Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012

Harley Mazuk’s private eye Frank Swiver debuted in Black Mask in January of 2011, with the story “The Tall Blonde With the Hot Boiler.” Normally, the story would have appeared in our Department of First Stories, as it was the author’s first work of fiction, but the tone and style so perfectly suited Black Mask that it found its home there. Swiver is back this month in a case full of action and dramatic tension. His creator is a public affairs specialist who lives and works in the Washington, D.C. area.

1.

The ballroom of the Hotel Biarritz had more ice floating in it than all the martinis-on-the-rocks north of the Artic Circle. Sparklers were draped around necks, dangled from ears, and danced on fingers. The gaslights in the swanky room flickered, and made the ice flash even more.

I had spotted my old pal, Stan Kosloski, when I’d come into the lobby. Stosh was an ex-SFPD flatfoot who was now working as the house dick at the hotel on Nob Hill. He told me the Jamisons had arrived already. “They went up to their rooms. What’s your interest, Frank?”

“A necklace,” I told him. “I’m on a job for an insurance company.”

“Must be the White Tiger necklace, eh?”

I nodded. “Did you say rooms?”

Stosh rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The marriage is on the ropes, and they don’t sleep together. See, that’s the kind of thing I know, ’cause of my job, but it ain’t common knowledge. When they come down to the ballroom, they’ll come in together, like a couple. But after that,” he turned up his open palms, “well, anything can happen. Just watch.” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but went on, “You go ahead into the ballroom. I’ll see ’em when they come down, and I’ll send Felipe in to put you wise.” He indicated one of the bellboys. I had thanked him and made my way to the ballroom, where the 1948 Sonoma Harvest Ball was just beginning.

I ordered a glass of red wine, and the barman poured me a ’47 Louis Martini Zinfandel. I leaned with my back on the bar so I could watch the room, especially the door. I was responsible for only one piece of the ice, the White Tiger necklace that Mrs. Jane Jamison would have around her neck when she came in. Jed Jamison insured the White Tiger through Golden Gate Insurance Company, and Golden Gate got nervous when Mrs. Jamison wore it to a party. For twenty-five dollars a day, Golden Gate paid me to stand in the room and make sure no one lifted it off her neck, at least while she was at the party. I was cheap insurance for the insurers.

I let my eyes run over the guests who were already there. I didn’t see any known jewel thieves. I did recognize a few faces from the Napa and Sonoma wine trade, and a couple others I knew from the San Francisco restaurant business. I was a little alarmed to spot Joe Damas. He was as bent as they come, but he was a scratcher, not an ice man, so I didn’t expect Joe’s business interests that night to conflict with mine. I hadn’t spoken to him since the Thursby affair, so I pushed off the rail and wandered over to say hello to the little Frenchman.

“Evening, Joe. Still smoking those stink weeds?” A Gauloises drooped from his lip. “Maybe you should switch to American cigarettes.”

“Bonsoir, Swiver. Imagine running into you here,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a flat blue package. “Want one?”

“No thanks, Joe. I might have to breathe tomorrow. You making out okay?”

He gave me his usual shrug. “Couci-couça,” he said. The smoke from the wide stub of his cigarette curled up into his eye. “I’m going to work the room. See if I can line up some new clients. What are you doing here, Swiver?”

Joe was a wine distributor. When we met in the spring, he was forging labels and running up his profits by selling cheap plonk as choice-quality juice from Sonoma. He was a good forger; he had to be. He’d learned his trade forging identity papers for the Resistance in France. After that, wine labels were duck soup.

Joe lost two of his major accounts while the case I was on, the Thursby murder, played out. Now, six months later, he still had a way to go to rebuild trust. But Joe was slick, and a survivor. If anybody could do it, he could. “I’m on a job,” I told him.

“Uh-oh,” he said, and crossed himself.

“Relax,” I told him. “I’m not here to protect anybody.”

“You know, your blond girl is here. What’s her name... Velma?”

That was swell to hear. I hadn’t seen Velma Peregrino since the Thursby case, when she’d quit her job as my secretary and moved home to the Russian River Valley to work the Blackbird Vineyard, which she inherited from the late General Thursby. I looked around the room.

I’d been watching the ice, but as soon as I looked beyond jewelry, I couldn’t miss her. Velma was a real gem — blond, tall, slim, and beautiful. Throw in smiling and happy. She was holding a glass of Champagne, talking to some jasper with a beard in a tweed sport coat. She was wearing that same little red cocktail dress she’d worn the night of Thursby’s last tasting. “Later, Joe,” I mumbled, and drifted towards her.

