“Mr. Nolan, I suppose?”
The voice, deep and sultry, shocked Richard Nolan from his reverie. Drawing his attention away from his view of the wet, miserable street, he turned his chair and put his feet up on his desk. Standing before him was a vision in red – a tall, stunning woman with masses of jet black hair, wearing a short, red dress.
“Yeah, Rick Nolan, that’s me. What can I do for you, miss?”
“You’re a private investigator, are you not?”
“That’s what it says on my card. Take a seat.”
She slid into a chair. After a pause, she spoke, her voice purring like a kitten. “Do you investigate cases of murder, Mr. Nolan?”
Rick looked up at her. Realizing she was serious, he replied. “I can do it – but isn’t that more of a job for the cops?”
“Well, it’s something of a unique circumstance. My – I – the gentleman who was murdered was on the shady side of the law, so I don’t think the police will give his investigation the justice that it deserves. I want to know the truth.”
“Tell me more, Miss…”
“Beauford. Vivienne Beauford.” Vivienne paused, reached into her purse and lit a cigarette in a long cigarette holder. She thoughtfully moved the cigarette holder through her long, graceful fingers before continuing. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the case in the papers. After all, it isn’t every day that a notorious bootlegger is found shot though the head at close range in his own bathtub.”
“Curtis Stevenson III?”
“Correct.”
“So who was Mr. Stevenson to you?”
“He was my employer. I sing at his establishment, the Purple Parrot Lounge. He was also my lover.” At this, she paused again, expecting some sort of response. At Rick’s silence, she added, “Does that come as something of a surprise to you, Mr. Nolan?”
Not moving, and looking her straight in the eye, Rick said, “Miss Beauford, I’m a private dick. Nothing ever surprises me. Now tell me who you think is responsible for your Mr. Stevenson’s death. I know the police don’t have any leads.”
Vivienne looked away. “I don’t know. I wasn’t part of his business life. Curtis always said it was too dangerous for me to know his affairs.”
“And I’m sure that sweet, innocent little you was able to remain blissfully ignorant?” Rick laughed sardonically. “Miss Beauford, with all due respect, I know your type. Stevenson may have not wanted you to know his affairs, but I’d stake my life on the fact that you know your fair share about the business of the late Curtis Stevenson III. Now, doll, think real hard and tell me who you think may have been looking to bump off your boss.”
Vivienne looked surprised at Rick’s frankness. Then, deciding she had no other option, she began, “well, there was his assistant, Bernie McDougall. Curt had been suspecting for a long time that he’d wanted to take over the business – he’d actually been planning to remove him. I don’t believe that Bernie would go as far as murder, though.”
“Well, I’ll check it out. Just so you know, I get thirty dollars a day, plus expenses.”
“Thirty dollars a day? That’s pretty steep, Mr. Nolan. You’d better be good.”
“Miss Beauford, I’m the best.”
The rain continued as Rick pulled up in front of Bernie McDougall’s apartment. He didn’t entirely believe Vivienne’s story, but he had no other leads so he figured he might as well work with what he had. The apartment building was large and hulking and sad and tired at the same time. He entered the foyer and was greeted by the stench of mildew and vomit. The walls, which had, at one time, been painted a shade of pale yellow, were now covered in dirt and smoke stains. Glancing at the elevator, which didn’t seem to be in any sort of working order, Rick headed for the stairs.
Up five floors, he reached the doorstep of Bernie’s apartment. The hallway was even more dismal than the foyer. Trash littered the floor, and the sounds of angry voices could be found from the neighbouring apartment. Rick knocked on the door.
“McDougall, you in there?”
From inside, he could hear the sounds of movement. The door opened a crack. “What the hell do you want?” said a voice from inside.
“I wanna ask you some questions.”
“About what?” was the gruff reply.
“Your former employer.”
