Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

Black Lace Gambit by Lawrence Treat

She was all female and black lace and she knew her value to the last tainted dollar. And so did I...

The sign on the outer door, Room 705, read Mel Carver, Investigator. The office inside was small, but it was partitioned off into an entry with a desk, and the private office beyond. Even in the best of times nobody had ever sat at the desk. Still, it had looked good.

But no more. If you walked in, you could somehow tell that these were hard times. There was no correspondence in sight, the daily calendar was a couple of days behind, and the desk chair was tight up against the desk, as if it had never been used and wasn’t going to be. Still, Carver hadn’t quite given up, and wouldn’t until the end of the month, when his next rent payment was due.

He’d read the paper all the way through, including the ads, and he was wondering whether to use the phone for a little gossiping or whether to save himself the few cents, when he heard the outer door open.

He could tell from the step that this was a woman, and he perked up at once. In his mind’s eye he envisioned a beautiful blond with a ten grand retainer in her bag and a fantastic story to tell. He was, at bottom, that romantic.

He waited a moment or two, and then he opened the door and saw her. She was blond all right and she was beautiful, but she certainly had no ten grand.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

She blinked, and her mouth dropped in disappointment, but after a moment or two she managed a smile. It was pleading and vaguely hopeful, and he smiled back.

“Glad you dropped in, Marcia” he said.

“I just thought I’d say hello. How are things?”

He shook his head. “No dice. Nothing doing. It’s over.”

“I know,” she said. “That law.”

“Progress!” he said, snorting. “Adultery’s accepted. Nothing wrong with it any more. Sleep with your wife, sleep with her best friend, sleep with a tramp or anybody you want to, it’s like having lunch together.”

“Don’t be so bitter,” she said softly. “People still—”

“Sure,” he said, interrupting, “but the point is that now you can get a divorce on grounds of desertion or mental cruelty. That’s all you need. People don’t divorce for adultery any more, even when it’s for real.”

“Did you have many cases that were for real?”

He shrugged and opened the door to his inner office. Marcia slipped inside and sat down as if she’d just reached her favorite chair. He followed her before answering her question.

“Hardly,” he said. “The way we’d set it up, with me coming in on the two of you with a camera and a witness, that was about it. You figured in practically every case I handled.”

“Well, it was good while it lasted.”

“It was a living. You know, I always wanted to ask you, did any of them try to make love?”

“They were usually too scared, too nervous. They hardly looked at me.”

“I don’t know how they could help it. There you were all undressed, and they didn’t even look?”

“I was never all undressed.”

“Sure, but with that black lace bra of yours and matching pan ties. I keep thinking about it, and I always felt—” He cut himself off. “Clients are human,” he went on. “Some of them must have made passes at you, didn’t they?”

“Some? Naturally,” she said, blushing, “but you always saved me by knocking on the door at the right time. As if you had some kind of special intuition.”

“We understood each other,” he said. “We were a good team and it’s too bad to break up. Just because they had to go and make a law—” Carver grunted. “But that’s over and done.”

“I guess so. What are you going to do now?”

“Be a cop. I took the exam last week and I think I did pretty well. Besides, I have the right kind of experience and all the other qualifications, and they need police.”

“People like you don’t apply every day, that’s for sure. What does it pay?”

“I’ll start at eight and go up. A detective, first grade, can get as high as fourteen or fifteen.”

Her eyes brightened and she spoke confidently.

“You will,” she said. “I know you will.”

“Nothing’s sure,” he said. “Think of what we had, and now where are we? Kaput!”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Marcia said. “There can be wonderful things ahead. New jobs, new chances, maybe a whole new life.”

“You always did make me feel good,” he said. “I’d get to thinking what a messy business this was, and then you’d come along and say I was bringing happiness and a second chance to people. But... oh, well. You were telling me about the ones that wanted to go through with it. How did you handle them?”

“I’d stall. They’d claim they were paying plenty and they ought to get a dividend. I’d point out that that wasn’t in the agreement, and then you’d come in. You always saved me. I could rely on you.”

“But didn’t they try to date you afterwards?”

“I never mix business with pleasure,” she said.

“I know, and I guess I’m business.”

“You were business.”

“The good old times,” he said, sighing. “I don’t suppose you dropped in the hope of getting more work, did you?”

“Oh, no. I just wanted to see you and reminisce.”

“You mean check back on some of our clients, and get money out of them?”

“No, no! Although it would be easy, wouldn’t it?”

“All the things we know, between the two of us! All the secrets and confidences. Clients telling the real reasons why they wanted their divorces. They had something on their wives, or their wives on them. Criminal acts. Embezzlement, larceny. Unnatural sex practises. Somehow they had a compulsion to talk.”

“Did you keep files?”

“Sure, but in code.”

“Are you glad they passed the law? Do you believe in it?”

“I believe that the right people should get together, and that when you make a mistake you should admit it.”

She let out a nervous peal of laughter, then broke it off. “Please, I didn’t mean to make fun of you.”

“You could never try to hurt me,” he said. “Not you.”

She gazed at him with a fixed, sorrowing expression. “Well,” she said finally, getting up. “I just wanted to drop in. I guess I won’t see you again, will I?”

When he didn’t answer, she repeated her words.

“Will I?” she said.

He frowned and he seemed to be searching his mind for something important that eluded him. Then abruptly his face brightened up.

“Marcia,” he said, grasping her by the shoulders and staring down intently. “Are you married?”

“Of course. And you?”

“No, not yet. But—”

He relaxed and they both smiled, very slowly and at the same time. Although neither of them spoke, the old habit of understanding each other told them they both had the same thought. One more divorce job, but strictly personal, and they could do it in the old-fashioned way.

Now.