Detective (Stanley Hastings Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Praise for Parnell Hall’s mystery DETECTIVE

  1988 Edgar Award Best First Mystery Nominee

  1988 Shamus Award Best First Mystery Nominee

  “Highly entertaining. . . this is zesty, shrewdly paced caper-comedy—reminiscent of the best of (among others) Lawrence Block and Joe Gores.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A winner. . . Suspense and humor!”

  —Philadelphia Daily News

  “A gritty, entertaining mystery!”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A terrific page-turner of classic detection.”

  —Drood Review

  DETECTIVE

  Parnell Hall

  Copyright © 1987, 2001, 2010 by Parnell Hall

  Published by Parnell Hall, eBook edition, 2010.

  Published by Olmstead Press, e-reads, 2001

  ISBN: 1-58754-110-6

  eBook edition, multiple formats, e-reads, 2001

  Published by Onyx Books: NAL Penguin Inc., 1988.

  ISBN: 978-0-451400-70-3

  Originally published by Donald I. Fine, Inc., 1987.

  ISBN: 978-1-556110-26-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-936441-12-9

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-936441-13-6

  Cover design: Michael Fusco Design | michaelfuscodesign.com

  For Jim and Franny

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  1.

  “I WANT TO KILL SOMEONE.”

  “Who doesn’t.”

  “No. I mean it. I really want to kill someone.”

  “Everyone wants to kill someone. It’s no big deal. I, myself, have a long list, usually headed by my wife.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m going to do it.”

  For the first time, I gave him my full attention. I looked him over and tried to recall his name. I’m terrible with names. He was a short, plump man, somewhere in his mid-forties, with a bald head ringed with black, greasy curls, and a pudgy face moist with perspiration, which didn’t necessarily indicate nervousness on his part since it was mid-July and I have no air-conditioning in the office. I was perspiring freely too, and I wasn’t a bit nervous, at least not until I realized this unattractive man really was contemplating murder.

  “That,” I said, “is different.”

  He leaned in eagerly. “Then you’ll help me?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll pay you well.”

  “No.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He didn’t seem to know what to say next. He fished in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief and mopped his brow. The handkerchief was soaked already, and the result was negligible. It didn’t matter. He was just buying time. I waited.

  “Look,” he said. “I think I got off on the wrong foot here. I’m a little upset, as you can see. I’m in terrible trouble. I need your help. I’ll give you $10,000.”

  “No.”

  He stared at me. Just a trace of annoyance crept into his voice. “How much do you want?”

  “That’s not the point. You want me to help you kill someone. I’m not going to do it. It doesn’t matter how much money you offer.”

  His head was shaking back and forth rhythmically. “No. No. You don’t understand. I don’t want you to kill him. I’m going to kill him. I don’t need you for that.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “But I still need your help.” He leaned in ingratiatingly, and his name almost came to me. Morris. Morris something. Something Jewish.

  I held up my hand. “All right. Hold it. You’re telling me you’re going to commit a crime. Whether you want me to do it or not, you’re getting me in a lot of trouble. I’m not a lawyer, I’m a private detective. Anything you tell me is not a confidential communication. What you are doing is making me an accessory before the fact to a crime, in fact a capital crime, to wit, Murder One, a cold-blooded, premeditated killing.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Yes you are. You—”

  “But you haven’t heard my story—”

  “I don’t want to hear your story. I don’t want to know anything about this.”

  “But you don’t understand. I’m going crazy. I have to talk to someone.”

  “Why me?”

  “I was going by. I saw your sign.”

  I groaned. My sign. I had listed myself as a private detective on the call board in the lobby because I needed to get mail. It never occurred to me someone would walk in off the street.

  I hesitated, thinking about the sign, and he pounced. “Please. At least just listen to me. I’ve got to talk to someone.”

  I sighed. All right, if I took the job, I had to accept the responsibilities. “O.K.,” I said. “But no names.”

  “What?”

  “Just give me the general picture. No names, no addresses. I don’t want to know the names of anyone involved!”

  As I said that, the name Alberg rang a bell. Morris Alberg. “Can you do that, Mr. Alberg?”

  “Albrect,” he corrected. I began to doubt the “Morris.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

  “O.K.,” I said, “why do you want to kill this guy?”