With that, Bernie opened the door and ushered Rick into his grimy apartment. Bernie McDougall was much younger than Rick had expected; he was in his late twenties and could most likely be handsome beneath the scruffy beard and layer of dirt that appeared to cover his entire body.
“Take a seat,” said Bernie, gesturing to a faded, wobbly-looking chair. “Want a drink?”
Rick shook his head, then sat down and lit a cigarette. “Tell me about your old boss. What kinda guy was he?”
Bernie sat thoughtfully for a moment. “He was a prince of a guy. Good man to work for.”
“Is that all?”
“Should there be anything else?”
“I guess not,” replied Rick. Then, quickly, he added, “Do you know who bumped him off?”
Bernie looked at Rick, something like fear momentarily breaking the placid mask of his face. Quickly recovering himself, he said, “Can’t say I do. He was in a dangerous business, though. Lotsa guys probably looking to do him in.”
“Can’t think of any in particular?” asked Rick, skeptically.
“Well, come to think of it, there was this one guy. Joe something. Works at the Purple Parrot. He’s a bartender. I always thought there was something fishy about him.”
“Joe something. Right. I’ll look into that. Now, Bernie, level with me here. Who had something to gain by Stevenson’s death?”
Bernie puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. Then, after a moment, he responded. “Can’t say I know. I didn’t see his will. Maybe that girl of his.”
“What girl of his?”
“The singer. Vivienne.”
Rick changed the subject. “What did you have to gain if Stevenson was knocked off? You’re his assistant. I’m sure there was something in the deal for you.”
“I’m running his business for now, yeah. But what does that mean? I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t do him in.”
Rick could hear the music long before he entered the Purple Parrot. Slow strains of jazz resonated through the club, filling the room and entrapping one and all in its sensuous cadences. He surveyed the scene before him through the haze of smoke. He watched couples swaying on the dance floor, and drunkards passed out at the bar. Vivienne stood in front of a microphone on a small stage at the front, resplendent in a slinky gold dress, crooning the latest in jazz hits.
Rick sat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, straight up. The bartender was a skinny kid of about nineteen or twenty. When he returned with the drink, Rick asked, “Hey, kid, what’s your name?”
“Joseph Caruso,” he replied quickly, before hurrying off.
Rick shook his head and laughed to himself. “Nice try, Bernie,” he thought, sipping his drink.
Turning his attention back to Vivienne, Rick found himself admiring her. Her stunning looks made quite the picture for any man’s mind.
“Hey!” came a bellowed greeting from behind Rick. He turned to see Bernie; a very changed Bernie, sauntering up behind him. He had showered, shaved, and gotten a haircut since Rick had seen him the previous day. His grimy clothes had been replaced by an expensive-looking grey suit. Even his manner had changed; he had seamlessly moved into the role formerly occupied by Curtis Stevenson III – classy, yet ruthless underworld criminal. “Hey, you’re the dick that came to visit me yesterday, aren’t you? I never did get your name.”
“Richard Nolan.”
“Well, Nolan, have you found out who killed my boss?”
“Not yet. I’ve got some leads, though,” said Rick.
Bernie seemed unaffected by Rick’s remark and continued on. “Who hired you anyway?”
Rick looked at him incredulously. “You know I’m not going to tell you that.”
“You’re right. Well, good luck with your investigation.” Then, with a gesture to Joe, he walked away.
Rick knew in a moment that there was more to Bernie than what met the eye. He decided that it was time for a little investigation. Surveying the room, he noted a back staircase with a prominent “private” sign over top of it. “Seems a little obvious, but what the hell,” he thought, heading inconspicuously towards the stairs.
About half way up the stairs, a voice behind Rick inquired, “What are you doing?”
Simultaneously turning around and reaching into his coat for his gun, Rick whirled around to see Vivienne standing at the bottom of the staircase. Relaxing slightly, he asked her sarcastically, “Looking for a cheap date. What do you think?”
“I’m coming with you,” she said, starting up the stairs.
