Naked curse, p.1
Naked Curse, page 1
The Home of Great Detective Fiction!
It started with a lady artist who wanted Larry Kent to scare off a man who’d been following her. Next day he was handed another delicate case – this one a case of blackmail. And finally he was hired by a crippled millionaire whose son had gone missing, presumed abducted.
What did they all have in common?
The answer lay in an old, old crime that had never truly laid to rest. But to crack the case, Larry had to play as rough as the men he was aiming to catch … and where a hulking man-mountain called ‘The Monster’ was concerned, that was very rough indeed …
LARRY KENT: NAKED CURSE
#640
By Don Haring
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: June 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: David Whitehead
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
1 … Shirley …
There was no sign on the frosted glass door—just the number, 13. Which suggested that my prospective client had no patience with superstition; or maybe she was superstitious in an inverted way. There was the millionaire stockbroker, for example, who paid a man to set a ladder against his office building each morning so he could walk under it. And there was the pro football quarterback, the only man in football who wore the number 13 on his back. Then there was the woman who owned dozens of black cats ... nothing but black cats.
I rapped on the frosted glass.
“Come in,” said a woman’s voice.
I entered Shirley Jamieson’s office. Perhaps I should call it a studio. Paintings, some of them barely started, others almost completed, stood on easels. She was working on one, her back to me. Just for the hell of it, I counted the paintings. Thirteen, of course. They were interesting paintings though, certainly not the sort you’d expect to find hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One showed a thing with six arms; two of the arms were wrapped around a buxom maid whose bra and panties were the briefest imaginable. The prize of the collection was the one she was working on now. I examined it over her shoulder. A raven-haired beauty was about to plant a kiss on the throat of a good-looking Nordic-type fellow. Very romantic. I particularly liked the long, curved pair of fangs that protruded from the lady’s blood-red mouth.
“I have a title for this one,” I said. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
The artist added a touch of vermilion to the lady’s lips, then she stirred the brush in an old coffee cup full of paint thinner, wiped it dry on her long smock. She had shoulder-length brown hair. The smock made a mystery of her figure. I wondered what her face was like.
I coughed. She turned. We looked at each other. I was surprised. She seemed like a normal girl in her early twenties. She had a cute little nose that turned up at the end, wide-apart hazel eyes, a pert mouth. There was a smudge of brown paint on her cheek.
Her appraisal of me was more subjective. She seemed to be measuring me against some sort of a standard that existed in her mind.
She said, “You’re not as tall as you appear to be in some newspaper photographs I’ve seen.”
“That’s because I make sure I’m standing near short men as soon as I see a photographer.”
She frowned. She apparently didn’t like wisecracks.
“You are Miss Jamieson, of course,” I said.
“Yes.”
“This is quite an art collection.”
“I paint covers for magazines and paperback novels. I’m aware of my limitations as an artist, Mr. Kent, so please don’t bother to make polite conversation.”
“All right, let’s discuss your problem.”
“A man has been following me since yesterday afternoon.”
“Go on.”
She fished a pack of Old Golds from somewhere in the folds of the smock. I started to take out my Ronson, but she struck a match quickly, as though determined to fend for herself in a man’s world. I got out my Camels, set one alight.
“I first saw him when I went out to lunch yesterday afternoon.” she said. “He entered the restaurant and had a cup of coffee. There is a minimum charge of one dollar in this particular restaurant during the lunch and dinner hours. I heard the waitress tell him about it. He elected to pay the dollar for just the cup of coffee. I considered this to be rather odd. Until then I was prepared to believe it was merely coincidental that he had walked behind me for five blocks and had then entered the same restaurant. When I returned here after lunch, he followed me to the building.”
“What happened when you left here last night?” I asked.
“He was standing outside the building.”
“Did he try to follow you again?”
“Yes, but the streets were crowded with pedestrians and I had no trouble losing him. He was outside the building again this morning. When I went to lunch, he followed me. This time he had a sandwich with his coffee.”
“Did he follow you back?”
“Yes. Then I phoned you.”
“Why not the police?”
“About a year ago a friend of mine had a similar experience. She contacted the police, who questioned the man. He said my friend was imagining things. As he had no police record, they couldn’t do anything.”
“But I’m sure he didn’t follow your friend again.”
“Not for a week. But then he sat in his parked car across the street from the apartment building in which my friend lived. He just sat there in his car and looked at her windows. She called the police again. This time the man said he was a salesman, and he parked there every night to write a report on the day’s business. As he was breaking no traffic regulations and had as much right to park there as anyone, the police couldn’t even send him away. However, a patrol car made frequent trips past his parked car each evening. The man was clever. He made sure the police always saw him writing his report. But the moment the patrol car was out of sight, the man returned his attention to my friend’s windows. Finally she left the city. She didn’t even give notice where she worked.”
