Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) Read online

  “That's too bad. A client of mine is having some trouble, but I'm not ready yet to begin proceedings. I advised him that it should be investigated first.” His enunciation was concise. If the most respected and feared lawyer in the city thought the matter wasn't ready yet for his talents, then it was bound to be interesting indeed.

  “Anyone I know?” I asked. Murphy quit looking like a beaten dog.

  “I'm sure,” he started loudly. Then he lowered his voice, which is hard for Maurice to do. “I'm sure you've heard of him.” He stopped to let me chew on that a while.

  I called my pocket.

  “I was hoping you'd see him in my office this afternoon.”

  “No doubt you advised him I'd be there.” The eight ball traversed the length of the table and came right back to thud in the pocket. I turned to face Maurice. “Who is he?”

  Maurice clenched his teeth slightly to keep the sound in. “Carter Fleming. And yes I told him you'd be there at two o'clock.” He cleared his throat loudly. “Hell, Neal, half the police force is on overtime parking detail for lack of anything better to do. Business can't be that good.”

  “Make it two-thirty.” Maurice knows that I'm a man of principle.

  “Good.” He turned and strode out of the bar

  Carter Fleming, huh? The Times-Picayune society editor had dubbed him a leading citizen, but in spite of that endorsement, he really was one—and from an old family that still had its money. But while other uptown socialites were turning their bank presidents into carnival kings, Carter Fleming was out buying up their banks.

  Murphy was busy picking his ear up from my side of the table, but if I know how to read a face, he hadn't picked up as much information as he would have liked.

  “Well, Murph, it looks like we'll have to pick this up some other time.”

  “Sure, Neal, at Grady's,” he said and laughed. One hand dove into his pocket, but it wasn't coming out again—not yet. “Hot-shot client, huh?”

  I pulled at an earlobe. “I'll get the games, Murph.”

  One thing I like about Murphy is he's quick on the pickup.

  “Great, Neal.” He pulled out five crumpled tens and made a great show of smoothing them out on the edge of the table. “Next time we play for fifty right off, huh?”

  “You're on, Murph.”

  The guarantee of high stakes gilded Murphy's laugh as he handed over my winnings. He had gotten exactly what he wanted after all.

  3

  * * *

  One for the Books

  I had been so geared up to spend the day playing pool that I was sorry to leave Curly's. I was probably sorrier to leave the air conditioning, but from the way Murphy asked two marks seated at the bar if they wanted to play cutthroat, the temperature in the joint would soon be equal to the stakes. It wouldn't be like Murphy to let any more money slip through his fingers that day.

  I had just enough time to have a quick lunch at the sandwich shop on the first floor of the good Fathers’ building before heading over to Maurice's law office. The lunch rush was just about over, which left Leone a lot of time to banter me from behind the counter as she fixed a sandwich. I tuned her out and reviewed what I knew of Carter Fleming. There were a few different factions of Flemings now. The money was oil money and Carter Fleming had most of it and was the best known of the lot. He was constantly written up in the society section of the paper for some flamboyance or another. A patron of the arts who collected rare paintings and also bought the works of promising young artists from New Orleans and elsewhere, he had spread a little of the right kind of PR around, made names for some of the young promisings, and raised the value of his collection. There was also a Mrs. Fleming whose charitable works and city beautification plans were often in the news. My memory failed me about the same time my sandwich arrived.

  By the time I was ready to go to the garage and get my car it was well after two o'clock. The afternoon heat settled on my face as I stepped out of the sandwich shop. Gabe, the garage attendant, was persistently and to no avail mopping his sweaty black brow. We exchanged a few complaints and I took off.

  The few minutes’ drive over to Tulane Avenue took twice the time with the traffic meandering through the business district, but I managed to arrive with a couple of minutes to spare. Maurice's office was a small shotgun double that had been converted into law offices. His secretary, Pinkie, was, as usual in lax moments, sitting behind the desk preening her unrealistically long rosy nails. I had often wondered how she could type so well with them. I asked her.

