The Soft Centre

Chapter Four

The Hare Investigating Agency advertised that they offered superlative service with quick results.

The Agency was controlled by Homer Hare, assisted by Lucille, his daughter, and Sam Karsh, his son-in-law. They were regarded by the police and by those who had had dealings with them as “The Unholy Trinity”.

Homer Hare, nudging sixty-five, was an immense man, grossly fat with a turnip shaped head, a bulbous nose, shrewd little eyes and a drooping moustache that half hid a cruel, avaricious mouth.

His daughter, aged twenty-eight, was small and bony. The sharpness of her features and the brightness of her little black eyes gave her the appearance of a dangerous and suspicious ferret.

Her husband, Sam Karsh, could have been her brother. He had the same ferrety face, the same dark greasy hair and the same muddy complexion. If he hadn’t been offered a job as well as a wife, it wouldn’t have occurred to him to have married Lucille. He had a roving eye for any blonde who came up to his high standards, but as he made a reasonable living working with Hare, he accepted Lucille with as bad a grace as possible.

On the second morning after the murder at the Park Motel, Homer Hare sat in his specially built desk chair, designed to accept his enormous bulk, and regarded Joan Parnell with startled surprise.

“But this is a murder case,” he said in his wheezy soft voice. “We don’t usually take on murder cases. For one thing the police don’t like an Agency to move in and for another, they have the organisation to solve a murder whereas we are necessarily handicapped.”

Joan Parnell giving off a strong aroma of gin, made an impatient movement.

“There are other Agencies,” she said. “I’m not going to beg you to work for me. I’m paying a thousand dollars as a retainer. Are you taking the job or not?”

Hare blinked.

“My dear Miss Parnell,” he said hurriedly, waving his great hands that looked as if they had been fashioned out of dough, “if there is one Agency that could help you, it is us. Just what do you want me to do?”

“Find my sister’s killer,” Joan said in her fiat, hard voice.

“What makes you think the police won’t find him?”

“They might, but I want the satisfaction of knowing I helped. I want this man found! Are you handling this or aren’t you?”

“Of course I’ll handle it,” Hare said and pulled a scratch pad towards him. “I have read the facts in the papers of course, but let me see if you can tell me anything further that might help. First of all, tell me about your sister.”

An hour later, Joan Parnell got to her feet: On the desk lay five hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills.

“You shall have the other five hundred next week,” she said. “For this money, I want some action.”

Hare regarded the money with a loving smile.

“You’ll get it. Miss Parnell. We specialise in quick results. We will have something for you by next week.”

“If I don’t get it, you don’t get any more money,” Joan said curtly.

When she had gone, Hare dug an enormous thumb into a bell push on his desk.

Sam Karsh, followed by Lucille, notebook in hand, came in.

“We have a job,” Hare said and pointed to the bills on the desk. “The Parnell murder.”

Karsh sat down. He pushed his hat to the back of his head, He was a man who would rather go around without his trousers than without his hat. There were times when he was drunk, that he went to bed with his hat on, and would turn vicious if his wife attempted to remove it.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “A murder case? You gone nuts? We’re in bad enough trouble with the cops as it is. You aiming to lose us our licence?”

“Relax,” Hare said. “We’re handling this. You leave it to me. I’ll talk to Terrell. This woman has money. She’s paid five hundred, and next week, she’s parting with another five hundred. That’s the kind of cabbage we need very, very badly.”

Karsh eyed the money and grimaced.

“I don’t like it. Terrell is only waiting his chance to slit our throats, but okay, so we take the job. Where does that get us? What can we do better than the cops?”

“Nothing.” Hare smiled. “But we will go through the motions and we will give her an elaborate report. It will be convincing enough for us to collect the second five hundred, then we sit back and do nothing further. She’ll get tired of us and go to some other Agency, but we’ll have picked up a nice, easy grand.”

Karsh considered this, then his ferrety face creased into a grimace he called a smile.

“Very nice... so what do I do?”

