Murder by Installments

Episode 11

Howdy, folks, and welcome to the noir adventures of Matt Slade, Private Eye. If this is your first visit, you might like to start from Episode 1. Otherwise, dig in!

Episode 11

“Claire who?” asked the scarecrow in the fancy suit opposite me. We were in his speak off Rittenhouse Square. He leaned back in his chair, smoke from a cheroot almost as long and thin as he was curling.

“Claire Brazelton. I’m looking for Claire Brazelton.”

“And who’s that?”

All around, I could feel the puppet-master’s puppets crowding close. I only had a few more seconds. If I even had a few more seconds.

“Augustus Brazelton ring any bells?”

“Sure, I know Augie. Everybody knows Augie. I don’t know the broad.”

“She’s his daughter. Jimmy R told me I should look you up. That you wanted to meet her, and sent him and his friends to pick her up.”

“Jimmy R told you that? Jimmy R’s got a big mouth.” He looked less interested, and waved to his boys.

I couldn’t hear if they were walkin’ up on me, or what, not with the boy on the stage blowin’ that clarinet like he was. Sounded like he was movin’ into Moonglow. I always liked that number. I looked in the side of the silver champagne just in time to see Big, or maybe it was Bax, hard to tell in the silver fun-house mirror, lurch forward to grab me by the collar.

I’d kept my feet under me when I straddled the chair. My welcome was too thin. I twisted, and grabbed the big ape’s arm. He was trying to come down on me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t have to twist too much, and he sprawled on the table between me and Kavanaugh, the pupped master. Champagne flutes and china shattered, a cascade of bubbles ran to the floor. From the disgusted look on Kavanaugh, some must have landed in his lap, too.

I sat. I grinned.

Kavanaugh fumed.

“All I want to know is where is Claire Brazelton. She was brought here tonight.”

“What’s your name?”

“Matt Slade. I’m a private de—”

“Slade. Ronnie, make a note. Matt Slade. Slade, you get out of my place right now, or by morning you’ll be a private citizen, and I’ll be using your license to light my cigars.”

I opened my mouth, cutting witticism on the tip of my tongue, but it went un-uttered.

“Vincent, you and your friend show Mr Slade the way to the door. He seems to have forgotten.”

Vincent was as short and thick as his master was tall and thin. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind, until I looked down. The gleam by his leg that I’d taken for a walking stick, well, it was a Winchester walking stick, and the hammer was back. He didn’t point it at me, but that didn’t make much difference. A twelve gauge was a far more devastating witticism than any I could think of.

I stood. “Mr Kavanaugh, I—” I began, but the muzzle started to rise. “OK, I’m going.”

I did in fact remember the way to the street, which was good, as Vincent was no help. He just trailed along behind, that cut down ‘97 carried low.

Once out, I stood on the pavement, looking at the bare trees in the Square. I was just trying to think of a way back in, maybe in a different coat? Glasses? Don’t talk to Kavanaugh, but ask…say, the hatcheck girl, or the boy with the clarinet, if they’d seen Claire…

Something caught my eye. I glanced down the alley the other side. It was dark, but just light enough to make out a struggle next to a car. Two big shapeless blobs were forcing a smaller shapeless blob toward the car. The smaller blob didn’t seem to want to go for a ride, tonight. A car behind me turned onto Walnut; their headlights flashed down the alley for a split second. A split second of long, wavy brown hair and an old fashioned dress.

“Claire!” I pulled the .45 and started down the alley, but the door slammed, and the car sped away from me.