She drew me across the room like a magnet pulls iron shavings. “Velma, sweetheart,” I said, “I’ve missed you. How you been?”

She did a double-take. “Frank, my God. ’Scuse me if I don’t toss this drink in your face, but it’s Schramsberg — too good to give you a bath with.” She took a pull.

“Come on, Velma. You’re not still sore, are you?”

She paused for a second. “No, I guess I’m not. If I thought about you, I might be. But I’m making wine. My first vintage. Life’s good.” She relaxed a little. “So... what are you doing here, Frank?”

“I’m on a case, sweetheart. Do you know the Jamisons?”

“Jed and Jane Jamison? No, they’re big-time. I only have four acres.”

“Yeah, but everyone knows your vineyard is the best four acres of old mixed black in Sonoma.”

“Maybe so, but Jamison’s big business. I’m just a small grower. We don’t run in the same circles. Besides, they’re competition for Peregrine Vineyards.” Velma Peregrino’s folks had a big ranch adjacent to her little spread. Just then, there was a tug on my jacket. It was Felipe.

“Mr. Swiver, Mr. Kosloski says tell you Jamisons come in.” I dug in my pocket for two bits to give Felipe, and Velma and I looked toward the entrance of the ballroom.

“That’s Jed Jamison,” said Velma, indicating a tall man in a tux who’d just come in. He had a hard-edged, weathered face, grey hair, and a thick grey moustache. He looked past middle age, though he seemed trim and fit enough. Just off his shoulder was a brunette I took to be Jane, and she looked like a real stunner from across the room. Jed stopped to talk, and the dame touched his arm and whispered something. He nodded, and she headed into the fray.

“She’s going to the bar, Frank. Why don’t you get me another one of these?” Velma drained her Champagne flute and wiggled it for me to see.

I wanted a closer look at Jane. “Okay, sweetheart. Schramsberg, right?”

“Blanc de blancs.” I gulped the rest of my Zin down and set a course to intersect with my target.

Jane pulled up to the bar first and I got there in time to hear her order a Campari and a Prosecco. I stood next to her and gave her the up-and-down. She was a good-looking broad with a curvy figure. She wore a red gown, a deeper red than Velma’s, and full-length, whereas Velma’s was cut short to show off her long gams. Jane’s wine-dark gown had a deep vee, and was gathered tight in front under the bosom, down to the waist, then it was sheer and flowed out loosely. There were layers of sheer, like a seven-veil dress, but it was clingy, and a guy could really see the arcs of her long thighs. Mrs. Jamison was shaking as fine a pair of maracas as you’d want to see, but you’d barely notice them because of the stunning necklace that hung about two-thirds of the way down into the vee of the dress. The White Tiger was strung with alternating diamonds, in baguette cuts, and opals about the size of black beans. At the center, a diamond pendant lay against her chest. It was large for a single diamond, but it had a flaw. A vein of black, like a tiger’s stripe, ran through the heart of it.

“See something you like, Bo?” Her voice cut clearly over the tinkle of glasses and polite patter of party talk mixed with laughter.

“Oh, you caught me admiring your... uh... stones. I’m Frank Swiver, Mrs. Jamison. I’m a private dick. I’ll be keeping an eye on your assets this evening for the Golden Gate Insurance Company.”

“Strictly business, Mr. Swiver? Not a personal interest? Well, I hope you enjoy your work. Excuse me; I must get back to my husband. He likes to keep an eye on me too.” She picked up her drinks and headed across the room, moving her rear end like a washer tub with an unbalanced load.

2.

When I returned with the Schramsberg, I found Jed Jamison wasn’t doing a very good job keeping an eye on his wife. He only had eyes for Velma. Up close, it was clear he must have been at least fifty, but he was acting like a teenager in lust around Velma. She seemed to be enjoying the attention, and took her glass from me without a word of thanks, listening to Jamison’s line. He was going on about the size of his grapes or something like that. I drifted a short distance away with my glass of wine to keep an eye on the ice.

Joe Damas was flitting around the room, a Gauloises drooping from the side of his mouth, trying to squeeze into tight circles of conversation. Most people looked at him like they’d look at something they stepped in, and kept right on chinning with each other as if he weren’t there. Another drink and I might have started to feel sorry for him. He was a crook, but he’d been square with me. Joe worked his way over to the Jamisons and Velma. Jamison shook his hand and draped an arm across the Frenchman’s shoulders. He moved his head close to Damas and smiled while he talked into his ear. But soon, Jamison turned and took Velma’s elbow and guided her away. Joe didn’t have anything to say to Jane, so he gave her a little bow and moved away to look for another prospect.

