Howdy, folks. Welcome back to the noir adventures of Matt Slade, private eye. If this is your first time tuning in, you may find this index of all the previous episodes helpful. Otherwise, enjoy!
Episode 20
“Oh, no Slade.” The dame I’d chased around most of Philly and perforated more goons than I could conveniently count with my shoes on to find, seemed kinda ungrateful. She scrabbled at the Deusenberg’s door handle just like she didn’t appreciate the fine transportation I’d hijacked for us.
“Relax, Claire. We’re just gonna go see your pop. What’s so bad about that?”
“But you can’t mean to—”
“Mister,” the kid driving broke in, “if the lady doesn’t want to go downtown…”
“Kid, the gent with the machinegun is the one calling the shots. The dame goes downtown. Get me?” I hefted the big Browning Automatic Rifle tiredly. I’ve never been the kind to get my way by waving firearms at people, (with the minor exception of when the guy with the stripes on his arm yelled “Charge,” or words to that effect,) but I was too tired to try sweet reason. I just needed to wrap this up, and I figured a family reunion was the fastest way to do that.
“But you can’t think that I—”
“Lady, you keep telling me what I can’t do, what I can’t think. Why don’t you just button that pretty lip of yours?”
“You—” but she apparently thought better of whatever she’d been about to call me. She pulled a handkerchief from wherever it is women keep them, and dabbed at the lip in question. Far from pretty at the moment, it was fattening nicely from where one of Kavanaugh’s boys had been getting a little free with his fists, about the time I came on the scene.
The big car rolled along in sullen silence, as the the morning’s fog thickened into a misty drizzle. The rich men’s estates out in Chestnut Hill shrank to mere mansions, and then ordinary well-to-do houses as we followed the winding Schuykill back into center city, or at least the ritzy enclave off North Broad that was our target.
“That’s it, that horseshoe drive,” I said.
Somewhere about a mile in front of me, the big car’s wheels turned, and we swept up the drive to the Brazelton town house. The place looked all right for a Philly mill boss who made good. That kind are famous for lots of things, but culture and taste ain’t it. Of course, if you’ve got enough money, you can generally find someone who does have taste to help you spend some of it.
Claire Brazelton did not seem overjoyed to see the giant stone pile. She sat silent, staring straight ahead. Glancing neither to the right hand, nor to the left hand, as a book I read once would say.
“C’mon, doll. Here’s our stop.” When she made no move to get out, I prodded her with the BAR’s barrel. “Out. Now.”
She wrestled with the heavy door, the poor weak woman, not used to such heavy labors, but eventually she managed it. It only took another prod from the gun barrel. Encouragement. I followed her out that side, the better to keep an eye on her. Couldn’t have her doing anything foolish at this late date.
“Thanks, cabbie,” I said to the rich kid I’d hijacked and tipped him my hat. “Keep the change.”
He sputtered, about to say something indignant. When he realized he was free, he just closed his mouth and slipped the big car in gear. It was gone into the mist, leaving us alone on the drive.
“After you.” I gave a gracious wave of the gun barrel, indicating for her to precede me.
At the heavily carved oaken doors, I raised the gun butt to knock, but they swung inward a split instant before I could. The same black-and-white clad butler as… had it only been yesterday? Stood there.
“Sir,” he intoned. “May I take your...gun? Possibly your wet garments, as well.”
Tickled by the fancy, I said “Sure, Mac.” I handed him the BAR, and was gratified to see him stagger under the unexpected weight. I’d been totin’ the thing around all morning. My arms ached; I was more than happy to let someone else deal with it. If I needed the artillery to visit my client, I was definitely gonna have to look over that standard contract. Maybe insert a “don’t shoot the detective, he’s only doing what you paid him for,” clause.
I hung my jacket and hat on the upturned muzzle.
“Miss Claire,” he added icily.
“Thornycroft.” She gave him a frigid glare of her own before consenting to be helped off with her tweedy overcoat.
Thornycroft stowed our belongings in the cloakroom. Coats, hats, and the odd machinegun.
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