It had been quite a week. One lost grandmother, two missing cats and a dead canary. As I walked through the rain on that winter night I couldn't help thinking that being a private investigator had certain advantages. Advantages like being able to wear clothes like Humphrey Bogart. Then again it had it's drawbacks, like the absence of money.

 

All these things were passing through my mind as I climbed the threadbare stairwell to my office on the second floor of a joint one could only describe as crummy. In fact that's how I felt. Crummy.

 

I let myself in and checked the refrigerator. I noticed that every time Bogart opened his refrigerator there was always something there. A beer. A sandwich. Maybe he had time to do the shopping once in a while? I closed the refrigerator and sat behind an empty desk. The only thing I had on it was my shoes. Then it happened. Just like in the movies. It happened.

 

There was a shadow outside the door. A knock.

 

"Come in. It's open," I said.

 

The door creaked and there she stood. Tall, blonde and anchored in a tight fitting dress. I fingered my four-day stubble. I wished I'd taken that shower I'd promised myself five days ago. I decided to play it cool.

 

"What is it, baby?"

 

The blonde gave a big sigh. Her chest heaved like a volcano.

 

"I've got a problem, a big problem, a problem of life or death," she cooed.

 

"We've all got problems, baby. Pull up a crate and spill the beans."

 

The blonde pulled over a crate and sat. She crossed her legs to reveal healthy thighs. I was pleased with my opening dialogue. All those hours of watching Humphrey Bogart movies had paid off. I could tell she was impressed.

 

"I'll get straight to the point," she cooed. "Somebody is trying to kill me, Mr Wrigley."

 

That was my name. Wrigley. Midge Wrigley. I liked the way she said it.

 

"Who, baby?" I shot back.

 

"If I knew I wouldn't be here," she said.

 

"What about the cops?"

 

"I want discretion, Mr Wrigley, and I hear you're discreet."

 

"If that's what you hear, baby, then that's what I am."

 

I wasn't sure what discreet meant, but I sure wasn't going to argue with her.

 

"Keep talking, baby, I like the way your mouth moves," I said. If nothing I was honest.

 

She recrossed her legs to reinforce my attention.

 

"My name is Susan Harcourt. I run a small fashion house. The House of Harcourt. You may have heard of it?"

 

"Sure, baby."

 

I didn't have the heart to tell her I didn't know hem from hemp.

 

"I'm making steady profits, Mr Wrigley. Women like the clothes I design. But somebody doesn't like me. Somebody sees me as a threat, Mr Wrigley."

 

So this was what it was all about. A smouldering blonde needed my help. Suddenly being a private detective seemed all-worthwhile. No longer did I care about the holes in my shoes, my empty wallet, the pile of unpaid bills and soggy corn beef sandwiches I had to endure for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

 

"In all the places in all the phone books, why did you pick me, baby?"

 

"Why? Because you're the cheapest, Mr Wrigley."

 

I guess I was hoping it might have been my dark brooding looks or my Bogart trench coat. She leaned forward to get something out of her bag.

 

"Here's my card, Mr Wrigley. And here is the name of the person I suspect is trying to kill me. And here is a little advance for your trouble."

 

She placed a wad of money thicker than a weeks ration of corn beef sandwiches on my desk. I was impressed.

 

She stood, straightened her skirt, pulled out a few splinters, then sassed over to the door.

 

"Call me, anytime," she cooed. She gave a strange, little girl giggle. The door opened and closed and she was gone. I needed a drink.

 

I headed over to Sam's; a bar with no atmosphere and barely any customers. I ordered a triple scotch on the rocks followed by a screwdriver twist. After a couple of slugs I noticed a cute babe drinking alone. I asked Sam who the babe was.

 

"Name's Delores. New in town. Drinks alone," said Sam, in his husky drawl.

 

Delores was tall, with long red hair and a body to die for. She also looked as happy as a politician who'd had his travel allowance investigated. I decided to get acquainted.

 

I walked over, showing her my Bogart walk. On closer inspection she looked even more alluring. This was turning out to be my lucky night. I turned on the charm.

 

"Hi, baby doll. Let me buy you a drink?" I said, pushing back my hat like I'd seen Bogart do.

 

"Got one."

 

"Peanuts, perhaps?"

 

"Got some."

 

"Maybe a Polly Waffle?"

 

Delores laser beamed me with her green eyes.

 

"Tell me, jug ears, do you always walk like a duck?"

 

She could tell I had jug ears without me taking my hat off. I was impressed. Delores turned her back and took another drink. I knew I'd made an impression. I ambled back over to Sam. He was wiping some glasses.

