True Crime

“Wouldn’t some husbands be grateful for the extra income?”

“Possibly…”

“If that’s all the more reason you have to be suspicious, I’d have to advise you—much as I hate to lose a prospective client—to leave well enough alone.”

Outside, the El rumbled, rattled; he glanced at it, like the world passing him by. I waited for the noise to go away before getting back into this—with the open windows, there was no other choice.

Then, when silence filled the room again, he looked at me and said, “She should have told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That she was working! She should have asked me.”

“Asked your permission, you mean?”

“Well of course! I’m—I’m the husband, aren’t I?”

“Somebody’s got to wear the pants,” I said, keeping the sarcasm to myself, I hoped.

“That’s not the most disturbing part.”

“Tell me what is.”

He looked away from me, as if he couldn’t bear to make this admission and eye contact at the same time. “She’s working under her maiden name. Hamilton. Not her married name.”

That seemed curious, but not necessarily sinister.

“She’s just asserting her independence,” I said.

“But she’s a married woman!”

“Married women have a right to an identity of their own. Or anyway that’s what a lot of ’em think.”

He spoke barely moving his lips. “She may be asserting more than just her independence.”

“You think she’s seeing other men, then?”

“That’s what I’d like you to find out.”

“You have no other reason to believe this other than your wife using her maiden name to get a job.”

“There’s another reason.”

“Well?”

He sighed, heavily; looked out at the El. “It’s personal.”

“Getting cuckolded is personal, Mr. Howard. Convince me I wouldn’t be wasting your money by taking on this job.”

“It’s the way she is…way she acts…in bed.”

“Cold, you mean?”

He looked at me, the slate eyes very sad. “Not at all. Just the reverse.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I should have this guy’s problems.

“She’s doing things I didn’t teach her.”

“Oh. Maybe she’s imaginative, or has a girlfriend who’s been around who shared some secrets.”

“Or read a sexual manual. Or was more experienced before our marriage than she at first let on. Yes, I’ve thought of those things. But she’s trying too hard, in bed; it’s as if—as if she’s trying to allay any suspicions I might have. Besides. A husband senses when a wife has been unfaithful, don’t you know that?”

Actually, I knew the opposite to be true in many cases; but why argue with money?

“I’ll be glad to look into this, Mr. Howard. For one reason only—to ease your mind. I’m inclined to think your wife will come out of this smelling like a rose.”

“I pray you’re right, Mr. Heller.”

He gave me the particulars—the address of the cafe, 1209? West Wilson Avenue, which was in the neighborhood known as Uptown, so called because that was where the El ended; and their apartment, in the Malden Plaza Hotel, a few blocks from where she was working. He also gave me a snapshot of her, a pretty, apple- cheeked girl who seemed innocence personified.

I gave him some particulars, too—assured him that I would shadow his wife without her knowing; that if I did find she had a lover or lovers, I would make no direct confrontation. That sort of embarrassment, that sort of complication, he pointedly did not want. I assured him that his wife—and any lover—would not know I was there. That was my job.

He didn’t want photos; he wasn’t looking for evidence for a divorce case.

“I just want the truth, Mr. Heller.”

“That’s a scarce commodity, Mr. Howard,” I said. “And this is Chicago…”

I asked him for a twenty-five-dollar retainer and he stood and drew five tens from a fairly well-stuffed wallet.

“Since I’ll be on the road, and you won’t be able to reach me,” he said, spreading the five bills on my desktop