Larry Kent 760 Mona Lethal by Don Haring

Author:Don Haring [Haring, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: detectives, colt 45, spanish harlem, mystery thrillers, piccadilly publishing, hard boiled crime fiction, crime ebook, don haring, crime fiction ebook
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 4 ... my friend, the cop ...

A little after ten a.m.

My office.

The phone jangled. I picked it up and said, “Larry Kent, private investigations.”

“Shanker here, Kent.”

What an awful name, I thought. I said, “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Maybe the shoe is on the other foot, Kent.”

“All right; what can you do for me?”

“First I’d like you to settle my mind on something.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re not exactly famous for cooperating with schmucks like me who wear a badge.”

I injected as much innocence as I could into my voice. “Why, what do you mean by that, Lieutenant?”

“You know what I mean, so let’s not open that can of beans. Yesterday, Kent, you caught a guy who let himself into an apartment, one Alf Reynard.”

“I turned him in because it was my duty, Lieutenant.”

Shanker delivered the sigh of a man who’s weary beyond words, then he said, “Why did you turn him in? I mean apart from the fact that you saw it as your duty. Don’t bother to answer, I’ll do that for you. You wanted us to take another look at our verdict of suicide. You figured that we’d churn things up for you in the underworld. That’s when you’re at your best, when people get worried and start making mistakes. You wanted us to do the preliminary work for you, make it easier for you to prove that Lawson was murdered.”

“Lieutenant, I don’t know if you realize it, but you just admitted something.”

“What did I admit?”

“That Lawson didn’t commit suicide.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Shanker said, but there was no anger or even annoyance in his voice.

All right, Jewish cop, I thought, so you’re playing it close to the vest; if that’s what you want you’ve got it. I said, “You mentioned something about helping me.”

“Did I? You must have misunderstood. I just want to let you know that we won’t be able to hold Alf Reynard for more than an hour or so. A lawyer got Judge Rollins to set bail. Ten thousand dollars. The lawyer’s going to show up with a cashier’s check and we’ll have to let Reynard go.”

“Who’s the lawyer?” I asked.

“James Vernon.”

“Never heard of him.”

“But I’m sure you’ve heard of the outfit he works for—Bayliss, Moffett and Storm.”

I whistled. Bayliss, Moffett and Storm was one of the most prestigious legal firms in New York City. I said, “Why should an outfit that big take an interest in a sneak thief like Alf Reynard?”

“I asked myself the same question,” Shanker said. “This Reynard is a gypsy. We’ve got six different addresses on him in the last year in our file. His latest is the Mayflower Hotel, uptown. Room twenty-three. He keeps on the move, that one.”

Which was Shanker’s way of giving me Reynard’s address. I put it in my memory file.

“By the way,” Shanker said, “I didn’t agree with the coroner’s court finding of suicide and I went on record as saying so. I even asked to be kept on the case for a while but got turned down.

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