The Awful Truth

by Herschel Cozine

She was beyond gorgeous. She was the essence of feminine allure; the type of woman you dream about but never see in real life. Flowing red hair, green eyes, and a body to die for. And, as I later learned, somebody had.

She stood in the doorway of my tiny, unkempt office, one hand on the doorjamb, the other on her hip. She looked like the cover of a Mickey Spillane novel. My half closed eyes opened to an f-stop of 1 to better take in the vision standing in my door.

“Come in,” I said, standing to reveal wrinkled slacks and a dirty shirt. Fortunately I didn't experience a sudden rush of testosterone or I would have revealed even more. For this I was grateful. Private eyes are supposed to be immune to feminine wiles. I'm not sure why this is true, but I didn't want to debunk the image. However, I felt the stirring of interest in the region in question and quickly sat back down.

She stood in the doorway a while longer, her shapely arm riveted to the doorjamb. A slight smile crossed her lips and her eyes sparkled. Then, dropping her arm, she oozed into the room. She didn't walk like an ordinary mortal. She glided, slid, moved with a motion that the English language is incapable of describing. I watched, totally enthralled, as she gave me the full benefit of her languid walk.

I nodded in the direction of the only unoccupied chair in the room. She sat, crossing her legs to reveal more thigh than the law allowed. (This was 1943). I diverted my eyes, not in deference to her modesty but rather that I may better concentrate on what she had to say. The gesture, however, had not been missed and the sparkle in her eyes turned to a triumphant glint that made me twist uneasily in my chair.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

She didn't answer immediately. Taking a cigarette from her purse, she put it to her lips, leaned forward and silently asked for a light. I obliged, striking a match and holding it to the cigarette. She placed her hand on mine to steady the flame and the warmth and electric thrill of her touch reignited the stirring in my crotch. The gestures—cigarette, hand on hand—were straight from a noir movie of the era, meant to add mystery and glamour to an already overloaded atmosphere of—well, of mystery and glamour.

“Thank you,” she said throatily, leaning back and blowing a cloud of smoke in my direction. Glancing about the room, her green eyes finally settled on a spot behind my head. My PI license, a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge , and a Van Gogh reproduction, a relic of the past tenant, graced the wall in question. I couldn't decide which one drew her interest.

Finally, she turned her attention from the wall to me. “My name is Kathleen McKinley,” she said. “And you must be ....” she frowned, trying to remember the name on the window to my office. I came to her aid.

“Rivers,” I said. “Jeff Rivers.”

“Yes, of course,” she said in a tone that implied a school teacher satisfied that her pupil had answered a question correctly. “Mister Rivers.”

“Please. Call me Jeff.”

“All right...Jeff.”

The name, coming from her lips, took on a new meaning and I grew warm at the sound of it. I wondered why she was here. Her beauty, charm and very presence kept me off balance, and it would be next to impossible to concentrate on whatever it was that needed my concentration. Still, as a professional, I was obliged to listen. And it's fair to say I would have taken the case if it was a matter of jaywalking.

“Miss McKinley,” I started. She cut me off.

“Kathleen,” she said. “First names only, OK?”

I nodded. “Kathleen. How can I help you?”

Again her eyes sought out the point on the wall behind me and she studied it for a long moment. Finally she turned her attention to me.

“Someone close to me is going to be murdered.”

The statement, uttered in a honeyed voice that didn't go with the message, made me sit up straight. I watched as her eyes fluttered between mine and the wall. I found my eyes drifting toward her cleavage, but with a will of iron I directed them back to her face.

“Murdered?” I said, for lack of something more meaningful. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain.” She fished into her tiny purse and extracted a piece of paper. Carefully unfolding it, she leaned over and placed it on my desk. She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on my desk, sat back and draped an arm over the back of the chair.

I picked it up. The writing consisted of one line, written on a typewriter. It said simply:

“Stop seeing Steve or he dies.”

I reread it, folded it back up and laid it on the desk. “Sounds like a jealous suitor,” I said. “May I keep this?”

She nodded. Pulling a manila folder from the desk drawer, I placed the note in it and set it aside.

“Who is the—er—victim?”

“My partner.”

“Who is going to kill him?”

