operative who lived with his gun in his second-best suit and dodged more debt collectors than customers. That was a long time ago now, before the agency grew respectable and opened offices in all the major cities, when a case was a case and had to be attended to personally or not at all. The boss had a pretty rough time of it then, but when success came, it came fast, and Mike Lantry rode the wave upwards.
I should know.
I’m Mike Lantry.
I stood outside Delhany’s and stared at the big sign the way I always do when I’m walking to the office. It was growing dark and, as I watched, the time-switch tripped the current so that it flamed with bright red neon. The light tinged the dusk with the colour of blood, and for some reason I felt all nostalgic inside. Delhany came out to fix his shutters and nodded to me.
‘Evening, Mike.’
‘Evening.’ I smiled as I said it. Delhany, despite outward appearances, handled a fortune in cut and uncut stones, dealing mostly with collectors and the trade. He, like me, had come up the hard way and that, if nothing else, gave us something in common. He nodded towards the sign.
‘Sure looks good, Mike. Busy?’
‘As ever.’
‘Cagey?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t blame you; what a man doesn’t know he can’t spill.’ He shivered as the wind cut down the avenue. ‘It’s going to be a stinking night, Mike. Winter’s come early this year.’ He blew on his hands, tested his shutters, and nodded good night. I nodded back, then looked at the sign again. It was still new enough to be worth looking at, but old enough so that I didn’t have to worry whether or not I could pay for it.
Those days were a long way behind me now.
A second blast cut down the avenue, whipping scraps of paper out of the gutter and sending them spinning down the sidewalk. I shivered, not with cold, and hunched my shoulders beneath my gabardine. Memories perhaps? I didn’t know and didn’t stop to find out.
Sam, the elevator boy, nodded to me as he opened his cage and took me up to the offices. He didn’t speak much, which was one of the reasons I employed him, but he didn’t miss much, either. He let me out, and Lucy, my blonde, outwardly dumb but inwardly shrewd secretary, paused in the act of struggling into her coat.
‘Mike! Something up?’
‘Relax.’ I stopped her taking off her coat and getting ready for work again. In a business like mine the clock doesn’t have much meaning. You work when you can and rest when you’re able, and if a case comes up in the middle of the night, you take it. Any case, anytime, anywhere, the one thing each and every employee has drilled and drilled into them.
‘Westcote phoned through from London,’ said Lucy. She still made no effort to go home. ‘The Carruthers case is finished: the son had been passing forged cheques and trying to blame the maid. He said that he’d tied it up and that the old man was grateful.’
I nodded.
‘Lambert wired from Paris, he thinks that he might have a lead on the Hammond emeralds. Should he follow it up?’
I nodded.
‘There’re more reports from Rio; López thinks that he might be on the trail of a smuggling racket.’
‘Aliens?’
‘He thinks so.’ Lucy looked at me. ‘Should I inform the Immigration Authorities?’
‘I’ll drop Inspector Cormay a hint,’ I said. ‘Tell López to keep his mind on his own work. The smuggling of illegal immigrants is Government business, not ours. Did you hear from Tokyo?’
‘Report negative.’
‘Berlin?’
‘Case closed.’
‘Rome?’
‘Developments awaited.’
‘In other words, everything is under control?’
‘That’s about it, chief.’ I don’t like being called chief and Lucy knows it, but we’ve known each other long enough for her to get away with it—sometimes. I picked up her purse and thrust it into her hand.
‘Right. Beat it now and catch up on your beauty sleep. Is the night staff all in?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated, sensing in the way that some women have, that something was wrong. ‘What’s the matter, Mike? Why have you come back this late?’
‘No reason,’ I said, and it was the truth. ‘Just got to feeling restless, you know the way it is, and thought that I’d come back and sit awhile.’ I pushed her towards the door. ‘Get off now and enjoy yourself.’
‘Sure.’ She hesitated by the door. ‘If you should need me, you know where to find me.’
‘I won’t need you,’ I said. ‘I told you that there’s nothing up, just that I got to feeling restless and thought that I’d clear up a few things. Now beat it!’
‘Restless,’ she sniffed. ‘What you need is a wife and a houseful of children, they’d cure you. Why you haven’t—’
I interrupted before she could get all sentimental, taking her arm and leading her almost to the elevator.
‘Good night, Lucy, and don’t come back until morning.’
‘Good night,’ she said and started to say something else. The clang of the doors drowned her words, and I made my way back into the office.
Into the inner office, that is, the one where I sit when I’m sitting, which isn’t too often. It had grown quite dark by now, the wind was carrying more than a hint of rain, and it was a foul night of early winter. I stood by the window looking out into the avenue and, in the bright red of the neon sign, the gutters seemed to be running with blood.
I shrugged, annoyed at myself for my own imagination and, returning to the desk, opened the bottom drawer and reached for the Scotch.
I always keep Scotch in the bottom drawer. Not because I think it smart to drink, but because too often a slug of Scotch was the only meal I could afford, and because sometimes it did more than replace a lost night’s sleep. I still keep it, not so much for myself now, as for the occasional client on the verge of breakdown, or for moments when, despite all the neon and offices, the secretaries and operators scattered all over the world, I remembered what I was and what I had been.
Better Scotch, of course, the same as the better suits, better offices, better car, and almost everything else.
But not better service.
I savoured the Scotch and was deciding whether or not to take a second drink, when the intercom buzzed and a voice came from the speaker.
‘Mike?’
‘Yes?’
‘Heard that you’d come in.’ Berson sounded tired. ‘I’ve just reported back from L.A. Want I should see you?’
I thought about it, smiling a little as I stared down at my glass. Good old Berson, always reliable—to do the wrong thing. I’d sent him out to chase a missing husband and he’d probably frightened the guy to death or straight back to his wife, which wasn’t what she’d wanted. She wanted a divorce and big alimony.
‘Not tonight, Pug. Check in tomorrow.’
‘But this is important, Mike. That guy ran like a rabbit and I think he headed straight back to his wife.’
‘He did,’ I said. ‘Forget it. We found him for her, didn’t we?’
‘That’s right.’ Pug sounded pleased. ‘Smart work, eh? I handled that one well, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’ Useless to tell him that on every job he went on I had to send a man to cover him. Pug was all muscle and little brain, but what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in loyalty.