Kisses of Death. Henry Kane

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Kisses of Death: A Peter Chambers Mystery

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1962 by Henry Kane.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

       ONE

      I WAS seated in my briefs in the kitchen having breakfast. It was Saturday, June 17, nine-thirty of a hot day in spring. Friday night’s newspaper was propped against the sugar bowl and I was sipping coffee and reading about murder, rape, divorce, delinquency, and political missile rattling, when the phone rang. I relinquished the literature, went to the living room, picked up the phone, said, “Hello?”

      “Mr. Chambers?” It was a woman.

      “Yes,” I said.

      “Peter Chambers?”

      “Yes,” I said.

      “May I see you, Mr. Chambers? On business?”

      “Yes, of course. When would you like?”

      “Right away, if you please.”

      “Who is this?”

      “Mrs. Kiss.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Mrs. Valerie Kiss.”

      “Do I know you, Mrs. Kiss?”

      “No.”

      Kiss. It is a name. It is not somebody making a joke at nine-thirty in the morning during breakfast. Once before, several years ago, I had had a client by the name of Kiss—Justine Kiss. I had then checked the Kisses in the Manhattan telephone book. There had been eighteen Kisses listed. Kiss is a name.

      “Are you a relative of Justine Kiss?” I said.

      “No. Why?” She sounded annoyed.

      “Just that Kiss is an unusual name. I thought perhaps Justine had recommended—”

      “Mr. Felix Davenport recommended you to me.”

      Felix Davenport was an old friend, a well known actor on the Broadway stage, but for the past three years Felix had been living on the West Coast wasting his talent but earning a huge income as the straight man to a comic in a television series.

      “Oh,” I said, “you’re from Hollywood?”

      “I’m from New York.”

      “But Felix—”

      “Look, please, Mr. Chambers, it’s very important that I see you as quickly as possible. May I come over?”

      “Sure. Do you know the address?”

      “Yes.”

      “How soon will you be here?”

      “Fifteen minutes all right?”

      “Fine,” I said.

      “Thank you,” she said and hung up.

      I was showered and shaved. I cleaned up the kitchen by putting the dishes into the sink. That took two minutes. I dressed quickly but carefully as is fitting when the client is a lady and the lady is a stranger. That took ten minutes. With three minutes to spare, I was about to light a cigarette, when the bell rang. My lady was either prompt by habit or the matter was as urgent as she had intimated.

      The matter was as urgent as she had intimated.

       TWO

      SHE WAS tall and willowy with beautiful ankles. She was long legged and tiny waisted and high hipped and provocatively chested in an expensive green summer dress without sleeves. She had a small nose and enormous eyes, the nose tilted and the eyes brown. She had poise, she had posture, she had presence, she had luminous auburn hair expensively coiffured. She carried a black patent-leather handbag and the graceful ankles, nylon sheathed, rose up out of spike-heeled black patent-leather pumps. Her skin was fair, white, smooth, and carefully tended, and her hands were long-fingered and delicate. She was distressed; naturally she was distressed—she had insisted upon visiting a private detective early on a Saturday morning—but she did not stress her distress; she was contained, reasonably calm, somehow remote. She had quality. It was written all over her. She had class, Class A. She smiled and said, “Mr. Chambers?” and she extended her hand and I took it and shook it. It was cool and dry with a firm but not flirtatious clasp. She shook my hand and then let go. She said, “I know I am an intrusion so early on a Saturday morning but you must forgive me.”

      “That’s the kind of business I’m in,” I said.

      “Thank you for being so sweet,” she said. Her voice was deep, slow, trained, cultured, somehow familiar. All of her was somehow familiar but I could not place it.

      She sat down in a soft-pillowed easy chair, sank in. She crossed her legs and the slender ankles plumped up to the kind of rounded calves that caused one to become rampantly curious about the thighs, so I looked away.

      “Do I know you?” I said.

      “Do you?” she said.

      “I feel as though I do but I can’t put my finger on it.”

      She looked upon her wrist watch which, like all the rest of her, was obviously expensive, and she said, “We have an appointment at eleven o’clock.”

      “We?” I asked.

      “At 527 Madison Avenue. At eleven o’clock. It’ll take us about ten minutes to get there from here, yes?”

      “Yes.”

      “Before that, I have about ten minutes of explanatory matter for you. But before that, if you so desire, you may talk about whatever you want, ask any questions you wish.”

      “Do I know you?” I said again.

      “My name is Valerie, Valerie Kiss, Mrs. Jonathan Kiss. Does any of that mean anything to you?”

      “Not a thing. But I’d swear I—”

      “My professional name was Valerie Dayton. Any bells?”

      Bells, not gongs, little bells, began to tinkle. Valerie Dayton. Sure. Of course. Seven, eight years ago, it had been a stage name, a motion picture name, a television name. I had seen her in a couple of lead roles on Broadway, I had seen her in a couple of secondary roles in movies, and I had seen her in countless supporting roles in countless television epics: westerns, easterns, southerns, violence-shows, and emasculated social-significance dramas. “Sure,” I said. “Valerie Dayton. Sure.”

      “I married,” she said, “and I married well. Second marriage, as a matter of fact. First marriage still had to do with the career, but I got wise, it was not for me. I didn’t have—” She shrugged and scraped out her cigarette. “—the guts, СКАЧАТЬ