Chapter 2
He was a big man, an inch or so over six feet, about my size, but the gun in his hand made him seem much larger. He made a motion with the gun, and I backed up into the living room. He came in and closed the door securely behind him.
He wouldn't win any beauty contests, but he wasn't something you might find in a zoo either. He had an ordinary, impassionate face, the kind you wouldn't notice in a crowd, topped by medium cut brown hair. From the way he walked he seemed wiry and agile, despite his size. He was watching me very carefully, as though I might try to take the gun away from him and toss him out on his ear.
He was wrong-at least just then. I may be a little stupid at times but, as the saying goes, I'm not crazy. I knew a little Judo and Karate, but I also know that the hand is not quicker than a speeding bullet.
"I don't suppose you're selling Girl Scout cookies either," I told him.
He grunted. "Very funny, Sly," he said, but I noticed he wasn't laughing. "Who was that girl that was just in here?"
"What girl?"
I could see he was trying very hard to be patient. "The one who just left your apartment thirty seconds before I arrived."
"That was no girl," I said. "That was the landlady. Today is rent day."
"You're a real comedian," he said, thumbing the hammer back on his revolver. "In ten seconds, if you don't stop playing smart, you'll be a real dead comedian."
I'd been hoping to get him sore enough to take a swing at me with the gun. A guy can't shoot a swinging gun accurately, and it would get him off balance where I could pile up a couple of points for my side. It made me nervous to have people point guns at me. The weapon looked like a snub-nosed .32, similar to the one I sometimes carry, and I knew it could make a neat little hole where it went in, a great big hole where it came out, and a lot of damage in between.
"Because I'm a very patient man, Sly, I'll give you one more chance. Who was that girl?"
He was serious. Dead serious. I didn't know what the score was, but I had the urge to stay alive long enough to find out. I backed into a chair and tried to look casual.
"Her name is Naomi Burke," I told him. "She's a starlet at Majestic Studios. Her phone number I don't have."
Warily, he sat himself in a nearby chair, holding the gun casually. "What else?"
"That's about it. Except she has a great figure."
"Why was she here to see you?"
I was honest with him. "I wondered that myself. She said she'd heard I'd been hired to guard a group of Majestic starlets, and she wanted toer-see what sort of fellow I was."
The thought suddenly occurred to me that maybe Naomi had a jealous boyfriend somewhere or even a husband she wasn't telling me about, and he'd hired this ape to do some damage to me. Be careful, Naomi had said, when she left. I didn't realize I'd have to be careful so soon.
"Okay," I said, "I've told you what I know about her. Now, I'd like to know a few things about you. Like what's the big idea of coming in here with a gun and asking me questions. What is it you're after?"
"You're hardly in any position to be asking questions," he pointed out. "Besides, you're not telling me the whole truth. She was in here a pretty long time."
"Look," I said exasperated. "I met Naomi for the first time tonight. I never saw her before tonight. She came in unexpectedly, we had a drink, we talked a little, then she left. She didn't tell me anything about herself. We just talked about-well, you know, smog, taxes, things in general."
"Did you go to bed with her?"
The question surprised me. "No," I lied.
He grinned his disbelief, then turned his attention elsewhere. "What about this job of yours? What is it, and why did they pick you in particular?"
"Majestic Studios has a group of seven starlets," I told him, "they're going to use to plug a picture called SEVEN DEADLY SINNERS. In two weeks they're all going out on the road to do some advertising for the picture. Meanwhile, the studio wants to see that they don't get into any trouble."
"Enter Christopher Sly," he volunteered.
"Right," I agreed. "Majestic, from what I've been told, considers these girls hot properties and can't afford a scandal. So they hired me as a watchdog. Why me in particular I couldn't say and still appear modest."
He considered this for a moment and then stood up. "Okay, Sly, I'll settle for that-for now, anyway. But I'll keep in touch with you. Meanwhile, keep your nose clean. Now, stand up."
I stood up. "What's your angle. Why are you so interested in Naomi Burke?"
