“I’ll stick to her like a fly on you know what!” he hollered at me.
Closing the window, I smiled as I noted the new radio antenna sported on Heine’s Ford. Twice as long as a normal aerial, it made his coupe look almost like an unmarked police cruiser. At least I’d be able to pay for it now.
Dorothy slipped on her long white gloves, took her clutch from the top of my desk, and headed for the door.
“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” she said over her shoulder.
“Up to you,” I told her, liking the way her curves curved when she walked.
She paused at the door. “Yes, it is.” Then she went out.
I watched out the window as she got into her ritzy Packard and drove off, south toward downtown, Heine’s Ford rumbling close behind. Then I pulled out my bottle of Cutty Sark and had a belt. I hate domestic cases-could’ve kicked myself for taking this one-except for the big moola and Dorothy Demar’s deep blue eyes. There was something about her that I didn’t trust. That’s why I had Heine tailing her instead of me. I figured I’d do some digging on her and see if there were any concrete reasons for my qualms. Besides, you never knew when another fat cat could walk through the door and offer a bundle for a simple job. Crazier things had happened.
A few minutes later, a man walked in just as I was about to start snooping on Dorothy. He doffed his gray Hamburg and said, “My name’s Harold Sikes. I want to hire you.”
I could’ve choked on my Scotch. Instead, I kept a poker face and studied him for a moment. Dressed to the nines in a double-breasted gray suit, with a pink boutonniere and a diamond stick-pinned tie, he looked to be in his mid-fifties, paunchy, balding, and thick-browed, with a heavy, jowly face bordering on ugly. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell what Dorothy Demar had ever seen in this joe.
“What’s your interest in hiring me, Mr. Sikes?”
“I need protection.” He strode over and took a seat across from me like he owned the place.
“Protection from what?”
“My wife. I think she’s planning to kill me.”
I almost choked on my whiskey again, so I set the glass down. “Really? How did you happen to pick my little detective agency?”
“Everybody says you’re the best.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
He took his billfold from his breast pocket, pulled out four C-notes, and pushed them across the desk at me. “Will that cover it, Mr. Rossiter?”
Ben Franklin looked just as handsome as before, but the déjà vu added a real fishy smell to him. I decided to play along anyway.
“What makes you think your wife wants to do you in?” I asked, leaving the bills where they lay.
“She’s jealous.”
“That so?”
“Hysterically so.”
“There a reason for that?”
“I’m a man of wealth. It draws beautiful women like a magnet. I have healthy appetites.”
“That’s laying it on the line.”
“Come, come, my good man. You must like attractive women.”
“Can’t deny it.”
“There you have it.” He gave me a curt nod, took out a leather cigar case, and withdrew a Corona that probably cost more than a whole carton of my fags. Snipping the end off the cigar, he carefully lit it with a gold Ronson lighter. “As this seems to be settled,” he continued, the pungent smoke curling up from his lips, “I shall consider you in my employ.”
“That depends.” I lit up a smoke for myself. “How do you feel about your wife, Mr. Sikes? Bear her any ill will?”
“Dorothy?” He looked flabbergasted. “Heavens no. Well, I suppose I should, her wanting to do me harm. But I love her very much. We’ve just never been able to make a go of it.”
“She after your money, maybe?”
“Hardly. She has plenty of her own.” Harold frowned. “See here, Mr. Rossiter, I’m a busy man. You’re welcome to a few questions, certainly. But you’ve had them. Will you help me-yes or no?”
I thought long and hard.
Harold put an extra C-note on my desk.
This was all some kind of setup, no question.
Another C-note landed in front of me.
Somebody was trying to pull the wool over my eyes.
Yet another Ben Franklin hit the pile.
Old Ben was simply irresistible. “Sure, Mr. Sikes,” I said, raking in the seven large bills. “You’ve just hired your own personal shamus.”
“Good.” He ground out his barely smoked cigar in my ashtray, which raised quite a stink. “But you must be discreet.”
“I suppose that means I should do my surveillance from a distance.”
“Quite. I deal with a number of very important people. It wouldn’t do to be seen in the company of a…”
“Low-life private dick?”
“Well…” He cleared his throat.
“That’s all right.” I gave him my best smile. “I’ve been called worse.”
He threw me a return smile, albeit very tight-lipped. “Then we understand each other.”
“Quite.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me, Mr. Rossiter?”
“No, I talk that way all the time. When do you want me to get started?”
“Immediately.” He looked at his wristwatch-big and gold, studded with diamonds. “I have an appointment with my tailor, then I have a date for-”
“Dinner and dancing,” I said. “And not with your wife.”
“Uh, yes…” He gave me a queer look. “How did you-”
“Just a wild guess,” I said. “Well, shall we get to it? Wouldn’t want to keep the lucky girl waiting.”
I grabbed my fedora while he put on his Hamburg. He carefully adjusted the hat to a jaunty angle, though it did nothing to improve his bushy-browed, beefy mug. As we went out, I left a quick note for Miss Jenkins to run down any info she could find on Harold Sikes and Dorothy Demar. Then I accompanied Harold to the elevator and down to the lobby.
His car was a new, black ’49 Packard just like his wife’s. While he got it started, I hopped into my Roadmaster, parked only a few cars back, turned it over, and dropped it into gear. After we pulled out into traffic, I settled into a medium-distance tail, never letting more than one car get between us. Then I called Heine on the two-way radio.
His gravely voice came loud through the static. “Hey, Jake, what’s shakin’?”
“Where are you?”
“Just pulling into the Frederick & Nelson parking garage.
Dame came straight here except for a quick stop for smokes at Pete’s Grocery by the office. Man, you were right about her gams. They’re swell! So’s the rest of her. Real treat following this broad. You got many more jobs like this, I might even take a cut in pay.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “We just got thrown a major curveball.”
“What d’ya mean?”
I gave him the scoop about Harold Sikes hiring me for the same reason his wife did.
“Don’t monkey around, ain’t funny.”
“It’s the straight skinny.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. I’m on Harold’s tail right now.”
“Ain’t that the shits?” There was a long pause. “Somebody’s playin’ us for suckers!”
“I agree. Nothing we can do presently, though, except keep our eyes and ears open.”
“Hey, she’s pulling into a parking spot. Dame’s about to get out of her car.”
“Stay on her,” I said. “And stay in touch.”
“You got it. Over and out.”
I put my radio microphone back into its holder and continued following Harold Sikes through the moderate mid-afternoon traffic. So far, Dorothy Demar had done exactly what she’d told me: gone to Frederick & Nelson. We’d have to see about the rest. Likewise for Harold-I was real interested to see if he, too, would stick to the itinerary that he’d laid out for me.
He did. Made a beeline to his tailor, J. Berrymann & Sons, at 4th and Union. Swank joint. Had lots of polished brass and green marble fronting the plate-glass windows by the place’s entrance. I didn’t see any price tags on the display suits in the windows, so I figured it was one of those places where if you had to ask the price you couldn’t afford it. At least I had a decent view of Harold from where I was parked. I could see him pretty clearly past the window display as his tailor went to work on getting him fitted. So I stayed put, had a cigarette, and bided my time. Kept my eye out for danger, of course, but the only real danger turned out to be me smoking too much.