leader’s killing all by themselves.
He charged the bar. I was startled by the sudden energy of the maneuver. “Scotch or rye? I don’t stock anything else.” He scooped a pair of barrel glasses out of the rack.
I asked for Scotch rocks. He nodded as if in approval, clattered two ice cubes into each glass from a bowl of them on the bar, and filled them both from the same bottle. “The bar was Bill’s idea,” he explained as he handed me my drink. “He said it was better for my image than a bottle in the desk. Maybe so, but it’s a hell of a long walk when you’re thirsty.”
I said something appropriate and sipped. It was twelve-year-old stuff. “Bill?”
“Bill Clendenan. You met him outside.”
“Your secretary.”
He laughed shortly, a pleasant barking sound. His voice was like fine gravel. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days? Well, maybe.”
I watched him, a hard man in shirt sleeves with striped tie at half-mast and cuffs turned back to expose thick forearms matted with black hair going gray. He and the baseball were two of a kind. Moving quickly, he circled behind the desk and gestured for me to pull up one of the leather-upholstered chairs. The cushions gripped me like a pudgy hand. He sat, drank just enough of his Scotch to keep it from brimming over, grimaced when it struck bottom, and set the remainder down on the glass surface of the desk, where it stayed throughout our interview. No sight is more tragic than that of a man who likes to drink having to coddle a sour stomach. The gray eyes sought mine.
“Where’s Janet?”
I had been holding my hat in my hand. I leaned down and placed it on the carpet, straightened, crossed my legs, sipped my drink, and returned his gaze.
“Janet?”
He made another face. “Don’t any of you leeches play anything a way it hasn’t already been played in the movies? Let’s cut right through the bullshit. What is it, ransom or blackmail? Because if it’s blackmail I’d just as soon toss you through that window. It doesn’t bother me a bit that it doesn’t open.”
I said, “Let’s go back to the overture. Who’s Janet?”
He glared at me from under eyebrows that refused to go gray. I glared back. It was like looking at one of those cutaway models at the auto show and seeing the fan turning and the pistons pumping. “Maybe you’d better start with the ring,” he said, flicking a finger at the box on his desk. “ Where’d you get it and how’d you trace it to me?”
“It was given to me last night as a retainer for a job. I consulted an expert, who recognized the workmanship and said that it was mounted by a jeweler who works exclusively for Phil Montana.”
“This expert wouldn’t be Mike Pilaster.”
I said nothing. He waved it aside.
“What’s the job? Who hired you?”
“When you ask them two at a time, do I get a choice or what?”
“Start with who hired you.”
“Uh-uh.” I sat back and swirled my drink around in the glass, the way Charles Boyer had done in Conquest. The way he had done in damn near all his pictures. “Your turn. Who’s Janet?”
“Janet Whiting. Maybe you heard of her.”
Something stirred at the back of my head. “Keep talking.”
“She was in show business, kind of. Until she got hooked up with a guy named Arthur DeLancey. Could be you heard of him too.”
I didn’t answer. Arthur DeLancey was a very famous federal judge when he took off in a twin-engine plane for a fishing trip to Canada some years ago and never came back. Part of the wreckage was fished out of Lake Superior a few days after the craft was reported missing, but no bodies were ever recovered. I’d heard a couple of other things as well: That he’d been Phil Montana’s chief legal adviser until the two had a falling out during the Grand Jury thing. And that Janet Whiting had been DeLancey’s constant companion, the most famous great man’s mistress since Marion Davies.
“Let me guess,” I ventured. “The
He charged the bar. I was startled by the sudden energy of the maneuver. “Scotch or rye? I don’t stock anything else.” He scooped a pair of barrel glasses out of the rack.
I asked for Scotch rocks. He nodded as if in approval, clattered two ice cubes into each glass from a bowl of them on the bar, and filled them both from the same bottle. “The bar was Bill’s idea,” he explained as he handed me my drink. “He said it was better for my image than a bottle in the desk. Maybe so, but it’s a hell of a long walk when you’re thirsty.”
I said something appropriate and sipped. It was twelve-year-old stuff. “Bill?”
“Bill Clendenan. You met him outside.”
“Your secretary.”
He laughed shortly, a pleasant barking sound. His voice was like fine gravel. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days? Well, maybe.”
I watched him, a hard man in shirt sleeves with striped tie at half-mast and cuffs turned back to expose thick forearms matted with black hair going gray. He and the baseball were two of a kind. Moving quickly, he circled behind the desk and gestured for me to pull up one of the leather-upholstered chairs. The cushions gripped me like a pudgy hand. He sat, drank just enough of his Scotch to keep it from brimming over, grimaced when it struck bottom, and set the remainder down on the glass surface of the desk, where it stayed throughout our interview. No sight is more tragic than that of a man who likes to drink having to coddle a sour stomach. The gray eyes sought mine.
“Where’s Janet?”
I had been holding my hat in my hand. I leaned down and placed it on the carpet, straightened, crossed my legs, sipped my drink, and returned his gaze.
“Janet?”
He made another face. “Don’t any of you leeches play anything a way it hasn’t already been played in the movies? Let’s cut right through the bullshit. What is it, ransom or blackmail? Because if it’s blackmail I’d just as soon toss you through that window. It doesn’t bother me a bit that it doesn’t open.”
I said, “Let’s go back to the overture. Who’s Janet?”
He glared at me from under eyebrows that refused to go gray. I glared back. It was like looking at one of those cutaway models at the auto show and seeing the fan turning and the pistons pumping. “Maybe you’d better start with the ring,” he said, flicking a finger at the box on his desk. “ Where’d you get it and how’d you trace it to me?”
“It was given to me last night as a retainer for a job. I consulted an expert, who recognized the workmanship and said that it was mounted by a jeweler who works exclusively for Phil Montana.”
“This expert wouldn’t be Mike Pilaster.”
I said nothing. He waved it aside.
“What’s the job? Who hired you?”
“When you ask them two at a time, do I get a choice or what?”
“Start with who hired you.”
“Uh-uh.” I sat back and swirled my drink around in the glass, the way Charles Boyer had done in Conquest. The way he had done in damn near all his pictures. “Your turn. Who’s Janet?”
“Janet Whiting. Maybe you heard of her.”
Something stirred at the back of my head. “Keep talking.”
“She was in show business, kind of. Until she got hooked up with a guy named Arthur DeLancey. Could be you heard of him too.”
I didn’t answer. Arthur DeLancey was a very famous federal judge when he took off in a twin-engine plane for a fishing trip to Canada some years ago and never came back. Part of the wreckage was fished out of Lake Superior a few days after the craft was reported missing, but no bodies were ever recovered. I’d heard a couple of other things as well: That he’d been Phil Montana’s chief legal adviser until the two had a falling out during the Grand Jury thing. And that Janet Whiting had been DeLancey’s constant companion, the most famous great man’s mistress since Marion Davies.
“Let me guess,” I ventured. “The
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