"Turn around," he said.
"Look," I said, "at least you could tell me-"
He made a motion with the gun, so I shut up and turned around, facing the wall and wondering now what? Now what was not long in coming.
"I'll be seeing you, Sly," he said.
The last half of his sentence was forced out of him, so I knew what to expect. I started rolling with the blow just before it landed. But even so, the gun connected heavily with the base of my skull. My head exploded with a maze of fireworks and sound, and I reeled forward, reaching for the wall to steady myself. I felt myself sinking to the floor, and the darkness came....
The darkness was around what what seemed like a long time. And then Naomi Burke appeared in my mind. Naomi in the skintight dress, smiling seductively, holding out her arms to me. She was a dream, and I reached out for her, and suddenly the dream became a nightmare. She disappeared, replaced by jagged streaks of pain which flashed across my brain. I could feel the blood throbbing across my temples. My skull felt like it was coming apart at the seams.
"Feeling better?" a voice said.
A male voice, vaguely familiar. I tried to gather my senses. I was sitting, lying really, in a chair, and someone was placing cold cloths on my head and neck. I forced open my eyes and then closed them quickly again, wincing at the room lights.
"Take it easy," the voice said. "You got a nasty clout there. You'll be okay, though. Nothing serious."
That, I decided, was a matter of opinion. The man with the gun had said he'd be seeing me. He was right. He'd be seeing me until I closed both his eyes for him and then pounded him through the pavement.
Experimentally, I opened one eye, then joined it with the other. I was still in my apartment. On the couch sat a thin man in a business suit, with greying closely-cropped hair and a mustache. He looked like he might be an insurance salesman.
"Dave Keller?" I asked him.
He nodded. "Too bad I didn't get here sooner. I missed the excitement, apparently. Anybody you know?"
"I never saw him before tonight. But I intend seeing him again-soon, I hope."
Dave considered this. Then he said, "Can I get you a drink?"
"Thanks. I could use one. You can also tell me what this is all about."
Dave went to the bar, fumbled around with bottles. "First, you tell me what happened tonight." He came back with drinks, handed me one, sat down on the couch with his.
I told him about Naomi dropping in to see me, and about the thug paying me a visit after she left. I went into more detail regarding my second visitor.
"Tell me, Chris," he said, when I'd finished, "did you and she go to bed?"
"You, too?" I said, beginning to get slightly annoyed.
He laughed. "It isn't just idle curiosity. Believe me, there's a definite reason for my asking."
"Yes," I said, "we did. But why?"
He got up, walked across the room and back before answering. "Let me ask you a question first. Did you ever hear of a man named Nick Matcha?"
I searched my memory. "Sounds familiar, but I don't remember where I've heard it."
"You probably read the name in the papers. Nick was deported to Sicily last year." He took a sip of his drink. "Incidentally, he was a member of the Mafia."
There was a moment of silence. "Incidentally?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, not incidentally at all. You know, Chris, it's interesting how many people think the Mafia is a work of fiction, and those who do believe it think it was something out of the roaring twenties and isn't around any more." He sat down. "They're wrong, of course. The Mafia started out in 1915 as a patriotic group in Sicily, then degenerated into a gang of extortionists. They gave up writing extortion notes when dope peddling, bootlegging, smuggling and gambling became more profitable. No crime is too great for the Mafia-and even its own members are not immune to sudden, violent death, brutal beatings and torture."
I waited silently for him to continue.
"Nick Matcha was a member of the group. Nick had a girl friend. Nick was deported. The girl friend wasn't. Are you beginning to get the picture?"
"I think so," I said slowly.
"Nick was, of course, intimate with the girl. You might say they were-uh-very close. Even if Nick never told her anything directly, or talked in his sleep, it was inevitable that she would learn things about the organization. Things the government might like to know, things the Mafia wouldn't like the government to know."
"I see," I said.
