A name like Poetry Brookman seemed trouble enough for one man, but Brookman also owed money to bookie Jake Martello, until somebody ended his misery one dark night. Martello hired Mark Preston to look into it, and he ran into some odd people: like Hugo Somerset, who promoted everybody; a new-style college hoodlum, Clyde Hamilton; and the regular variety in the shape of Legs McCann.
Preston preferred the shape of blackmail victim Eve Prince, but time was running out. People were getting killed, the Martello brothers impatient, and Homicide suspicious. Preston knew he’d need a lot of luck this time, if he was to stay out of trouble.
THE BLONDE
WORE BLACK
PETER CHAMBERS
New York 10021
ROY PUBLISHERS, INC.
© Peter Chambers 1968
Library of Congress Number 68–15897
CHAPTER ONE
I NEVER HEARD of Poetry Brookman till the day they found him smashed up on the rocks below Indian Point. Even then he didn’t rate too much space, just one half column on the front page of the Bugle. It’s tricky up there on the point, and we get an average of two or three people every year winding up at the bottom. Some are plain suicides, some plain unlucky, caught in the sudden alarming gusts of wind which are a peculiarity of the place.
So I wasn’t too interested in Brookman, despite the fancy name. After noting that he was thirty-one years old, and a poet—that was a twist—I got down to the serious reading. I was half way through a biased report on the game the Buffaloes played the preceding evening when Florence Digby came in. Shuffling feverishly at the papers, I tried to get the financial section to the top before she reached the desk.
Her frosty and knowing smile told me I was wasting my time.
“There is a client here, if you’re not too busy Mr. Preston.”
“What kind of client?”
La Digby always seems to be on the winning team in this private war we have. An employer ought to get more respect.
“His name is Clyde F. Hamilton. A business counsellor,” she added portentously.
Anybody listening was permitted to assume that a business counsellor was a person of position, and entitled to some respect. He was not under any circumstances to be bracketed with persons of low repute and intellect, particularly people like private investigators.
“Usher the gentleman in,” I said loftily.
She went and held open the door.
“Will you come in, Mr. Hamilton?”
He came in young and confident, treating Florence to a half-bow as he passed. She swept out feeling like a queen. I took a look at my visitor. He was in his middle twenties, and everything about him, from the handsome close-cropped head to the hand-made tooled leather shoes shouted Ivy League.
“How are you Mr. Preston?”
We shook hands and he lowered himself into a chair with the grace of a trained athlete.
“Football?” I queried.
He laughed, and it was a pleasant sight.
“Not any more. I played a lot in my college days, but I just missed out on AH-American. After that I let it drop. Nowadays it’s just a little track work and a spell in the gym now and then.”
“So it isn’t any use my offering you a cigaret,” I said.
I stuck an Old Favorite in my face and had another look at him through the flame of the lighter. There was something about the open clean cut face that I didn’t care for, but I was probably just being unreasonable. Or plain jealous.
“I have a feeling you’re not a Monkton man,” I told him. “Not that I know everybody in town.”
“No, you’re absolutely right. I’m from all over. My business takes me over half the country. Right now I’m having a short spell in your city. Liking it, too. There’s some fine swimming.”
Instinctively I glanced out of the window towards the sparkling blue of the Pacific.
“Yeah,” I admitted regretfully. “Trouble is, it tends to make it all the more difficult to stick to work, when other people are splashing around out there.”
Which led us nicely, I hoped, away from the pleasantries and into the hard facts of whatever was troubling Clyde F. Hamilton.
“Perhaps I should tell you why I’m here,” he began. “The fact is, I’m little more than a messenger. A client of mine would like you to call and see him.”
“O.K. What about?”
He made deprecatory faces.
“I’m afraid that’s something he would have to discuss with you direct.”
“Fair enough. What’s his name?”
I had a pencil over a nice clean sheet of paper. People prefer it when you take notes. It looks more professional.
“Mr. J. J. Martello,” he said carefully.
I put the pencil down incredulously.
“Jake the Take Martello?” I asked.
He frowned, and suddenly his lips were much thinner.
“Mr. Martello’s given name is Jacob. I don’t much care for gutter nicknames, nor for people who use them.”
Jake Martello was one of the biggest bookmakers in town. A one-time barber, who made book on the side, he had grown steadily bigger for twenty years, and the lather brush was a long way behind him now. And now I realized what it was about Hamilton. The old-style mobster with the blue shave and the fedora hat was a figure in a history book. The big organization men now hired young college guys like Hamilton, people with appearance and background, people who could mix in any circles. But they don’t impress me. You can give a rat a shave and a three hundred dollar suit, and to me he still stinks of the sewers. I was all through smiling at Mr. Hamilton.
“Nobody’s interested in what you care about,” I assured him. “You said you were a messenger boy. Well, get it said and get out.”
His smile was even thinner and there was death in his eyes.
“I must be sure to remember that, Mr. Preston. And I’ve told you why I came. Mr. Martello wants you to see him.”
“Can’t he