The legs uncrossed, her head tilted back with a toss of fabulous red hair. “That's why I'm here. I don't know.” She paused, recrossed her legs and turned on the electricity with those incredible eyes. “That's what I would like you to do. Find out. Tell me.”

I nodded toward the folder containing the note. “Do you have any idea who wrote it?”

She shook her head.

“How did you get it?”

“It was under my door when I got up this morning,” she replied.

“A jealous lover, perhaps?”

“No.”

I waited silently for her to go on. She showed no sign of adding anything further.

“You have other admirers, I'm sure.” I said finally.

Her mouth twitched at the word, and her eyes opened to look into mine. I tried to act nonchalant, but failed miserably. The effect wasn't lost on her and she smiled.

“Of course. I have several. But none of them are the type to kill.”

“I'll be the judge of that, Kathleen,” I said. “I've been in this crazy business long enough to know that people are capable of horrible things, particularly when beautiful women like yourself are involved. Can you give me a few names?”

She eyed me seductively, a trace of a smile playing on her lips. “Would you kill for me, Jeff?” she said.

I started to answer that—affirmative, for the record—but decided not to give her any more advantage than she already had. “I'm not on the list of jealous suitors,” I said. “But it would help if you could tell me who they are.”

“No,” she replied. “It wouldn't be fair. You're only guessing that one of them would kill Steve. I don't want to be responsible for dragging them into this. At least not now.”

“Suit yourself,” I said.

“Besides, it's not what you think. Steve is my business partner.”

“Strictly business?” I asked, emphasis on strictly.

The smile returned to her luscious lips. I squirmed under her gaze, busied myself writing notes, and tried to keep my raging hormones under control. There is no way, I told myself, that a red blooded male could limit his involvement with this creature to business only.

“OK,” I said, keeping my voice as nonchalant as I could under the circumstances. “I need an address. And full name.”

“Steve,” she said. “Steve Mitchell. He lives at 1226 Harwood Drive .”

I placed the street, a quiet residential street in the better part of town. Not a high crime area. But crimes of passion aren't limited to geography.

“Do you live there, too?”

She threw her head back. “I told you. We're business partners. We share an office on Billings Drive downtown. Catering. Weddings and funerals primarily.”

I studied her face. There was nothing in her expression that I could see to indicate she was hiding anything.

“Does Steve know about this?”

“No. I haven't told him and I don't intend to.”

“And just what is it that you want me to do?”

“Find out who wrote this note,” she said, emphasizing her words by tapping on the folder containing the note.

I leaned back in my chair and thought about it. It would be a difficult case, perhaps even impossible. And I didn't handle failure well. But there are no guarantees in this world, and, besides, I needed the work.

“OK,” I said. “I'll look into it. My fee is twenty dollars a day plus expenses.” It was high; some might even say exorbitant. But she didn't voice an objection. She reached back into her purse and took out a checkbook. Reaching for the pen on the desk, she said, “One hundred dollar retainer sufficient?'

“Quite,” I replied.

Finished writing, she held the check out to me and turned on her luminous smile. “When will you have something for me?” she asked.

“Call me on Thursday,” I said. “Or give me your phone number and I'll call you.”

She shook her head. “I'll call.” She walked to the door, opened it, then turned to me.

“I'm looking forward to our relationship,” she said.

So was I.

* * *

I retrieved my Plymouth from the underground garage and found the nearest service station. My “A” sticker, “non-essential” by government edict, entitled me to enough gasoline for my driving needs. And with the price of gasoline skyrocketing to twenty-seven cents a gallon, I used my car as little as possible.

I parked the Plymouth right in front of the building I was visiting. Such an event today is unthinkable. But during the war, with gas rationing, fewer cars and more people walking or biking to work, parking places were not the commodity they are today. And it was free—no meters to feed with zinc pennies.

The door to Barry's miniscule office was open. I had never been there when it was closed, and always believed that one would suffocate for lack of air after ten minutes in the tiny room. I tapped on the glass as I entered, bringing Barry out of his normal mid-morning semi-coma. He looked up, but remained seated.

“What's up, Jeff?”

“Need your expertise.” I said, throwing the folder with the note on his desk.