Well, I guess Jane Jamison started to feel the chill from her husband, and before I knew it, she was walking up to me. “How’s your drink, shamus?” she said.

“Excellent Zinfandel, Mrs. Jamison. What happened to your Prosecco?”

“I think the bartender must have poured me a short one. Buy me another?”

“Sure,” I said, and we walked over to the bar. I ordered two more. Jane Jamison brought her glass up to her lips and bent her head back. Her long, dark walnut curls hung free, her smooth neck rose in a graceful curve, and the Champagne flute pointed straight up at the ceiling as she drained it all at once. I half expected her to toss the empty at the nearest fireplace but she slammed it down on the bar. She looked me in the eyes and licked her lips.

“The case of the disappearing drink,” she said. “It’s gone, but I’m still thirsty.” She licked her lips again.

“I’ll get you another,” I said. “But slow down a little, all right?”

Her eyes bored into me and for an instant, I thought she was going to give me an argument. But she softened and smiled. “You’re right. I just get so mad at that husband of mine sometimes. He’s making a fool of himself with some dish half his age.”

“I don’t know. He seems to be doing okay.” We looked over. Velma and Jed were sitting on a small davenport. She was sitting up straight, with her legs crossed, and he was leaning towards her ear, jawing softly. Velma laughed; Jed put his Campari, which was still half-full, on a little table, and withdrawing his hand, let it linger on Velma’s knee. I had to turn away to keep calm.

I was working, but as long as Jane was staying this close, I wasn’t having much difficulty doing my job, keeping an eye on the White Tiger. So I had another drink with her and we talked.

“You know, you look a little like that actor, the one who was just busted for reefer. Robert Mitchum,” she said. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

“I’ve heard it once or twice.” It’s a compliment. Mitchum’s five years younger, and I don’t have a dimple in my chin.

“He has a lot of self-confidence, Jed,” she said, with a nod of her head in his direction. “He thinks he can do anything he wants.”

“I guess the Jamison Winery is pretty successful,” I offered.

“Hunh. We have top-grade Cabernet and Chardonnay land in the Alexander Valley. That’s what I brought to the table. My father owned a big ranch. I was born and raised up there. Dad had cattle. But Jed’s the businessman. Did you know he used to own the Oakland Oaks? We met at a ball game, back in thirty-eight. After we got married, after my father died in forty-one, the land came to me. Jed wanted to grow wine. He sold the Oaks, and now we live up on the ranch. We’ve only had vines in for six years. Jamison Winery is just getting started, really.”

And so it went. I made small talk with Jane Jamison and we drank our drinks, while Jed made time with Velma Peregrino on the other side of the room. The orchestra started up and Jane asked me if I could dance a fox trot. I said sure, and she put down her glass and led me out on the floor. My right arm went around her back and her bare flesh was warm and smooth. She pressed her bosom into me and I looked down at the White Tiger and the view into the vee of her wine-dark dress below.

We stayed out on the dance floor for a few numbers. My right arm slipped a little further down her back each time I guided her around the floor. Jane knew how to use her body and she moved her long thighs against me as if we were doing a tango not a fox trot. Finally, the orchestra took a break. We picked up our drinks and went to sit down.

“They’re gone,” she said.

“Who?”

“That two-bit bum I came in with and the blond kitten.”

I looked around the room. I felt sure if Velma were there in her red cocktail dress, I could pick her out of the crowd. But after scanning the joint twice, I agreed. Neither Velma nor Jed Jamison was in the room.

“Maybe Velma had to powder her nose,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe. And maybe my no-good husband had to go shake the bishop’s hand. But I think something’s up. I told that son of a bitch tonight, if he did it again...” but she let the rest trail off. So we sat a few minutes and drank our drinks. We waited long enough for a seventy-year-old man with a bad prostate to return from the restrooms. Velma and Jed didn’t appear. Then Jane put a smile on her face. “Well, what the hell are we doing sitting here like a couple saps? I came to town to have a good time. I got a room. Why don’t you come on up?”

I hesitated. Usually that was my line.

“Look, shamus, I’m not going back to Geyserville tonight. Me and Jed are booked in here at the Biarritz, separate rooms. So the ice is staying here and you’re watching the ice. Come on up and do your job.”

“Let’s go,” I said, and stood up and put out my arm for the lady.

In the lobby, I saw Stosh leaning on a post with tomorrow’s funnies. I asked him if he’d seen Jamison come out, and he pointed upstairs with his thumb and a roll of his eyes. Jane stopped at the desk and picked up a key. Quicker than you could say “dangerous liaisons,” we were in the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, Jane started climbing me like a schoolgirl shimmying up the old apple tree. I fell back against the wall of the lift and the car shook in the shaft. The elevator boy turned around but I gave him an unkind look and he faced forward again until we got up to twelve.