“You read all the newspapers covering the case. You go down to the Park Motel at Ojus and ask a few questions, then you write a report. I’ll jazz it up a little and we’ll present it to Miss Parnell. We’ll collect the rest of the cabbage and we then can forget about her.”

“I’m not poking my snout into anything until you have talked to Terrell,” Karsh said firmly. “That old bull is dangerous. Once he finds out I’ve been poking around, he’ll break my neck.”

Hare reached for the telephone. A few minutes later he was speaking to Terrell.

“Chief, I’ve had Miss Joan Parnell here,” he said, oil in his voice. “She wants to hire me to find her sister’s killer.”

The snap of Terrell’s voice came clearly to Karsh who winced. Hare listened, breathing wheezily, then he said, “Sure, Chief, I know all that. That’s why I’ve called you. But I won’t get in your way. Sammy will be like a newspaperman. Sure, sure. I give you my word. He’ll just ask a few questions here and there, then write a report. If he does come up with anything, you’ll be the first to hear about it.” He listened again and looked across at Karsh, lowering one fat eyelid. “All I’m trying to do, Chief, is to earn an honest buck. You can’t object if Sammy goes down to the Motel and looks around. That’s all he’ll do.” He listened again. “Okay, Chief. I give you my word. I told her we didn’t take murder cases, but she wants a report... don’t ask me why.” His voice suddenly hardened. “I’m within my rights, Chief. I’ll take full responsibility, and there’ll be no stepping out of turn. Okay, Chief,” and he hung up. He sat for some seconds staring at the telephone, then he reached for a cigar. “He can’t stop us, Sammy, but watch it. He’s ready to drop on us if we play it wrong.”

“That’s terrific,” Karsh said sarcastically. “You know what? I guess I’ll read all the newspapers and make a report from them. I’ll stay right here in the office, then I can’t go wrong.”

Hare considered this, then reluctantly, he shook his head.

“She’s no fool. If we’re going to collect the rest of the cabbage, we’ll have to do better than that. You go to the Park Motel. That’s all I’m asking. See this guy Henekey: talk to one or two people there: get some local colour, then come back and we’ll cook up something that will convince her.”

Karsh got to his feet.

“I wonder why I ever married you,” he said to his wife. “This caper could land me in jug!”

“Wouldn’t I be happy!” Lucille said, her thin face lighting up. “Imagine being without you for a couple of years!”

“Now, children,” Hare said disapprovingly, “that’s no way to talk. You get off, Sam. See you tonight.”

Karsh grunted. He made a face at Lucille who made a face back at him, then he left the office.

“I’ll never know why I married that heel,” Lucille said bitterly. “One of these days I’ll put ground glass in his food.”

Hare chuckled.

“Relax. He’s a smart boy. We wouldn’t be making much money if it wasn’t for him.”

“But you don’t have to sleep with him,” Lucille said, getting to her feet.

Hare repeated, “He’s a very smart boy,” and then drew some papers towards him as he resettled his bulk in his chair.

Lucille returned to her tiny office. Sitting down in front of the typewriter, she stared moodily out of the window.

It took Tom Henekey forty-eight hours to make up his mind what to do about Lee Hardy. The reason for his long hesitation was that he was sharply aware of the danger he could walk into if he handled Hardy badly.

Hardy wasn’t the kind of man anyone took liberties with He had an organisation. He kept clear of any trouble himself, but he had been known to give the nod to Jacko Smith when someone was being a nuisance, and that someone walked into a beating that left him a hospital case.

Jacko Smith was a character who cooled angry tempers faster than any other strong-arm man on the racetracks. He was a mountain of soft white homosexual flesh with mouse-coloured hair that grew low over a narrow forehead, a fat baby face and a lisp. He went around with Moe Lincoln, a handsome, lean, vicious Jamaican who had been known to throw a knife with deadly effect at twenty yards range. Whenever there was trouble on the race tracks, Jacko and Moe were there too, and the trouble lasted only for a few seconds. There was a time when these two had to resort to violence to quell trouble, but now their mere appearances had an immediate cooling effect, and they had only to stand and stare for any combatants to evaporate like ghosts. Jacko’s lead pipe and Moe’s knife had inflicted too many injuries for troublemakers to need further proof of their deadly efficiency.