 

"Busy day?"  said Sam

 

"Sure, always busy. Working on a big case. A Susan Harcourt from the House of Harcourt. A fashion house. Needs protection. Can't say anymore than that."

 

I finished my drink and headed back to the office. I sat behind my desk. I looked at Susan Harcourt's suspect list. I found it had only one name on it. It was a name I knew. The name was of Arthur G Morton, the wealthy owner of the House of Morton. It was the biggest and richest fashion house in the state. I decided I'd pay a visit to the Morton mansion to see what Morton knew about the threats to Susan Harcourt's life.

 

The next day I tooled my rust bucket that passed for a car towards the Morton mansion on the outskirts of town. The Mortons were famous for having a gravel driveway two hundred miles long. After three hours of driving up the driveway, I arrived.

 

I crunched the gravel and slammed the large doorknocker against the oak. After a decent pause the door opened. Instead of a craggy faced butler I was confronted by a gum chewing, shapely brunette. I tipped my hat.

 

"Hi, I'm Midge Wrigley, PI. I'm here to see Mr Morton. I phoned. My card."

 

The brunette took my card and held it as though it was contaminated by the Black Death. Finally, she opened the door wider.

 

"Come in," she said.

 

I did as I was told. The girl slammed the door and bade me to follow. I didn't need any encouragement. We walked down a long corridor festooned with portraits of past members of the Morton dynasty. But who this babe was, I wasn't sure.

 

As though reading my thoughts, she said, " If you're wondering who I am but aren't sure, I'm Jessica, Mr Morton's stepdaughter by his thirteenth wife."

 

She then gave a strange, girl like giggle.

 

We arrived in a large living room complete with ornate fireplace, soft furniture, medieval armour and bear skin rugs.

 

"Go right in, Mr Wrigley, father is waiting."

 

Standing by the fireplace was the decrepit Arthur G Morton himself, fashion tycoon, multi-billionaire and the type of guy who doesn't design manhole covers for a living. This was the big end of town and I was a player.

 

Jessica introduced us then leaned against the fireplace, one hand on her hip, chewing gum furiously and eyeing me with a mixture of fascination and contempt. Finally, Morton spoke.

 

"Take a seat, young man," he cackled.

 

That was the last thing I wanted to do. I needed to keep on my feet, to stay alert. There was no way I was going to be manipulated by this decrepit creature.

 

"Certainly, sir." I sat.

 

It's amazing what the rich and powerful can make you do. If he'd told me to swallow the sofa cushions I'd have done it. Suddenly, Morton started cackling to himself.

 

"Would you like to swallow the sofa cushion, young man? They go very well with the cucumber sandwiches!"

 

The old buzzard thought this was hilarious.

 

"You'll have to excuse father, he's not well. On the phone, you said you wanted to talk to father about murder?" said Jessica.

 

"Murder! Who's trying to murder me today?" said the wreck of a human being.

 

"Not you, sir," I said, " Someone is trying to murder a Susan Harcourt from a rival fashion house. She suspects you, sir."

 

The old crow laughed.

 

"Never heard of an Harcourt. Got a tennis court, though!"

 

He laughed, thinking this was a hilarious joke.

 

I pressed on, mindful of the sultry, gum chewing Jessica watching my every move.

 

"You've never attempted to kill a Susan Harcourt, sir?"

 

Morton was about to speak, when a more interesting voice punctuated the crackling of the fire.

 

"He might have, mightn't you, Arthur?"

 

I looked around to see a curvaceous woman in her mid-thirties sweep into the room. Her tight fitting evening dress must have been spray painted to her body. It was a body that would make Viagra obsolete. A curvaceous woman whose raven hair and pouting lips looked familiar. Then I remembered. She had often made the front covers of the society magazines. The type of magazine that you read in barbershops. This was none other than Diane Morton, wife of the decaying Arthur.

 

Diane approached me with an exaggerated walk, the type of walk you see models do on the catwalk. One foot in front of the other. Slow and deliberate. I staggered to my feet to shake her heavily jewelled hand.

 

"I'm Diane Morton, Arthur's seventeenth wife," she said in a throaty, sexy voice.

 

I stood transfixed and gazed into her blue eyes. Yeah, now I recall. Last year Diane had made the headlines in all the tabloids in a scandal that involved several Arabs, a camel and a banana skin.

 

"So what has my demented husband been doing now?" she purred. Diane's presence seemed to have a negative affect on Morton. I noticed he had begun to shake uncontrollably.

 

"Damn, you, you Jezebel!" he croaked. "I want my cheese and bacon crisps and I want them now!"

