Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 (33 page)

“You know, you look a little like that actor, the one who was just busted for
reefer. Robert Mitchum,” she said. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

“I’ve heard it once or twice.” It’s a compliment. Mitchum’s five years younger,
and I don’t have a dimple in my chin.

“He has a lot of self-confidence, Jed,” she said, with a nod of her head in his
direction. “He thinks he can do anything he wants.”

“I guess the Jamison Winery is pretty successful,” I offered.

“Hunh. We have top-grade Cabernet and Chardonnay land in the Alexander Valley.
That’s what I brought to the table. My father owned a big ranch. I was born and
raised up there. Dad had cattle. But Jed’s the businessman. Did you know he used
to own the Oakland Oaks? We met at a ball game, back in thirty-eight. After we
got married, after my father died in forty-one, the land came to me. Jed wanted
to grow wine. He sold the Oaks, and now we live up on the ranch. We’ve only had
vines in for six years. Jamison Winery is just getting started, really.”

And so it went. I made small talk with Jane Jamison and we drank our drinks,
while Jed made time with Velma Peregrino on the other side of the room. The
orchestra started up and Jane asked me if I could dance a fox trot. I said sure,
and she put down her glass and led me out on the floor. My right arm went around
her back and her bare flesh was warm and smooth. She pressed her bosom into me
and I looked down at the White Tiger and the view into the vee of her wine-dark
dress below.

We stayed out on the dance floor for a few numbers. My right arm slipped a little
further down her back each time I guided her around the floor. Jane knew how to
use her body and she moved her long thighs against me as if we were doing a
tango not a fox trot. Finally, the orchestra took a break. We picked up our
drinks and went to sit down.

“They’re gone,” she said.

“Who?”

“That two-bit bum I came in with and the blond kitten.”

I looked around the room. I felt sure if Velma were there in her red cocktail
dress, I could pick her out of the crowd. But after scanning the joint twice, I
agreed. Neither Velma nor Jed Jamison was in the room.

“Maybe Velma had to powder her nose,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe. And maybe my no-good husband had to go shake the bishop’s hand. But
I think something’s up. I told that son of a bitch tonight, if he did it again .
. .” but she let the rest trail off. So we sat a few minutes and drank our
drinks. We waited long enough for a seventy-year-old man with a bad prostate to
return from the restrooms. Velma and Jed didn’t appear. Then Jane put a smile on
her face. “Well, what the hell are we doing sitting here like a couple saps? I
came to town to have a good time. I got a room. Why don’t you come on up?”

I hesitated. Usually that was my line.

“Look, shamus, I’m not going back to Geyserville tonight. Me and Jed are booked
in here at the Biarritz, separate rooms. So the ice is staying here and you’re
watching the ice. Come on up and do your job.”

“Let’s go,” I said, and stood up and put out my arm for the lady.

In the lobby, I saw Stosh leaning on a post with tomorrow’s funnies. I asked him
if he’d seen Jamison come out, and he pointed upstairs with his thumb and a roll
of his eyes. Jane stopped at the desk and picked up a key. Quicker than you
could say “dangerous liaisons,” we were in the elevator. As soon as the doors
closed, Jane started climbing me like a schoolgirl shimmying up the old apple
tree. I fell back against the wall of the lift and the car shook in the shaft.
The elevator boy turned around but I gave him an unkind look and he faced
forward again until we got up to twelve.

Somehow I got Jane off me, and we walked down the hall to her room. She gave me
the key and I put it in the keyhole while she blew hot breath in my ear and slid
a hand in my pocket. We stumbled inside; I put on the lights. The wine-dark
dress slid right off, and we left it on the floor.

3.

 
I called down to the desk afterward, and had them send up a deck of
Camels and a bottle of Moët. I thought of getting Paul Masson, but Jane said to
put it on the room tab. We lay next to each other and smoked and drank some
Champagne. Jane was naked except for the White Tiger, which she’d kept on, and
she looked spectacular.

Jane blew out a long stream of smoke and said, “You know, Frank, I think I’ve got
to dump Jed and start again.”

I took a sip of the Moët, which was cool and crisp, but not icy. “Can you do
that, baby?”

“Well, the land is still mine—all in my name. I think everything else, the
winery, the cars, the bank accounts—that’s all Jed’s.”

I smoked.

