Hard Case Crime: Blackmailer
Read Hard Case Crime: Blackmailer Online
Authors: George Axelrod
“Tricky and ingeniously devised.”
—
Chicago Sun-Times
“A smash hit...original and funny.”
—
The New York Times
“Axelrod...is the kind of man who can’t open his mouth—or his typewriter—without making an audience either think or laugh.”
—
L.A. Herald Examiner
“Witty [and] quite a lot of fun.”
—
New York Daily News
“Amiable lunacy...delightful.”
—
Herald Tribune
“Always sophisticated...very amusing.”
—
Screen Reviews
“[One of] the most impressive new talents to emerge [this] year...first-rate.”
—
Boston Post
Jean Dahl was lying very still. I didn’t like the way she looked at all.
I shook her, but she was completely limp. “Hey, come on,” I said, “Snap out of it, lady.”
I picked her up and carried her into the bathroom. Supporting her body against the wall with one hand, I turned the cold water in the shower all the way on.
Her dress zipped down the back from neck to waist. I was able to work her arms and shoulders out of it, and it dropped to the floor as I lifted her to her feet. Holding her from behind, I eased her under the shower.
She coughed as the cold water hit her. I stood holding her under the shower. We were both gasping and once I lost my footing and fell heavily, pulling her down on top of me on the wet tile floor.
When I let her out of the shower, her knees buckled and I let her sink to the floor.
In the bedroom I went through her purse. I couldn’t help noticing that she had acquired a new automatic. I took the gun and the cigarettes and matches out of her purse. I put the gun in my pocket and lit two cigarettes. Then I went back into the bathroom.
She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub drying herself with a towel. She had taken off her wet underwear.
“My God,” she said hoarsely, “they tried to kill me.”
The telephone began to ring.
I froze.
I lifted the receiver very gently and held it to my ear. I didn’t say anything. I just lifted the phone and waited.
The man’s voice on the other end of the phone was cold, harsh, and derisive.
“Eagle Scout,” it said. “Hero. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
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by
George Axelrod
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-032)
First Hard Case Crime edition: June
2007
Published by
Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street
London
SE1 0UP
in collaboration with Winterfall LLC
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should know that it is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 1952 by George Axelrod
Cover painting copyright © 2006 by Glen Orbik
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Print edition ISBN 978-0-85768-307-6
E-book ISBN 978-0-85768-388-5
Cover design by Cooley Design Lab
Design direction by Max Phillips
Typeset by Swordsmith Productions
The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.
Printed in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at
www.HardCaseCrime.com
Chapter One
The girl’s name was Jean Dahl. That was all the information Miss Dennison had been able to pry out of her. Miss Dennison had finally come back to my office and advised me to talk to her. “She’s very determined,” my secretary said. “I just can’t seem to get rid of her.”
Then Miss Dennison winked. It was a dry, spinsterish, somewhat evil wink.
“Anyway, Mr. Sherman, she’s your type.”
By that time I had decided Jean Dahl was most probably an author’s wife and, as such, fell under my jurisdiction. At Conrad, Sherman, Inc., Publishers, Pat Conrad deals with the authors and I deal with the authors’ wives.
I have far and away the tougher job.
Part of my job is to come up with spontaneous, unrehearsed answers to such irate questions as:
Will you please explain to me why, when my Aunt Sarah tried to buy a copy of my husband’s book at Macy’s, they told her it was out of stock?
Or:
Are you deliberately trying to sabotage my husband’s book, or do you actually think you can sell it by running those measly little ads?
“O.K., O.K.,” I said to Miss Dennison. “Send her in. I’ll talk to her.”
When the door opened, I stood up, smiled broadly, extended my hand, and said, “How do you do. I’m Dick Sherman. I’m always delighted to meet the wife of one of our authors. Now don’t tell me what the trouble is. Let me guess. Your husband’s book is out of stock at Macy’s?”
Patter like this has made me the life of so many Book and Author luncheons.
Miss Dahl ignored me and my outstretched hand.
She walked past me, directly to the window, and stood staring down at the traffic on Madison Avenue.
“Or,” I continued, “perhaps our advertising campaign has fallen short of...”
Miss Dennison had been right about one thing. Miss Dahl was very definitely my type. She had thick, honey-colored blonde hair that she wore a little longer than this winter’s style dictated. She was wearing a beaver coat and what the fashion ads call a “basic black dress”—a little number costing about one hundred and fifty dollars. Several gold bracelets dangled from her wrist.
Miss Dahl took a cigarette out of her purse, lighted it, and, half sitting on the windowsill, turned to face me holding the cigarette between her lips. She looked at me carefully and said, “Are you the one I want to see?”
At this point it began to dawn on me that perhaps Miss Dahl was
not
an author’s wife.
“I want to talk to someone about a book,” she said.
I nodded, smiled, and explained patiently that since this was a publishing house most of the people who came to see us wanted to talk about books.
“You’ve written a book?” I asked. I was not surprised. The damnedest people write books.
“I’ve got a book, baby,” she said. “It’s for sale. You can have it for fifty thousand dollars.”
I laughed a polite, nervous laugh. “That seems a bit high,” I said. “Why don’t you do this, Miss Dahl? Why don’t you submit the book to us in the usual way, and if it turns out to be something we’re interested in, why, I’m sure...”
Then I noticed that Miss Dahl was not listening to me. She was staring dreamily out the window. “I’ll show you a page of the book,” she said conversationally. “So you’ll understand what I’m talking about when I say I have a book.”
She opened her purse, took out a folded sheet of yellow paper and handed it to me. I unfolded it and examined it curiously. It was page one, chapter one of a novel. There was no title and no author’s name. The page was roughly typed. There were many cross-outs, corrections, and penciled scrawls in the margin.
I glanced inquiringly at Miss Dahl. Her face was a complete blank. I began to read the page of manuscript.
I read the page very slowly. I examined the penciled writing between the lines and in the margins. By the time I had finished the page there was no question in my mind as to what I was reading.
“Where did you get this?” I asked, trying to be calm.
“I’ve got the three hundred and forty-six pages that come after it, too,” she said. “The price is still fifty thousand dollars.”
She reached over and gently plucked the yellow paper out of my hand. She folded it again and put it back in her purse. “I’ve got a book,” she said, “and I want to sell it. What I want to know is, do you want to buy it?”
“This book you say you have,” I was choosing my words carefully, “is it yours to sell?”
She ground out her cigarette in the ashtray on my desk. “Let’s put it this way, baby,” she said. “I’ve got it. If you want it, I’ll sell it to you and then you’ll have it.”
“I’d have to consult with my partner, Mr. Conrad, about this,” I told her.
Miss Dahl smiled. She had white, perfect teeth. “Consult with anybody you want to,” she said. “The price is fifty thousand dollars. In cash. Or a certified check will do. Only you’ll have to make up your mind quickly. As they say, this offer is good for a limited time only.”
I stood up, suddenly angry.
“It’s not as easy as that,” I said. “If this is genuine... if you have the rest of the pages... and if you can prove title to the book—that is, if you have a legal right to sell it so that after we’ve bought it we can prove ownership in court—if all those things, then we might be interested. Then maybe we could talk about the price.”
