Hot Red Money by Baynard Kendrick

Author:Baynard Kendrick
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Media
Published: 2020-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

“Who is this character, Harry Catlett?” Maury demanded of Thomas Tremayne Sturtevant.

“I believe I stated Sunday evening, while partaking of that frugal repast at your miserable edifice on Morton Street, that I would obtain additional information for you concerning Crescent Valves, Inc., as well as one Max Rheinemann, and the brokerage house of Metzger, Montross and Stoane.”

T.T. clicked open the lid of a large gold hunting-case watch, squinted at the time through his pince-nez, and returned the watch to its nest in his vest pocket. “It is now three-forty-five on Tuesday afternoon. Our appointment with Mr. Catlett is at four, in his office on the fifth floor of the United States Court House on Foley Square. As Nietzsche said, ‘One must have a good memory to be able to keep, the promises one makes.’ I have a good memory, dear boy. I also mentioned to you and your gracious lady that this extra effort on my part would entail a slight additional fee.”

“We got it,” Maury said. “After you left, Anne suggested that she might move into the front room and you could come and live with me. Now, who is Harry Catlett? You still haven’t told me.”

“Ex-Naval Intelligence. Do you mind if I smoke, dear boy?”

“Only to the point where if you take that pipe from your pocket we finish the trip in separate cabs. I didn’t ask you what Catlett was I asked you what he is.”

T.T. sighed. “ ‘Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold and philosopher’s stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases.…’ ”

“Except acute garrulity. What is he, T.T.?”

“An investigator.” T.T. angrily clicked his plates. “Why consult me when your only desire is to insult me?”

“What kind of an investigator? I know you go -through these difficult periods, Tom, but don’t blame me.”

“I don’t think I’d better give you his title,” T.T. said stiffly. “I don’t like to be accused of garrulity.”

“I’m sorry. Go ahead, T.T.”

“Harry Catlett is an investigator for the Subcommittee to Investigate the Administration of the Internal Security Act and Other Internal Security Laws of the Committee on the Judiciary, United States Senate, Eighty-fifth Congress, First Session on Scope of Soviet Activity in the United States.” T.T. drew a deep breath.

“All one word?” Maury asked him.

“In German it would be ‘der Berwaltungforicherstaatsschulden.’”

“Don’t go on, please,” Maury begged. “Your pronunciation is so bad I can’t understand it. That’s low German and I speak only high.”

The cab stopped in front of the United States Court House. Maury paid off, and they took an elevator to the fifth floor.

Harry Catlett was a blue-jawed stocky little man sitting behind an enormous oak desk, liberally ridged along each edge with cigarette burns, and considerably cleaner of litter than T.T.’s. He greeted them cordially.

“Maury Morel, eh? I’ve read you a lot. You’re good—although I don’t agree with everything you say.”

“I wouldn’t have a job if you did.”

“No, that’s true. Of course—T.T.—I don’t agree with anything he says. That’s why I have a few dollars left to my name.

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