neck, and she kissed me as soundly as I’ve been kissed in my life.
Then she said, “No. No, you will not get out.” She kissed me again, and I pulled her to me, and she turned her head aside with a little whimpering sound, and she said, “Oh, you bastard, why are you letting this happen?”
Chapter Five
Knowles Investigations was on Fifty-third Street, directly opposite the Museum of Modern Art. The building was a converted brownstone that housed a private gallery on street level, a photographer’s agent on the first floor, a place that sold African
objets d’art
on the second floor, and Dennis’ establishment on the top floor.
I arrived there at ten a.m. on Wednesday morning. Laraine had washed and ironed my shirt and pressed my suit. I looked fairly decent. I felt pretty good, too. I don’t know how much Laraine had to do with that, but I imagined it was a great deal. We’d had breakfast together that morning before she left for the five and ten. She’d sat opposite me in a bra and half-slip, and we’d drunk orange juice and coffee, and this had been the first morning in a long while that I hadn’t started the day with a belt from a bottle. We talked while she dressed. I told her I would probably be busy downtown all day, and she made me promise to eat lunch someplace. She also insisted that I return to the apartment by six o’clock. She would have dinner waiting, she said. I helped her zip up the back of her dress. I always suspect this to be a feminine trick designed tomake a man feel more masculine. There are, after all, countless American females who live alone, and they don’t run around with the zippers lowered at the backs of their dresses. They are,
ipso facto
, capable of doing the zipping themselves. But feminine trick or not, I enjoyed it. Laraine kissed me before she left the apartment. I enjoyed that, too. I had a second cup of coffee, and then headed downtown for Knowles’ office.
A couple of young farm girls with hayseed sticking out of their ears were waiting outside the photographer’s agent’s door. They looked up at me hopefully when I came up the steps, and then turned away disdainfully when I plowed on past. A big African mask decorated the door on the third floor. It scared hell out of me.
Knowles had a very nice office on the top floor. The business of breaking down hotel doors had apparently been thriving since last I’d seen him. I entered a cozy reception room with a cozy brunette receptionist, and I walked to her desk and said, “I’d like to see Mr. Knowles, please.”
The brunette looked up from her emery board. “Who’s calling, please, sir?”
I debated the advisability of using my own name. Dennis and I had never seen eye-to-eye even when things were going good for me. If he heard Matt Cordell was here, he’d probably come out of his office raging. I decided to reactivate my old cab-driver friend.
“Joe Phillips,” I said.
“Won’t you have a chair, Mr. Phillips,” the brunette said. “I’ll see if Mr. Knowles is free.”
I had a chair, and she had a conversation on the telephone. When she put the receiver back onto the cradle, she said, “Go right in, won’t you?”
I opened the door to the private office, closed it quickly behind me, and then leaned on it. Knowles looked up, registered little if any shock, smiled, and said, “Joe Phillips, huh?”
“Hello, Dennis,” I said.
He was sitting behind his desk, a big man in a lightweight sports jacket. By big, I mean six-two and about 200 pounds, which is not unusual for a detective. Most detectives I know are tall and heavy, and Knowles was no exception. His broad shoulders were silhouetted by the bank of windows behind him. There was a small terrace outside the windows, fronting on Fifty-third. I wondered if he went out there to meditate on how best to splinter a door. He studied me now with a slight smile still on his face. He had good teeth, and a strong jaw. His brown eyes were shrewdly
Then she said, “No. No, you will not get out.” She kissed me again, and I pulled her to me, and she turned her head aside with a little whimpering sound, and she said, “Oh, you bastard, why are you letting this happen?”
Chapter Five
Knowles Investigations was on Fifty-third Street, directly opposite the Museum of Modern Art. The building was a converted brownstone that housed a private gallery on street level, a photographer’s agent on the first floor, a place that sold African
objets d’art
on the second floor, and Dennis’ establishment on the top floor.
I arrived there at ten a.m. on Wednesday morning. Laraine had washed and ironed my shirt and pressed my suit. I looked fairly decent. I felt pretty good, too. I don’t know how much Laraine had to do with that, but I imagined it was a great deal. We’d had breakfast together that morning before she left for the five and ten. She’d sat opposite me in a bra and half-slip, and we’d drunk orange juice and coffee, and this had been the first morning in a long while that I hadn’t started the day with a belt from a bottle. We talked while she dressed. I told her I would probably be busy downtown all day, and she made me promise to eat lunch someplace. She also insisted that I return to the apartment by six o’clock. She would have dinner waiting, she said. I helped her zip up the back of her dress. I always suspect this to be a feminine trick designed tomake a man feel more masculine. There are, after all, countless American females who live alone, and they don’t run around with the zippers lowered at the backs of their dresses. They are,
ipso facto
, capable of doing the zipping themselves. But feminine trick or not, I enjoyed it. Laraine kissed me before she left the apartment. I enjoyed that, too. I had a second cup of coffee, and then headed downtown for Knowles’ office.
A couple of young farm girls with hayseed sticking out of their ears were waiting outside the photographer’s agent’s door. They looked up at me hopefully when I came up the steps, and then turned away disdainfully when I plowed on past. A big African mask decorated the door on the third floor. It scared hell out of me.
Knowles had a very nice office on the top floor. The business of breaking down hotel doors had apparently been thriving since last I’d seen him. I entered a cozy reception room with a cozy brunette receptionist, and I walked to her desk and said, “I’d like to see Mr. Knowles, please.”
The brunette looked up from her emery board. “Who’s calling, please, sir?”
I debated the advisability of using my own name. Dennis and I had never seen eye-to-eye even when things were going good for me. If he heard Matt Cordell was here, he’d probably come out of his office raging. I decided to reactivate my old cab-driver friend.
“Joe Phillips,” I said.
“Won’t you have a chair, Mr. Phillips,” the brunette said. “I’ll see if Mr. Knowles is free.”
I had a chair, and she had a conversation on the telephone. When she put the receiver back onto the cradle, she said, “Go right in, won’t you?”
I opened the door to the private office, closed it quickly behind me, and then leaned on it. Knowles looked up, registered little if any shock, smiled, and said, “Joe Phillips, huh?”
“Hello, Dennis,” I said.
He was sitting behind his desk, a big man in a lightweight sports jacket. By big, I mean six-two and about 200 pounds, which is not unusual for a detective. Most detectives I know are tall and heavy, and Knowles was no exception. His broad shoulders were silhouetted by the bank of windows behind him. There was a small terrace outside the windows, fronting on Fifty-third. I wondered if he went out there to meditate on how best to splinter a door. He studied me now with a slight smile still on his face. He had good teeth, and a strong jaw. His brown eyes were shrewdly
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