Henekey knew he was risking a visit from these two if he needled Hardy, but after weighing the pros and the cons, he decided the payoff would be worth the risk.

So a little after eleven o’clock while he was sitting in his hot little office, he reached for the telephone and called Hardy’s office.

Hardy, himself, answered the call.

“This is Tom Henekey,” Henekey said. “I run the Park Motel, Ojus. I’d like you to drop around here tonight: say at ten o’clock.”

There was a long pause which encouraged Henekey, then Hardy said, “What’s it all about?”

“This is an open line,” Henekey said. “Shall we say urgent personal business?”

“If you have business with me,” Hardy said, a sudden rasp in his voice, “you come to my office.”

“I’ve had a visit from the cops,” Henekey said. “They are getting nosy. I think you’d better come here and at ten o’clock.” He gently replaced the receiver, marvelling at his courage to talk this way to Hardy. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his sweating face, then he opened a drawer in his desk and took from it a.38 Police Special. This he examined, satisfying himself it was loaded. He put the gun in his hip pocket.

It was while he was closing the desk drawer that his office door pushed open and a small, dark man with a ferrety face, wearing a shabby grey hat and suit, walked in.

Henekey had been vaguely aware of the sound of an arriving car. This was yet another vulture coming to see the murder cabin, he told himself, or to try to stay the night so he could boast to his friends he had slept in the same bed in which Sue Parnell had been ripped.

Ever since the murder had hit the headlines, Henekey had been pestered with these vultures. The motel was now completely full. He got to his feet to tell this little rat of a man that there were no vacancies.

“Sorry, full up,” he said, scarcely bothering to look at Sam. Karsh who was eyeing him narrowly. Then the light of recognition spread over Karsh’s face and he sucked in his breath with excitement.

“Well, well, well! Joey Shaw of all punks! Hullo, palsy, how’s the blackmail racket this year?”

Henekey froze. His sallow complexion turned grey. No one had called him Joey Shaw for the past three years. He had firmly convinced himself that he had successfully hidden his identity and got himself lost in out-of-the-way Ojus. He stared at Karsh, then his heart lurched.

Sam Karsh! He of all people; Karsh here!

Karsh’s grin sent a chill down Henekey’s spine.

“Are you supposed to be Tom Henekey?” Karsh asked.

Henekey hesitated, then he went slowly back to his desk and sat down.

“Hear me, palsy?” Karsh asked. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and taking out a match, he began to explore one of his side teeth.

“I’m Henekey,” Henekey said huskily.

“Well, don’t look so sad. Nice meeting you again. Lemme try to remember. Last time we met was around three years ago. You were operating in Key West,” Karsh said. “Wonderful memory I’ve got, haven’t I? You put the bite on a guy with more money than sense. You had a nice little puss working with you. You tucked her up in his bed and then threatened to tell his wife. You were going to take him for ten grand, only this guy wasn’t so dumb as you thought he looked. He talked to Hare who talked to me, then I talked to you... remember?”

Henekey said, “Yes... that’s right.”

“We had to get a little rough with you. You signed a statement... remember? We even managed to persuade you to sign two other statements concerning two other more successful blackmail attempts. We said we would hold all these statements so long as you behaved yourself. By the way, what happened to the puss? I could have gone for her myself.”

“I don’t remember,” Henekey said huskily.

“Pity... well. I guess there are other pussies around,” Karsh said. “The cops know who you are, Joey?”

“Don’t call me that!” Henekey exclaimed.

“So they don’t know... very, very interesting.” Karsh came around the counter and sat in the chair opposite Henekey. “Well, now what do you know about the Parnell killing, Joey? I’m working on the case. You give me something and I’ll give you something... quid pro quo as they say in the classics. What’s the inside dirt?”

Henekey related a little in his chair.

“The cops have it all. You can read about it in the papers. She came here, booked in, put in an early call...”

“I know all that crap,” Karsh said. “I want the meat of it, Joey. The stuff you didn’t spill to the cops.”

“There was nothing to spill,” Henekey said, sweat breaking out on his face.

