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  Praise for Parnell Hall’s mystery SCAM

  “What Mr. Hall does to the private-eye formula is very funny, but it is not frivolous. His puzzles, for all their manic nonsense, are fiendish constructions of sound logic.”

  —Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review

  “As usual, Hall, like Rumplestiltskin, takes slender material that would serve another writer for a middling short story and spins a gossamer web of riddles by turns puzzling, suspenseful, and hilarious.”

  —Kirkus

  “Hall weaves a tale worth of a Golden Age writer, with as many puzzles in one book as one is likely to find in four or five modern mysteries.”

  —Deadly Pleasures

  “Fiendishly funny ...Smart dialogue, clever plotting, and a perfectly executed reverse scam by Hastings result in sparkling entertainment.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Books by Parnell Hall

  Stanley Hastings private eye mysteries

  Detective

  Murder

  Favor

  Strangler

  Client

  Juror

  Shot

  Actor

  Blackmail

  Movie

  Trial

  Scam

  Suspense

  Cozy

  Manslaughter

  Hitman

  Caper

  Puzzle Lady crossword puzzle mysteries

  A Clue For The Puzzle Lady

  Last Puzzle & Testament

  Puzzled To Death

  A Puzzle In A Pear Tree

  With This Puzzle I Thee Kill

  And A Puzzle To Die On

  Stalking The Puzzle Lady

  You Have The Right To Remain Puzzled

  The Sudoku Puzzle Murders

  Dead Man’s Puzzle

  The Puzzle Lady vs. The Sudoku Lady

  Steve Winslow courtroom dramas

  The Baxter Trust

  Then Anonymous Client

  The Underground Man

  The Naked Typist

  The Wrong Gun

  SCAM

  Parnell Hall

  Copyright © 1997, 2010 by Parnell Hall

  Published by Parnell Hall, eBook edition, 2010.

  Originally published in hardcover by Mysterious Press, Warner Books Inc., 1997.

  ISBN: 0-89296-623-8

  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): 978-1-936441-06-8

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-936441-07-5

  Cover design by 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

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  1.

  “I’M BEING SET UP.”

  I stifled a grin. Cranston Pritchert was six foot six and skinny as a rail, and when he said he was being set up, all I could think of was a candlepin on a bowling lane. Since the gentleman seemed to be upset, I figured grinning would have been an inappropriate reaction, and if questioned I certainly would not have wanted to explain. I bit my lip, tried not to smile.

  “Go on,” I said.

  Cranston Pritchert opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Begin at the end.”

  He looked at me. “Huh?”

  “If you’re having trouble telling your story, don’t bother. Start with the punch line. Why are you here?”

  That invitation did not put Cranston Pritchert at his ease. Anything but. His lip curled up slightly. “Yes, that’s so clever, isn’t it?” he said. “Is that what you tell all your clients?”

  It most certainly wasn’t. I don’t have any clients. At least not the kind Cranston Pritchert meant. See, I’m not the kind of private detective people immediately think of. The kind you see on TV. The kind who solve people’s problems by having fist fights and car chases and running around with flashy blondes.

  No, unfortunately, I’m the kind of private detective that exists in real life. The kind that does largely negligence work. I chase ambulance for the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone. That consists mainly of interviewing accident victims and taking pictures of their broken arms and legs, not to mention the cracks in the sidewalk that tripped them.

  I doubt if that would have impressed Cranston Pritchert much.

  We were sitting in my office on West 47th Street, the one-room hole-in-the-wall affair with the sign STANLEY HASTINGS DETECTIVE AGENCY on the door. Cranston Pritchert had been waiting outside when I’d come by at nine o’clock to check the answering machine and pick up the mail. If he hadn’t been, he’d have missed me. I don’t hang out in the office much. By nine oh five I’d have been gone.

  “All right, look,” I said. “We’re off on the wrong foot here. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve gotta go out on a case.”

  Pritchert blinked. “You already have a case?”

  “I do three or four cases a day.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. Ninety percent of detective work is routine. My ten o’clock case is a hit-and-run. I’ll take down all the pertinent information from the victim, turn it over to the lawyer, and I’m done.”

  “What about finding the car?”

