If Death Ever Slept

The round was mine, against big odds. He owned the house and everything in it except the furniture in my bedroom. He was the boss and paid my salary. He weighed nearly a hundred pounds more than my 178. The chair I had just got up from had cost $139.95; the one he was sitting in, oversized and custom-made of Brazilian Mauro, had come to $650.00. We were both licensed private detectives, but he was a genius and I was merely an operative. He, with or without Fritz to help, could turn out a dish of Couronne de Canard au Riz a la Normande without batting an eye; I had to concentrate to poach an egg. He had ten thousand orchids in his plant rooms on the roof; I had one African violet on my windowsill, and it wasn’t feeling well. Etc.

But he was yelling uncle. He had counted on getting a squawk out of me, and now he was stuck, and he would have to eat crow instead of Couronne de Canard au Riz a la Normande if he wanted to get unstuck.

I faced him and inquired pleasantly, “Why, don’t you like Alan Green?”

“Pfui. I haven’t instructed you to comply with Mr. Jarrell’s suggestion.”

“No, but you indicated plainly that you intended to. Very plainly.”

“I intended to confer with you.”

“Yes, sir. We’re conferring. Points to consider: would you like to improve on Alan Green, and would it be better for me to get a thorough briefing here, and get it in my notebook, before going up there? I think maybe it would.”

“Then-” He swallowed it. What had started for his tongue was probably, “Then you persist in this pigheaded perversity,” or something stronger, but he knew darned well he had asked for it, and there was company present. You may be thinking that the bundle of bills was also present, but I doubt if that was a factor. I have heard him turn down more than a few husbands, and more than a few wives, who had offered bigger bundles than that one if he would get them out of bliss that had gone sour. No. He knew he had lost the round, and knew that I knew it, but he wasn’t going to admit it in front of a stranger.

“Very well,” he said. He pushed his chair back, got up, and told Jarrell, “You will excuse me. Mr. Goodwin will know what information he needs.” He circled around the red leather chair and marched out.

I sat at my desk, got notebook and pen, and swiveled to the client. “First,” I said, “all the names, please.”

Chapter 2