Kiss was totally unacquainted with Marla Trent. I was having a strange morning. Sometimes you can blame a strange morning on a hangover, but not this morning. I had retired the night before innocent of alochol; well, somewhat innocent; let us say sufficiently innocent not to be able to blame a strange morning-after on a familiar night-before.
Slightly slack-jawed Valerie Kiss said, “Are you, er, are you Marla Trent?”
Miss Trent nodded, still brightly smiling.
Mrs. Kiss swallowed. Who could blame her?
Marla Trent was unexpected when you expected a private detective. Marla Trent, in heels, was approximately five feet nine inches tall, all curves, all woman. Marla Trent was golden-haired, white-toothed, blue-eyed, red-lipped, creamy-skinned. Marla Trent was 38-23-38 and every splendid bulge of each astonishing statistic, unsuppressed by inhibiting undergarment, was as proudly displayed as a flag. She wore simple black pumps, no stockings, a simple black skirt, and a simple white scoop-necked blouse, the sum total of which simplicity was inordinately intricate in conjunction with Marla Trent. Certainly I could understand Valerie Kiss’s swallow of surprise. I was not surprised but I swallowed too before I said, “Could I talk with you alone a moment, Miss Trent?’’
She was gorgeous but she was a pro. There had been no squint of askance at my presence and now there was no ruffle of discomfiture at my request. She said, “Is that all right, Mrs. Kiss?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Kiss.
There was a door at either side of the far end of the library. The door to the left opened upon Marla Trent’s office, the door to the right upon the office of William Boyd Winkle, her associate. Within, the contiguous offices were connected by a heavy oak door which was closed when Miss Trent and I gathered in conclave. Quickly we grew chummy, out of earshot of the client, albeit we were separated by the bulk of her sturdy desk. Skirt up and smiling she swiveled in her swivel chair while I gaped.
“What are you doing here?” she inquired.
“Trying to earn a fee,” I said.
“How much?” she said.
“I don’t know yet but the lady I represent looks rich.”
“She’s rich. The husband is a highly rated vice president of the Corn Exchange National, Thirty-eighth Street Branch. Why does she think she needs to be represented?”
“She had an idea that your call this morning was a prelude to blackmail.”
The white teeth glistened in an amiable smile. “You know, I don’t blame her.”
“I talked her out of that. But quick.”
“Well, thank you. You’re sweet.”
“Sweet as sugar, lady, but you wouldn’t know.”
“I can imagine.”
I had made my stab, ponderously subtle, but the retort was cryptic, subject to either interpretation: crusty or encouraging. I was not taking any chances this early in the reestablishment of business relations, so I let it lie where she had dropped it. “Blackmail is the gambit of a second-rater,” I said. “Actually, my opinion is no compliment to you. Simply, you don’t need it, Miss Trent.”
“Why the formality, Peter? The client is in the library, remember?”
“I keep forgetting. Quite a beautiful chick, eh?” That was a second stab, even more ponderously subtle.
“A bitch.” That retort was disappointing, too typical.
“Bitch?” I said trying to sound horrified.
“A cheater. A cheater is a bitch. I don’t like cheaters.”
“The lady is a cheater?”
“The lady is a bitch. If you’re in love with a bartender, then toss up the vice president, I always say.”
“A bartender?” I said. “She doesn’t appear to be the type.”
“The vice president is handsome, but so is the bartender. I cannot speak for the husband’s bedroom proclivities, but the bartender is quite an agile performer.”
“Were you there?” I said.
“I’ve looked at pictures,” she said.
“So that’s the bit?” I said.
“Frankly,” she said, “I don’t know what in hell the bit is. At first I thought it was the normal desire for the acquisition of evidence for divorce. Now I’m beginning to believe it’s something far more complex. The vice president may even be bitchier than the bitch.”
“The vice president, I take it, is your client?”
“Sorry, confidential,” she said.
“He retained you to gather up the evidence, I take it.”
“Sorry, confidential,” she said.
“I stood up staunch for you against the blackmail.”
“I repeat, you’re sweet.”
“I am also trying, pulled away from breakfast on a Saturday morning, to earn a fee.”
“Noblesse oblige,” she said. “Professional courtesy can be broadened to professional confidence. You are sweet and I do believe you did stand up for me.”
I beheld in awe, as she clicked a peg of her intercom and said, “Willie, would you go get the Kiss file and bring it in to me, please?”
“Your wish is my command, dearly beloved.”
Hurriedly, I lit a cigarette. The blue eyes regarded me enigmatically. I smoked with all the deliberate insouciance I could muster. Natuarlly I choked, restraining a cough, but coughing enough to demolish any cigarette commercial.
“I’ve begun to believe that it’s the husband that’s the weirdo.”
“Beg pardon?” I said.
“Willie agrees with me. It began as a simple matter of obtaining evidence for divorce, except that the client was willing to pay real good. Ten thousand bucks, the expenses ours.”
“That’s good enough unless it’s complicated.”
“No complications. Straight adultery.”
“When did it start?”
“The adultery?”
“Your being retained.”
She closed her eyes, thinking, and it was restful: it was as though Klieg lights had been turned off. Then she opened her eyes and I was back to smoking, furiously.
“Right after New Years,” she said. “January Third. The guy called for an appointment, came into the office, and told us his story. The old story. He had a feeling his wife was cheating and he wanted