Somehow I got Jane off me, and we walked down the hall to her room. She gave me the key and I put it in the keyhole while she blew hot breath in my ear and slid a hand in my pocket. We stumbled inside; I put on the lights. The wine-dark dress slid right off, and we left it on the floor.

3.

I called down to the desk afterward, and had them send up a deck of Camels and a bottle of Moët. I thought of getting Paul Masson, but Jane said to put it on the room tab. We lay next to each other and smoked and drank some Champagne. Jane was naked except for the White Tiger, which she’d kept on, and she looked spectacular.

Jane blew out a long stream of smoke and said, “You know, Frank, I think I’ve got to dump Jed and start again.”

I took a sip of the Moët, which was cool and crisp, but not icy. “Can you do that, baby?”

“Well, the land is still mine — all in my name. I think everything else, the winery, the cars, the bank accounts — that’s all Jed’s.”

I smoked.

“I need a divorce. Jed will never give me one willingly because he wants the land.”

I had a drink.

“But he’s in room eleven-oh-two now, giving me grounds for a divorce,” she said. “All I need is evidence. Evidence that he’s screwing around. Your friend...”

“Velma.”

“Velma. She’s not the first one. We’ve been married ten years, and he’s been doing this sort of thing whenever he gets the chance. He makes me feel like such a fool.” She drank. “He’s had twenty Velmas.” Not really, I thought. There’s only one Velma.

I reached for the bottle and poured a little Champagne below the White Tiger necklace and watched the bubbles trickle down between her knockers. I pulled the sheet off her, leaned over, and put my tongue in her navel. When the wine started to pool there, I lapped it up and worked my way north with my tongue.

“Frank, you’re a private dick. What if I hire you? You could go over there and take some pictures. That’s all I need. He’s in room eleven-oh-two. I stopped at the desk and got the extra key for Jed’s room.”

“Mmmm. I’m sorry, Jane. I don’t do divorce work.”

“Please, Frank,” she said. “I can’t live like this anymore.”

“No. I never wanted to be the kind of peeper who waited in the bushes with a camera. It’s cheap. I’m poor, but I’m not cheap. Besides, tonight, it doesn’t seem ethical. I’m doing the same thing with you that your husband is doing with Velma. If he’s guilty, what are you?”

We had a drink. I finished my cigarette and snubbed it out.

Jane frowned and took a last drag on her Camel. She exhaled and brightened again, “Well, that first one was to get even with Jed for skating around. Now let’s do it for us.” She rolled me over and climbed on top. “Frank,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Go over to room eleven-oh-two and take a picture.”

“I don’t have my camera,” I said.

“I’ll bet you can get one.”

“Where? It’s after midnight.”

“Hey, you’re friends with the house dick, aren’t you?” Jane said. “I’ll bet he keeps one around. Frank, I’ve got to get a divorce. Jed beats me, you know.”

“He beats you?”

“Sure. We have separate bedrooms up at the ranch. Jed’s a real bastard, with a temper. He takes it out on me. The only time he comes to my room is when he wants to rough me up. It gets him excited.”

“I can’t do divorce work, Jane. I never have,” I said.

“You know, the only reason I’m not covered with bruises now is he wanted me to wear that red dress tonight, and he knew bruises would show. So he hasn’t beat me for about three weeks. Except here. Look.” She rolled over on her front and lifted her ass. I sat up. Hidden just at the bottom of the butt cheeks and across the back of her upper thighs were red welts. “See that? He’s got these leather thongs... He’s probably so frustrated with pent-up anger, he’s probably beating your blond friend.”

I was already out of bed, stepping into my trousers. “He’s vicious,” Jane said. “I have more meat on me than she does. She could really get hurt.”

I wasn’t happy about Velma being with Jamison in the first place, but she was a big girl. It wasn’t my business who she tumbled with. But I couldn’t let her get beat up by a sadist. I pulled on my shirt. “All right. I’m going to pay your hubby a visit. First I’ll go down and see Kosloski. If he has a camera, fine. I’ll take it with me and get some photos. Give me the key to his room.” I grabbed my fedora and headed for the door.

“Thank you, Frank. You’re wonderful, you know that?”