“No you’re not. I work alone, Miss Beauford.”
Rick continued to ascend the stairs, hoping that Vivienne was not still behind him. At the top, he found himself in a long, dimly lit hallway with doors lining both sides.
“Bernie’s office is the second door on the right,” said Vivienne.
Startled, Rick snapped at Vivienne. “I thought I told you not to follow me!”
“Well, I figured I could be of some help to you. If it wasn’t for me, you’d probably have just wandered into some poor girl’s dressing room and her screams would have blown your secrecy. Why won’t you let me help, anyway? I won’t get in the way.”
“I already told you. I work alone.”
“I don’t believe you. Tell me the truth,” she insisted.
“Fine. It’s simple. I don’t trust you. Plus, getting dames mixed up in an investigation is a recipe for trouble. So, if you don’t mind, get lost.” And with that, Rick closed Bernie’s office door in Vivienne’s face.
The office was large, with huge windows reaching to the ceiling of the wall opposite the door. In the darkness, Rick’s eyes were quickly drawn to the fluttering of one of the floor-length curtains. Moving quickly to the open window, Rick saw the faint outline of a person disappearing into the darkness. Knowing that it would be fruitless to give chase, Rick closed the window and the curtain and proceeded to survey the contents of the office. The office was surprisingly sparse; there was a desk and chair in front of the window, and a filing cabinet against the opposite wall. The walls were covered with pictures of various singers and showgirls who had been employed at the speakeasy. A photograph of Vivienne figured prominently.
Starting his search with the desk, Rick opened the top drawer. Inside, Rick found a variety of papers, as well as a small handgun. He discarded the gun and began to rifle through the papers. After finding enough liquor receipts to send all the club employees up the river for a long time, he found a small, slightly crumpled piece of paper with a simple message on it, “It’s done. – L.M.”
“Viv, what are you doin’ up here? You’re on in five!” said a brash voice in the hallway outside the office. Vivienne’s reply seemed calm, but muffled, and Rick decided that it was time to make a graceful exit. Pocketing the note from L.M., he exited through the same window that the shadowy figure had previously left from and slowly walked down the street, periodically glancing back at the window.
Back in the safety of his office, Rick contemplated the situation before him. Bernie was guilty of something, he was sure of that. What he was guilty of, though, Rick was unsure. In his mind, he worked out two possible situations. The first one, which sounded too painfully obvious to be true, was that Bernie had killed Curtis Stevenson. He doubted that Bernie would have done it himself, which is where L.M. came in. L.M., Rick believed, stood for Luciano Massimo, one of the most notorious and deadly hired killers in Chicago. Nonetheless, this theory had several flaws. First of all, Rick knew that Bernie, although maybe not the brightest apple in the barrel, was no fool. He would know that if Stevenson was killed, he had the most to gain, and that just taking over Stevenson’s role would be proof of his guilt. Also, there was the fact that Luciano Massimo was a professional, and one of the best. He would never leave a note to tell his client of his successful completion of a job; he’d just let them read about it the next morning in the papers.
The other theory, and the one that Rick was more convinced of, was that Bernie was innocent of the murder of Curtis Stevenson, but was being framed by the real killer. Unfortunately, this left Rick with more leads than he cared to consider. There was the mysterious figure who had been in the office. There was the possibility of Bernie’s suspicions of Joe the bartender being correct, although Rick highly doubted it. There was always the chance of the guilty party being someone entirely different. And there was also Vivienne. Had she genuinely wanted to help Rick when he was on his way to the office? Or had she merely been stalling for time while she knew that her accomplice was still in Bernie’s office?
Rick sighed. Although part of him was enjoying the challenge of this new case, another part of him longed for the simplicity of the blackmail and missing persons cases that he usually investigated. A few questions, a recovered person or the name of a guilty party, and he was paid and done.
After a few hours and more than a few drinks, Rick finally decided that he would pay Luciano Massimo a little visit.