He took it, lifted the note and read. His face showed no emotion, but he must have read it two or three times, as it took a full minute for him to look up at me.

“Who is Steve?”

“Not important. What I need from you is your best guess as to the brand of typewriter, make, model, and so on.”

He read the note again, frowning over it. Finally, he removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose and sat back.

“Remington,” he said. “Probably a newer model. Post 1940 at least. There's not much to go on. The note is too short for a thorough analysis. Only twelve letters of the alphabet. And the only capitals are the same letter—‘S'.” He pointed to the note. The ‘t' is a Remington, I'm pretty sure. And the ‘g'. On a Remington, capitals are achieved by pressing the 'Capital' key and lowering the carriage. It's easy. No pressure involved. Underwoods raise the platen. It's relatively heavy, and you use your little finger to raise it. That usually results in the capital letter being slightly higher or lower than the other letters.” He tapped the note with a bony finger. “That's not the case here.”

“Could you match the note with a specific typewriter?”

“Maybe. But it would only be an educated guess. There are no idiosyncrasies to speak of.” He held the note up and pointed at the words. “No misaligned letters. No imperfections caused by wear and tear, particularly on the much used letters, like ‘e' and ‘t'. That's one reason I think the typewriter is fairly new. Whoever owns it keeps it clean. Notice that there are no fill-ins of closed letters due to ink buildup from the ribbon.”

“But that doesn't help trace it,” I said with a touch of disappointment in my voice.

“Nope,” he said. He opened a drawer, took out a magnifying glass and studied the note again. “Even new typewriters have ‘fingerprints', though.” He peered through the magnifying glass with one eye closed, then leaned back. “There's a tiny void in the base of the letter ‘p'. A manufacturing defect that's virtually undetectable unless you are really looking for it.”

He gave me the note and the magnifying glass. I focused on the letter, squinting through one eye. At first I saw nothing. Then I noticed a hint of a void where the base of the ‘p' widened at the bottom. Barry was right. No one would notice it, and only an expert would detect it.

“So this could help identify the typewriter?” I asked.

Barry nodded. “It's unique to the machine,” he said. “At least combined with the other imperfections, or lack of them if you will, it would probably be enough to make a positive ID.”

I tucked the note back in the folder, thanked him and left.

I didn't have a definite place to start. Tracing the note to a specific typewriter would be helpful. But how does one go about that without a suspect? There must be thousands of typewriters in town, Remington or otherwise. Even if I limited the search to post 1940 Remingtons, the task was formidable. I mulled this discouraging bit of information around in my mind as I headed back to my office.

Kathleen was there when I arrived. “Hi,” she purred, and my heartbeat quickened at the sound of her voice.

“Hi. What's up?'

She smiled seductively. “I just wanted to see you again,” she said.

I couldn't believe my ears. Why would this goddess of lust, desire and all that is carnal want to see me? I walked over to the desk and busied myself with some papers, trying to hide my excitement.

“Jeff?” she said.

I looked up. She was standing now, her hand on the top button of her blouse. Twisting it open, she dropped to the next and repeated the motion. I swallowed hard and held up my hand.

“Please, Kathleen. I don't think...”

She slipped out of her blouse and let it fall to the floor. Her full breasts spilled out of a lacy bra, which did little to hide the firm nipples underneath.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked.

“Please,” I said. “I can't let you do this.”

She ignored my remarks, walked around the desk and put her arms around my neck. Pulling my head down, she kissed me fiercely with tongue and teeth. Her full lips melted into mine and the hard probing tongue sent fire through my body. I grew hard instantly.

She pulled away, but kept her arms around my neck. She pressed her body hard against mine, and I was certain she could feel my erection.

“I want you,” she said. Before I could protest, she dropped her hand to my crotch and unzipped my pants. Her touch sent an electric shock through me and I responded by pulling her to me, my hand slipping under her skirt, thrilling to the touch of downy hair and warm smooth skin.

We ended up on the floor behind the desk. Her frenzied lovemaking was as fantastic as her beauty. I was thoroughly exhausted, lying naked on the floor of my office while she coolly dressed and patted her hair back into place.

“Thank you for taking the case,” she said, as if nothing had happened.

I blinked, which was the best I could do at the moment to acknowledge her thanks.