A few minutes later I was creeping along the eleventh-floor hallway. It had green and magenta wallpaper in a quiet floral pattern, some side tables with vases of quiet flowers on them and mirrors behind them, and my gumshoes sank into the deep pile of the quiet carpet. Stan Kosloski’s Leica camera was slung around my neck and Jane’s key to 1102 was in the palm of my hand. I was wonderful. But something was wrong about this; I could feel it. I don’t know if you ever did something where it didn’t feel right, but you couldn’t help yourself. Did you ever get on that ride you didn’t want to be on, but you stayed put and didn’t say anything until it was too late and they’d put the bar down? That’s how I felt. Maybe it was the peeping with the camera — divorce work. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I knew I was making a mistake, but it was too late to get off this ride.

I slid the key in the lock, turned the knob silently, and eased open the door to 1102. There was a dim light coming from the bathroom on the far side of the bed. I was backlit from the hallway. I raised the camera and took the picture. The flash lit up the room. In flagrante. I popped the bulb out on the floor. Velma screamed and I pushed in another bulb. Say cheesy. I fired again. Dee-licto!

Jed Jamison must have been half-blinded, but he lunged off the bed and came at me. He stepped on the first bulb, yelled in pain, and picked up his foot. “Velma,” I said, “are you okay?”

“Oh, God, Frank? Is that you?”

Jed was hopping on one foot, and I stepped forward and shoved him over with one hand. He went down against the nightstand, and the lamp fell off the table in his face.

“Did he hurt you, Velma?” I asked.

“Get out of here, Frank. Are you crazy?”

“Just so you’re okay...”

“Get out of here!” she screamed. I guess she was fine. I turned and left. That feeling of what had been wrong going into Jamison’s room started to coalesce. I took the stairs two at a time, back to 12. I knew what my mistake had been. My job was watching the necklace, and I wasn’t doing my job. The door to 1224 was locked; I kicked it. There was a crack of wood and it opened. I rushed in, feeling like all the air had been knocked out of me, feeling like a kicked door.

Jane was sitting up in bed, but lascivious as she’d been before, now she was holding the sheet up modestly across her breasts. There was no White Tiger necklace around her neck. She pointed at some spot beyond my left shoulder. “Frank, he’s got the diamonds!” I heard a swishing noise behind my left ear and I knew what was coming.

4.

Private dick’s manual, Chapter 2 — Equipment: Never go out without your fedora. Not just a fashion accessory, a good hat can make the difference between a concussion and a catnap when you’re sapped. Sigh. When I get too old for this business, I’m going to write that book.

Right then, my mouth was full of carpet and there was a harsh bitter smell in the air. I opened my eyes. The room was blurry. My name is Frank Swiver. I looked at my watch. It was now 12:55. I am in the Biarritz Hotel in San Francisco. It had already been after midnight when I left Jane. It is Friday night. Well, it was Friday night. Now it’s Saturday morning. I had been unconscious, but maybe less than fifteen minutes. The president is Harry Truman. I was conscious, but considering the pain in my head, I wished I’d still been out.

I got up to my hands and knees. The camera back was open and the film was lying on the floor next to it. Jane was no longer sitting up. I crawled over to the bed like a dog that had lost a fight with a bigger dog and got my paw and face up on it. Jane was dead. Her beautiful throat was cut, and the sheets were soaked in her blood. I gagged, but held it down.

The phone cord in the room had been yanked out of the wall. I went down the hall to a house phone on a side table by the elevators and called the desk. I got Kosloski on the horn and told him to come up to 1224, alone. Then I went back to the room and splashed cold water on my face. The room still seemed blurry. I rubbed my eyes and realized it was smoke hanging in the room from all those gaspers we’d been puffing. I opened the window to let in some fresh air. I turned around, straightened up, and took a deep breath. Then quick as I could do it, I turned back to the window and slammed it shut.

I breathed in deep through my nose. The smoke had the wretched and distinctive odor of black tobacco. Gauloises. Joe Damas had been in the room. I headed out and bumped into Kosloski in the hall.

“Frank,” he said, “what the hell is it now?”

“Trouble, Stan. Better look in. The ice is gone; Mrs. Jamison is dead.” He put his head in the room.

“Oh, Jesus, Frank. Jesus.”

“I know who did it, Stosh,” I said. “You know Joe Damas?”

“Damas? The little nance from France?”

“Yeah, the forger.”

“I wouldn’t figure him for something like this,” said Kosloski.

“Funny thing, Stan, neither would I. But I’ve got to check it out.”

“Wait a minute, you can’t run out. I got a body here in my hotel.”

“So, you call it in. It’s the Jamisons’ room. Maybe I wasn’t even here,” I said.

“Where’s Mr. Jamison? Shit, I’ll have to tell him.”

