Crimson lady, p.1
Crimson Lady, page 1
The Home of Great Detective Fiction!
The most difficult killer to catch is the one who doesn’t realize he’s a killer! That was Larry Kent’s dilemma when he signed on to protect beautiful actress Valerie Nash. Whoever he was, the mystery murderer was two distinct personalities in one … and the dark side of him was slowly but surely gaining dominance.
As bodies started piling up, Larry uncovered one man’s dirty secret and another’s violent past. But even when he worked out who the killer was, there was still one more problem to overcome … to make the man realize just how many lives he’d taken in the name of his twisted love for Valerie …
LARRY KENT: CRIMSON LADY
#749
By Don Haring
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: May 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: David Whitehead
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
Chapter 1 ... the put-on ...
My office looks over the 42nd Street canyon only a few hundred yards from the Times Square building, right in the heart of Manhattan. I stood at my window looking down at the vehicular and human traffic. I didn’t see the fat man who detached himself from that traffic and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. But I heard his rapping on the frosted glass. Turning, I saw his fat blob of a silhouette against the glass and walked to my desk.
“Come in.”
He entered. He had a summer weight woven hat, the kind they used to call a ‘Panama’, in his left hand and a large linen handkerchief in his right—the latter to mop at the beads of sweat on his forehead. He was bald, small-eyed, swarthy-faced. He smiled at me, revealing small stubs of teeth.
“Mr. Larry Kent?”
“That’s right.”
He seemed to grow a few inches taller as he said, “I am David Marko.”
I knew who and what he was, but I didn’t like the way he drew himself up before me, so I merely said, “Please sit down, Mr. Marko,” indicating my red client chair with a nod of my head.
He slumped down to the chair with a fat man’s sigh and worked on his face with the handkerchief. “Hot,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Even for July.”
So much for the weather. “What can I do for you, Mr. Marko?”
He blinked his shoe-button eyes at me. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Kent?”
“The theatrical producer,” I said.
His blubbery lips stretched into a smile. “I guess you’re acquainted with Valerie Nash.”
“I am.”
“Val spoke about you a few times. From what she said, I received the impression that you’re a good private investigator.”
It was the sort of statement I couldn’t reply to, so I made circles on my scratch pad with a ballpoint pen.
“You probably know,” Marko went on, “that Val is the star of one of my most successful plays, ‘The Calico Man’.”
“I saw it.”
“Oh? When?”
“About a year ago.”
“Val didn’t mention it.”
“I didn’t go backstage.”
He looked mildly surprised. “But, from what Val told me, you and she are good friends.”
“I’m not the backstage type, Mr. Marko.”
“David. Please.”
I shrugged.
“And I shall call you Larry,” he went on. “Unless, of course, you would prefer that I be more formal?”
I shrugged again.
He showed his stubs of teeth. “You see, I feel as though I know you, after hearing Val talk so much about you.”
I made more circles on the scratch pad.
“Are you busy, Larry?”
I lifted the scratch pad and held it so he could see the circles. “That, Mr. Marko, is the sum total of my production for the last two weeks.”
“Then you are available for an assignment?”
“Depending.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I always reserve the right to turn down an assignment.”
Marko nodded solemnly. “I can understand that. I mean, a man of your reputation must be careful how he treads. You can’t afford to be involved in a scandal or accept an assignment that is less than ... honorable.”
“That’s right, David.”
He beamed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find nothing unpalatable in what I wish you to do for me.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He got to his feet with a grunt of effort, reached into his breast pocket and dropped two dog-eared photographs onto my desk.
“That, Mr. Kent, is my sister, Cheryl. The photographs were taken some three years ago. She has been missing nearly that long.”
“Missing?”
“She disappeared from New York City.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
“Did you go to the Missing Persons Bureau?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Oh, perhaps three weeks after Cheryl disappeared.”
“Why did you wait that long?”
“They asked me that same question.”
“How did you answer it?”
“As I’m answering your question now.”
I leaned back in my swivel chair. “Yes?”
He hunched one shoulder. “Cheryl had her own apartment. Though we were always close and I am very fond of her, I ... well, I am a very busy man, Larry, and the days pass so quickly that before I know it, two or three weeks have gone by. It was the manager of the apartment building where Cheryl lived who told me of her disappearance. That is, he phoned and said he hadn’t seen my sister for more than two weeks. So, I went to her apartment and the manager let me in with his master-key. The apartment was in good order—no signs of a struggle or anything like that—but Cheryl’s clothes were gone. A neighbor told me that Cheryl had left, with two bags, in a cab. That was when I went to the Missing Persons Bureau. I saw at once that they weren’t interested. Can’t say I blame them. After all, Cheryl is over forty years old ...”