“But I have something to spill,” Karsh said. “Quid pro quo, Joey.”

“I tell you there’s nothing to spill,” Henekey said desperately. “Look, Karsh, I’m going straight. I can’t help it if some tart gets knocked off in my motel, can I? Give me a break. If there was something, I’d tell you.”

Karsh stared at him for a long moment, then he shrugged and got to his feet.

“I don’t mind crooks, thieves, killers or con men. I can even stomach a pimp now and then, but I can’t live alongside a blackmailer. Palsy, in a little while, you’re going to have a load of law in your lap and they’ll be clutching in their big sweaty hands the statement you signed three years ago.”

Henekey who had been in many tough jams before, thought quickly. He knew if Karsh betrayed him to the police, Terrell would be on his neck long before ten o’clock when Hardy was due to arrive. Somehow he had to stall Karsh, get at Hardy, raise a getaway stake and disappear once more.

Karsh was drifting to the door when Henekey said, “Wait...”

Karsh paused.

“Give me a break,” Henekey said urgently. “If I knew something, I’d tell you. I don’t even know who the woman was.”

“Yeah?” Karsh sneered and reached the door. “This is your last chance, Joey. Spill something or stand for the sirens.”

Henekey appeared to hesitate, then he reached into his pocket and took out a small object which he laid on the desk.

“Okay, you win. There it is. I swear that’s all I’ve been holding back. I found it by the dead woman’s body.”

Karsh who had been bluffing and hadn’t expected to gain anything from his threats, walked to the desk and regarded the solid gold cigarette lighter that Henekey was offering him. He didn’t touch it, but he examined it closely. This was a costly item, he told himself. He looked searchingly at Henekey.

“When I found her,” Henekey explained, “I was so fazed, I didn’t know what I was doing. I saw this lighter right by her on the bed and I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I forgot about it when I talked to the cops.”

“Yeah?” Karsh sneered. “You think I have a hole in my head? You saw it and you couldn’t resist stealing it.” He picked up the lighter and examined it more closely, then he turned it and his eyes narrowed as he read the engraved in inscription on the back of the lighter:

“Who is Chris and who is Val?”

Henekey shook his head.

“I wouldn’t know. I got the idea this belonged to the killer. Why should it belong to the Parnell woman?”

“She could have stolen it,” Karsh said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“That’s all I can give out,” Henekey said. “Honest Karsh, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Karsh didn’t seem to be listening. He continued to examine the lighter, then after a long moment of hesitation, he dropped the lighter into his pocket.

“Okay, Joey, quid pro quo. I’ll keep my mouth shut and you keep yours shut. I could be seeing you again so don’t hang out the bunting just yet.”

He walked out of the office, and Henekey, his face tense, watched him drive rapidly away in a dusty aged Buick.

Karsh stopped off at the Ojus Post Office. He put through a call to the office. When Hare came on the line, Karsh told him about Henekey and the lighter.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked at the end of his recital. “Give the lighter to the cops?”

“We mustn’t rush anything,” Hare wheezed. “Never rush anything, Sammy. Chris and Val, you say? Now why should those two names ring a bell in my mind? I want a little time to think. You go and have a nice cold beer. Telephone me in about an hour. I’ve got thinking to do.”

After he had hung up, he sat for some minutes, his fat face tight with concentration, then he reached out and rang for Lucille.

“Get me a copy of the Miami Herald for yesterday.” he said as she poked her head around the door. “Fast, honey.”

When she had brought him the paper, he waved her away. He flicked through the pages until he came to the Society Gossip column where he read that Charles Travers, the tenth richest man in America had flown out from New York to spend a couple of days with his daughter and son-in-law, Chris Burnett. Further down the column, he learned that Mrs. Burnett’s christian name was Valerie. He also learned the young couple were staying at the Spanish Bay hotel. He then called for this morning’s edition of the Miami Herald. He learned of Chris’s disappearance and re-appearance, but the information was so slight he was unable to form an opinion of what had actually happened to Burnett. He put a call through to the Spanish Bay hotel and asked to speak to Henry Trasse, the hotel detective who was on Hare’s payroll. He listened to what Trasse had to tell him about the Burnetts, grunted and hung up.

