Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

It was teatime. Lapsang Souchong. The tea with the smoky flavor. Akutagawa poured me a cup as I walked in. I reported.

He said, “I do not believe the credit record is significant. There is, as you might know, a modus operandi of sorts pertaining to the sexes...”

I listened respectfully. Akutagawa more than earned that respect — twenty years with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, Superintendent for twelve, UN Security Chief for the past ten years. The upshot of it was that women do not commit suicide because of debt. Men do, for a variety of complicated reason which Akutagawa sounded like he understood perfectly.

Me, I was just listening and sipping Lapsang Souchong. I let him wind it up, then told him about my conversation with Assistant D.A. Angus Narijian. That brought a smile and a thousand wrinkles to his kindly face.

Then the phone rang. It was Narijian himself, on the other end of the wire. He wanted to meet me for lunch. He doesn’t usually invite me out to lunch. So I very cautiously asked if he was footing the bill. He said he was, which meant he had an ulterior motive. I asked him what the occasion was but he refused to elaborate. Said he’d talk about it when he saw me.

I arranged to meet him at the Bamberry Fair on Lexington and Forty-first. Akutagawa, who had been listening on the extension, raised an eyebrow at me as I broke the connection.

He said, “It sounds as though he’s uncovered something. Probably on the Draftsmans. It would be nice to have more news on Noel. However” — he wiggled his forefinger at me — “under no circumstances is Narijian, or any of his colleagues, including the police, to see Mrs. Draftsman. Try to talk him out of it if he mentions the possibility.”

“Leave Narijian to me,” I said as I picked up the phone and asked to be connected with Joan Chandler at International Acoustics.

She sounded in better shape this morning. She said she’d just love to lunch with me at the Bamberry Fair. I didn’t mention Narijian. I thought I’d surprise her. I had a hunch I wanted to play out. That was how I put it to Akutagawa, though I phrased it more elegantly.

“I was working intuitively,” I told him, “like an artist taking imaginative leaps across the void.”

Akutagawa didn’t say anything, though he stared thoughtfully at me for a moment. Finally he said, “It would be helpful, you know, to have even a snapshot of Noel Draftsman. Perhaps Miss Chandler can oblige.”

I said I’d do what I could.

Narijian was pacing the plush lounge of the Bamberry Fair when I arrived. He was a big man, a former end for Columbia, whose hair and gut were just beginning to show serious signs of wear, though his tremendous bass voice was not.

“Lowry,” he roared, “you’re late!” He grasped my arm with a meaty hand. “Come on. I’ve got a table reserved.”

I told him how and where to get off. Politely. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t know his own strength. Not that I couldn’t have taken him, except that it would have created an unnecessary disturbance and ended up with both of us being forcibly ejected. Besides, I had other plans for him. Joan Chandler should be arriving any minute. I steered him to one side of the lounge and told him roughly what I had in mind. I then asked him what he had on his mind.

It really wasn’t much. He could have told it over the phone, only he figured we could help him out. Akutagawa had been right. It was about the Draftsmans. The police wanted to talk to Noel Draftsman in connection with some fraudulent dealings in certain department stores.

Narijian wanted me to put the finger on Noel. He had started beating his gums about Eleanor Draftsman when Joan Chandler arrived. She had already parked her coat and as she walked across the lounge toward us every male head swung around to match her progress. She was something to see. Long red hair cascading down to her shoulders, fluid hips, a lively treasure chest and long, spectacular legs. I’d seen them all before so I didn’t spend too much time ogling, at least not as much as Narijian.

I introduced them. Narijian had a little trouble with his voice at first but after a moment he was okay. I told her he was a pal of mine who’d made the big time as a lawyer and she looked interested. She hung on every mellifluous word and he strung them out like glistening pearls.

My strategy worked perfectly, though I couldn’t get two consecutive words in sideways. Amor vincit omnia, as they say, and once Narijian got started there was no stopping him. The roast beef was excellent. Ditto for the flaming dessert and dry martinis.

I wondered how Narijian was going to explain this on his expense voucher. It didn’t seem to bother him when he picked up the tab. I went through the motions of splitting it with him but he waved me away with a magnificent gesture. All told it came to $31.50. He left a dollar-fifty tip, to which I added a trio because I figured I’d like to come back sometime and still get waited on.