  She flashed me a big smile and said, “Easy,” whipped a piece of paper into the machine, set it whirring , and within a split second had typed a single line. She handed it to me, cupped her chin in her hand, and looked at me demurely from behind thick lashes every bit as long as her nails. The line read: “Five o'clock is closer than you think. What's up?”

  I gave her a long once-over. Her small, flawless face, made up in an attempt to look older, was framed by her short wispy hair. She looked pretty in the soft light thrown by the desk lamp.

  “Things that a sweet young thing like yourself shouldn't know about,” I answered.

  “I'm not exactly a kid, you know,” she said haughtily, and got busy trying to ignore me.

  “No, you're not exactly a kid,” I conceded.

  With a cool glance she informed me that Fleming was already with Maurice. I stroked her smooth cheek with a finger and moved on down the hall to Maurice's office, knocked once, and opened the door.

  Maurice was sitting behind his big mahogany desk. Fleming had drawn up a chair and sat hunched over the desk in Maurice's direction. He turned sharply and rose as I walked in. He was a big man with dark abundant hair and a smooth unlined face. He looked strong, but his stomach indicated that he lived the good life. His big handsome squarish white face broke into a wide grin showing off big squarish teeth. He stepped forward and extended his hand. I took it and got a hard politician's crush.

  “Right on time,” he drawled slightly in a loud, presumptuous voice. “I like that and I like what Maurice has been telling me about you, Rafferty. He says you're the best in the business.” The grin got even wider.

  Already I didn't like his attitude, but I remained cordial.

  Maurice rose. “No need for you gentlemen to waste time. As I've explained, I'm not ready to begin proceedings and until such time, I'm sure my counseling won't be necessary. Since I am due at the district attorney's office, I'll leave you to discuss the matter privately.” As Maurice stalked toward the door, the heels of his cowboy boots digging into the carpet, Fleming thanked him profusely. I sat down and lit a cigarette.

  He turned back to me before Maurice had the door closed behind him. “Now,” he said with a glance at his watch, “let's get down to business.” His voice was agitated and he dropped most of the drawl. “I've already wasted enough time and time is money.”

  I watched the ceiling and blew smoke at it. He cleared his throat noisily as my eyes drifted back to his.

  “One week ago last Thursday I acquired at auction a set of expensive, rare editions of William Blake, the English poet, you know.” He looked at me expectantly.

  “Oh, yeah. The poet.”

  He stared at me a second. “There are eight books in the set, including the Illustrations on the Book of Job which is bound in Moroccan leather. The others are in calf. The bindings on a couple are a little loose and I wanted all of them inspected carefully and put in top shape. That would increase their value. So I had them shipped directly to Stanley Garber's shop on Royal Street and informed him they were coming. He does excellent work,” he added parenthetically. “After I described the shape they were in, he said that the work shouldn't take more than a week at most. Toward the end of last week I called him, since I hadn't heard anything and I wanted to find out how much longer the work would take, but there was no answer at the shop. I found that strange so I called his house. His wife told me that he had gone out of town and she didn't know
when he'd be back. I asked her if the books were ready, but she didn't know that either and told me she'd have him call as soon as he got back. Well, now, I didn't like the idea of nearly ninety thousand dollar's worth of books sitting in a closed-up shop like that. They're insured, of course, but I wanted to know where he went and when he was coming back. She wouldn't tell me anything. I've called the shop and the house several times since then. She tells me every time that she still hasn't heard from him. In my opinion, she doesn't know where he is. I think he's disappeared, and for his sake, those books better not have disappeared with him. I want those books found and if that means finding him first, then do it. That's the job, and the important things for you to remember are expediency and the safety of the books.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and extracted a piece of paper folded lengthwise. “This is a detailed description of the books.”

  All the pertinent information had been typed up for me. He was efficient alright, like a man who expects to get exactly what he wants and usually gets it fast. I glanced at the paper, folded it again, and put it on the edge of the desk.

