Lay Her Among The Lilies

been she who had encouraged me to start Universal Services, and had lent the money to tide

me over for the first six months. It was entirely due to her ability to cope with the

administrative side of the business that Universal Services was an established success. If I

were the brains of the set-up, you could call her the backbone. Without her the organization

would have folded in a week.

“Haven’t you anything better to do than sit around and drink?” she demanded, planting

herself before the desk, and looking at me accusingly.

“What is there better to do?” Kerman asked, mildly interested.

She gave him a withering stare and turned her bright brown eyes on me again.

“As a matter of fact, Jack and I were just going out to beat up some new business,” I said,

hastily pushing back my chair. “Come on, Jack. Let’s go and see what we can find.”

“And where are you going to look—Finnegan’s bar?” Paula asked scornfully.

“That’s a bright idea, sourpuss,” Kerman said. “Maybe Finnegan will have something for

us.”

“Before you go you might like to look at this,” Paula said, and flourished a long envelope at

me. “The janitor brought it up just now. He found it in one of the pockets of that old

trenchcoat you so generously gave him.”

“He did?” I said, taking the envelope. “That’s odd. I haven’t worn that trenchcoat for more

than a year.”

“The cancellation stamp bears you out,” Paula said with ominous calm. “The letter was

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posted fourteen months ago. I suppose you couldn’t have put it in your pocket and forgotten

all about it? You wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you?”

The envelope was addressed to me in a neat, feminine handwriting, and unopened.

“I can’t remember ever seeing it before,” I said.

“Considering you don’t appear to remember anything unless I remind you, that comes as no

surprise,” Paula said tartly.

“One of these days, my little harpie,” Kerman remarked gently, “someone is going to haul

off and take at slap at your bustle.”

“That won’t stop her,” I said, ripping open the envelope. “I’ve tried. It only makes her

worse.” I dipped in a finger and thumb and hoisted out a sheet of note-paper and five onehundred-dollar bills.

“Suffering Pete!” Kerman exclaimed, starting to his feet. “Did you give that to the janitor?”

“Now don’t you start,” I said, and read the letter.

Crestways,

Foothill Boulevard,

Orchid City.

May 15th, 1948.

Will you please make it convenient to see me at the above address at three o’clock tomorrow

afternoon? I am anxious to obtain evidence against someone who is blackmailing my

sister. I understand you undertake such work. Please treat this letter as confidential and

urgent. I enclose five hundred dollars as a retainer.

Janet Crosby.

There was a long and painful silence. Even Jack Kerman hadn’t anything to say. We relied

on recommendations to bring in the business, and keeping five hundred dollars belonging to a

prospective client for fourteen months without even acknowledging it is no way to get a

recommendation.

“Urgent and confidential,” Paula murmured. “After keeping it to himself for fourteen

months he hands it to the janitor to show to all his little playmates. Wonderful!”

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“You shut up!” I snarled. “Why didn’t she call up and ask for an explanation? She must

have guessed the letter had gone astray. But wait a minute. She’s dead, isn’t she? One of the

Crosby girls died. Was it Janet?”

“I think it was,” Paula said. “I’ll soon find out.”

“And dig up everything we’ve got on Crosby, too.”

When she had gone into the outer office, I said: “I’m sure she’s dead. I guess we’ll have to

return this money to her estate.”

“If we do that,” Kerman said, always reluctant to part with money, “the press may get wind

of it. A story like this will make a swell advertisement for the way we run our business. We’ll

have to watch our step, Vic. It might be smarter to hang on to the swag and say nothing about

it.”

“We can’t do that. We may be inefficient, but at least let’s be honest.”

Kerman folded himself down in the armchair again.

“Safer to let sleeping dogs lie. Crosby’s something in oil, isn’t he?”

“He was. He’s dead. He was killed in a shooting accident about a couple of years back.” I

picked up the paper-knife and began to punch holes in the blotter. “It beats me how I came to

leave the letter in my trenchcoat like that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Kerman, who knew Paula, grinned sympathetically.

“Slosh her in the slats if she nags,” he said helpfully. “Am I glad it wasn’t me!”

I went on punching holes in the blotter until Paula returned with a fistful of newspaper

clippings.

“She died of heart failure on May 15th, the same day as she wrote the letter. No wonder

you didn’t hear from her,” she said as she shut the office door.

“Heart failure? How old was she then?”

“Twenty-five.”

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I laid down the paper-knife and groped for a cigarette.

“That seems mighty young to die of heart failure. Anyway, let’s have the dope. What have

you got?”