Free The Devil Met a Lady by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Phil supplied.
    “Right,” I said admiringly, as if he’d just won a box of Milky Ways on “Dr. I.Q.”
    “Wife and the other guy have a name?”
    “Everybody’s got a name, Phil,” I whined. “I don’t know theirs.”
    “Go on,” he said.
    I didn’t like the way his hands were clenching and unclenching. “Well, the guy gives me the name of Grover Niles, says Niles has the record or knows who does. I go to Niles, ask him. He says he knows who has the record—who must be trying to blackmail my client. Niles was about to take me to the blackmailer when he got shot. Killer came up after me. I hit him with a picture. You’ll find it up there. He went down the stairs, dropped the gun he shot Niles with. I picked up the gun and he ran.”
    “You get a good look at the killer?”
    “Good enough,” I said, sitting back.
    “That’s it?” asked Phil.
    “I’ve got nothing else, Phil, except a pocketful of cookie pieces and crumbs.” I tried to look like a cherub. I grinned, shrugged, held out my hands, palms up. If my brother was going to destroy me, the time was now.
    “I believe you,” he said. “Except for the shit about not knowing anybody’s name. Steve?”
    “As far as it goes,” added Seidman, putting away his notebook.
    “As far as it goes,” agreed Phil. “You figure the blackmailer found you, knew Grover would talk, and shot him?”
    “Something like that,” I agreed. “Makes sense.”
    “How’d he know you were with Niles?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I wish I had some idea.”
    Phil got up. I started to do the same. He motioned for me to sit down and moved to my side, leaning down to whisper in my ear. His right hand touched my shoulder. His fingers dug in deep. I kept looking at the belly of the pup beyond Seidman.
    “Talk to your client,” he whispered. “Tell him the police want his name, the police want to talk to him about blackmail and murder. Tomorrow you call, give me your client’s name and address, and tell him to come see me. You understand?”
    “I understand, Phil.”
    His fingers came out of my shoulder, leaving an indented jacket and bruised flesh.
    “Good. You want to come over for dinner, maybe Sunday, if Ruth’s up to it? Ruth and the kids ask about you.”
    “Sure,” I said.
    “Ruth’s making stuffed cabbage,” he explained. “Come anytime in the afternoon.”
    “Okay. I’ve had a busy day and I’d better track down my client.”
    Phil didn’t say anything. He moved slowly toward the curb where Seidman’s car was parked.
    “Have your client call tomorrow,” Seidman reminded me, adjusting his hat. “Walk easy, Toby.”
    “You forgot to say Seidman says,” I said.
    “Never heard that one before,” Seidman said deadpan, as he turned and took a step toward his car.
    “Hey,” I called after them. “What about my car? I left it parked near Niles’s office.”
    I think Phil shrugged. No one answered. I sat there and watched them get into the car and drive away.

C HAPTER F OUR
     
    I had cash and Arthur Farnsworth was paying and, so far, getting his money’s worth. I hailed a Black and White cab and had him drive me back to my Crosley, which had a ticket under the windshield wiper. I pulled into evening traffic, turned on the radio, and searched. I heard Walter Huston’s voice first, then Bette Davis’s rasping answer. I didn’t know Dodsworth , but I figured out fast that Davis was playing Dodsworth’s wife, that she had been fooling around, and that he wasn’t happy about it. It sounded too much like real life. I turned it off and headed for the radio station.
    I got there just as the broadcast was ending. I already had one parking ticket in the glove compartment, next to my .38. I had to risk another one. I pulled into a parking lot marked Staff Only, looking for a guard to talk my way past. No one appeared. I found a space next to a big DeSoto, got out, and went in search of Bette Davis.
    People were streaming