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  KIM

  Robert Colby

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Beautiful but Bad

  Also Available

  Copyright

  One

  It was a Monday afternoon in February. The tourist season was in full swing along the streets and boulevards of Miami. There were so many out-of-state Cadillacs that you could hardly find a Florida jalopy among them. Brooklyn was asking directions from Birmingham and by the time they understood each other, a Times Square cop couldn’t have straightened out the jam behind them.

  I was down in the lobby of the Dupont Plaza at the foot of Biscayne Boulevard. The Dupont is a combination hotel and office building, another of those modern jewels of architecture which finger the skyline with winking glass and shining stone, monuments to play in the Mecca of sun and fun.

  It was a little after four and I had just come from my bimonthly clipping in the lobby barber shop. I had bought a paper at the newsstand and was striding towards the elevator bank with my eyes on the print, when a hand clutched my arm and I swung about.

  She was a small woman and thin. She had shrewd dark eyes set deep in a narrow-pinched face. She had a wart on the right side of her chin and her face was pushed so close to mine I could see the single gray hair which appeared to sprout from the exact center of this wart. The hair on her head was also gray and pulled back sharply into a tight bun. And with her pointed nose and chin, she was a kind of weapon on a stick, poised to strike.

  She looked to be late fiftyish and was of a type who had long ago lost all interest in concealing either age or ugliness. She wore what must have been an expensive blue silk with white polka dots, though it hung loosely on her scrawny figure. The one thing about her which fascinated me was the hand which still clutched my arm. Because one of its grasping talons was encircled by a ring which contained a diamond the size of a marble, this diamond emitting a luster of some fifty thousand candle power — at a dollar a candle.

  “Are you Mr. Striker?” she said. “Mr. Rod Striker?”

  “I’11 admit that much.”

  “Oh. Well, I was just on my way up to your office and asking directions when that man at the magazine stand pointed you out.”

  “I’ll see that he’s rewarded,” I said. “One way or another.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m Mrs. Martha Rumshaw,” she said challengingly.

  “I’m sorry,” I answered.

  “Sorry! What on earth are you sorry about?”

  “I mean, I’m sorry, but the name is not familiar.”

  She cocked her head and the fifty-thousand-dollar hand dropped from my arm. “I came to see you on a matter I would like to have investigated,” she hurried on. “It’s most urgent.”

  “Almost all the matters which come to us are urgent, Mrs. Rumshaw. Why don’t you run up to the office with me and we’ll discuss it.”

  “I don’t like stuffy offices with that grim steel furniture,” she said.

  “Our offices are not stuffy, Mrs. Rumshaw. And we have no steel furniture. It’s limed oak. And our carpets are so thick that once a woman took off her shoe in my office and it’s never been found.”

  It was almost true. We catered to the well-heeled customers, often the ones who came down for the winter on their own yachts. We had a corner suite on the twelfth floor, overlooking the bay. It was last-word plush.

  “Still,” she said, “I’d prefer to talk to you over a drink.

  I would have asked you to come out to the house but I couldn’t reach you by phone and I was in a hurry. Isn’t there a lounge?”

  “A bar? Sure. Right in the building.”

  “Please take me there,” she said. “I could use a drink.”

  We found a table at the back of the room where, with just a turn of the head, you could look out upon a blue green slice of the bay. Mrs. Rumshaw ordered a whiskey sour and I settled for a very dry martini.

  She sat looking morosely out the window until she had taken the first long swallow of her drink. Then she leaned forward and said, “I have a niece. She’s very pretty. She’s beautiful. But she’s only twenty-two. And reckless. Her mother and father were killed in a hotel fire years ago. Kim, that’s her name, was visiting me at the time of the fire and I just took charge of her from then on. I was appointed her legal guardian. Her mother, my sister, was poor and I had a large fortune left me by my husband. So I gave Kim all the advantages which her own parents could never afford. We became very close and she even took my name. I sent her to the best schools, gave her a car, spending money. In fact, Mr. Striker, I’ve left her my entire estate — which amounts to over two million dollars. And now — “

  “And now,” I finished, “she’s turned on you. She’s running around with a man you don’t approve of, some low money-grabbing character unworthy of her, a guy whose guts you hate.”

  “Oh, you’re smart, Mr. Striker,” she said. “You put things rather crudely, but you’re smart. How did you guess?”

  “I saw it coming. We have two or three cases like this a year.” And looking at Mrs. Rumshaw, my sympathies were already leaning towards the girl, Kim.

  “Well,” she said, “you probably never had a case quite like this and you guessed wrong from the beginning. My niece is devoted to me,” she said smugly. “And we see eye-to-eye on everything — including men!”

  “But you just said — ”

  “I was baiting you, Mr. Striker. I adore tripping people who have the silly notion, after five minutes in my presence, that I’m the typical old-maid-aunt guardian who rules with a heavy hand, using great filthy wads of money as my whip.”

