a banker-fella, and I retired, sour grapes sort of, from show biz.”
“Which explains the recommendation from Felix Davenport.”
“A long time ago Felix told me, ‘If you’re ever in real trouble, see Peter Chambers. He’s in the phone book.’ ”
“Are you in trouble, Mrs. Kiss?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe so?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What kind of trouble do you believe you’re in?”
“Blackmail trouble.”
That’s trouble, even if you only believe you’re in that kind of trouble. I sighed and extinguished my cigarette. It was not going to be easy for the lady. Blackmail trouble requires confession and confession is difficult when you must look upon the eyes of your confessor and is doubly difficult when the eyes of the confessor are straining not to look upon the curves of your calves. I glanced at my watch. There was time. I stood up and said, “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Kiss?”
“Oh yes, very much, thank you.”
“Be with you in a minute,” I said and went to the kitchen.
THREE
THERE IS a conundrum for the gods always asked by every host—why is it that stale coffee is invariably praised by an unexpected guest? I heated up the old coffee, poured it into my best china, and brought it to the living room, a cup for her, a cup for me. I sipped once, enthusiastically if emetically, and put the cup away on the mantel. She sipped and continued to sip and drained the cup and said, when she handed it back to me, “Delicious, absolutely delicious. Perhaps some day in different circumstances I shall inquire into your secret of making coffee.”
“Blackmail,” I said.
“Pardon?” she said.
“Eleven o’clock at 527 Madison.”
“Yes,” she said and suddenly coffee was no longer of the essence. For a moment her lower teeth caressed her upper lip and then she stood up and amenities vanished and small talk was dead. She paced, clasping and unclasping her hands. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Actually, I’m not sure.”
“Mrs. Kiss,” I said, “are you being blackmailed?”
“No.”
“Then what—”
“I believe I’m about to be blackmailed.”
“Oh.”
“But even as to that, I’m not certain.”
“Oh.”
“But I don’t believe there can be any other explanation.”
“For what?”
She sat down again. “This morning, Mr. Chambers, at a quarter after nine, I received a phone call, a most peculiar phone call.”
“At your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you live?”
“Brentwood Apartments. Seventy-fifth and Central Park West. Twenty-fourth floor, penthouse apartment. The call was from a woman. She said she had some interesting pictures to show me. She asked me to be at her office, 527 Madison Avenue, at eleven o’clock. I asked her what sort of pictures. She said it was something she didn’t care to talk about over the phone. I told her I’d be at her office at eleven.”
“I see,” I said. “Pictures. What sort of pictures, Mrs. Kiss?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you must have some idea.”
“I have no idea.”
“But you are assuming that this is some kind of blackmail deal. You’ve stated that you believe that you’re about to be blackmailed. That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
“Then you must have some idea about those pictures.”
“None. No idea.”
It didn’t make sense. It never does when the client is lying. Clients have many reasons for withholding the truth. Embarrassment is the chief reason when the subject is blackmail. The very basis of blackmail is material which one wishes to keep undisclosed. Confession is never easy. I switched the tack. I said, “Did you discuss this with your husband?”
“My husband wasn’t at home.”
“At nine-fifteen on a Saturday morning?”
“He went out, at about nine o’clock, on some sort of business.”
“I see. So you got this phone call. Then what did you do?”
“I looked you up in the phone book and I called you here.”
“For what purpose?”
“I wanted somebody on my side. Somebody with experience. Somebody who could protect me.”
Softly I said, “You felt. . . you needed protection?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Not unless I was aware that pictures existed that might be incriminating.”
The brown eyes were stubborn. “I am not aware of any such pictures.”
“Now look, Mrs. Kiss.” I sat down near her. “A private detective is in a profession which is something akin to a doctor, a lawyer, a psychiatrist, sometimes even a priest. There is a need, perforce, for intimate disclosures, confidential communications. That is, if you trust the person to whom you come—”
“Felix said you were the best. He mentioned you frequently, as the best, honest, honorable—”
I did not take a bow. I shrugged. “Then you’re going to have to trust me, Mrs. Kiss. My purpose is not to pry. I have no personal interest. But if I’m to work with you on this, if you want—as you have put it—my protection, then you must acquaint me with the facts. I must have something concrete to know what in hell I’m working on. You can even tell me to mind my own damned business, you can even point-blank refuse to tell me, but wriggling around, being evasive, fabricating, lying—that’s out. Please, do you understand me?”
“Yes,” she said.
“All right, then, please, this question. Have you ever posed for photographs that you wish you had not posed for?”
“No. Never.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
