Mr. Porter looked puzzled.
Peter explained: “Or Ko never would have submitted to such shame, and Morita would never have changed stations.”
“Umm,” said Mr. Porter. “Good lord, I could really use Tanizaki now.”
“I’ve talked to him,” Peter said. “I think he’ll come back. I think he sees it’s the only way he can ever repay his on to you. But you must never embarrass him by letting him know.”
“Know what?”
“That you know,” Peter chuckled, “where he was that night.”
“But I don’t.”
“He was at a wedding.”
“A wedding? Why the devil couldn’t he say so?”
“It was his own. And the girl was a geisha. There are geishas and geishas, and this one happens to be a nice one. But you’ll never convince Tanizaki’s strait-laced old papa of that.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Porter. And he did comprehend. Only a father could, who’d had such great hopes for a song.
Dead Wrong
by Frank Kane
The jazz musician’s brother was in serious trouble. Only... it didn’t worry him any more, because he’d been picked up dead. All Johnny had to do was tell the blonde why!
It was a three story walk-up. By the time Johnny Liddell knocked on the door to 3D, he was panting heavily. It was just as well — he would have anyway the minute the door opened.
She was tall, with coppery red hair framing a heart-shaped face. A light blue dressing gown did a half-hearted job of containing a breathtaking facade. She was high-breasted and the way the sway of her torso traced designs on the dressing gown, it was apparent she wore little, if anything, underneath it. Her trim, small waist and high-set hips gave some hint of the long, shapely legs the gown did manage to cover.
“Johnny Liddell?” Her voice was low, caressing. She studied him from slanted green eyes, from under expertly tinted lids. Her lips were full, moist.
“What’s left of him.” He looked back down the stairwell. “That’s quite a defense gadget you’ve got there. More effective than a chastity belt.”
The redhead grinned again, stepped aside. “But not as permanent.” She took his hat, tossed it at a table. “Sit down, I’ll make you a drink.”
He tottered to a chair, dropped into it.
“Any preference?”
“In liquor? Scotch.”
She turned, headed for the kitchen. He watched the easy play of her hips against the clinging fabric of the gown, started to feel better. When she returned, the effect from the front was equally revitalizing. She carried a bottle, two glasses and some ice on a tray, set them down on the coffee table in front of him. The devastating dip of the front of her gown as she set the tray down completed his cure, so that the Scotch would not have been needed.
He watched while she tilted the bottle over each of the glasses, dropped in a couple of pieces of ice. She picked up his glass, swirled the liquor over the ice, handed it to him.
“Mr. Liddell—”
“Johnny.”
She smiled, shrugged. “All right — Johnny. When I called your office, did my name mean anything to you?”
Liddell pursed his. lips, considered, shook his head. “You said Horton; Sally Horton.”
She nodded, dropped down on the couch alongside him. “My husband is Bob Horton, the jazz pianist at the Nest. You’ve heard of him?”
Liddell nodded. “I’m not what you’d call an aficionado, but I’ve heard of him.”
“You dig jazz?”
“I’m an old schmaltz man from away back. Carolina moon, June, spoon. That kind of stuff.” He took a deep swallow from his glass. “Wasn’t there some kind of an accident or something? Your husband’s brother—”
The redhead turned the full power of the green eyes on him. “It wasn’t an accident. Jack was murdered.” She dropped her eyes, stared down into her glass. “Bob murdered him, Johnny.”
Liddell grunted. He dug into his pocket, came up with a battered pack of cigarettes, held it out to the girl. She took one, stuck it between her lips. He scratched a match, waited until she had filled her lungs with smoke, then flipped one into the corner of his mouth. He lit his cigarette, exhaled twin streams from his nostrils, waited for the girl to talk.
“I suppose you wonder why I called you, instead of going to the police?” She looked up at him, let the smoke dribble from between half parted lips. “They wouldn’t believe me. They think it was a hit-and-run accident.”
“What makes you think it wasn’t?”
“Bob and his brother haven’t been getting along lately. Bob’s gotten himself into debt over his head. He tried to get the money to square himself from his brother, but Jack wouldn’t bail him out. The last time it happened he said he was through.”
“It’s happened before? Where’d the money go?”
The redhead took a deep swallow from her glass, set it down on the coffee table. “Bob has a monkey on his back, Johnny. A great big one. And it costs more than he can afford to keep it. He’s been desperate for money. I heard the row the night Jack turned him down. It was pretty rugged.”
“And now?”
Sally Horton shrugged. “Bob is the sole beneficiary under an old will Jack had. And there’s plenty of insurance.” She dropped her eyes to her lap. “I guess you’re wondering why I’d be turning my own husband in like this?”
Liddell nodded. “The thought had occurred to me.”
She met his gaze. “Another thing that Bob and Jack were fighting about was me. Jack and I were planning to be married as soon as I could get a divorce from Bob.”
Liddell whistled soundlessly. “And you haven’t told this to the police?”
“I want to be sure, Johnny. It stacks up pretty bad against Bob, but if there’s just one chance in a thousand that it was an accident, I wouldn’t want it on my conscience that I set him up.”
“What do you want me to do?”
The soft lips set in a hard line. “On the other hand, if he killed Jack, I don’t want him to get away with it. I want you to find out for me. What I do will depend on what you find.”
“Where do I find your husband?”
The redhead shrugged. “Any one of a half dozen pads in the Village. Almost every night at the Nest he cuts out with some of the real cool set and the blast goes until it’s time for him to show back at the Nest.”
She picked up her glass, drained it and held it out to him. While he was spilling Scotch over the ice cubes she said, “That won’t be until about ten.” She held her glass to her lips, studied him over the rim. “You’ll have almost four hours to kill.”
“It’s going to take me almost that long to recover from that climb.” Liddell reached over, helped himself to some more Scotch. “What’ll you be doing in the meantime?”
“Helping you to recover.”
He grinned, touched her glass with his. “That could make the collapse permanent.”
The nest was a large subterranean room that had been built by knocking out the walls of three adjoining cellars. It was lighted only by candles stuck in the necks of wine bottles, and a perpetual cloud of slowly stirring smoke swirled near the ceiling.
Mobiles dangled in the smoky air, and the customers enjoyed the proceedings from canvas chairs, while waitresses with long dank hair and dangling earrings worked their way through the chairs, their swaying hips brushing lightly against the customers.