“Try his room. He was there twenty — thirty minutes ago. Look, I know where to find Damas. I can wrap this up and get back to you before the cops even finish dusting the flop. But you got to cut me loose.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Frank, because if it comes down to my job, I’m giving you over.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and headed out before he could think about it twice.

5.

I picked up my heap in the underground garage and headed for the Marina district. I remembered questioning Joe at his apartment on Magnolia during the Thursby investigation. I couldn’t have told you the house number, but Magnolia’s a short street. I figured I’d recognize the building.

I headed west on California Street. Either the city had put up a second set of traffic signals, or I was seeing double. I spotted a late-night drugstore near the corner of Polk and stopped in for a quick cup of coffee. A couple of twin soda jerks brought me two cups. I drank the first one and things started to focus. Soon I was on my way again. I turned north on Van Ness. There wasn’t much traffic on Van Ness, and I felt safe enough driving. I took a left on Lombard, and in three minutes, I was pulling into a parking spot on Magnolia.

I found a square-built yellow apartment building that was a little larger than most of the other structures on the street. In the vestibule was an intercom panel. Each buzzer had a name next to it. I located “Damas, J. 3-C,” and leaned on the button. Brain injury? What brain injury? I could remember where I’d been six months ago. No one came on the intercom, but I didn’t have to wait long before the door buzzed, and I pushed my way inside. Maybe Joe had been expecting company. I took the self-service elevator up to three.

As I walked down the short hall, a door on the left opened. Joe Damas poked his head out. As soon as he saw me, his eyes bugged out and he pulled his head in. He tried to slam the door but I got there quick and put my shoulder to it.

He stepped back and said, “Okay, Swiver, come on inside.” He waved a small Beretta automatic at me from waist level. “Shut the door and tell me what you’re doing here.”

“I came about the ice, Joe. You know, the White Tiger.”

He gave me that shrug. “The White Tiger don’t concern me, Swiver.”

“I think it does. It disappeared.”

“Still don’t concern me. You know I’m no jewel thief.” He pulled the flat blue box out of his side pocket and slid another Gauloises between his lips using his left hand while he kept the Beretta aimed at my middle with his right. He took out his lighter, thumbed a spark, and lit up.

“Maybe you’ve slit a few throats, though,” I said.

He gave me the Gallic shrug again. “What of it? They were Nazis. It was them or me. I would do it again.”

“Maybe you’re branching out. After you sapped me, you slit Jane Jamison’s throat for her.”

Joe looked confused by that. “You got me wrong, shamus. I didn’t slit anybody’s throat.”

“But you were there, Joe, and you sapped me down. Your smoke. The room’s full of it.”

“I wouldn’t kill no dame.”

“Maybe you’ll step off for it just the same,” I said. “You carry a Corsican knife, don’t you?”

He shrugged that off. “Sure. Everybody from Marseilles carries a knife.”

“Let’s see it.” Joe reached in his side pocket and came up empty. He switched the Beretta to his left hand and checked his right pocket, then his trouser pockets.

“Merde,” he said. “Jamison must have lifted it in the ballroom when he gave me the key to the room.”

“You’d better come clean, Joe.”

He struggled with the idea, then said, “Listen, Swiver, I’ll tell you what I know, but you’ve got to help me. I didn’t kill nobody.”

“But you were there. You took the necklace and sapped me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I made a deal with Jamison. You know I need to get some prestige clients to get going again. Well, he was going to give me his business — distribute Jamison wines in northern California — if I lifted the White Tiger for him. He said he needed money. If I helped him, he’d help me. It was just an insurance grift. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Hey, Swiver, if I’d known you were going to be on the case, I wouldn’t have even taken the job.”

I’ll be damned, I thought. It sounded like the little Frenchman respected me.

“Jamison slipped the key to his wife’s room into my jacket pocket when we were down in the ballroom,” he said. “I was in the twelfth-floor stairwell, watching until I saw you leave. About half-past midnight, I went in. The lights were out, and she was lying there in bed. I ripped off the stones, and was going to scram when I heard you coming. I slipped behind the door. Then, after I sapped you, I ducked out. I swear, she was alive and sitting up on the bed when I last saw her.”

“Keep talking.”

“That’s about it.” Joe shrugged. “Jamison had told me his room number. I went down to eleven, and slid the key to twelve twenty-four under his door. That was my signal the job was done and I had the goods, see.”

“Why didn’t Mrs. Jamison call the cops?”

“Oh, I pulled the phone out of the wall before I took the ice. Listen, Swiver, he’s coming here.”

“Who?” I said.

“Jamison. I thought that was him when you buzzed. He’s coming here to pick up the necklace and pay me.”