 

"Oh, dear, another tantrum," said Diane, calmly. "Take your father away, Jessica, and make sure he's well sealed inside his giant crisp packet."

 

Without a word Jessica led the spluttering piece of wreckage that was Arthur G Morton out of the room. I could see this was one big happy family.

I figured I was getting nowhere and decided it was time to leave. I headed for the door. Before I could exit Diane was in front of me. With a flick of her jewelled hand she unleashed a cascade of black hair that fell over her naked shoulders.

 

"Meet me tonight at midnight by the old stone bridge. I have something to tell you. Something that is a matter of life or death," she said, licking her lips.

 

She leaned forward and kissed me full on the mouth. Her lips were so strong I could feel my lips being sucked down her gorgeous throat.

 

My heart was a blaze, my ears were smouldering and my underpants were on fire. I stayed cool. This was a woman experienced with camels and banana skins.

 

"I'll check my diary," I blurted after the kiss.

 

"Do that," she snapped, tossing back her hair. Diane abruptly turned and sassed down the hallway. She was all woman.

 

I tooled the car back to the office, showered and slipped on my best Humphrey Bogart trench coat. Meeting Diane Morton on the old stone bridge wasn't exactly my idea of a perfect date. On a wet night such as this I'd have preferred to be in bed with cocoa.

 

Then again, I didn't know any woman called Cocoa.

 

As the clock closed in on midnight I tooled the car towards the old stone bridge. Why it was called the old stone bridge nobody knows. It's made of wood and was only built last year. I made it with seven seconds to spare. Rain was falling and a soupy mist had gathered. I parked and stepped into the gloom. I looked around but couldn't see Diane. I edged closer to the bridge. The only sound was my shoes on the gravel. I checked my watch. Midnight.

 

Through the mist I saw a faint glow on the bridge. I approached with caution. When I got closer I could see it was Diane. She was wearing a figure hugging trench coat. She was furiously smoking a slim cigar and pacing nervously. A mane of black hair framed a beautiful face dominated by luscious lips.

 

She saw me and took a final pull on the cigar before tossing it into the river. The mist and drizzle parted as her gorgeous body swayed towards me. She was suddenly in my arms with her thick lips clamped on mine. Ecstasy! We kissed passionately like long-time lovers. I was Bogey and she was Bacall. Finally, she pulled her head back and flicked back her hair.

 

"What is it you want to tell me, baby?"  I gasped, feeling her lipstick on my mouth.

 

Diane licked her full lips, swallowed, and caught her breath.

 

"Just this. Listen to me and listen to me good. My husband wants to kill Susan..."

 

Two muffled shots came in rapid succession. Diane gasped. Her head went back; her mouth opened; her eyes bulged. She clutched my coat, gurgled something, staggered two steps, then, accompanied by a short scream, fell over the side of the bridge into the river below. A big splash was followed by Diane's spread-eagled body floating face down in the fast running water.

 

My date with Diane had ended quicker than I'd hoped. Shot twice in the back she was now dead flesh sailing downstream. To cap it all off, there came the wail of a cop siren and the screech of car tyres. Somehow, I had the distinct feeling it wasn't going to be my night.

 

Fortunately the cop in charge was Big Harry, a close friend. We'd worked together in the PDPD in the days when I was a real cop. I did some fast talking, the kind Big Harry understood. He told me he'd received an anonymous call directing him to the old bridge. I nodded. Two of Big Harry's men hauled Diane's soggy corpse out of the water and laid her face down on the bridge. Her hair was plastered down and her eyes and mouth were open. Two blots of blood stained the back of Diane's coat.

 

"Good looking broad," said Big Harry, his voice full of empathy.

 

"Yeah, she was," I said.

 

Big Harry pushed his hat back like they do on all the good cop movies. He bent down to inspect Diane's body. A few seconds and Big Harry stood.

 

"Suicide," said Big Harry, keeping a straight face.

 

"Suicide?" I said. Big Harry nodded.

 

"Yeah, happens all the time," said Big Harry with a shrug.

 

Big Harry walked towards the squad car.

 

"Okay, boys, get an ambulance and get the carcass out of here. I got a ball game to watch."

 

I went home and slept late. Over shaving I tossed over the events of last night. I wasn't prepared to go along with Big Harry's suicide theory, no matter how convincing it seemed. How could Diane have shot herself twice in the back? She was only inches away from me and she had no gun in her hand? I pondered long and hard on this tricky conundrum. Then it dawned on me. Big Harry was wrong. My sharp instincts told me it was murder. Somewhere, out in the drizzle and mist, had been a killer. A killer who wanted Diane Morton dead? But why?