He then lit a cigar and sat slumped into his chair for some time while his evil, fertile mind was busy. It was only when Karsh telephoned that he came alive.

“Sammy, I think we are on to something very, very interesting. The lighter belongs to Chris Burnett, the son-in-law of Chris Travers... yeah... that’s the one. Trasse tells me Burnett is a nut. A couple of days ago, he took off from his hotel and was absent for twenty-four hours or so. He was picked up by the cops. He didn’t know what he had been doing or where he had been. He’s in Gustave’s squirrel farm right now. Now look, Sammy, this could be a very profitable deal if we play our hand right. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to drive from the Park Motel towards the North Miami Beach highway. All along the route, taking your time, I want you to keep your eyes skinned. Check all the dirt roads. Burnett must have had a car. He was also wearing a sports jacket when he left the hotel. It was missing when the cops found him. If you could find the jacket, we would be sitting very pretty. Work at it, Sammy. Pull out all the stops in your organ. I want the full bloodhound treatment.”

Karsh cursed under his breath as he sweated in the hotel telephone booth.

“You want me to turn the lighter over to Terrell?” he asked.

“No more than I want you to cut my heart out and drop it in the harbour,” Hare returned.

“Who said you had a heart?” Karsh snarled and hung up.

Leaving the booth, he got into his car. He lit a cigarette, tipped his hat over his eyes and sat for some moments, thinking. When Hare had said he wanted the bloodhound treatment he was referring to Karsh’s uncanny knack of discovering the undiscoverable. It was almost as if Karsh was psychic. Time after time he had been able to solve a case simply because he had this odd feeling that he would find the necessary clue if he looked in a particular place. He looked and he found it.

While he sat smoking, he completely relaxed, his eyes closed, his ferrety face in repose, then after some minutes, he straightened his hat, started the car and drove rapidly back to the Park Motel. At the entrance of the motel, he U-turned and then started to drive towards the North Miami Beach highway, some fifty miles ahead of him.

He drove at a steady thirty miles an hour and his mind was like an antenna, groping for something that would home him on to the thing he sought.

It was growing dusk when he was within three miles of where Burnett had been found. He had explored every side road, reversing when he had found nothing and returning to the highway. Now, he suddenly became alert. A dirt track to his right led off the highway and into dense woodland. It was more of a cart track than a road and Karsh had no hesitation in turning his car up the track, and as the car bumped over the uneven surface, he began to whistle under his breath. He had this sudden strong feeling that he was about to find what he was looking for.

Halfway up the track he came to a small clearing in heavy forestland. On the clearing stood a white and blue Ford Lincoln. It had a deserted appearance and he stopped his car, got out and walked over to the Lincoln.

He wandered around the car, inspecting it closely, then he took from his hip pocket a pair of well-used pigskin gloves which he put on. Then he opened the driver’s door and slid under the wheel. He examined the licence tag hanging from the steering column. He learned the car was owned by U-Drive Car Hire Service, Miami. He turned around and looked on the back seat. On the seat, neatly folded, inside out, was a man’s sports jacket. Still whistling, Karsh lifted the jacket and laid it across his knees. In the inside pocket was a slim, expensive-looking wallet. This he examined. It contained two fifty dollar bills and three one hundred dollar bills, a driving licence made out in the name of Chris Burnett of New York, and a snapshot of a nice-looking girl in a smart swimsuit. On the back of the snapshot, scrawled in pencil was the one word: “Val”.

When Karsh unfolded the coat he got a shock that abruptly stopped his whistling. The front of the coat was heavily encrusted with dried blood. Karsh was too old a hand not to recognise the rust-like stains. He sat for some moments staring at the coat, feeling sweat gathering on his low forehead, then he hurriedly refolded the coat and getting out of the car, he went over to his car and locked the jacket in his boot. He returned to the Lincoln and although he spent twenty minutes going carefully over every inch of the car, he found nothing else. By now it was seven-twenty-five o’clock and getting dark. He returned to his car, lit a cigarette, brooded for about three minutes, then U-turned and drove back to the highway. He reached Miami a little after eight-thirty, having driven fast and carefully, his mind busy.