“Did she have a male friend?” I asked.
His small black eyes blinked double-time. “Male friend …?”
I showed him the palms of my hands. “It happens.”
“She’s a widow.”
“So?”
Marko looked down at the backs of his fat hands. “I—suppose she may have become interested in a man. Hymie died five, six years ago.”
“Then she was without a man for two or three years when she disappeared?”
“Yes. Hymie was a furrier. Hymie Kronz. He left Cheryl well off. No money worries at all.”
“Did you check on her finances? The bank, investments …?”
“I don’t even know which bank she used. All that was her business, the way I saw it.”
“Did she have any friends here in the city?”
“A few, but they have no idea where she went.” Marko looked into my eyes. “You don’t think she met a ... well, a bad man, someone who was interested only in her money?”
“There’s no reason to think along that line.”
“There’s just one thing,” Marko said.
“Yes?”
“The postcard.”
“Postcard?”
“She sent it to me. From Wilmington, Delaware.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, maybe three months after she disappeared.”
“Did you keep it?”
“No. I threw it away. In the card she said she was fine. But that was the last I ever heard of her.”
“Did you recognize the handwriting?”
“The thing was typed.”
“How about your sister’s signature?”
Marko looked thoughtful. “I guess it was just a kind of a scrawl. At the time, I figured Cheryl might have been in a hurry.”
“The card could have been sent by anybody,” I said.
Marko nodded. “I guess so.”
“If there was a card.”
“Huh?”
I pushed the two photographs across the desk. “There was an actress named Maude Pennington,” I said, and I saw him swallow hard. “She never really got anywhere. Her best part was in a TV soap opera. She died about five years ago. These photos are of Maude Pennington.” I fixed him with my stare. “What the hell are you up to, Marko?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he blustered. “Yes, there was an actress named Maude Pennington, and my sister Cheryl looked a lot like her. Those pictures are of my sister.”
“I knew Maude personally.”
“You did?” That stopped him.
“I knew her well.”
He licked at his lips.
“I should have let you go on,” I said. “I figure I know what was coming next. You were going to ask me to go down to Delaware and have a look around for your sister.”
He didn’t reply.
“It seems to me, Marko, that you want me out of New York. Why?”
There was a rapping on the door. Marko and I turned in that direction at the same time. The slim silhouette of a woman had formed against the frosted glass panel.
Marko sighed and said, “I think you will soon find out.”
“Come in,” I said.
Valerie Nash entered the office. She was tall for a woman, and slim almost to the point of being skinny, but she had padding in all the right places. She moved with a kind of jungle grace; effortless, sinuous. There was a smile on her narrow face for me. It faded when she saw David Marko rise from my client’s chair.
“Hello there, Val,” he said haltingly.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
I said, “He’s been trying to get me to go and look for his long-lost sister.”
Her violet eyes took him in and a frown formed on her generous mouth. “You came here because of what I told you,” she said accusingly.
He nodded, looking like a small boy who’d been caught reading a dirty book. “I admit it,” he said. “I—I wanted to stop you.”
She seemed puzzled. “But why?”
“Because it went far enough, Val—too far. It’s—it’s beginning to affect your work.”
Her determined chin went out. “I never let anything detract from my performances. Why, a man who saw the play for the fifth time last night told me that I’d never been better.”
Marko threw up his hands. “What does he know?”
“He’s seen every play on Broadway for the last ten years.”
“Then he is a fool! Some plays are not worth seeing.” Marko shook a finger at Valerie. “I tell you, my dear, you are hurting yourself with these—these crazy thoughts!”
Her eyes flashed and her high-cheekboned face went pale. “They are not crazy thoughts!”
“Hold it,” I said. “If you two need a referee or something, let me know what it’s all about.”
“Her E.P.S.,” Marko said.
“E.S.P.,” Valerie corrected him.
Marko waved a hand. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter what you call it.” He pulled the large handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed at his shiny face. “It’s crazy! I tell you, it makes no sense at all. They were accidents. Everybody says they were accidents. If they weren’t accidents, would the insurance companies have paid on the policies? I ask you that, my dear Valerie. The insurance companies aren’t stupid, you know. When they smell even half a rat, they put their investigators onto it. And those insurance company investigators are smart, real smart.” Marko turned to me. “Tell her how smart they are.”
“What’s this about accidents?” I asked Valerie.
“I’ll tell you when he’s out of here,” she said. “He doesn’t believe in my E.S.P. at all, so I don’t want him here when I talk to you.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going,” Marko said, starting for the door.