“Are you crazy, Joe? You let him come to your own house? You’re getting careless.”

“Ahh. It seemed safe enough,” he said. “He’s just a businessman.”

“I think he’s a killer,” I said.

I heard steps in Joe’s kitchen, and Jed Jamison, dressed in his tux again, stepped into the dining room. “He’s right, Joe. You’re getting careless. Your kitchen door was unlocked.” He was carrying a Colt automatic. He had a one-inch cut in his forehead from the hairline down, but otherwise looked fresh and well groomed for an evening out. With his other hand, he yanked on a slender wrist and Velma stumbled in on her red pumps.

“Frank!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Later, sweetheart,” I said. It wasn’t a good position to be in with a killer. Joe and his little Beretta were facing me. Jamison was behind Joe’s right shoulder, and there was a thin modern-style couch between them. I was about five or six feet from Joe, ten or twelve feet from Jamison, but I was unarmed. From Jamison’s point of view, Joe and I were at a tight angle. He wouldn’t have to move his hand more than an inch or two after shooting Joe to drill me too, and Velma shielded him.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Jamison guided Velma around the couch and they sat down. “Okay, peeper. Let’s start by talking about the White Tiger. I came for my ice, Joe.”

“Sure, Jed, sure,” said Joe. “Listen, can I have a drink?”

“Yeah. Put the gun down, Joe, and get us all some drinks. You have scotch? We’ll have scotch. We’ll all drink some scotch and we’ll talk.” Joe put the Beretta down on the cocktail table in front of Jamison’s legs. He walked over to a liquor cart parked by the window.

“Scotch sounds good, Jamison. I’ll make it four, okay, Swiver? Miss Peregrino?”

I didn’t care, but figured I’d play along. “Sure, Joe. Scotch’d be good right now.”

Velma nodded. “What’s going on, Jed?” she said.

“Just business, doll,” he said. Joe opened his ice bucket and started to put some rocks in thick crystal glasses.

“No ice for me,” said Jamison.

“Sure, Jed. Swiver, I know you like it on the rocks.” It wasn’t a question. He used his tongs to put ice in three glasses. He had a bottle on the cart with three concave sides, and he poured four drinks from that. He put two down on the cocktail table, one for Velma, and the neat one for Jamison. He walked over and handed me one, then ambled back to his drink at the liquor cart.

“To crime,” said Jamison, raising his glass. Velma looked at me, and I quietly took a sip. She drank too. My scotch was warm. I looked down into the glass. There was the White Tiger necklace, resting in a whiskey bath. With my hand around the glass, Jamison couldn’t see it.

“So, Mr. Swiver, is it? I think we’ve met.” He fingered the cut on his forehead. “I really ought to go get stitches on this. I’m going to have a scar. Anyhow, here you are again. You’re quite a nuisance.”

“Maybe you should have just killed me when I was lying on the floor in the Biarritz,” I said. “Or would that have made it too complicated? Joe was the fall guy, the way you planned it. But only for the robbery-murder. One murder.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Swiver,” said Jamison. “I was with Velma here all night. You should know. You busted in on us.”

“You knew Jane was planning to divorce you,” I said, “and you couldn’t let her do that, could you, Jamison? Because the vineyards are in her name. You planned the robbery so you could kill her.”

“Kill his wife? What are you talking about, Frank?” asked Velma. “He was with me.”

“Think, sweetheart. He must have left you, maybe just for a few minutes... sometime after I came in,” I said.

“When you came in, it ruined the mood,” said Jamison. “I said to Miss Peregrino, ‘Let’s go out. I know a gambling house on North Point.’ But our luck wasn’t very good, so we didn’t stay long.”

“And I said sure,” said Velma. “It sounded like fun, Frank. And you sure did kill the moment. I just hopped in the shower for a quick rinse—” and then she stopped, as she must have realized that’s when Jamison had been out of her sight.

“When Joe came to you about your business,” I said to Jamison, “you realized he was desperate, so you agreed to let him distribute your wine if he’d take the necklace. What Joe didn’t know was that you planned to kill Jane and pin the murder on him. You weren’t really after the necklace. Sure, it would be good to have the insurance money. But that was just the setup.”

“How could he have planned it?” said Velma. “He couldn’t have known I’d get in the shower. He didn’t even know he was going to pick me up.” She took another drink of her scotch.

“There’s all kinds of planners, Velma,” I said. “Some make a plan and follow it to the letter. Some are flexible. Jamison didn’t know you and didn’t know he was going to take you upstairs. But he knew himself. He has a track record of chasing skirts. He had to be ready for the possibility he’d have company.”