He decided to call on the U-Drive Car Hire Service before contacting Hare. From long experience, he knew Hare never thanked him for coming up with only half the information necessary to swing into action.

The Manager of the U-Drive Hire Service was a willowy blond man with heavy bags under his eyes and a frown of perpetual worry creasing his forehead.

Karsh gave him his business card and then draped his small frame into a chair.

“Came across one of your cars.” he said. “Seems abandoned. Licence No. Mean anything to you?”

The Manager, whose name was Morphy, frowned at him.

“Abandoned... what do you mean?”

“Up a dirt road off the North Miami Beach highway,” Karsh explained. “Dumped in a wood clearing... no driver no nothing. I thought you might be glad to know.”

Morphy reached for his register. He thumbed through the pages, found an entry, read it, frowned some more and then sat back.

“I don’t understand. We hired the car to Miss Ann Lucas for five days. Maybe she was taking a walk in the woods or something.”

“You got a map of the district?” Karsh asked.

Morphy produced a map from his desk drawer. Karsh examined it, then marked the map with a pen.

“That’s where the car is. If after five days you don’t get it back... that’s where you’ll find it.”

Morphy seemed to be getting uneasy.

“You don’t think she was talking a walk or something?”

“I wouldn’t know. I get hunches. I got the idea the car’s been dumped. Who is Ann Lucas anyway?”

Morphy consulted his register.

“She lives at 237, Coral Avenue. Never seen her before. I checked her driving licence. She paid the usual deposit. I even checked her in the phone book.”

“You remember what she looked like?”

“Sure. A blonde: well dressed. She had on a headscarf and sun goggles: around twenty-five... why?”

“Know her again?”

“Why, sure.”

“Without the head scarf and goggles?” Morphy stared at him uneasily.

“Well, no... I didn’t see much of her. What’s all this about?”

Karsh got to his feet.

“Force of habit, palsy,” he said. “When talking to me, you have to expect questions like that.” He showed his yellow teeth in what he called a smile. “Well, you know where your car is if you want it. So long,” and he walked back to his car.

He drove to a drug store and shutting himself in a sweltering telephone booth, he looked up Ann Lucas in the book. He found her number and dialled. While he waited for the Connection, he looked at his strap watch. The time was half-past nine.

There was a click and then a girl’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Miss Lucas?”

“That’s right.”

“You own a driving licence No. 559700. That right?”

“I don’t know the number, but I have lost my driving licence. Have you found it?”

“How did you lose it?”

“Someone stole my bag.”

“Did you report the loss?”

“Of course I did. I reported it to the police a couple of days ago. Who is this talking?”

“Did you hire a U-Drive car a couple of nights ago?”

“Why, no. Who is this... is it the police?”

“Could be,” Karsh said. “Could be anyone,” and he hung up. He left the booth and drove fast to the office.

Homer Hare was unwrapping a large parcel containing thickly cut beef sandwiches.

“Just what I was hoping to find,” Karsh said, scooping up two of the sandwiches. These he carried with him to a chair opposite Hare’s desk. Hare sighed and looked at Lucille. “Tell the boy to bring some more and another carton of coffee.”

Karsh ate hungrily. When he had wolfed the sandwiches he looked expectantly at the pile before Hare, but Hare covered them with his arm. “You wait... these are mine.” Karsh made a grab for the carton of coffee, but Hare was too quick for him.

“Mine too,” Hare said shoving Karsh’s hand away.

“What a hog!” Karsh said bitterly. “While I’m earning the money, you just sit here and stuff your cave.”

Lucille came in with more sandwiches and a carton of coffee. As soon as Karsh started eating again, he said, his mouth full, “Is this Burnett really a nut?”

“No doubt about it,” Hare said, his mouth equally full. “He got into a car smash a couple of years ago and he’s been a scrambled brain ever since.”

