Sixty-seventh Street at ten that evening as suggested. I had to break a date to do it, but even if the chance was only one in a million I wanted it.
To get that point settled and out of the way, the man who wanted to quiz me was not Arnold Zeck. It was not even a long black Cadillac; it was only a '48 Chewy two-door sedan.
It was a hot August night, and as I walked along that block I was sweating a little myself, especially my left armpit under the holster. There was a solid string of parked cars at the curb, and when the Chewy stopped and its door opened and my name was called, not loud, I had to squeeze between bumpers to get to it. As I climbed in and pulled the door shut the man in the front seat, behind the wheel, swivelled his head for a look at me and then, with no greeting, went back to his chauffeuring, and the car started forward.
My companion on the back seat muttered at me, “Maybe you ought to show me something.
I got out my display case and handed it to him with the licence-detective, not driver's-uppermost. When we stopped for a light at Second Avenue he inspected it with the help of a street lamp, and returned it. I was already sorry I had wasted an evening. Not only was he not Zeck; he was no one I had ever seen or heard of, though I was fairly well acquainted, at least by sight, with the high brass in the circles that Max Christy moved in. This bird was a complete stranger. With more skin supplied for his face than was needed, it had taken up the slack in pleats and wrinkles, and that may have accounted for his sporting a pointed brown beard, since it must be hard to shave pleats.
As the car crossed the avenue and continued west, I told him, “I came to oblige
Max Christy-if suggestions might help any. I'll only be around till Saturday.
He said, “My name's Roeder, and spelled it.
I thanked him for the confidence. He broadened it. “I'm from the West Coast, in case you wonder how I rate. I followed something here and found it was tied in with certain operations. I'd just as soon leave it to local talent and go back home, but I'm hooked and I have to stick. Either he preferred talking through his nose or that was the only way he knew. “Christy told you we want a man tailed?
“Yes. I explained that I'm not available.
“You have got to be available. There's too much involved. He was twisted around to face me. “It'll be harder than ever now, because he's on guard. It's been messed up. They say if anyone can do it you can, especially with the help of a couple of men that Nero Wolfe used. You can get them, can't you?
“Yeah, I can get them, but I can't get me. I won't be here.
“You're here now. You can start to-morrow. As Christy told you, five C.s a day.
It's a straight tailing job, where you're working for a man named Roeder from
Los Angeles. The cops might not like it too well if you tied in with a local like Wilts or Brownie Costigan, but what's wrong with me? You never heard of me before. You're in business as a private detective. I want to hire you, at a good price, to keep a tail on a man named Rackham and report to me on his movements.
That's all, a perfectly legitimate job.
We had crossed Park Avenue. The light was dim enough that I didn't have to be concerned about my face showing a reaction to the name Rackham. The reaction inside me was my affair.
“How long would it last? I inquired.
“I don't know. A day, a week, possibly two.
“What if something hot develops? A detective doesn't take a tailing job sight unseen. You must have told me why you were curious about Rackham. What did you tell me?
Roeder smiled. I could just see the pleats tightening. “That I suspected my business partner had come east to make a deal with him, freezing me out.
“That could be all right if you'll fill it in. But why all the mystery? Why didn't you come to my office instead of fixing it to pick me off the street at night?
“I don't want to show in the daytime. I don't want my partner to know I'm here.
Roeder smiled again. “Incidentally, that's quite true, that I don't want to show in the daytime-not any more than I can help.
“That I believe. Skipping the comedy, there aren't many
Rackhams. There are none in the Manhattan phone book. Is this the Barry Rackham whose wife got killed last spring?
“Yes.
I grunted. “Quite a coincidence. I was there when she was murdered, and now I'm offered the job of tailing him. If he gets murdered too that would be a coincidence. I wouldn't like it. I had a hell of a time getting out from under a bond as a material witness so I could take a vacation. If he got killed while I was on his tail-
“Why should he?
“I don't know. I didn't know why she should either. But it was Max Christy who arranged this date, and while he is not himself a marksman as far as I know, he moves in circles that like direct action. I waved a hand. “Forget it. If that's the kind of interest you've got in Rackham you wouldn't tell me anyhow. But another thing: Rackham knows me. It's twice as hard to tail a guy that knows you. Why hire a man that's handicapped to begin with? Why not-
I held it because we had stopped for a red light, on Fifth Avenue in the
Seventies, and our windows were open, and the open window of a car alongside was only arm's distance away.
