Murder by Installments

Episode 1

Murder by Installment

by Jesse M Slater

Episode 1

At eleven sharp my office door banged open, like the starting gun at the derby. "I need your help, Slade. I've been murdered."

"Mr. Brazelton? I'm a detective, not a spiritualist. You should try downstairs. Mrs. Brookley does a pretty fair number in seances, I bel—"

"No, man. I've been poisoned, but it's a slow one. You are Slade?"

"Matt Slade. All my life."

"I'm Augustus P. Brazelton, Slade."

He wasn't the powerful, confident textile magnate I'd expected, but frail, doddering. His skin looked gray as the lowering clouds at my back; wrinkled as a linen suit that'd been slept in. His shuffling steps were far too frail for a man of fifty two. I checked the casenotes. Had I gotten it wrong? Was he seventy two? Ninety two? The file, when my swimming eyes focused, was upside down. No help there.

"I'm not a sawbones, either. What do you want me for?" They say the early bird gets the worm, I felt like the worm. I had trouble keeping up with this bird, that early.

"I've been to all of them. They say there's nothing to be done; I've got a month, maybe less. No, Slade, I need you to investigate my murder."

"I'm really more the catch the cheating wife kind of detective, or find the employee with the missing cash box. For murder, you want the police."

"They won't touch it. They think I'm a crazy old man, pointing fingers, blaming others for my own bad luck. Slade, do you always try this hard to avoid paying work?"

"Just lately it's been avoiding me." I gave the drawer with the pint of Irish a surreptitious kick. "Maybe I ought to take your money, Brazelton. I could sure use it. But I'm no homicide—"

The old man puffed up red, so red in the face I thought he might check out right then. Then like a leaky tire, he deflated.

"Listen, Slade. I've heard you're good. Gerry Farquahar at the Union League put me onto you, but I did some detective work of my own. You're the best in the city that doesn't work for one of the big agencies, tough and smart—"

"I did sort some trouble for him, but trouble in my line."

"—and I'm willing to pay you well."

"How well we talking? Because—"

"Mr. Slade, money is no object in this case. I have plenty of it, and no time left to spend it. I want to know who killed me, so I can make sure they don't profit."

"Mr. Brazelton, you have my attention. I'll do my best for you, for what my best is worth." That's the mark. Treat him like he's got eagles on his collars. Maybe even stars. Even as I thought it, though, I clenched my fist. Down under the desk, where he couldn't see. The finger I didn't have ached. See, I'd worked for Brazelton before, when I was a lad in his mill.

"Very good, Slade," he said, in plummy, satisfied tones.

I unclenched my jaw to ask, "Who do you see as the prime suspect? Does someone stand to gain by your death?"

He coughed, long and wracking. It sounded like a bedsheet tearing inside his chest. "No...time. That's your…" more coughing, "...job, Slade. Talk to my private secretary, Bianca Woodridge. She can tell you more than I could, in any event."

"You don't keep track of your enemies?"

The coughing fit subsided, and the tycoon of old shone in his raptor's glare. "So many, and so many beneath my notice, you see."

I'll take your money, Mr. Brazelton, but…

"All right. Send this dame in. You've got her with you?"

"No. She doesn't think this is the best way I can spend my time, hiring you."

My ears perked. Oh, no? Why wouldn't Miss Woody-whatever want a dick poking around? "Well, does she work for you, or you work for her?"

"Sometimes I wonder. She should be available at my residence, any time between tea and supper."

He gave me his address, and I jotted it down with the rest of his particulars. "All right, but I'm gonna need some walking around money."

"Of course." He pulled a money clip with a roll bigger than would fit a leather wallet and peeled off some cabbage. "Will that do?"

"It'll do, all right." I took him by the hand, meaning to shake on it, but his felt like a kitten's paw in my mitt. I stopped my squeeze.

"Thank you, Slade. And remember: I don't have much time, so neither do you."

The door banged behind Brazelton, and I paced around the office. I could hear the bottom drawer calling to me, but I resisted. I had time to kill before "tea," but I was gonna need to be sharp. A few hours in the company of the Irish wouldn't help. A walk, maybe a hoagie were what I needed.

I collected my hat and raincoat on the way out the door, then patted my pockets. Damn. Something missing. Back to the desk, and I hesitated before I opened that drawer. A sharp yank, and I grabbed the rod. I broke the cylinder and checked the loads on the little Iver Johnson, then slipped it in my pocket. I reached back down to close the drawer, but the bottle stopped me. After all, one belt wouldn't hurt, would it?