Karsh poured coffee, finished his sandwich, then recited the events of the afternoon and evening. Long before he had finished, Hare had stopped eating and was listening intently, his little eyes glazed with concentration.

“Looks for sure this nut killed the woman,” Karsh said. “His lighter was on the bed and his jacket covered with blood. This is going to make Terrell look as high as an ant.”

“The car puzzles me,” Hare said, lifting the last of the sandwiches from the wrapping. “Who was the woman who hired the car? You don’t think it was Ann Lucas?”

“No, but we can check. I think some woman stole her bag and used her licence to hire this car? Why? How did Burnett’s coat get into the car? You know with what we’ve got, we could put the bite on Joan Parnell for a lot more than a thousand bucks.”

“We’re wasting time,” Lucille broke in. “Terrell won’t like this delay. Sam should have gone straight to headquarters, reported finding the car, the lighter and the jacket.”

“I was going to do just that,” Karsh said irritably, “but Big-Brain here said not.” He looked at Hare. “You want to go to headquarters in person, is that the idea?”

Hare licked his great, thick fingers, peered into the wrapping to make sure he hadn’t left anything he could eat, then regretfully screwed up the paper and dropped it into his trash basket. He then lit a cigar and blew smoke up to the ceiling.

“No, that’s not the idea, Sammy,” he said. “I’ve been giving this affair considerable thought. Handled properly it could be very, very profitable.”

“I heard you the first time,” Karsh said, staring at him. “So we up the price to the Parnell woman: what would she stand for?”

“We don’t do that,” Hare said. Absently, he reached for Karsh’s last sandwich, but Karsh was too quick for him. “I didn’t think you wanted it,” Hare said in a hurt voice.

“I do... keep talking.”

Hare sighed and folded his hands over his enormous stomach.

“Tomorrow morning, Lucille will take the five-hundred dollars the Parnell woman paid us and she’ll call on her. She’ll tell her we can’t take the assignment. She’ll explain that I have talked to Terrell and he is against a private agency moving in on a murder case. Lucille will then give her back the money and duck out.”

Karsh stared at Hare as if he thought he had gone out of his mind.

“He’s been eating too much,” he said to his wife. “His brains are clogged with food.”

Lucille said, “From where then do we make our very interesting profit?”

Hare smiled at her.

“From Valerie Burnett... who else?”

Karsh sat bolt upright in his chair. His ferrety face became tense.

“Now, wait a minute...”

Hare stopped him by raising his big doughy hand.

“This is the chance of a lifetime, Sammy. The Burnetts have money, and Travers is worth millions. Do you imagine he would want his son-in-law to stand trial for murder? Do you imagine Travers would allow his son-in-law to spend the rest of his days in a Criminal Asylum?”

Karsh shifted uneasily.

“While we are asking questions,” he said, “have you ever heard of a little word called ‘blackmail’? Have you any idea what kind of rap blackmail draws?”

“Have you ever heard of half a million dollars?” Hare said, hunching his massive shoulders and staring at Karsh. “Travers will jump at the chance of buying the lighter and the jacket for half a million. You see...I’ll handle it. You leave this to me.”

“Not me.” Karsh got to his feet. “Oh no. I’m getting along pretty well as I am. I’m not going to be locked up in a cell for fourteen years just to please you.”

“You won’t be pleasing me,” Hare said quietly. “You will be on the receiving end of half a million dollars.”

Karsh started for the door, paused, then came slowly back to his chair.

“You really think you can swing it?”

“I know I can. Think about it, Sammy. So far the cops haven’t an idea it is Burnett. With the evidence we have got, he hasn’t got a prayer. He’ll be put away in a squirrel house for life. Travers would pay more than half a million dollars to avoid that. You leave it to me, Sammy. You’ve done your share, now I’ll do mine, and we split the take.”

“Don’t I get in on the split?” Lucille asked, her thin face ugly with greed.

Karsh glared at her.

“You’re my wife... remember?”

“It’ll be split three ways,” Lucille said, “or it doesn’t get split at all.”

The two men stared at her, then Hare, who knew his daughter, said with a resigned sigh, “So it’ll be split three ways.”