Of course, so far I had done little to solve the mystery of who wrote the letter, and why. Maybe the answer to the first would provide the answer to the second. But with nothing more to go on than a six word typewritten note, I felt like a rookie batter facing Walter Johnson —overwhelmed, overmatched and in dire fear of striking out.

I decided to call it a day. And what a day it had been! Any activity after that on the floor of my office would be anticlimactic, if you'll excuse the pun. I grabbed a hamburger at a fast food joint, added some french fries, and washed the greasy combination down with a mixture of Coke and Dr. Pepper. Hey, it's my stomach. To each his own.

I had fallen into the deepest sleep I have had in months, and was in the middle of a dream that rivaled any movie I had seen recently when a jangling roused me to a confused wakefulness. I hit the snooze alarm, then realized that the ringing was the telephone. Sitting up and running my hand through my rapidly thinning hair, I reached for the phone.

“Rivers,” I said.

“Oh, Jeff,” the voice on the line cried. I recognized it immediately. Kathleen.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“It's Steve. He's...he's dead!”

Her words brought me to a full wakefulness. I sat up straight, threw my legs over the side of the bed and reached for my robe.

“Dead?” I repeated. “How? Where?”

“Oh, it's dreadful,” she said. “I...I...oh, Jeff, please help me.”

“OK. OK,” I said. “Try to get ahold of yourself. Where are you? I'll come right over.”

“I'm at the office. The police are here. And firefighters and paramedics.”

“Sit tight,” I said. “I'm on my way.”

I reclaimed my car and sped downtown, missing a few stop signs as well as a few angry pedestrians along the way. I parked in front of the office and hurried inside.

The office was abuzz with activity. Uniformed police, white coated paramedics and plainclothes homicide detectives were milling about. In the midst of the chaos I spotted Kathleen slumped in a chair behind a small neat desk. I started toward her.

Lieutenant Deaver looked up and sneered when he saw me. “It's you,” he said as though my identity would not be known if he didn't point it out. “What are you doing here, Rivers?”

I nodded toward the chair where Kathleen sat, looking as forlorn as it is possible for a woman of her beauty to look. “Miss McKinley here is my client.”

Deaver shook his head. “Figures. You have a bad habit of showing up at murder scenes.”

“It goes with the territory,” I said. “And I'd say the pot was calling the kettle black.”

“This is my job, Rivers,” he said. He glanced at Kathleen appreciatively. “Some guys have better working conditions than others.”

I had to agree with that, but said nothing. Kathleen had crossed over to me and was crying softly into my chest. “It's terrible, Jeff,” she said.

Reluctantly I pushed her away from me and stepped across the room to stand next to Deaver. The body on the floor, still oozing blood from a bullethole in the head, was the late Steve Mitchell. I had only seen pictures of him, but even if I hadn't been told who he was I would recognize him. He was not as dapper or as rosy cheeked as his photograph, but considering the circumstances I wasn't surprised.

“Who found him?” I asked of no one in particular. Deaver grunted, but didn't answer my question.

“I did,” Kathleen said. She had sat back down, facing away from the body, dabbing her eyes with a small delicate handkerchief which appeared to be too small to be up to the task.

“I'm sorry,” I said. It must have been a terrible shock to you.”

She patted her nose with the postage stamp cloth she called a handkerchief. “It was...it was...dreadful.”

“Do you have any idea....?” I started, but Deaver cut me off.

“Stuff it, Rivers. She's a material witness. I want her statement before she goes public.”

“She's my client, Deaver,” I protested.

“You ain't a lawyer. Only lawyers have that privilege.” He eyed me disdainfully. “Not two-bit private eyes who get a license by mail order for twenty-five bucks.”

I bristled at the remark. First of all I didn't get my license by mail order, and secondly it costs forty dollars. But I kept my silence and stepped over to the body. It wasn't a pretty sight, but murder victims seldom are.

Deaver allowed me a few seconds before his patience wore out. “OK, Rivers, that's long enough. This is a crime scene and only authorized personnel are allowed beyond the tape.”

“What tape?” I asked.

He pointed to the front door. “The tape that is going across the door.” Turning to a uniformed policeman standing a few feet away, he said, “Tape the door.” Then almost as an afterthought, he added, “as soon as you have escorted Mister Rivers through it.”

