Match Point for Murder by Kin Platt

Author:Kin Platt [Platt, Kin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-4042-4
Publisher: Prologue Books
Published: 1975-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Sid Pinter is the man I use for information about the film stars in the community. He was an old-time talent and booking agent who had managed to survive in that cutthroat business by having something the flashy new ones with their package and percentage deals and gimmicks would have trouble spelling. It’s called integrity.

His general factotum, receptionist and secretary was Helen Shane, a green-eyed former dancer with a body that is holding its own, still-beautiful legs and a terribly voracious man-hungry attitude. She had been down the pike with Pinter for a lot of years and conceded nothing to their original arrangement, which implied she was a hired hand.

When I came in, she crossed a long shapely leg over another one equally interesting and hiked her short skirt a bit higher. “Notice anything different?” she said.

“No, Miss Shane. You’re every bit as beautiful as you were last time. Your hair is still red, thick and glossy. Your teeth look good. Am I missing something?”

She spun sideways on her stool and tilted her head back. “The nose,” she said. “What about the nose?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Miss Shane, but when you’re in profile, I have trouble seeing your nose. I mean, there’s so much else that’s interesting.”

“I knew I’d get you,” she said. “It’s a new kind of no-bra I’m wearing.”

I blinked. “That’s a new one on me, Miss Shane. How does that work?”

“It stretches,” she said.

I cleared my throat. “What stretches?” She started to undo the top buttons of her blouse. “Maybe I’d better speak to Sid first, Miss Shane. I don’t have all that much time.”

“That’s the trouble with you tough guys,” she said. “You never stop to look at the roses along the way.” She leaned into her intercom, flipped a button, and said, “Roper is here, Mr. Pinter. The hard-boiled detective. Do you want him?”

“Age before beauty,” Pinter’s voice replied quickly. “You first, Miss Shane.”

She smoothed her skirt down and pushed her hair back. “Well, you heard the master’s voice. What have you got that’s more important?”

“A dead body, Miss Shane.”

“Jesus!” she said. “I’m glad this didn’t go any further. Take it in to Mr. Pinter. First door on your left.”

His office was sparse and plain by Beverly Hills standards, but it went with the man. He wasn’t any balder than he had been the last time I saw him behind his desk.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “This time I know why you’re here.”

I looked around. “What’s wrong with this office today?”

He held up his hands. “I was there. I saw her.”

“Saw who?”

“The little blonde who was killed. The tennis matches.”

I stared. “I didn’t know you went in for tennis, Sid.”

“It’s entertainment, right? And now the girls are getting the money for a change. So what’s wrong with seeing how they look?”

I laughed. “Nothing. How did they look?”

“Wonderful.” He handed me a folder, beaming. “Now tell me if this isn’t what you wanted.”

I opened the folder. The photos were the usual 8 × 10 glossies favored in his business, the usual handouts from the publicity departments of film studios.

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