“But how can you know that, Frank?” she said. “Maybe it was Joe. You said he took the necklace...” Her eyelids were drooping.

“How do I know it was planned? Simple, sweetheart. When Jamison gave Joe the key to his wife’s room, he lifted Joe’s knife. Why would he do that, unless he’d planned to use it?”

Jamison took a folding knife with a horn handle out of his pocket and grinned like the Cheshire cat. Joe’s eyes widened. Jamison unclasped the knife and laid it on the table. It was a wicked-looking sharp blade about four inches long. There was a thin crust of dried blood on the edge that hadn’t been wiped off.

I said, “So Joe went to Jane’s room and took the White Tiger. I came in; he sapped me and left. Jamison got there while I was still out and killed Jane. Velma, you were Jamison’s alibi for the whole time. And Joe was the patsy. He’d been in the room to steal the necklace, and his knife was the murder weapon.”

“You mean if I hadn’t taken a shower, Jane Jamison would still be alive?” said Velma. She started to list over toward Jamison’s shoulder.

“No, Jamison knew his own weakness for women. He had a backup plan. If you hadn’t taken that shower, he would have found another way to get you out of the picture.”

“Chloral hydrate, Swiver,” said Jamison. “I gave her a dose in the room, but she hadn’t had much of her drink when you came busting in. I just slipped another in her scotch.” He pushed her away, and she tipped over the arm of the davenport. “I just came over here to pay Joe, get the necklace, and leave the murder weapon. If you weren’t so smart, he might have never known I’d borrowed it. Good scotch, Joe. But I need to get back to the hotel. I have to play the part of the shocked and grieving husband. Or widower. Let me have the necklace.”

“I don’t have it here.” The little Frenchman had couilles, staring down a Colt in the hands of a man who’d killed once already that night. I sipped my drink and slipped my tongue into it, to see what diamonds tasted like.

“Where is it?” asked Jamison. His voice was very cold and even now.

Velma sat up, weaving like a cobra. “You killed your wife?” she said.

“You hear a lot of stuff about me, doll, but they can’t prove any of it,” said Jamison. “You’re my alibi.”

“Not anymore, you rat,” she said, and tipped back over. Jamison turned the gun and stuck it in her ribs. “If you’re not my alibi, I don’t need you anymore.”

Sometimes you’ve just got to make your play. “All right, you bastard,” I said, “I have the necklace. I came over here to get it back for the Golden Gate Insurance Company.”

“Loyal to the end, eh, Mr. Swiver? I hope you were well paid for your services... in advance. Where is it?”

I said, “It’s in my glass,” and flung it at his face. He swung his gun around and fired a shot at me, but now he had to move the gun in a wide arc to bring it to bear. That gave me time to dive for the floor and Jamison’s shot missed. The scotch got him in the face; the necklace flew out, and he put up his left hand for it. The crystal tumbler tumbled harmlessly off his shoulder. Joe Damas sprang across the cocktail table, scooped up his knife, and plunged it into Jamison’s chest. The Colt went off one more time and Joe slipped down in a heap.

Jamison’s head lolled back, eyes open, with the Corsican vendetta knife sticking out of his chest. Joe had pushed his shiv right into the bad man’s pump. There was a festive spread of red on Jamison’s white dress shirt. If that was a rental tux, he was going to lose his deposit.

I scrambled to Joe’s side and turned him faceup. “C’mon, Damas, tell me you’re okay.”

“Damn it, Swiver,” he gasped. “I had a bad feeling about tonight as soon as I saw you.” I pulled his shirt open. It looked like Jamison had drilled him through a lung. There was a chance.

“Velma, call an ambulance,” I said. She fought off the drug and got on the blower fast. “Hang on, Joe. They’re on their way.”

“Frank,” he said.

“Yes, Joe?”

“Can you light a bleu for me?” I dug his last Gauloises out of the pack in his pocket, lit it up, and put it between his lips. He took a drag and smiled at me with moist brown eyes. “Des ennuis des chagrins s’effacent; heureux, heureux à en mourir,” he said, and exhaled his last. Troubles, sorrows disappear, happy, happy to die. It was a line from “La Vie en rose.”

I put an arm around Velma’s waist and walked her around the apartment while we waited for the police. I felt tired, cold with grief for Jane, hollow from the loss of Joe Damas. “I want those pictures, Frank,” she said.

“There are no pictures, sweetheart. Three dead and there’s nothing to show for any of it.” She leaned in close and wrapped her arms around my waist.

She was holding me up by the time the cops got there. Velma had always been tougher than me.

Copyright © 2012 by Harley Mazuk.