"The girl disappeared," he went on. "She apparently realized her life was in danger, so she wisely ran as fast as she could. However, she's been traced to this area. More specifically, to Majestic Studios. And even more specifically than that, to one of those 'seven deadily sinners" you're supposed to guard."
I whistled at that one. "Don't you have a picture of her, or at least a description?"
He nodded and pulled an envelope from his pocket. "There's a picture of her in there, just the face and shoulders, and what statistics we know of her on the back. Nick wasn't too free with passing his girlfriends around."
"Then-"
"Then why don't we just contact her? Because we don't know which one of the seven she is. None of the girls matches the girl in the picture, whose name by the way is Carol Rutledge." He shook his head sadly. "People, especially women, can change their appearances so easily these days. She could change her hair color, her hairdo, use different makeup in different ways, maybe even have plastic surgery done on her."
"How about fingerprints?" I suggested.
"Fine," he said, "except we don't have any. She didn't have a record. In fact, there's only one identifying feature that's likely to go unchanged."
"What's that?"
He hesitated, somewhat embarrassed. "A diamond-shaped birthmark. She could have had it removed, but it's un-likely because of the-er-particular place where it is."
"Where is the birthmark?"
He told me, and I stared at him, wondering if I'd heard him correctly. "On her what?"
He nodded. "We got the information from a former boyfriend." He smiled. "Trying to find that will probably be the pleasantest part of your job."
"I'm looking forward to the search," I told him honestly. "I suspected from our phone conversation that I'd have to do more than just be a watchdog. The money you're paying me is very good."
"The job is very dangerous. It will undoubtedly have its pleasant moments, but remember the Mafia knows about it, too, and they're going to try and find her before you do. They'd have no compulsions about destroying all the girls, but they'd have to examine each one of them for the birthmark to make absolutely sure Carol Rutledge was among them-and that might be difficult in a wholesale slaughter. Besides, they'd prefer to do it quietly right now. Needless to say, the government would like to know about this girl, too."
"How do you fit into the picture, Dave?" I asked him.
He grinned at me and took out his wallet, nipped it open and handed it to me. "I'm not an FBI man, if that's what you thought. Just an ordinary private detective licensed by the state of New York. As far as I'm concerned personally, it's a job I'm doing for an insurance company. Carol Rutledge is carrying a hundred thousand dollars of life insurance, with the premium paid up for another month."
"And the beneficiary?"
"Nick Matcha, of course. You can see why the insurance company doesn't want anything to happen to Carol-at least for another thirty days, anyway."
I glanced briefly at his credentials, then handed his wallet back to him.
"I get it," I said. "A local detective could investigate without arousing suspicion, especially if everyone thought his job was something else-like being a watchdog for a bunch of movie starlets."
"Exactly," Dave Keller agreed. "By the way," he continued testily, "you were chosen because of your-uh-shall we say your romantic reputation? It's all arranged for you to live in the house with them-it's a big thing, practically a mansion, that Majestic has rented, in the Hollywood Hills."
"Fine," I said enthusiastically, "when do I start?"
"Tomorrow morning. You report to Oscar Devlin at Majestic Studios around nine. Oscar is in on it, but as far as anybody else is concerned, you're there only to see the girls don't get in any trouble. Your methods will be your own, but I'll contact you from time to time for a progress report. You can get in touch with me through Oscar."
He glanced at his watch, stood up. "That's about it. How's the head?"
"What? Oh, I'd forgotten about it. Okay."
I went with him to the door. He paused. "By the way, about that birthmark-did you notice if Naomi?-"
I frowned, concentrating. "You know, I never noticed," I said finally.
"Well, you'll probably see her again. You can check it then." He made it sound so business-like. "I needn't tell you the danger involved, Chris. The Mafia means business. If it suited their purpose, you could die in a hundred different ways, and sometimes not as swiftly as you'd like either; they've got experts, and they've had a lot of practice."
We shook hands and for the second time that night I promised to be careful. At first, I'd thought this was going to be a dream job, and there were some parts of it that fitted the description.
But with the Mafia around, it could also turn into a one-way nightmare!