  “That’s not my job.

  “What if the lawyer asked you to?”

  “He won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he can file suit without it. They don’t need to catch the driver. It’s like a no-fault situation. Even if they don’t know who did it, they can still sue.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, I told you all about my business. You wanna tell me about yours? If not, I gotta run.”

  Cranston Pritchert stood up. He put up his hands, towered over me. “No, no,” he said. “Please. Even if you turn me down. Even if you can’t take the case. I gotta talk to somebody. Won’t you at least listen?”

  “I’m perfectly willing to listen,” I said. “You were just having trouble getting started and frankly I’m pressed for time.”

  “I understand,” Pritchert said. �
�I’m sorry. I promise. I’m not going to waste any more of your time. Just hear me out.”

  “Fine,” I said. “So, tell me. What’s your problem?”

  Pritchert dropped his hands to his sides. He pulled his chin in and stood there, stiff as a ramrod, as if at attention, looking more than ever like a candlepin.

  I looked at him, prayed he wouldn’t say it again.

  He did.

  “I’m being set up.”

  2.

  EVENTUALLY I GOT THE STORY, but not before we’d gone around at least two more times. My query Who’s setting you up? might have led to promising ground, but merely provoked the response I don’t know. Similarly, How are you being set up? resulted in the deflection I’m not sure.

  It was a while before I stumbled on the old faithful Why don’t you tell me what happened? Which merely earned me a second helping of I don’t know where to begin.

  At which point I stood up, snapped shut my briefcase and headed for the door.

  He stopped me, apologized, and I finally got the story.

  “It’s my company,” he said, once we had both sat back down.

  “Your company?”

  “Yes. Philip Greenberg Investments.”

  “If it’s your company, why is it named Philip Greenberg?”

  He put up his hands. “No, no. It’s not my company. It’s the company I work for.”

  “What do you do for them?”

  “I’m a vice-president.”

  “What does that entail?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What does your company do?”

  “Oh. Just what it sounds like. Make investments. Buy and sell.”

  “On the stock market?”

  “No. Not stocks. Properties. Businesses. Real estate. One of our strengths is we’re rather diversified. Say we invest in a hotel. We might turn right around and sell it. We might renovate it and then sell it. We might rent it out. We might run it as a business. Or we might develop it as part of a chain. You see?”

  Not at all. Business investments and real estate go right over my head. But it was probably not the time to say so.

  “And you’re the vice-president?” I said.

  “Well, I’m a vice-president. Actually, there’s two others.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Marty Rothstein and Kevin Dunbar.”

  “You have three vice-presidents?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who’s the president?”

  “There is no president.”

  “Oh? So who runs the company?”

  “The board of directors.”

  “And who is that?”

  Cranston Pritchert nodded. “Exactly. That’s just it.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “There’s me. Kevin. Marty. And the treasurer, Jack Jenkins. That’s four. The fifth member was the chairman of the board. Philip Greenberg. He died last month.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” Pritchert said. “And that’s the whole problem. There’s a proxy fight going on for control of the company. There’s a stockholders meeting coming up. To vote in a new chairman of the board.”

  “Who are the stockholders?”

  “The main ones are me, Kevin, and Marty.”

  “Didn’t Philip Greenberg own stock?”

  “Yes, of course. It went to his granddaughter, Amy. Nearest living relative. But she has no interest in the company. She’s in her twenties. Playgirl. Could care less about business.”

  “But she has the stock?”

  “Yes.”

  “A controlling interest?”

  He frowned. “Not really controlling. Whoever she voted with would be in a powerful position. Still, it would take more proxies. If everyone ganged up against them—”

  I put up my hands. “Fine,” I said. “So you’re a stockholder?”

  “Yes.”

  “As well as these other guys?”

  “Kevin and Marty. That’s right.”

  “And you all want to be chairman of the board?”

  He frowned. “That’s putting it a little bluntly. This company is my future. I would like to control my future. I—”

  I put up my hands again. Looked at my watch. “Please. I have to be in the Bronx by ten o’clock. The fact is, there’s a proxy fight going on, there’s a stockholders meeting, and they’re gonna vote in a chairman of the board?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What has this got to do with you being set up?”