“Is your friend all right now?”
“Yes. I’ve heard from her a few times. But that’s not the point. What I keep remembering is the fact that the police weren’t able to do anything to help her. One of the policemen told her that the man could follow her for years if he kept his distance and didn’t molest her in any way, either verbally or physically, and if he didn’t expose himself or make obscene gestures.”
“That’s true,” I said. “This is a free country. But your friend was unlucky. Usually a man of that kind runs and never comes back as soon as the police come into it. Also, the man almost always has a police record, which makes him easy to deal with. So your best bet, Miss Jamieson, is to phone the police.”
“I don’t have enough confidence in the police. I’d rather pay a man like you to handle my complaint.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Get rid of this man who’s following me. You have a reputation for being tough, resourceful and unorthodox. Well, Mr. Kent, here’s a chance to live up to your press clippings.” She paused, treated me to a cold little smile. “Surely this must be a very simple assignment for a man of your reputation.”
“It is,” I agreed.
“However, it could be a little dangerous. Let me warn you that the man who’s been following me outweighs you by at least thirty pounds. As a matter of fact, he looks as though he may have been a wrestler or prizefighter. Unless you know how to handle yourself in a fight—Ah, but you do, don’t you?”
“Reasonably well.”
“According to your press clippings, you’re a regular tiger.” She looked me up and down, seemed doubtful. “But to give away thirty pounds ...”
I almost laughed. She was a good actress, but her script could have used some subtleties. Maybe she figured I was the rogue male type and had to have things spelled out. When a prospective client gets cute like this I usually tell said person to take his—or her—business elsewhere. But I was intrigued by this snip-nosed girl with the sober face, and I wondered what she was up to.
She said, “If you’d rather not accept the case, Mr. Kent, perhaps you can recommend someone else.”
“It would probably be cheaper for you,” I said.
“How much do you charge?”
“A hundred a day plus expenses.”
She looked around, found her purse among rags and tubes of paint on a table. “I don’t think there’ll be any expenses,” she said. “And, win or lose, it will take only twenty or thirty minutes of your time. So, I’ll give you a hundred dollars for the job. As I have my doubts about the outcome, I consider that I’m being very generous.”
She offered me a hundred-dollar bill. I accepted it, made a fold in the green oblong, slipped it into my handkerchief pocket.
“You’re now my client,” I said. “What’s the next move?”
“First of all, I imagine you want to see for yourself that this man is
I said, “There’s a coffee shop about four blocks from here, on this side of the street. The Partheon.” She nodded to indicate that she knew the place. “Go there,” I said. “But cross the street on the next corner. Walk two blocks and then cross back to this side and go into the Partheon.”
“All right. If my shadow runs true to form he’ll follow me into the place.”
“And I’ll follow him.”
“What then, Mr. Kent?”
“Leave the rest to me.”
“Very well.”
Shirley Jamieson bent to get a pair of snakeskin shoes from under the table. She kicked off her paint-splattered brown oxfords, stepped into the snakeskins, then she lifted the smock over her head, made a ball of it, tossed it across the room. She stood in a blue mini-dress that showed off slim legs. The neckline of the dress was just low enough to illustrate that she was bountifully endowed in the mammary department. She ran a hand through her straight brown hair.
“I’m ready now, Mr. Kent. Give me twenty seconds before you leave the office. Press in the button above the keyhole, please. It will make the door lock automatically.”
She walked to the door. I watched her admiringly. Some of the mini-dresses are boxy and loose. Shirley’s was a clinging model. A girl with her southern contours would be guilty of failing to take advantage of superior natural assets if she wore anything that wasn’t form-hugging.
When the twenty seconds were up, I pressed the lock button and let myself out. There was an elevator but I was only two floors up so I used the stairway. Shirley was lighting a cigarette near the lobby news stand. The moment she saw me, she turned and went outside. I followed slowly. When I reached the sidewalk, Shirley was almost to the next corner. Fifty or sixty feet behind her was a man in a brown suit. He had thinning brown hair and was a little shorter than my six feet even. But Shirley had underestimated his weight by at least twenty pounds. The last time I weighed myself, the needle stopped just short of 190. This guy was about 240.
Shirley stood on the corner and waited for the traffic light to change. The guy drifted along. She crossed the street when the light changed and Brown Suit followed. I remained on my side of the street, watched Brown Suit keep his distance behind her. When she re-crossed the street he stayed with her, and he entered the Partheon coffee shop a few seconds after she did.
