Howdy, folks. I hope you’ll forgive me for taking a short break from “Murder by Installments.” I’ve got several writing projects in the works, and need to free up some brain space. However, not to fear. In the meantime, here’s a different adventure of Matt Slade, with a new character to bedevil him. I hope you enjoy “Music to Murder By,” for the next few weeks.
Music to Murder By
Matt Slade
I was just putting the wraps on the case of another unfaithful husband, banging out an invoice to send the offended party, (word to the wise, make her pay before she gets the report,) when she knocked on my office door. I pulled that morning's Philly Inquirer over to cover the open file. A coffee ring circled the news that Austria was annexed. "Come in!" I swore under my breath. It was the end of a very long—
But no. This was not the dumpy little house-frau from South Philly, this dame was a looker, even in a tweedy jacket and skirt. Long muscular legs in black stockings curved up into that skirt. Hair like honey cascaded from under a felt hat on a rakish tilt.
"Mr. Slade?"
I jumped up so fast the creaky office chair would've tipped, if not for the casters. Still, it rolled a good eight feet before it crashed into the wall. I paid that no mind, or the twinge in my game leg, either. Just stepped around my typing stand and desk to greet the lady properly. "Matt Slade, Miss. Come in, come in. And what can I do for you?"
"I'm Michelle Marteau, ONI." She reached a gloved hand into her jacket to produce a wallet. She flipped it at me. It cooled me down no little bit.
I stared, consternated. "Office of Naval Intelligence," the card read. I didn't know what an ONI ID card was supposed to look like. This could've been one, I supposed. "So, you're what? Some kinda girl G-man? And what do you want with me?" I pointed her to the client chair, and went to find my own.
And her name, on the card. That was a froggy moniker if I'd ever heard one, and I'd heard plenty back about twenty years before. She didn't sound frog, though. More like corn. Nebraska, maybe, one of them places. My unit'd had a fair sampling of farm-boys.
"I need your help, Mr. Slade. I need local knowledge. Most of all, I need a man."
Brother, that warmed me right back up again. "Well, Miss Marteau, I got you covered both ways."
"Oh, good. Come with me, please."
"Right now? Wait a minute, sister. What kind of help? There are things I won't do, not for money, not even for a looker like you."
She'd started to rise, but now she sat—slumped, really—back into the chair. "I don't have much time, Mr. Slade. I'm here to investigate the leakage of information from the Philadelphia Navy Yard. A certain engineer is suspected, and DC sent me to...test him, you might say."
"Test him how?"
"I am, as you noted, a 'looker.' Part of my job is the 'honeytrap.' I was to attempt to seduce him, to see if he were in fact corruptible."
"How many men pass that test?" I asked. I didn't figure it was a big number. That kind of looker.
"This one did."
"You mean he's what, innocent? Pure?" I could hardly believe the idea.
"That's what the local ONI head thinks, too. Although I suppose even horse manure can be 'pure,' in its way. But it wasn't like a man holding himself back. Resisting temptation. I got the feeling I wasn't his type."
"Blonde?"
"A woman."
"Ah…"
"And now you see why I need a man, Mr. Sla—"
"Oh, no, sister. That's real high on the list of 'Matt Slade Don't Do.' I ain't makin' up to no—"
"No, I doubt you're his type, either. I need a man to go places where I can't. The Turkish baths, for example."
"That's not a hell of a lot better, Miss Marteau." I shook my head. "If you suspect this nancy boy, why don't you just arrest him and get it over with?"
"I said he's an engineer. Apparently, he's a good one. He's working on the plans for the new super-battleships. Iowa-class, they'll be called. They don't want to lose him unless they're sure they have to."
"All right. What's the Government gonna pay me for this help?"
"What's your usual rate?"
I told her. I only padded it a little bit. I doubted the DC bean counters would notice.
"Consider it doubled." She held out an already written government check, for a smidge more than double. She held her other hand to shake, just like a man.
"Miss Marteau, you just bought yourself a boy." I was surprised at the strength in that gloved hand.
"Call me Micki."
"I'm Matt."
I grabbed my hat and coat from the rack and followed her out the door. I made a show of patting the pockets of the coat, before I got the key out and locked up. Yep, the little .32 was right where it belonged, left coat pocket. I'd learned my lesson. A buttoned up coat made it slow getting the big .45 out, so now I packed both.
At the stairs I offered her my arm, chivalrous as you please. She linked hers with mine. Her side wasn't the usual soft, pleasant, feminine yielding. Unless I missed my guess, there was an iron in there.