  I smiled, liking the woman a little better. “Okay,” I said. “So I jumped to a conclusion. And you had your fun. But at your own expense. Because, as you’ll find out, Mrs. Rumshaw, my time is valuable.”

  “I’ve heard you come high,” said Mrs. Rumshaw. “But in this case, money is no object.”

  “That’s good, very good. My favorite phrase. Money is no object. We’ll get along fine. Now what’s the real problem here?”

  She had a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth and when I tried to light it, she brushed my hand away and flared an ordinary kitchen match on the bottom of the table. She inhaled and sent a giant cloud of smoke over my head.

  “Actually,” she said, “Kim is in love with a very fine young man by the name of Howard Massey. Howie is twenty-six, has an automobile dealership here in town and is a real man. I like him and even if I didn’t, he’s Kim’s choice and that’s enough for me. He’s no blueblood, whatever that is, and I don’t give a particular damn if a man’s father was a garbage collector and his mother a scrub
woman, as long as he came out of it with some mettle of his own.”

  “I’m beginning to like you, Mrs. Rumshaw.”

  She chuckled, dribbling smoke. “You didn’t at first?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like old biddies who go around lousing up little girls’ lives like female Hitlers compensating for their own frustrations. I think little girls over eighteen should be allowed to louse up their own lives — within reason. In the beginning you impressed me as the type. I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t help the way I look,” she said. “When the good Lord passed out beauty, I was so far back in line there was nothing left but a few odd features nobody wanted. But when the window opened for spirit and determination, I was right up front!” She laughed, a sad little sound. “Say, you’re a pretty outspoken sort, even for a private detective. Of course, I personally like a man who is frank. But don’t you lose a lot of clients with that sharp tongue?”

  “Mrs. Rumshaw,” I said, “I run my own show because I never could eat the kind of exhaust piped out from the arrogant phonies you usually find in charge of simpering yes-men and fanny osculators. Sure, I lose a few clients now and then. The ones who would have been colossal pains anyway. But let’s get back to your niece. She must be in trouble or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Now, I told you that Kim is reckless but I didn’t mean it in the literal sense. She’s fun-crazy and still a bit immature at times. Even though she loves Howard Massey and they’re engaged and are to be married in April, she still refuses to conform to the extent of walling herself away from every other male in the universe until she actually is married. Occasionally, not very often, I’ll admit, she does have a date or two. Howie is smart enough to be tolerant, even to pretend indifference, which makes him all the more intriguing.

  “But a few weeks ago he had to fly to Detroit for a dealers’ convention and he was gone several days. While he was away, Kim went to a party given by some people who live next door. And there she met a man by the name of Tarino, Eddie Tarino.” She paused and looked at me expectantly.

  I nodded. “Sure, I know Tarino. Not well, of course. We used to insult each other now and then when I was on the force. He owns a couple of clip joints, one on Biscayne and the other out west on Flagler. B-girl operation. The usual strip acts with the girls playing patsy with the johns between grinds. Tarino is a sharpie, an operator. But not a very bad boy — on the books.”

  “He also owns a yacht,” she said. “A big yacht that he charters for cruises to the Bahamas.” She said this with a raised eyebrow.

  “All right, and what’s wrong with that?”

  “He supplies some of his party-girls for those cruises.”

  “Probably.”

  “And even I can guess what goes on a few miles out to sea.”

  “Checkers?” “Hardly.”

  “We call it stateroom checkers. Mrs. Rumshaw, the world is a great big whirling den of sin and there are certain kinds that get more attention from the police than others. It’s a public attitude. The public eye is inclined to wink at what it laughingly calls necessary evil.”

  “I also hear,” said Mrs. Rumshaw behind another giant puff of smoke, “that they do a lot of gambling on those cruises. And God knows what else.”

  “Almost anything else, because who watches portholes in the middle of the Atlantic on dark nights? So how does this concern you and your niece, aside from the fact that she met Tarino at a party?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. While Howie was out of town, Kim went along on one of those week-end cruises. As Mr. Tarino’s guest. She thought it would be exciting. And at the time I believed it was an entirely different kind of thing — I didn’t know anything about Mr. Tarino. But now I suspect that Kim had an affair with the man.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, if it’s true. Maybe it taught her something. So now why don’t you let her forget it?”

  “I would. Oh, I’d be glad to. But this Tarino won’t let her forget it.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “No. Not at all. He simply fell in love with her — or whatever passes for love with his type. And now, although Kim simply loathes him, he won’t let her alone. He forces her to go with him.”

  “Aw, c’mon now, Mrs. Rumshaw. Forces?”

  “Yes. Forces.”

  “How?”

  “Well, it’s terribly insidious and subtle. He doesn’t lay a hand on her or anything like that. He simply makes threats.”

  “He threatens her with harm?”