The policeman took me by the arm and herded me towards the door. As I passed the desk where Kathleen was sitting she handed me a piece of paper. I slipped it in my pocket. If Deaver or the cop noticed, they gave no indication.

I waited until I was back in my office before I read the note.

“The police want me at the station to tell them what I know. I'll come to your office as soon as I can. Will you meet me there?"

"OK.”

I'd meet her in Hell if she asked.

I folded the note back up and put it in the folder with the other. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 11:45. Adding twenty minutes, (the clock was consistently twenty minutes slow), I decided to grab a quick bite at the deli downstairs. Kathleen would be tied up for at least two hours.

I was midway through my pastrami on rye when a sickening thought hit me. At first I passed it off as a product of a fertile and suspicious mind. But it wouldn't go away. I had no choice but to act on it, no matter what the result might be. I scooped the sandwich up, went back to my office and retrieved the file. Then I went downtown.

It was two o'clock when I got back to the office. To my relief, Kathleen wasn't there yet. That gave me time to collect my thoughts and prepare for the scene that was surely to follow. I wasn't looking forward to it.

Kathleen arrived looking as radiant as ever. Smiling brightly, she crossed over to me and kissed me on the forehead.

“Ordeal over,” she said.

“Is Deaver satisfied with your story?” I said.

“Yes. Of course. Why shouldn't he be?”

I busied myself with some papers on the desk. She stood there for a minute or two, her forehead crinkled in a questioning frown. Finally she spoke.

“What is it, Jeff? What's the matter?”

“I don't like being played for a sucker,” I said.

She stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I'm talking about, Kathleen.”

Her voice was tense. “No. Please tell me.”

“What did you do with the gun?”

She drew in her breath and sat down. “Are you insane?” She said. “Are you saying...”

“Yes,” I said. “You killed Steve. And you are using me as an alibi. I'm supposed to tell the cops that you were concerned about Steve's safety. I'm supposed to show them the note that threatened him. You know. The one that was slipped under your door. The one that caused such concern that you brought it to me.”

“Jeff, what are you...”

I held up my hand to quiet her. “And you even seduced me, hoping that I would be so overcome by your charms and beauty that I would never suspect you of being capable of murder.” I stood up. “'I want you',” I mimicked. “Nice act, sister. And you have all the equipment.” I laughed without humor. “And I actually thought it might be for real. My ego took a trip that had me believing wonderful things about myself. Jeff Rivers. Irresistible. Lover extraordinaire. Hah!”

“Jeff. You're not making sense.”

I pulled the note from the file along with the one she had given me earlier that day.

“I have a friend who sells, services and repairs typewriters. He's an expert in the field. He compared the notes and is willing to swear they came from the same typewriter.” I took a magnifying glass from the desk drawer and handed it to Kathleen along with the notes.

“Look at the ‘p's' in these two notes. They have identical defects. Other than that the letters are flawless. Do you have a Remington typewriter?”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the note. Her face had lost its color.

“You typed the first note, brought it to me with your trumped up story, then killed Steve, knowing that I would vouch for your concern about his welfare. Nice idea. But I'm not buying it.”

“Anybody could have used my typewriter,” she said.

“No. You and Steve were the only two people who had access to the office. You don't even have a janitorial service.” I held up my hand as she started to protest. “I checked. No one could use the typewriter except you or Steve. Besides, there would be no reason for someone to risk being discovered using your typewriter. I don't think it would occur to the average killer that the note would be traced to a particular machine.”

Kathleen set the magnifying glass on the desk, sat down and put her head in her hands. She was crying softly. “I had to do it, Jeff. I had to. Steve was running the business into the ground. He wouldn't sell out and he wouldn't listen to me.” She brushed a tear from her eye. “I was desperate.”

I wasn't buying it. She had lied to me before, and I was convinced she was lying to me now. He was probably blackmailing her. I'm sure she has some pretty dark secrets. But it really didn't matter. She could save her story, her tears and her beauty for the jury. It would help immensely if she got an all male jury. Men have a definite weakness when it comes to the fairer sex. It's one of our many shortcomings.

I should know.