  “Any questions?” he asked, and began to make motions of leaving.

  “Plenty. Let's start with why you haven't gone to the police with this.”

  He glared at me. “What's the matter? Don't you want the job?”

  “Not unless I know all the details.”

  He looked annoyed. “Look. I've known Garber for a long time and I've never had any reason not to trust him. I admit that it looks bad for him right now, but if he's got the right answers then I wouldn't want to embarrass him unnecessarily by bringing the police in prematurely. But if he doesn't have the right answers, I'll lean on him so hard he'll wish he was dead. Don't get me wrong—I'm not an unreasonable man. I try not to assume the worst.”

  He sat back. It occurred to me that Stanley Garber's embarrassment wasn't his chief concern, although he probably had convinced himself that it was.

  “And the last time you spoke to him was to tell him the books were on the way?”

  “No. He called me a week ago, last Monday, early in the morning. The books were due in that day. I'd had Barrow's, the auction house in New York, send them by UPS, but Garber said they hadn't arrived yet.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “He called you just to say they hadn't arrived?”

  He made a gesture of impatience. “He called to find out if I was interested in selling them. Something about he might have a prospective buyer.”

  “That's a pretty important point to neglect.”

  His intertwined fingers lay in his lap. “Well, I didn't want it to look any worse for him than it already does.” Such magnanimous benevolence. He was too proud to admit that it had simply slipped his mind.

  “Did he say who this prospective buyer was or how anyone knew you had the books?”

  His eyes darted up at me. “I didn't ask him who it was. I told him I wasn't interested in selling. And anyone who read last Sunday's paper would know I had the books. There was an article about them. You see, I'm going to loan them to the museum for a couple of weeks. They're suposed to go on exhibition this weekend. That's one reason I was anxious about how much time the work would involve.” He leaned forward. “Frankly, Rafferty, it's possible that Garber sold the books out from under me to this prospective buyer. I hate to say it, but that's what I think. I think that's a good place for you to start.”

  “I thought you weren't going to assume the worst.”

  “Well, what's your explanation?”

  “I don't have one yet, but it would be pretty stupid for him to do something like that. It would be too easy to trace the books’ arrival and acceptance at the store.”

  “Well, whatever, I want those books recovered. Someone's got my ninety thousand dollars in his possession at this minute!” He took another peek at his watch.

  As along as he was back on the subject of money, I brought up my fee. He gave me a thousand dollar retainer and told me his generosity above my set fee was contingent on a speedy recovery. His speech annoyed me, but I didn't squawk. I figured I would just have to chalk it up to his business habits.

  And that was it. I didn't like the man or his methods, but I put the typed description in my pocket and told him I'd be in touch with him. We walked out together. As I passed Pinkie's desk, I gave her an exaggerated wink. She gave me a secret look that no doubt was supposed to mean something, but it was lost on me.

  4

  * * *

  The Question of Class

  Women. Now why would the old man suppose that wanting to get women is an adequate reason for becoming a private cop? Surely he knows that to a woman the job is no more an attractive way of life than that of an ordinary cop. It has something to do with his fixation that women of all breeds fall like trees for us tough Channel types, although I'm not sure how he ties that in with being a cop. I, of course, a third-generation Irish American, know better. I know, for example, that the women on the other side of Magazine Street don't think we're tough, just low class. Yet, somehow, an isolated example will bear him out. The old man loves to be right and he thinks he usually is. Maybe it's because when he's wrong, it generally has to do with something I don't want him to know about. Anyway, when Catherine Garber fell for me, I was glad to give him full credit for being right. But I'm getting way ahead of the course things took.

  Stanley Garber's house was located in Lake Vista on Mockingbird Lane. Here the houses really do face a lane and the only accessibility by car is through alleys flanking the backs of the residences. I parked on the boulevard in front of the stone walkway leading through tall shade trees and walked to the house. Everything was abnormally quiet. It was like walking through a sparse forest, a well-kept sparse forest, and I found myself tiptoeing through the area avoiding the twigs that lay on the ground.

