Talmage Powell
An Occasional Rat
1
St. Petersburg was exactly what I wanted, warm, lazy, clean. So far the first couple days I stayed under rover, sleeping late and sprawling on the white beach at Gulfport all afternoon. I eyed the blondes, watched the ripples chase each other across the warm blue waters of Boca Ceiga bay, and looked sleepily into the distance, where the keys ringing in the bay were darker humps of blue against the peaceful horizon.
Then the third afternoon I got to seeing things. The pelicans were Liberators and Flying Forts; the wheeling gulls were Corsairs — or screaming, diving Zeros. The white beach and lazily nodding palms brought a burning vision to my mind of a tiny dot in the Pacific, an island no one had ever heard of until a few guys — I among them — had bought the island from the little yellow monkeys of Japan with blood and sweat and angrily whining lead. That afternoon I decided to go back to work.
Howard Conklin, my partner in what we believe fondly is a private detective agency, had wired me that he was leaving the agency in charge of “Morge” while he was out of town. The wire had caught me in Texas, enroute to St. Pete, and now, catching an antiquated street car, I began wondering what “Morge” was like. Howard Conklin — in keeping with his grumpy, silent nature — had told me nothing of the new dick, who had been hired to replace me not long after I had been inducted.
Sam, the colored gent who ran the elevator, got one eye open long enough to register amazement when I walked in. I had to tell him how many Japs I had sent to their ancestors while he ran the creaking elevator to the fourth floor. I left his chuckles behind me, walked down the corridor.
It was a nice feeling that waved over me as I stood before the office door. The old stand. I read the legend on the door three times: “Conklin and Frazee. Private Investigations.”
I opened the door. A girl at the desk in the far side of the room looked up at me. I closed the door slowly, not saying anything, just looking. She was everything you think a Florida blonde ought to be, trim, neat figure in a gay print dress, soft, oval face, a cloud of hair like golden sunshine, ruby red lips.
She said, “Yes?”
“I’m Frazee. Is...”
“Frazee!” She didn’t squeal it, but it had that effect. “My! Hamilton Frazee in three dimensions!” Her laugh had a nice quality indeed. “You look just as Howard Conklin said you would! That overstaffed, bald-pated, but very likable jerk has told me so many fibs...”
It sank in slowly, “You... You’re Morge!”
My tone caused her to look hurt. Her face fell. “Is it that bad?”
I forced a smile. “It’s fine, but Conk should have told me.” She was smiling again now, and I stumbled over words. “That is. I didn’t know. Sort of a shock...” What the devil had Conk been thinking of? A dame hired as a private shamus!
She enjoyed it hugely as my tongue got tied up. “Of course it’s a shock, Frazee, to find me here. But back when Conk hired me, the manpower situation was at its very worst. Conk was desperate for someone to take office routine off his shoulders. I answered the ad he ran in the paper. When I told him I had worked for the Peterson agency in New York five years ago, he gave me a try. I must he doing okay — I’m still here.”
Her smile was infectious. Grinning. I offered my hand. “I’m glad to meet you, detective Merge.”
“The first name is Millie,” she said. “And the last name is pronounced ‘More-gay’, not ‘Morgue’, despite the spelling.”
With a gay sort of seriousness we shook hands, and I found myself wondering why the devil I hadn’t headed for the office the moment I hit St. Pete.
At that instant, the door behind me opened. It was Lieutenant of Detectives George Bailey. He drew up in surprise at the sight of me, a grin wreathing his hanging, homely face. “Frazee! You dirty bum. I’m glad to see you!”
“That goes double!” Amid his hearty guffaws, we shook hands warmly. George Bailey was really a right guy. He had a neat place out at Pass-A-Grille, almost in the shadows of the swank hotel where the elite stayed at twenty bucks a day. We’d had a lot of fun in that eighteen foot boat of Bailey’s. He lived, I knew, above the limits of his income, but if he accepted a spot of cash from a straight playing gambling joint now and then and kept the buzzards and crooks out, that was okay by me. And I could see nothing wrong in his dropping Conk and myself a little information, as George had done in the past, for a small cut of the fee. A lot of our business came across six mile Gandy causeway from Tampa. A lot more of it came from the elderly, retired folk to whom St. Pete was a haven. These people invaribly were reticent, shunning publicity, and such business was like digging for oil-rich when you struck, but never flowing right in your front yard. Tips from George had caused the oil to flow on more than one occasion.
George quieted after a moment, wiping laughter-tears from his eyes. He sobered. “Conk around?”
The luscious blonde package at my elbow sat down at my old desk and said, “Conk’s gone to Clearwater. Wouldn’t say for what.”
“Close-mouthed, eh?” Bailey said. “Conk’s like that. Have you seen him, Ham?”
I shook my head. “What’s up?”
Bailey frowned. He tilted his hat and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Maybe nothing. But maybe a lot. There was a prowler in John Rayfield’s house last night. Conk tell you anything of it?”
I whistled softly, again shaking my head. Mention of Rayfield caused me to sit a little straighter on the edge of Conk’s desk.
Back during the Florida boom, John Rayfield had made a pile. He’d pulled out just before the crash and set out to make himself a power behind the throne. With his moolah and fine sense of organization, he’d just about succeeded. Half a hundred charges, ranging from blackmail to murder, had been brought against him, and dismissed for lack of evidence or the failure of the memory of a witness.
“Conk’s told me nothing,” I said. “He’s written me exactly one post card and one telegram since I went in service, and I haven’t seen him since the day I was inducted.”
Bailey mulled that over, helping himself to a cigarette in the half-empty pack on Conk’s desk.
He lighted the fag and said, “I may be causing you a wild goose chase, Frazee. But I’d run down and see Rayfield. Conklin might already be on the case. He dropped around headquarters this morning, asking about the burglar in Rayfield’s house.” Bailey’s eyes narrowed. “If you ask me, Conk was showing too much interest in the incident. But I couldn’t get a thing out of him. He just asked the circumstances and left.”
I turned to Millie Morge. “But I thought Conk had been out of town several days. His wire that caught me in Texas...”
“He came back,” she said. “He was out of town four, five days ago — when he sent you the wire — came back early this morning. He read the paper, saw the item of the prowler in Rayfield’s house. He left here, evidently going to headquarters then, and about an hour later phoned that he was going to Clearwater.”
I studied Bailey. I had the feeling that something big was growing to the breaking point. There was really no telling where Conk was. He could be in Clearwater, he could be right here in St. Pete. He worked in devious ways that usually got results despite their unconventionality.
I said, “Rayfield phone the cops, Bailey, about the burglar?”
Frowning, he crushed out the cigarette. “That’s the funny part of it. The cop on the beat out there last night heard gunfire in Rayfield’s house. The cop ran to the house, burst in the front door. But if he expected kind words from Rayfield for charging so heroically to the rescue, the cop was disappointed. Rayfield gave him a tongue lacing, swore no one had been in the house. Rayfield claimed he’d been cleaning a gun and it had gone off. But would a man be cleaning a gun at three in the morning, dressed in his pajamas, his hair tousled, and his eyes bright from waking from a deep sleep?”