“I need a divorce. Jed will never give me one willingly because he wants the
land.”

I had a drink.

“But he’s in room eleven-oh-two now, giving me grounds for a divorce,” she said.
“All I need is evidence. Evidence that he’s screwing around. Your friend . .
.”

“Velma.”

“Velma. She’s not the first one. We’ve been married ten years, and he’s been
doing this sort of thing whenever he gets the chance. He makes me feel like such
a fool.” She drank. “He’s had twenty Velmas.” Not really, I thought. There’s
only one Velma.

I reached for the bottle and poured a little Champagne below the White Tiger
necklace and watched the bubbles trickle down between her knockers. I pulled the
sheet off her, leaned over, and put my tongue in her navel. When the wine
started to pool there, I lapped it up and worked my way north with my
tongue.

“Frank, you’re a private dick. What if I hire you? You could go over there and
take some pictures. That’s all I need. He’s in room eleven-oh-two. I stopped at
the desk and got the extra key for Jed’s room.”

“Mmmm. I’m sorry, Jane. I don’t do divorce work.”

“Please, Frank,” she said. “I can’t live like this anymore.”

“No. I never wanted to be the kind of peeper who waited in the bushes with a
camera. It’s cheap. I’m poor, but I’m not cheap. Besides, tonight, it doesn’t
seem ethical. I’m doing the same thing with you that your husband is doing with
Velma. If he’s guilty, what are you?”

We had a drink. I finished my cigarette and snubbed it out.

Jane frowned and took a last drag on her Camel. She exhaled and brightened again,
“Well, that first one was to get even with Jed for skating around. Now let’s do
it for us.” She rolled me over and climbed on top.

 
“Frank,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Go over to room eleven-oh-two and take a picture.”

“I don’t have my camera,” I said.

“I’ll bet you can get one.”

“Where? It’s after midnight.”

“Hey, you’re friends with the house dick, aren’t you?” Jane said. “I’ll bet he
keeps one around. Frank, I’ve got to get a divorce. Jed beats me, you know.”

“He beats you?”

“Sure. We have separate bedrooms up at the ranch. Jed’s a real bastard, with a
temper. He takes it out on me. The only time he comes to my room is when he
wants to rough me up. It gets him excited.”

“I can’t do divorce work, Jane. I never have,” I said.

“You know, the only reason I’m not covered with bruises now is he wanted me to
wear that red dress tonight, and he knew bruises would show. So he hasn’t beat
me for about three weeks. Except here. Look.” She rolled over on her front and
lifted her ass. I sat up. Hidden just at the bottom of the butt cheeks and
across the back of her upper thighs were red welts. “See that? He’s got these
leather thongs . . . He’s probably so frustrated with pent-up anger, he’s
probably beating your blond friend.”

I was already out of bed, stepping into my trousers. “He’s vicious,” Jane said.
“I have more meat on me than she does. She could really get hurt.”

I wasn’t happy about Velma being with Jamison in the first place, but she was a
big girl. It wasn’t my business who she tumbled with. But I couldn’t let her get
beat up by a sadist. I pulled on my shirt. “All right. I’m going to pay your
hubby a visit. First I’ll go down and see Kosloski. If he has a camera, fine.
I’ll take it with me and get some photos. Give me the key to his room.” I
grabbed my fedora and headed for the door.

“Thank you, Frank. You’re wonderful, you know that?”

 
A few minutes later I was creeping along the eleventh-floor hallway.
It had green and magenta wallpaper in a quiet floral pattern, some side tables
with vases of quiet flowers on them and mirrors behind them, and my gumshoes
sank into the deep pile of the quiet carpet. Stan Kosloski’s Leica camera was
slung around my neck and Jane’s key to 1102 was in the palm of my hand. I was
wonderful. But something was wrong about this; I could feel it. I don’t know if
you ever did something where it didn’t feel right, but you couldn’t help
yourself. Did you ever get on that ride you didn’t want to be on, but you stayed
put and didn’t say anything until it was too late and they’d put the bar down?
That’s how I felt. Maybe it was the peeping with the camera—divorce work. I
couldn’t put my finger on it. I knew I was making a mistake, but it was too late
to get off this ride.