 

I stepped out of the office and saw Delores, the gorgeous redhead who been drinking at Sam's. She seemed to be having trouble with a tall, well-dressed guy, who stood stiff as a ramrod. This was my big chance to make an impression.

 

"Having trouble with this punk," I said, in my best Bogart voice.

 

"What?"

 

The guy was tall, silent and stiff looking.

 

"Apologise to the lady or I'll knock your block off!"  I was warming to my task.

 

"Are you out of your mind, or what?" said Delores.

 

The guy looked intimidating.

 

"It's all right, baby, leave this punk to me," I said.

 

I turned to face the big stiff.

 

"Okay, punk, don't say I didn't warn you!"

 

I hit the guy and knocked his head right off. I realised that I'd been talking to a mannequin's dummy. Delores looked angry. She got even angrier when the dummy's head rolled under the wheels of a passing truck.

 

"That was my mannequin, you idiot!"

 

"I don't like mannequins with attitude," I said.

 

"I'm a dress designer, jug-ears! Now get out of my way!"

 

Okay, so I blew it. But then just as I was about to slip away with my tail between my legs, Delores gave me a parting shot.

 

"Oh, by-the-way, jug ears, I overheard you talking in the bar the other night. There is no House of Harcourt. I used to be a model. I keep up with the news."

 

No House of Harcourt? Interesting. Back at the office I pulled out Susan Harcourt's business card and dialled her number. I got Dial-A-Prayer.

 

I sat on my crate and tried to piece things together. A beautiful blonde walks in and tells me her life is being threatened. She gives me a clue and directs me to the home of Arthur G Morton, the demented fashion tycoon. And then…wait a minute, as the blonde left my office she gave a silly giggle. The same giggle I heard from Jessica Morton. Well, well. I had it figured. Jessica Morton and Susan Harcourt were one and the same. I had no time to waste. Someone's life was in danger.

 

It was raining heavily as I drove to the Morton mansion. As I neared the house I made out the portly figure of Big Harry. The place was swarming with cops and a body was being slotted into an ambulance. Things were happening fast. Too fast. I pulled up and confronted Big Harry.

 

"What's happened, Big Harry?"

 

"Arthur G Morton is dead," said Big Harry.

 

"How?" I said.

 

"Gunshot to the head. Nice and clean. Suicide," said Big Harry proudly. For good measure he flung me a note.

 

"Morton's suicide note."

 

I grabbed it and read it aloud.

 

"I did it. I was trying to kill Susan Harcourt, my bitter rival, when my wife, Diane, found out. So I killed her before she could speak to that dumb looking private detective, Wrigley, PI. I'm fed up with killing people so I killed myself. Goodbye cruel world! I leave everything to my loving stepdaughter, Jessica. Signed, Arthur G Morton. Killer."

 

The note made no sense. Why would a wealthy tycoon like Morton want to kill the owner of a small fashion house? A fashion house that didn't exist. And why would he kill himself? I gave this some thought as I observed the scene. My mind worked overtime. Where had I seen something like this before? Where? Got it!

 

"Double Indemnity" with Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray. Stanwyck played a scheming blonde who persuaded MacMurray, who played a love besotted private dick, to kill her husband. Then she tried to kill him. Yeah, what a movie! And something like that was happening here.

 

Things were now beginning to make a little sense. I was drawn back to reality. Standing outside the Morton mansion and pretending to grieve for her dear, departed daddy, was the curvaceous Jessica Morton herself. How touching. As the ambulance departed Jessica wheeled away and entered the mansion. I followed.

 

I walked down the hallway where only yesterday I'd traded kisses with Diane. I could swear the smell of her perfume still scented the air. In the distance I could here what sounded like drawers slamming. I turned and entered the lounge.

 

Memories of Diane were soon put out of my mind. Standing in the middle of the lounge and pointing a gun in my direction, was a very blonde Susan Harcourt.

 

"Good evening, Wrigley," said the seductive hussy.

 

"So, Susan Harcourt is really Jessica Morton," I said in a calm, measured voice.

 

"Guess I should have picked a dumber PI."

 

"Guess so. You got the drop on me. What now, baby?"

 

"This is the bit where I confess all," said Jessica, menacingly.

 

"Keep talking, baby. I like long confessions," I said.

 

Especially in this case because it gave me time to think.

 

Jessica gave a dramatic pause then launched into her reasons for doing what she did.