“Maybe I’ll take Vivienne with me,” he thought. “Might help answer some questions about her at the same time.”
Rick picked Vivienne up at her place at 8:30 the next night.
“Exactly what are we doing now? You were pretty cryptic on the phone,” said Vivienne as she climbed into the car next to Rick.
“Well, I have reason to believe that Bernie hired a hitman named Luciano Massimo to bump off your dearly departed lover. We’re going to pay Massimo a little visit tonight and see if we can get enough proof to nail Bernie,” said Rick, hoping Vivienne would believe his story.
“So you do want my help,” said Vivienne with a flirtatious smile.
“Don’t get any ideas, Miss Beauford. This is a once in a lifetime thing. So, when we get there, I’ll do the talking. You just look pretty and back me up on whatever I say, got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
They soon pulled up to Massimo’s house; a large, ostentatious Mediterranean-inspired palace. Rick pulled the car around back and parked it. They walked over to an inconspicuous side entrance, surrounded by a tall hedge.
“How do you know we’re in the right place?” asked Vivienne.
“It’s my job to know,” replied Rick.
Rick knocked on the door and they were soon greeted by a large, looming butler. “We’re here to see Mr. Massimo,” said Rick.
“Come this way,” responded the butler, ushering Rick and Vivienne into a small, dark, wood paneled office. “I’ll tell the master that you’re here.”
Once the butler left, Vivienne turned to Rick. “How did you do that? How did we get in so easily?”
“Like I said, all in a day’s work. In my business, you have to know all about these guys.”
Momentarily, the door opened again, and the butler returned with a short, dark haired man of about fifty. He had a strong face with eyes of steel that seemed to pierce straight into the heart of any person who happened to cross their path. It was obvious that he was not the type of man that you would want to offend in any way.
“Welcome,” he said in a voice icy with formality. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you,” replied Rick. “I’d rather just get down to business.”
“Agreed.” Massimo gestured to the butler, who promptly exited the room. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” said Rick, lighting a cigarette, “I have a little problem that I need to have dealt with.”
“Go on.”
“A former business associate of mine. Mr. Curtis Stevenson III. I need him taken care of.”
Massimo looked at Rick with a look of surprise. “Do you not know, sir, that Mr. Stevenson died an untimely death a short while ago?”
Rick feigned surprise. “Really? How?”
“Shot. Through the head while he was in the bathtub. An unfortunate tragedy.”
“One of your jobs?”
“Excuse me?”
“I asked, was it one of your jobs?”
“I believe that is none of your business, sir.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to make it my business, won’t I?” asked Rick, pulling a small handgun out of his coat and leveling it at Massimo. “Now don’t you dare go reaching into the desk drawer. Or under the chair. Keep your hands where I can see them, and tell me how you were connected to the murder of Curtis Stevenson.”
Massimo looked at the gun pointed at his heart and laughed, a harsh, somewhat tense laugh. “That was a very stupid move. You’ll regret that.”
“Oh will I?” asked Rick.
At that moment, Massimo lunged for the gun. Rick held his ground, but Massimo grabbed at the hand which held the gun. Rick felt his grip slipping and, in desperation, he pulled the trigger, praying that the gun would hit a mark, any mark, on Massimo’s body. He knew that if the gun landed in Massimo’s hands, both he and Vivienne would be done for in a split second.
The gun went off, and Massimo fell to the floor, holding his leg as blood spurted from a gunshot wound. Rick knelt down beside at him and poised the gun over his head. “Are you going to answer my question now?”
Biting his lip from the pain, Massimo finally relented. “I was hired by a man named McDougall to take care of Stevenson. The night I was supposed to do the job and the night that Stevenson died were one in the same. But it’s not because of me that Stevenson has ceased to exist, although I’d like to take credit for the job. When I arrived at his house, Stevenson had already expired. I found him as the police later found him.”