I slid the key in the lock, turned the knob silently, and eased open the door to
1102. There was a dim light coming from the bathroom on the far side of the bed.
I was backlit from the hallway. I raised the camera and took the picture. The
flash lit up the room.
In flagrante.
I popped the bulb out on the
floor. Velma screamed and I pushed in another bulb. Say cheesy. I fired again.
Dee-licto!

Jed Jamison must have been half-blinded, but he lunged off the bed and came at
me. He stepped on the first bulb, yelled in pain, and picked up his foot.
“Velma,” I said, “are you okay?”

“Oh, God, Frank? Is that you?”

Jed was hopping on one foot, and I stepped forward and shoved him over with one
hand. He went down against the nightstand, and the lamp fell off the table in
his face.

“Did he hurt you, Velma?” I asked.

“Get out of here, Frank. Are you crazy?”

“Just so you’re okay . . .”

“Get out of here!” she screamed. I guess she was fine. I turned and left. That
feeling of what had been wrong going into Jamison’s room started to coalesce. I
took the stairs two at a time, back to 12. I knew what my mistake had been. My
job was watching the necklace, and I wasn’t doing my job. The door to 1224 was
locked; I kicked it. There was a crack of wood and it opened. I rushed in,
feeling like all the air had been knocked out of me, feeling like a kicked
door.

Jane was sitting up in bed, but lascivious as she’d been before, now she was
holding the sheet up modestly across her breasts. There was no White Tiger
necklace around her neck. She pointed at some spot beyond my left shoulder.
“Frank, he’s got the diamonds!” I heard a swishing noise behind my left ear and
I knew what was coming.

4.

 
Private dick’s manual, Chapter 2—Equipment: Never go out without
your fedora. Not just a fashion accessory, a good hat can make the difference
between a concussion and a catnap when you’re sapped. Sigh. When I get too old
for this business, I’m going to write that book.

Right then, my mouth was full of carpet and there was a harsh bitter smell in the
air. I opened my eyes. The room was blurry.
My name is Frank Swiver.
I
looked at my watch. It was now 12:55.
I am in the Biarritz Hotel in San
Francisco.
It had already been after midnight when I left Jane.
It
is Friday night. Well, it was Friday night. Now it’s Saturday morning.
I had been unconscious, but maybe less than fifteen minutes.
The president
is Harry Truman.
I was conscious, but considering the pain in my head,
I wished I’d still been out.

I got up to my hands and knees. The camera back was open and the film was lying
on the floor next to it. Jane was no longer sitting up. I crawled over to the
bed like a dog that had lost a fight with a bigger dog and got my paw and face
up on it. Jane was dead. Her beautiful throat was cut, and the sheets were
soaked in her blood. I gagged, but held it down.

The phone cord in the room had been yanked out of the wall. I went down the hall
to a house phone on a side table by the elevators and called the desk. I got
Kosloski on the horn and told him to come up to 1224, alone. Then I went back to
the room and splashed cold water on my face. The room still seemed blurry. I
rubbed my eyes and realized it was smoke hanging in the room from all those
gaspers we’d been puffing. I opened the window to let in some fresh air. I
turned around, straightened up, and took a deep breath. Then quick as I could do
it, I turned back to the window and slammed it shut.

I breathed in deep through my nose. The smoke had the wretched and distinctive
odor of black tobacco. Gauloises. Joe Damas had been in the room. I headed out
and bumped into Kosloski in the hall.

“Frank,” he said, “what the hell is it now?”

“Trouble, Stan. Better look in. The ice is gone; Mrs. Jamison is dead.” He put
his head in the room.

“Oh, Jesus, Frank. Jesus.”

“I know who did it, Stosh,” I said. “You know Joe Damas?”

“Damas? The little nance from France?”

“Yeah, the forger.”

“I wouldn’t figure him for something like this,” said Kosloski.

“Funny thing, Stan, neither would I. But I’ve got to check it out.”

“Wait a minute, you can’t run out. I got a body here in my hotel.”

“So, you call it in. It’s the Jamisons’ room. Maybe I wasn’t even here,” I
said.

“Where’s Mr. Jamison? Shit, I’ll have to tell him.”

“Try his room. He was there twenty—thirty minutes ago. Look, I know where to find
Damas. I can wrap this up and get back to you before the cops even finish
dusting the flop. But you got to cut me loose.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Frank, because if it comes down to my job,
I’m giving you over.”