  I didn’t care. Nothing he had to say would change my mind. Maybe I’m from the old school, but, as far as I’m concerned, killing people is a no-no. I am not a violent person by nature. I do not like violent people. I do not like violence. By and large, I don’t like the detective business very much, and I don’t like most of the people I come in contact with in the course of my work. I didn’t like Morris Alberg, or Albrect, or Whatever, and I could think of no conceivable reason why I should be concerned in the least with his reason for wanting to kill someone. I had asked the question simply as a matter of form, or politeness, if you will, but I knew that there was nothing he could say that would make me the least bit interested in his case.

  I was wrong. There was one right answer, and Albrect had it.

  “Because he’s trying to kill me first.”

  2.

  I GOT UP, WENT AND sat behind my desk, and took out a pad of paper and a pencil. I had no real
intention of taking notes. This was just my way of buying time. I composed myself, resigned myself to the situation, and raised my eyes to meet those of my potential client.

  I sighed. “All right,” I said, “tell me all about it.”

  Now that he had my attention, Albrect didn’t seem to know how to begin. He fidgeted. “I’m in trouble,” he said.

  “So you said.”

  He lowered his eyes. “I, uh, you gotta understand. I did some things.”

  He hesitated and looked at me for encouragement. I wasn’t about to give him any.

  “It’s hard to talk about,” he said.

  “So don’t,” I told him.

  “What?” he asked, startled.

  “I didn’t ask you to come here. I didn’t ask you to tell your story. You forced it on me. If you don’t want to tell it, that’s fine with me. I’m not going to drag it out of you. You want to talk, talk—otherwise get the hell out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

  His face purpled and for a moment I thought he was going to punch me in the nose. Then he exhaled and collapsed like a paper bag.

  “O.K.,” he said. “O.K., you’re right, let me tell you. It all started when I met—”

  I held up my hand. “No names.”

  “How the hell am I going to tell it if I don’t mention any names?”

  “Just leave out the names. Don’t tell me you met so-and-so, just tell me you met a guy.”

  “That’s going to be confusing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a lot of different guys.”

  “O.K., so give him a name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Give him a name. Call him something. Just so long as it’s not his real name.”

  “Call him something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’ll I call him?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “O.K., I’ll call him—” He broke off. “This isn’t going to work.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not going to remember who is who.”

  “Sure you are. This is the first guy you’re talking about. Just give him a name you’ll remember.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “Just call him something you can’t forget.”

  “Like what?”

  “Dumbo.”

  “What?”

  “Dumbo. You know. Walt Disney. The flying elephant.”

  “What are you doing, kidding around?”

  “No, I’m not kidding around. I’m trying to get your story out of you and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be easy. I said call the guy ‘Dumbo’ because you have to refer to him and I know it’s a name you won’t forget. You gonna forget the name ‘Dumbo’? That gonna give you any problems?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Now tell me what Dumbo did.”

  He looked at me as if trying to decide if I were serious. He must have decided I was.

  “O.K. It all started when I met this guy, uh, Dumbo.” He hesitated over the name as if trying it. It must have been O.K., because he plunged right ahead. “He works at the company I work for. I didn’t know him very well—that is, I knew who he was, but I didn’t know him socially, just as a coworker, you know? But one day he mentioned that he was going to this poker game, and I have a weakness for poker, so I told him I was interested, and one thing led to another, and he invited me to go along. It was a friendly neighborhood game, low stakes, dollar-two, high-low game, you know what I mean.”

  “Only too well,” I told him, remembering what my wife had said not a week before when I’d come home from a friendly high-low, dollar-two game a hundred and forty-five bucks in the hole.

  “Well, this guy, Dumbo, was a regular at the game, and I started playing there pretty regular too, so I got to know him pretty well and we got to talking and he told me this game was O.K., but if I really wanted some action there was this place he knew about that was ‘the place to be,’ as he called it.”

  “A casino?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Here in the city?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s illegal, but, hell, the lottery’s legal, there’s OTB. If you go to Atlantic City gambling’s legal, but who’s got the time to go—”

  I stopped him. “Hey, I’m not your mother. I’m not shocked out of my mind that you’ve been gambling illegally in New York City. Stop trying to justify yourself and tell me what happened.”

  “Oh. Well, I went to this place. It’s a little place down in SoHo called—”

  “Hold it.” I held up my hand.

  “O.K. Right. You don’t want to know. So I went down to—” He broke off. “What should I call it?”

  “Are there more than one?”

  “No.”