 

"Diane and I plotted to get rid of father. I pretended to be the owner of a small fashion house. Susan Harcourt was then going to be ‘murdered' by my father. I'd leave clues so that he'd be implicated and arrested. It would be too much for him and he'd die of that long awaited heart attack we all wished for. Diane thought it was a great idea and went along with it. Except she didn't bargain on me double crossing her. So I shot her and then called the cops on my mobile. Then I killed father. Isn't that clever of me?"

 

"And I provided the alibi, right? The dumb PI who interviewed a terrified Susan Harcourt?"

 

"That's right. Now it's goodbye time, Wrigley. Time to collect lead in your gut."

 

"Wait! How are you going to explain my death?" I inquired, not without good reason.

 

"I don't have too. Rich people don't have to explain anything."

 

She was right. And Jessica Morton was now very rich. So it had come to this. As she stood there with the gun pointed at my heart my life flashed before me.

 

It was vivid and audible. I could see myself in my cot as a baby hugging my dad's trench coat. Then there was my dad's voice.

 

"Stop slobbering over my trench coat, brat face!"

 

The years flashed before me. I could see myself in the school play ground helping my old classmate, Josh Simpkins.

 

"Stop copying my home work, Wrigley, or I'll tell teacher!"

 

Suddenly, I was standing proud at my high school graduation as the principal read out the graduation results.

 

"And finally, at the bottom of the class with the worst examination results I have ever had the misfortune to see, Midge Wrigley!"

 

Oh, happy days. Days that were about to come to an abrupt halt.

 

But as Jessica levelled the gun I still had one ace to play.

 

"At least give me a souvenir to remember you by, baby." I said.

 

"Oh, yeah, what?" said the gum chewing killer.

 

"Toss me your wig."

 

Jessica laughed at this and ripped the long blonde wig from her head and tossed it towards me. This was my big chance. During the conversation I noticed Jessica was standing on the edge of a polar bear rug. As I reached down for the wig I grabbed the edge of the rug and yanked it, sending Jessica tumbling backwards. The gun went in the air, doing a nice little arc, before nestling in my right hand as Jessica landed with a thud flat on her shapely butt.

 

"Game set and match, baby!" I said. Pointing the gun at a stunned Jessica. And it was.

 

That was the end of the case. Jessica confessed to the murders and was taken away in a green van by men in white coats. As for me? I drove home through the fog.

 

As I entered the hallway to head upstairs to my office, I noticed the delectable Delores standing outside one of the two apartment doors that occupied the lower floor. She was searching desperately through her handbag. There was no sign of the mannequin.

 

I wasn't going to blow things a second time. I decided to make my move.

 

"Hi, doll face, what's the problem?"

 

It was a good opening line. Delores gave me a sharp glance.

 

"Lost my keys."

 

A damsel in distress.

 

"Didn't know you lived here?" I said.

 

"Moved in last night."

 

I walked over.

 

"Opening locks comes second nature to me, baby. Let me have that hairgrip."

 

I reached for the hairgrip in Delores's hair. It was stuck so I gave it a pull.

 

"Ouch, you idiot!"

 

"Sorry. Look and learn, baby."

 

I pushed the hairgrip into the lock and twisted it. It only took a second. There was a snapping sound.

 

"You broke my hairgrip, you idiot!"

 

The door was still locked and I had half a hairgrip in my hand.

 

"Got a credit card, baby?"

 

Delores gave me a hard look. She produced a credit card from her handbag and handed it to me.

 

"Thanks," I said, taking the card.

 

Everybody knows that you can get into a locked room with a credit card.

 

I wedged the card into the door near the lock and moved it up and down like I'd seen Robert Mitchum do in "Farewell My Lovely". I was doing well, then the card snapped. Funny, that never happened to Mitchum.

 

Delores wasn't too happy about this either.

 

"You idiot!" said Delores. "First my hairgrip, then my credit card."

 

Delores dived inside her bag and dragged out a set of keys. She jammed a key into the lock and opened the door. Within seconds she was inside. The door was slammed in my kisser. I shrugged. So much for being a Good Samaritan. I turned and headed for the stairs. A cold, corned beef sandwich beckoned.

 

Part way up the steps Delores opened her door. Without the hairgrip her hair spilled down framing her alabaster skin. Our eyes met. It was a defining moment.

 

"Thanks," she snapped.

 

She hesitated and glared at me. I couldn't call the look. Loathing or admiration? Then her soft lips moved and a silky voice said, "Want to come in for a cocoa?"

 

My heart jumped. I adjusted my hat. Life can be strange. Besides, you never know your luck in the big city.

 

 

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