“What did you do then? What about the man who hired you? Did you let him believe that you had completed the job?” asked Rick, not moving the gun from its perfect aim.
“No, I didn’t. I am a man of honour, sir. I spoke to McDougall the next day and told him that, although Stevenson was done in, it wasn’t myself who did it. We settled easily, and I then terminated my contact with Mr. McDougall.”
“Are you sure that’s all of it?”
“I assure you that it is.”
“Well, then. Thank you, Mr. Massimo. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. And I assume that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone?”
“I will not.”
And with that, Rick motioned to Vivienne to leave, then backed away himself, keeping his aim at Massimo until he reached the door.
Speeding away into the night, Vivienne and Rick didn’t say a word to each other. Rick was too busy trying to process all that he had just heard, and Vivienne was thoroughly shaken by what she had witnessed. It wasn’t until they arrived at Vivienne’s apartment that either spoke.
“Are you sure that Massimo guy isn’t going to come after you now?”
“What?”
“Well, you just shot a hired killer. Are you not afraid that he just might come after you?”
“No,” replied Rick, much to Vivienne’s surprise. Then, after noting her disbelief, he added, “You see, Massimo, as he said, is a man of honour. He gave me his word that no one would know about what happened, and he will keep it that way. Plus, a man of his standing wouldn’t want to admit that he was held at gunpoint and shot at for information by a lowly private dick. I think he’d much rather forget it ever happened. I’m sure he’ll tell his cronies that he got the wound while pulling off the job of the century. So don’t worry, you’re safe, and your thirty dollar a day investment is safe, too.”
“As long as I don’t have to worry about you or me being taken out by a crazed hitman at midnight tonight, I’m not worried.”
“Goodnight, Vivienne.”
Rick returned to the Purple Parrot the next night at without having made more progress than he’d made when the case began. He’d solved the mysteries surrounding Bernie, yet he was no closer to finding Stevenson’s true killer. The identity of the mystery figure in Bernie’s office still remained unsolved, and Rick was still not entirely convinced of Vivienne’s integrity. Her fear of the previous night seemed genuine enough, but Rick reminded himself of the possibility that such fear could have been caused by her own guilt.
In a scene that mirrored his last visit, Bernie again sauntered over towards Rick. “Hey Ricky, how’ve you been? Cracked the case yet?” he asked with a smile while heartily slapping Rick on the back.
“Actually,” said Rick, “Can I ask you a few more questions about Stevenson’s death?”
“Yeah, sure, if you think it’ll help anything. Come into my office.”
When settled in Bernie’s office, Rick launched into another series of questions. “Last time we talked, you told me that you thought one of the bartenders here might have had some sort of connection to the murder. What did you say his name was?”
“Joe…Jake…something like that. I just know that he’d never taken to Stevenson. It’s not that he ever threatened or anything – but something always just seemed wrong, y’know?”
“Would you mind if I went down and just asked your bartenders a few questions?”
“Go ahead. Just don’t go stirring things up, willya? I don’t need any disturbances at my place. Especially from some nosy private snoop.”
With that, Rick returned back downstairs, where Vivienne had taken her customary place on the stage. She smiled at him as he walked past.
Sitting down at the bar, Rick motioned to the bartender, Joseph, the same skinny kid who had been working on his previous visit.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Actually,” said Rick, “I need to ask you some questions.”
Joseph looked genuinely puzzled. “What about?”
“The murder of Curtis Stevenson III.”
“Okay…but I’m not sure what help I can be. I barely knew the guy.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He was a swell boss. Gave me a bonus when he found out that I was getting married. He actually seemed to give a damn about us. Not like some guys I’ve worked for. It was a shame when he kicked it.”
Rick was surprised – that had hardly been the answer he’d expected. “And where were you on the night he was murdered?”
“About what time was he killed at? Because I work until three every night but Sunday.”
“The cops think he died at about one thirty. So I guess you have an alibi.”