  “Then why not call it the gambling joint?”

  “Right. Anyway, I went to the gambling joint, and you know how it is.”

  “I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Well, the first few times I won. Not big, but I won. Maybe fifty, or a hundred. Once over three hundred.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I started to lose. The more I bet, the more I lost, and the more I lost, the more I bet.”

  “What were you playing?”

  “Roulette.”

  “You think the wheel was rigged?”

  “Sure it was.”

  “Then why’d you keep playing?”

  “Because—I didn’t—I mean, I did, but—it’s really hard to explain. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Yeah. I would. So what happened?”

  “Well, I got in over my head. See, some nights, when I got cleaned out, since I was sort of a regular there, Mr.—” He broke off. “The guy who ran the place,” he explained.

  “Bambi,” I said.

  “Right,” he said. “Anyway, since I was a regular there, Bambi would give me credit. You know, he took my marker.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, of course, having a credit line made it easier to bet higher. I mean, if I dropped five or six hundred in the course of an evening, I could always put my marker down and go double-or-nothing on red or black.”

  “There was no limit?”

  “Technically, there was a house limit of one grand on any single bet.”

  “You say technically?”

  “Yeah. In a special case, you could go over that.”

  “You have any special cases?”

  “A few.”

  “Ever win one?”

  “No.”

  “Go on.”

  “Anyway, as I said, I got in way over my head and then Mr., uh, Bambi called in the marker.”

  “For how much?”

  Despite the fact that I had assured him I was not his mother, he could not quite bring himself to meet my eyes.

  “Fifty-six grand.”

  I didn’t tell him he was a bad boy or threaten to cut off his allowance. “So what did you do?”

  “What could I do?” he said, looking at me ingratiatingly. “I don’t have that kind of money, and I didn’t know where to get it.”

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked him.

  “O.K. to mention names?” he said, hopefully.

  “Unless it’s involved in the case.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is it?”

  “Only indirectly,” he said. “So what shall I call it?”

  “How about ‘the firm I work for’?” I suggested with just a trace of irony. “All right,” I went on. “You ran up some gambling debts. You embezzled money from the firm you work for to cover them. Then you got faced with an audit. You were afraid your embezzlement would be discovered. You needed money fast. Then what?”

  He stared at me. “How do you know all of that?”

  “What else?” I told him. “So what did you do?”

  “Well, I told, uh, Dumbo, and he happened to know a loan shark who was willing to cover the whole amount.”

>   “At a modest interest, no doubt.”

  “Yeah. It was backbreaking, but what could I do? It bought me time. I covered the shortage, and then I started to work on paying off the loan.”

  “Which you couldn’t do?”

  “No, I was handling it.”

  “Then what went wrong?”

  “Well, one day I went to pay off this guy and he tells me I don’t owe him any more.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He says some guy bought out my loan.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. He says he owed the guy money, so the guy took my marker.”

  “What guy?”

  “Bambi.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Yeah. See, it turns out this loan shark was pretty good friends with Bambi.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “What? Oh,” he smiled sheepishly and nodded. “Yeah. Well, anyway, Bambi told me he was sorry about the whole thing. It was just a coincidence. The guy owed him money and, since he couldn’t pay, he gave him my marker.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “No. Particularly when he told me something else. He said he knew I was in trouble and was going to have a hard time paying off the loan, but maybe he could help me.”

  “How?”

  “Well, it turns out he knew this other guy—” he looked at me.

  “Pluto,” I told him.

  “Who?”

  “Mickey Mouse’s dog.”

  “Right. Pluto. It turned out Pluto had some work he needed done and it would pay well and it was my chance to get out of the hole.”

  “What was the work?”

  “I’m coming to that.”

  “Today, I hope.”

  “O.K., O.K. Well, you see, one of the things about my job is that I have to travel a lot. And I hate to fly. I’m afraid of flying, to tell you the truth. So I do a lot of driving. At least on the East coast. California, I have to fly, but I hate it. Anywhere else, I drive. Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, I drive it.”

  “So?”

  “Well, it happens that one of the largest accounts I handle is the Whitney Corporation in Miami.”

  “I think I get the picture.”

  “Yeah. Well, it turns out Pluto had some business in Miami. He needed something delivered and something picked up.”

  “No kidding.”

  “So they made me this proposition.”

  “Who?”

  “Bambi and Pluto.”

  “Both of them together?”