  The Garber place was a white brick house considered modem in the fifties. The curtains were drawn close, and like the rest of the setting it was in, the house had an unreal and uninhabited air about it like the suburbs on a Hollywood stage set. It didn't seem likely that anyone would come in answer to the bell, but the door opened just enough to show a frail drab woman. Her stance and expression made her look older than she probably was. She stared at me with large limpid blue eyes that didn't fit in her small drab face.

  “I'm looking for Stanley Garber.”

  She hesitated. “He's not here right now.”

  “Mrs. Garber?” She still just stared. “Do you mind if I wait? I have rather urgent business to discuss with him.”

  “He's not in town.” She started to close the door. I held it open.

  “Then I'd like to speak with you, Mrs. Garber. Perhaps you can help me.” I said it as gently as I could. The woman looked ill. “My name is Neal Rafferty and I'm representing Carter Fleming.”

  “I have already told Mr. Fleming ...” “I know. He told me he had talked to you. Please, may I come in? I won't take much of your time.”

  She backed away from the door as I pushed it open and went in. I walked through a small foyer into a formal, austere living area. There were no lights on in the house and the windows were heavily draped. My eyes adjusted and the room became less dark but no less dreary. Mrs. Garber sat on the edge of a chair and twisted a handkerchief around her fingers. I sat on the sofa without being invited.

  “Mrs. Garber, I believe Mr. Fleming told you about the books your husband was working on.”

  “I know about them. There's nothing more I can tell you. My husband doesn't discuss his business with me. Why are you here?” Her voice was clear and stern but a little cracked around the edges.

  “I'm a private investigator.” Her hands stopped working, and the expression on her face tightened so that her features got larger but not stronger. The effect was produced by the deepening of the lines in her battleship-gray complexion; they deepened close to the edges of the apertures and became dark ravines into which her mouth, nose, and eyes might slide and disappear.

&n
bsp; “Mrs. Garber—” I hoped I was being tactful enough— “Mr. Fleming tells me that he has known your husband for a long time and that it is not like him to be late with a job. He said that normally Mr. Garber would have phoned him if there was going to be a delay. What it is, Mrs. Garber—he's concerned, and that's why he asked me to look into the matter.”

  Hard as this was for me, I thought I was doing splendidly, but the more I talked the more drawn and constricted her face got. I knew there was something desperately wrong and I felt a sincere desire to help, but I was afraid that my presence was too much for her. I was getting just scared enough that she might have some kind of seizure that I was about to make my apologies and leave when I heard the lock being turned in the front door. Mrs. Garber's head jerked toward the sound. The lights came on. I had thought Mrs. Garber looked bad in the semi-darkness of the room. In the light she looked like she'd spent a week in a cancer ward chain-smoking Picayune cigarettes.

  “Mother, what is it?”

  Mrs. Garber turned back to me and one hand clutched at her throat. The movement frightened me. I thought she was having an attack and I jumped up to go to her. Catherine had entered the room. The glance her pale, icy eyes tossed at me glinted like steel and froze me dead. She dropped a drugstore package and helped her mother from the chair. They left the room and I heard a door close toward the back of the house. I picked up the package and began to pace the room.

  Catherine was the first woman I had seen in over three years who I thought was as beautiful as Myra. Poor Myra. The truth of it is that Myra would have been way out of Catherine's class. So there was the question of class and there was the coldness I had felt coming from her; I thought Catherine was unapproachable. But that didn't keep me from looking. Her hair and skin were almost the same color, a bronzy tone, like she'd been burnished by the sun, though she was unmistakably not tanned. Her hair was pulled away from her face and the color glowed from her cheekbones. Those gray-blue eyes were like chunks of ice in a fire. Her presence was very strong; the house had come alive with her in it. When she left the room it became austere once again. I wanted her to come back so I could look some more. I paced, thinking morosely about the circumstances under which I had come to the house.