk. Skirt up and smiling she swiveled in her swivel chair while I gaped.
“What are you doing here?” she inquired.
“Trying to earn a fee,” I said.
“How much?” she said.
“I don’t know yet but the lady I represent looks rich.”
“She’s rich. The husband is a highly rated vice president of the Corn Exchange National, Thirty-eighth Street Branch. Why does she think she needs to be represented?”
“She had an idea that your call this morning was a prelude to blackmail.”
The white teeth glistened in an amiable smile. “You know, I don’t blame her.”
“I talked her out of that. But quick.”
“Well, thank you. You’re sweet.”
“Sweet as sugar, lady, but you wouldn’t know.”
“I can imagine.”
I