Ace of Diamonds by Mark Schorr

Author:Mark Schorr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fiction, mystery, comedy, humor, 80s, private detective, private eye, funny, detective, parody, hardboiled, eighties, forties, 40s, private investiagtor
Publisher: Mark Schorr

Chapter Ten

The paper he’d left tucked in the door was lying on the Professor’s doorstep. It could mean the Professor had returned or that someone else was waiting in the apartment. It definitely meant Diamond would not go barreling in like a country lawyer late for a hearing at the Supreme Court.

He’d first used the trick in The Hard Time Killer case. After tracking the man to a cheap boarding house in Kansas City, Diamond had taken the room down the hall from his quarry. The killer found out who he was and waited in Diamond’s room with his well-used heater. The paper-in-the-door gimmick had tipped Diamond he was inside and…

No time for happy memories of shootouts. He cautiously crawled to a partially open window. He could hear two voices. The Professor had company.

“You said you had a message for me from Mr. Diamond,” the Professor was saying. “But then you enter and insist that I imbibe. Rather strange behavior.”

“Drink!” the visitor said. It was a cold, commanding voice.

“I repeat. I am not in the mood for liquid refreshment,” the Professor said. “And I must ask that you give me the message and depart. I have work to do.”

Diamond peered over the windowsill. The Professor was seated, the man towering over him with a tumbler in his hand. He was about sixty, with graying hair and nondescript features.

“This is good stuff,” the man said. “Drink!”

Diamond took his gun out and aimed. “If the Professor don’t want to drink, he don’t have to,” he said.

The Professor was still looking to see where Diamond’s voice had come from while the man was reacting. Moving with the grace of a professional athlete, he dropped the glass and reached under his jacket.

Red knew he wasn’t grabbing for his American Express card. The P.I. snapped off two shots as his suspicions were confirmed and the man produced a .22 Colt Woodsman.

The cigar-long silencer on the .22’s end kept things quiet as three shots whistled through the air. One hit the glass near Diamond’s head. The pane shattered. A sharp shard brushed Diamond’s forehead.

The gunman kept moving and Red couldn’t get a clear shot without winging the Professor.

Blood was running down Diamond’s face as the killer took off to the back of the house. The Professor was watching the action open-mouthed.

“Open the door,” Diamond yelled.

The befuddled genius obeyed and Diamond raced to the rear of the apartment. The man was gone.

When he was sure they were alone, Diamond went to the bathroom and washed the blood and glass fragments from his face.

“The lacerations appear to be superficial,” the Professor said alter inspecting Diamond. “There should be no danger of infection, though I’d recommend consulting a licensed medical practitioner. As Jean-Paul Sartre once said—”

“I don’t need no sawbones,” Diamond cut in. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Isn’t this exciting?”

“Yeah. It’s more fun than a brain surgeon with hiccups. Now what happened?”

“I borrowed several volumes from an associate I encountered at the library. We began chatting and soon were engrossed in the Sicilian defense.

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