“Hold it,” I said, and Marko stopped at the door and turned to me. I said, “I’d like to know what you hoped to gain by getting me onto the case of your missing non-existent sister.”
Marko struck a pose that was as heroic as his fat little figure allowed. “I was thinking of my star, Mr. Larry Kent. Valerie said you were the only private detective in New York she would trust, so I wanted you out of New York. Then I was going to bring in a psychiatrist to have a look at her.”
“There is nothing wrong with me,” Valerie said heatedly. “I’m a gifted person. I’m sensitive to things. I see visions.”
“Visions, shmisions,” Marko said, looking at the ceiling and rolling his eyes. Then he turned his gaze onto me. “Maybe it’s best that she came here. You’ll soon see that they were accidents and maybe you’ll be able to talk some sense into her.”
And then Marko left, slamming the door behind him.
The moment the door closed, Valerie came around my desk, her arms out. I kissed her and she hugged herself to me. She smelled of expensive perfume and her breasts were like hard rocks against the lower part of my chest. When she drew away, her violet eyes were sparkling.
“I’d forgotten how it was,” she said.
“I didn’t forget.”
She pouted. “Then why didn’t you contact me?”
“I figured you’d have more than your share of guys running after you, with the success of ‘The Calico Man’.”
She looked annoyed. “Did you think a hit play would change me?”
I smiled at her. “I guess I should have known better.”
“I missed you,” she said. “I almost phoned you a hundred times. Pride kept me from doing it. I’m a very proud person, you know.”
“Yeah. I found that out. By the way, I saw you in the play. You were magnificent.”
“I got lucky,” she said. “The play could have been written for me. The moment I read the third line during my audition, the author and the director jumped up and said, ‘That’s Hillary!’ I’m not fooling myself, darling. I’m a good actress, but not a great one. The play is so wonderful that I’m made to look better than I am.”
I threw her a smile and said, “Now that all the humility is over and done with, have a seat.” And I waved to my red client chair.
Valerie kissed the end of my nose and then she went around my desk and sat down, making it a production. She sat like the simple action had been choreographed by a master.
“Now what’s all this about E.S.P.?” I said.
She looked into my eyes. “Do you believe in E.S.P.?”
“I have to. They proved the power of extra-sensory perception at Duke University.”
She held my gaze a little longer and then gave a short nod as though satisfied. “I have it, Larry.” She paused. “But I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
I fingered the spot on my right cheek where hair won’t grow because the skin came from the inner part of my upper right arm. And then I remembered that snowy night in late January, almost six years back. Valerie had phoned me at my apartment.
“Don’t go out tonight,” she had said. “I just had a dream about you.”
But I had gone out. I had been trying to track down a madman who’d killed three women, and I’d received a tip to the effect that he was in a Brooklyn tavern. He was there, all right, in the tavern parking lot, behind the wheel of a Buick. He’d rammed me against a steel-wire fence, then he’d backed the Buick up so he could have another smash at me. When the ambulance men had peeled me off that fence, I had no face. Twenty-four plastic surgery operations had given me the face Valerie Nash was now looking at. The plastic surgeons had been ecstatic about the result. “Why, you’re ten years younger!” one had exclaimed. True, but I much preferred the old face with all its bumps and scars. Every time I used a razor on myself, I felt like I was shaving a stranger.
“I’m aware of your E.S.P. all right,” I said to Valerie.
“Then perhaps you’ll believe me,” she said. She hesitated. “I—I was friendly with two men during the past year. Both are dead.”
“Are those the accidents Marko mentioned?” I asked.
“Well, the police called them accidents.”
“And you don’t?”
“I had a nightmare just before each death, but I was unable to get in touch with either man. The nightmares were the same type as the one I had the night you were almost killed.”
“Who were the two men, Val?”
“The first was John Bishop. The second was Albert Randolph.”
“I knew Randolph slightly,” I said. “He was a criminal lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“And I remember his death. He plastered his Ferrari against a stone wall just off the Palisades Parkway, near Tappan Zee, on the other side of the Hudson River.”
“His car had been tampered with,” Valerie said as though there wasn’t the shadow of a doubt about it. “I saw it all in my dream. The brake rods or something.”
“And what about John Bishop?” I asked.
“He was a speculator. Although only about thirty, he’d made millions on Wall Street.”
“It comes back to me,” I said. “Bishop had a penthouse apartment here, in Manhattan. Eight or nine months ago he fell to his death from his terrace.”
“He was pushed,” Valerie said. “I saw it in my dream.”
“And who pushed him?”
“His killer was ... well, just a shadow.”
“Did you go to the police about your nightmares?” I asked.
She looked as though I’d insulted her. “Why, of course I did!”