  “That’s just it. I’m not sure.”

  Before we went around again, I said, “Fine. Tell me about the incident that makes you think you’re being set up.”

  He took a breath. “It was last week. Thursday night. After work. I went out for a drink.”

  “With who?”

  “Just by myself.”

  “You usually drink alone?”

  “You make it sound like a bad habit.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to get the information. Do you normally go out with people from work?”

  “No.”

  “Then you, Marty, and Kevin aren’t close.”

  “Well, not socially.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m sorry I interrupted. Anyway, you went out for a drink?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “At a bar.”

  “I figured that. Where’s the bar?”

  “On Third Avenue.”

  “Third Avenue and where?”

  “65th Street.”

  “Where’s work?”

  “66th and Lex.”

  “Uh-huh. So you went out to this bar and what happened?”

  “Well, there was a girl there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Young. Attractive. Anyway, we got to talking. And I wound up buying her a drink.”

  “I see.”

  He frowned impatiently. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what you’re thinking. It was just very pleasant. We sat there talking and I wound up buying her a drink.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Nothing in particular. Just talking.”

  “So?”

  “So, anyway we had a couple of drinks and that’s it.”

  “What do you mean, that’s it?”

  “That’s all I remember.”

  “Oh?”

  “Next thing I know, I’m sitting on the front steps of a brownstone and a guy’s prodding me with his foot and telling me to move on.”

  “Where was this?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. But not more than a few blocks away.”

  “What time was it?”

  “About nine-thirty.”

  “Nine-thirty that night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I take it the girl was gone?”

  “Of course.

  “I see. Mr. Pritchett, exactly what is it you want?”

  “I want you to find the girl.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s the only way I’m going to find out what happened.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Are you kidding? With the proxy fight going on? Something like this is all it would take for me to lose everything.”

  “Uh-huh. So you want me to find this girl?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay. What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t ask her name?”

  “I did, but she didn’t tell me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know why not. But it’s one of the reasons I think something happened.”

  “How did she get away with not telling you her name?”

  “She passed it off. Made a joke. Changed the subject. I don’t know.” He shook his head. Grimaced. “Women. I have trouble with women.”

  “So it seems.”


  “No, I mean relating. Even in business, women throw me. They don’t think like me. You know?”

  I took a breath. “Mr. Pritchert, I have an appointment.”

  “Right. Sorry.” Pritchert blinked. Then he stuck out his chin. “No, I’m not sorry. All I said was she didn’t tell me her name. Then you started arguing about it.”

  I exhaled. “Okay. Guilty. But the fact is, she didn’t tell. So you don’t know. Which makes her a little harder to find. So tell me. What does she look like?”

  “She’s about twenty-five. Blond hair. Short. Curly. Little turned-up nose. Blue eyes. Bright smile.” He frowned. “I’m not sure how tall she is—she was sitting on a stool. She was wearing a tank top and shorts. Red, the top was. She had large breasts. Very large. And a thin waist. A very attractive girl.”

  “Uh-huh. Now this was last Thursday night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why’d you wait till now?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to do. It took me a while to think it over.”

  “Nothing happened to prompt your decision?”

  “No. What could have?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “Well, nothing did.”

  “Uh-huh. Now the girl—I take it you’ve never seen her before?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have any idea who she is?”

  “No.”

  “It didn’t come up in conversation? You didn’t ask her what she did?”

  “She didn’t talk about herself. It was all kidding. Small talk.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s the name of the bar?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What a surprise.”

  His jaw came up. “Hey. I don’t like your attitude.”

  “I’m sorry, but it would be nice to have something to go on. How am I going to find this bar?”

  “It’s on the east side of Third Avenue. In the middle of the block. It has a yellow awning. You can’t miss it.”

  “You’ve been there before?”

  “Sure. Many times.”

  “And you’ve never seen this girl?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? No.”

  “Well, that’s something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It makes it look more like she was there just to meet you.”

  “Exactly,” Pritchert said. “That’s exactly right. So you see. That proves it.”

  He looked at me portentously, and I had the horrible feeling he was about to say it again.

  He did.

  “I’m being set up.”

  3.

  “IT’S A SCAM.”