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Great Writing - Home > Extended > The Case of the Missing Husband ch3
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Extended Work
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| The Case of the Missing Husband ch3 | |
| By Snodlander | ||||
| 14 April 2007 | ||||
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The plot thickens. The coffee weakens. Manson’s was in the finance district. Debray had a couple of clubs he belonged to, but it struck me that Manson’s was on a line from Oakhills via Beeches. Of course, so were a lot of other places, but I figured it was worth a shot. The cab dropped me outside a large plain stone building. There was a discreet brass plaque outside, together with a large doorman in Sergeant Pepper’s uniform. He looked as though you had best not laugh at his ludicrous outfit. Inside the reception was manned by a guy that looked as though he had been born and bred behind the desk. He was talking to a young woman. I waited my turn as she finished writing a note on the desk. She handed it over to the guy, saying, “Please make sure Mr Debray gets this, it’s very important. He can reach me on this number any time of the day or night.” Well, that got my attention. He placed the note in a pigeon hole behind him. “Very good, Miss,” he said, with a voice so bored it could send coffee to sleep. She put her pen back into her purse and turned, ignoring me and walking out. Debray obviously wasn’t here, or at least not as far as the desk clerk would admit. He had the look of a jobsworth that would not admit if Debray was here even with cash waved under his nose. That woman, though… “Sir?” Jobsworth queried. “Never mind, bud. Have a nice day.” And I left. The girl was already 50 metres up the street, walking with the determined stride of someone who knows where they’re going and has no interest in anything in between. I followed. One block up she waited at the lights and crossed over to the other side, heading north. There wasn’t much up there, offices and business, along with the various little shops and cafes that supported them. The foot traffic was getting heavier, so I closed up on her. Half a block later she turned into a narrow sidestreet, hardly more than an alley. It was time, I decided, to find out who she was, and what her interest in my mark was. “Excuse me, Miss” I called, trotting up to her. She turned and sprayed liquid fire into my eyes. “Christ, Christ! What the hell?” I screamed, hands to my streaming eyes. “I’ve got a rape alarm, you know,” she shouted in reply. “Rape? Jeez, you think you should wait till you’re asked? Damn, my eyes. You’ve blinded me, you bitch!” “I’m dialling the police now.” “Good. I’m having you arrested for assault. What the hell did you think you were doing? Jesus H Christ and little green men! My eyes. Have you any idea how much that hurts? Why in God’s name would you do something like that?” “You were at the club. What have you done to Mr. Debray? Have you killed him?” “What? Killed him? What the hell are you on? Shit, shit, shit, my eyes. Have you called the police yet? Police!” I called out. “Ok, Ok, I‘m sorry. Ok? I’m sorry. I thought you were going to attack me.” “Trust me, doll. If I could see you now, I would attack you. What the hell is this stuff? If this is permanent I really will kill you.” I felt her hand on my arm. “It’s Ok, it’ll wash out with a bit of water. It’s only Mace.” “You’ve got water?” “Erm… no.” “Then what the fuck use is that? Jesus and all the saints, my eyes!” “Look, I’m sorry. Here, there’s a café just over here. We’ll wash it out there, OK?” I let her lead me the short walk to the café. Inside my eyes started to clear a little, enough to get me into the washroom at the back. When I came out, eyes still watering, she was sat at a table, two coffees in front of her. She looked suitably contrite. “Sorry,” she said, as I sat opposite her. “Only when I saw you follow me, I thought you were out to kill me.” “Why? Are you in the habit of blinding men? Is there a line I have to join to get my chance at you?” “This isn’t a joke, Mr…?” “Littlejohn. Peter Littlejohn.” She stuck her hand out. “Kitty Malone.” I shook it. “Mr Littlejohn, I am an investigative journalist, and I am on a story involving murder and international intrigue. I was in fear of my life when you approached me. I am sorry if I jumped the gun when I Maced you, but I’m sure you’ll understand. When your life is in danger, well, your instincts for self preservation just take over. I’m living in the shadow of Death himself, Mr Littlejohn, and that sharpens your reflexes to a knife edge.” It was all I could do to keep a straight face. She was maybe twenty-one, twenty-two tops. She had a wide-eyed earnestness that was guileless. If she was an investigative journalist then I was the Pope. I checked. Nope, no mitre and robes. “Kitty?” She nodded. “Kitty, stop bullshitting me, OK? You’re not a journalist. No journalist would use a phrase like ‘living in the shadow of Death himself’. A romance novelist might, if she were a really bad novelist, but not a journalist. And investigative journalists as a general rule have spent years earning the title, and don’t go around Macing innocent members of the public. Who are you really?” “I think I should be asking the questions, Mr Littlejohn. What is your interest in Mr Debray?” “As the guy you nearly blinded, and as I know you’re not an investigative journalist, I don’t really feel moved to answer your questions, Miss Malone.” She set her mouth into an ugly little pucker, staring at me for a moment, then opened her bag. I threw my arm up over my eyes. She sighed, then produced a security badge. “See? I work for the Herald. Happy?” “The badge lets you into the building. It doesn’t say you’re a journalist. You’d have a press pass if you were.” We stared at each other. She was a good starer, but I was better. “OK,” she admitted at last. “OK, I’m not a journalist. Yet. But I’m going to be. Going to be real soon, too. I have an exclusive, Mr Littlejohn. A story so big it will rock this city. A story of death threats, maybe even murder, which reaches to the very top. This story will make me, you mark my words. My days of being a gopher are numbered.” She stopped, a sudden suspicion filling her eyes. “You’re not a journalist, are you?” I reached into my jacket and produced my licence. “I’m a private investigator. Now, what’s this about death threats?” She suddenly looked unsure and fiddled with her coffee cup. “Mr Littlejohn, I’m sorry for the misunderstanding and your eyes and all, but this is important to me. Well, not just me, of course, the public too. I don’t know you, and well, I have to ask. What’s in it for me? I mean, it’s all well and good us sharing information and that, but what information have you got to share with me? I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but you don’t seem that well informed about the story, and well, I’m not sure I can afford to carry you. No offence meant, I’m sure.” For a moment I was stunned at her cheek. “Well, little miss journalist, I’m sure you have the story all nicely worked out, but if Mr Debray is dead or in hiding, he’s not going to answer your little notes, is he? And I’m willing to bet that you have absolutely no idea how to find him, either. I, on the other hand, am experienced in finding people, and already have a lead or two.” Well, at least one, maybe, I thought. I took a sip of the coffee she had bought me. “Gah! This is love in a punt coffee. You think about it, little miss journalist, while I go and freshen this dishwater up.” I went to the counter and asked for an espresso shot to be put in the coffee. “Decaff?” asked the server. I gave him an old fashioned stare. “Do I look like I give a damn about my health?” I returned to the table. We looked at each other. I waited. I was pretty sure she needed me more than the other way round. To be frank, she sounded like a little bit of a fantasist, but you never knew. Finally she seemed to reach a decision. “Full partners, Mr Littlejohn. Full disclosure. We share everything we know.” I shrugged. “OK, little miss journalist.” She held out her hand again. “And one other thing. You stop calling me that. My name’s Kitty.” I took her hand and we shook on the partnership. “Fair enough. If you’ll stop calling me Mister. You make me feel old. “Now, what’s your story?”
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