Joseph laughed. “I was a suspect? Wow, it’s like one of those murder mysteries. Everyone’s a suspect, huh? Well, if I was the author, I think I’d make an unlikely suspect. But since this is real life, my money would be on James. He fits the profile better than I do.”
“James? Who’s James?”
“Oh, he’s the bartender who comes on after me. I suppose he’s a nice guy, but he kinda keeps to himself. Seems like a bit of a high hat – I don’t think any of the guys here really know him. He’s been here for about six months, but I can’t name a single person here who’s ever had a real conversation with him. I think he’s got a bit of a thing going for Viv; he’s always mooning over her.” Upon noticing Rick’s expression change from nonchalance to interest, Joseph added, “Not that I’m saying he did in Mr. Stevenson – I don’t want to be pointing fingers or anything. Just talking as if this was one of those murder mysteries. He just seems to fit the profile.”
Rick waited at the bar until three a.m., when James was scheduled to come on duty. Sure enough, come three o’clock, the youthfully cheerful Joseph was replaced by a much difference presence. James was a short man, standing no more than five feet four inches tall, but his presence overcame his lack of height. He was broad shouldered, and continually stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He had a head full of grey hair, slicked back to his head, and steely blue eyes. Even Rick, who stood a full head taller than James, felt slightly intimidated by his presence.
After things had settled into a more normal rhythm, Rick called James over. “What are you drinking?” asked James.
“Scotch and soda – but that’s not what I called you over for. I want to ask you some questions.”
Instantly defensive, James retorted, rather crossly, “About what? And why?”
“About the murder of Curtis Stevenson III. I have reason to believe that you know something about it.”
“Oh, and why would that be?”
“Just a source. Are you gonna answer my questions or not?”
“Yeah, what the hell. I got nothing to hide.”
“Good. What were you doing at the time Mr. Stevenson was murdered?”
“You think I can remember that far back?”
“Just try me,” answered Rick sardonically.
“I was at work, I guess.”
“Nice try. But I know you weren’t. Mr. Stevenson was killed around one o’clock in the morning. You don’t come on until three a.m. So how about we try this again.”
Truly infuriated, James began to lash out at Rick. “You son of a bitch. Just what are you suggesting? That I killed –” He was cut short by the appearance of Vivienne. Suddenly his manner changed from anger to kindness and sincerity. “Hey Viv,” he said. “You look lovely tonight. How are you doin’?”
Vivienne smiled at him. “Fine, James. Thanks.”
“Ready to get going, Vivienne?” asked Rick with absolute sincerity.
“You’re taking me home?” asked Vivienne.
“Yeah, why not,” replied Rick.
“I’ll get my coat,” said Vivienne.
James and Rick remained in silence until Vivienne’s return. As they left, Rick put an arm around Vivienne, then cast a knowing look back at James.
Once out the door, Rick turned to Vivienne. “Who is that bartender guy?” asked Rick.
“James Primeau. I don’t really know him that well, I just talk to him from time to time. To tell you the truth, he kind of scares me. He’s continually asking me out to dinner.”
“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” said Rick.
That night, Rick wandered aimlessly around his apartment, fruitlessly attempting to come up with a way to entrap James into confessing. He was sure now that James was Stevenson’s murderer, but without a confession or any real evidence, he had no way to prove anything. Finally, at about five o’clock am, he came up with an idea that he believed could work – except for one thing. To do this, he would have to ask Vivienne for help and put all of his faith in someone else. For another hour, he struggled with this idea, trying to decide if he could really trust Vivienne. By seven o’clock, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would have to trust Vivienne – he had no other choice.
Picking up the phone, he asked the operator to connect him to Vivienne Beauford. After a few rings, a sleepy voice on the other end answered. “Hello?”
“Miss Beauford?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“It’s Rick Nolan.” He paused then, forcing himself to speak the words. “I need your help.”