  “No. He threatens to harm me. And especially Howard Massey. One night two strange men caught Howie in the parking lot behind his apartment house, just as he was getting out of his car in the pitch dark. And they beat him brutally without really leaving a mark. You know, body punches. And they warned him to stay away from Kim or next time they’d kill him.”

  I nodded, seeing the pattern of a sly form of terror, mostly by implication. “Did anyone ever threaten you personally, Mrs. Rumshaw?”

  Her face darkened, her eyes flashed. “Yes! I got a phone call one night. A tough-sounding man said I would be beaten to a pulp if Kim stopped going with Eddie Tarino and that I would be found floating in the bay if she married Howard Massey.”

  “You didn’t recognize the voice?”

  “No, I didn’t. It wasn’t Tarino, though. I know what he sounds like.”

  “Probably one of his boys. Now — did you take this to the police?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” “And what did they say?”

  “They wanted evidence. Something in writing or a witness to these threats. Since we never got anything in the mail and since no one ever heard one of those threats but myself and Howie, and since we couldn’t identify the persons making the threats, the police said that by law they were helpless to do anything.”

  “That’s true. There must be evidence of some kind for them to act.”

  “I know, Mr. Striker, and that’s why I came to you.” “Has Tarino ever passed any of these threats to your niece, Kim?”

  “No. On the contrary. To her he denies them. He just keeps calling and she goes out with him because she’s afraid for me and for Howard.”

  “Okay, I have the picture. Now what is it you want me to do that the police can’t do?”

  Her eyes walked over me, studying all that was visible of me above the table.

  “You’re a big man,” she said. “Are you over six feet?”

  “Six three.”

  “You look muscular,” she said. “And hard. I mean your eyes. Sometimes your eyes are friendly, even warm. But they’re hard, too. Know what I mean?”

  “What are you trying to say, Mrs. Rumshaw?”

  She turned for a moment to gaze out the window, her hand twirling the glass on the table so that in certain positions the sun caught that big diamond and made it do a little fire dance that set me to thinking of hard money and easy living. And vice versa. Then she turned back and her jaw was thrust out half a foot from the rest of her face.

  “I’ll give you five thousand dollars,” she said. “And I’ll hire the best lawyer money can buy if there’s any trouble.” Her lips, bleached of color, pressed in flat against her teeth. “But I want you to grab that man Tarino in some dark alley tonight and beat him until he begs for mercy and promises on his knees that he’ll stop his threats and leave my niece alone!”

  Even the wart on her chin was flushed, a tiny red beacon of anger. She poked a bony finger at my chest.

  “That’s what I want you to do, Mr. Striker. That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  Two

  Forty-five minutes later I was gazing out over the bay from Myra Bailey’s third floor apartment on 23rd off Biscayne. Myra was clutching a drink, looking bemused and slowly stirring the air with one long pendulous leg as I told her of the woes of Mrs. Martha Rumshaw.

  Myra is a partner in the agency. At least she has a one-third int
erest. She contributed a little money and a lot of special talent. She’s twenty-nine and used to be a policewoman out in L. A. where she worked with Juvenile, Bunko and Vice at one time or another. This was before she decided, like me, that the royal road to a five-figure bank account led directly away from all city payrolls. We are both very practical types, having no stars in our eyes, worshiping no heroes and collecting no autographs except those of the Secretary of the Treasury on currency of the realm, large denominations preferred. We were in the P. I. racket not because we loved the work and wanted to use our knowledge to relieve suffering humanity of its burden of evil, but because we wanted to relieve the customers of as much goddamn money as the traffic would bear. If we gave one hell of a lot of dedication to the job and drew certain ethical lines which we never crossed, it was because we wanted to build a sweet reputation, hold our license and make still more of that same goddamn money than anyone else in the game. If that sounds just a little mercenary, don’t blame me, it’s that kind of a world, buddy. And I didn’t create the system — I only want to beat it!

  I’m thirty-four and while that’s not very old, I’ve seen a lot of policewomen in my time. Some of them looked like lady wrestlers, some of them were chubby and some of them were walking bone assemblies. A few were fairly cute tricks and would cause you to look back casually over your shoulder for a second helping. But I never saw any knock-you-down, pop-your-eyes-out beauties in my corner of the world. Because it simply is not the sort of rat-race to attract beauty queens and other dames of similar construction.

  But Myra Bailey, if not the prototype of Miss America, or Miss Soapsuds, or Miss Cornpone, is an exception. She has blonde hair the color sand takes in the moonlight — not that phony bleached Brillo stuff. Her hair is cut medium short and brushed back from her face, though she has bangs in two simple strands which dangle at either side of her forehead like parentheses. Her eyes are large and azure, reflecting alertness and composure in equal parts. She has a straight nose with nostrils delicately flared, an abundant mouth and high cheekbones in a full oval face. She wears little make-up and nothing about her is designed to clobber you over the head with a jazzy neon sexiness.