Shirley sat at a table in the rear of the coffee shop. Brown Suit was five tables away. A waitress was taking Shirley’s order.
“And a cup of coffee for me,” I said, sitting down.
“Well?” Shirley said when the waitress left the table. “Are you convinced now that someone is following me?”
“I didn’t doubt for a moment that Brown Suit would be dogging your heels.”
“Well, what are you going to do now, Mr. Kent? There he is. Ugly looking brute, isn’t he?”
I looked at the guy. He was pretending to read a newspaper. He had a scarred, twisted nose. One of his ears looked like a lump of misshapen plaster. As there was no scar tissue over his eyes I attributed the nose and cauliflower ear to a campaign or two as a wrestler.
Shirley said, “I think it’s time for you to earn your hundred dollars, Mr. Kent.”
“You do, do you? What is it you want me to do, walk up to him and bust him in the mouth?”
“Tell him to stop following me.”
“What if he says he isn’t following you?”
“But you saw him, for heaven’s sake!”
“So I did.” I got up. “Excuse me, Miss Jamieson. I’ll go over and ask our gentleman friend a question or two.”
I walked to Brown Suit’s table, sat down. He continued to pretend to read the newspaper. I grabbed the end of the paper, pushed it down. He looked at me through stupid little screwed-up eyes.
“What do you want, bud?” he said through the side of his mouth. “What’s your angle, eh?”
“Do you see that pretty girl just behind me, sailor?”
He shot a quick glance in Shirley’s direction. “So I see her. So what?”
“She says you’ve been following her for the past couple of days. Is this true?”
“So what’s it to you if it is true, eh?”
“Don’t get excited, sailor. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
He blinked his eyes, worked his mouth. He seemed puzzled.
“I’m a cop,” I said.
My line seemed to please him. “I don’t care what you are,” he said.
“I’m going to ask you again. If you haven’t been following her, we’ll forget all about it. If you have—well, then you might be in trouble. Have you been following that girl since yesterday, sailor?”
Brown Suit stuck out his chin. “Sure I’ve been tailing her. What are you gonna do about it, eh?”
“Well, it’s my duty to place you under arrest.”
He laughed. “Don’t gimme that. You ain’t no cop. You’re—” He pressed his lips together.
“Say the rest of it, sailor.”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“Eh?”
“Goodbye, sailor.”
I returned to Shirley’s table. The waitress had delivered our order during my conversation with Brown Suit.
“Let me pay for this,” I said. “Tell the waitress to keep the change.”
I dropped Shirley’s hundred-dollar bill on the table. She picked up the banknote, studied it.
I said, “I’m a big tipper.”
“You’re quitting,” she said.
“That’s right, honey. He’s too big for me.”
I walked out.
2 … Mary …
It was a little after ten o’clock the next morning when the nervous woman called at my office. She gave her name as Mary Bascomb. She had platinum blonde hair that looked dry and brittle from too many rinses. She was attractive, but I couldn’t help thinking that she’d look a sight in the morning before she got the makeup on, especially after a rough night. Her figure was plumpish and she had very nice legs. I guessed she was in her late thirties.
It took her a while to get around to telling me that she had a problem. She skirted the issue, like women usually do. I let her take her time. The first thing she wanted to be certain of was that I would treat her business in confidence. When she was satisfied on that point, there was the question of the police.
“I’ve always been a law-abiding person,” she said, her eyes everywhere but in my direction. “I think it’s right and proper that people cooperate with the police in all ways possible.” Finally she looked at me. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Kent?”
I knew what I was going to say, but I closed my eyes and did my best to give her the impression that I was thinking about it. “Usually,” I said, opening my eyes. “That is, I feel we’re honor-bound to inform the police if some sort of crime has been committed. However, there are times when the future of a decent person depends on silence. Don’t get me wrong, Miss Bascomb—”
“Mrs.,” she said.
“Don’t get me wrong. For instance, I wouldn’t protect a murderer, even if the victim deserved to be killed. However, there are some cases when it serves no really worthwhile purpose to report to the police. I mean, decent people are entitled to at least one mistake—up to a point, of course. Blackmail is a good example.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Bascomb swallowed hard, shifted around in the chair. “I ... I’m afraid I feel a little faint.”
“Can I get you a glass of water?”
“Perhaps we can go down to the lobby, Mr. Kent. I noticed a cocktail lounge. A—a spot of brandy may be what I need.”
“I’m afraid that all I can offer is some scotch.”
“That will do,” she said quickly. She gave a nervous giggle and pulled at the strap on her purse. “I imagine that scotch, being alcohol, has much the same effect as brandy.”
“I’m sure it does, Mrs. Bascomb.”