From the other end, there was silence, then soft laughter. “Is this a joke, Mr. Nolan? I thought you said you never would ask anyone, especially me, for help?”
Rick grit his teeth. “I know. I was wrong. I need your help. Will you help me?”
“Yes. Yes I will. What do I have to do?”
The following night, after accepting one of James’ many dinner invitations, Vivienne sat alone at a table in a classy, upscale restaurant, awaiting the arrival of her dinner companion. Rick was seated a few tables away; close enough to hear everything, but far enough to not be noticed. Sitting with him was Officer O’Malley, a Chicago police officer who Rick had managed to cajole into coming on the promise that, by the end of the evening, he’d have Curtis Stevenson III’s killer arrested.
James entered the restaurant, dressed elegantly, his usual brusque manner replaced by a boyish nervousness. He greeted Vivienne, then sat down, almost knocking over his chair in the process.
The dinner began slowly, with the usual mundane small talk the occurs on a date when neither party is particularly comfortable being there. Eventually, after a rather long, uncomfortable pause, James said, “Y’know Vivienne, I’m so glad that you finally agreed to come out to dinner with me. I’ve admired you for a long time. I’m sure it must seem strange to other people to see a guy like me with a beautiful lady like yourself. I guess, for me, it’s a long shot. But it’s a long shot that worked.”
Vivienne paused, smiled, then said in a low, seductive voice, “You like taking long shots, don’t you?”
James replied, “Yes, I guess I do. I’m lucky that way.”
“You definitely had a lucky long shot when you killed Curtis, didn’t you?”
James stared at Vivienne for a moment, searching her face for any sign of emotion. “You know about that?”
“Of course I do,” she purred. “I know all about it.”
“And you’re not angry?”
“No, not at all. Curt was getting to be a nuisance anyway. It’s kind of a relief to be rid of him.”
“It’s good to know that. I would have hated to have any of my actions cause you any sort of pain.”
“Don’t worry, they didn’t. But tell me – why did you do it? And how did you keep from getting caught?”
“You’re really interested?”
“Yes. It appeals to my sense of danger.”
“Well,” he began, “I did it for revenge. You see, a few years back, I had one of the best bootlegging businesses in the city. I was making a fortune, and I was loving it. At least, I was until Stevenson came along. He completely destroyed my business – first by stealing my customers, then by taking over my suppliers. Before I knew it, I was out on my ass, and Stevenson was flourishing. It was right then that I knew I had to get him back.” Then, after a pause he added, “You were also a factor, Viv. I saw you with him and I wanted you to be with me. He didn’t deserve you. I figured that, with him out of the picture, I might have a chance with you.”
Fighting to keep her cool, Vivienne asked, “So, then, how did you keep from getting caught?”
Gloating, James began, “Well, that was the easy part. Right after I…did the deed… I stumbled upon an interesting piece of information. It seems that Bernie McDougall, y’know, Stevenson’s dopey assistant, had hired some gunman to do him in around the same time as I had. So once I had that little fact, it was simple. A few well placed pieces of “evidence” in Bernie’s office, and I knew that sooner or later, the heat would land on him. He takes the fall and I’m free to go on. Brilliant, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” said Vivienne, glancing over at Rick’s table and nodding. Rick nodded back, and he and Officer O’Malley stood up and made their way over to the table.
“Good evening, Mr. Primeau,” said Officer O’Malley, “My name is Officer O’Malley and you’re under arrest.”
James looked shocked. He looked at Vivienne, who had stood up and moved closer to Rick, then to the officer, then back to Vivienne. “You two timing bitch!” he exclaimed as Officer O’Malley led him away.
“So, what now?” asked Vivienne of Rick. “What does the detective do once the case is closed?”
“Well,” said Rick with a smile, “usually I just collect my fee and leave. But this time I think I could content myself to sitting down to a nice dinner at a classy restaurant with a beautiful girl.”