The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 23 Classic Mystery Stories

It always gave me a lift to get a stack of hundred-dollar bills in the mail. Not just for the money, you understand, although I always needed that. The real lift came from pride — pride that my reputation for professional ethics was solid enough to bring me full payment in advance.

I knew there were a couple of others in the business who got half in advance, but I was the only one The Arranger trusted so completely that the whole fee arrived with the assignment.

It had taken a long time to build a solid enough reputation to earn that kind of respect. You don’t merit trust from The Arranger until you’ve proved over and over that you always deliver the goods and that you hit clean. There was a tacit understanding, of course, that if for some reason I was ever unable to finish an assignment, all the money would immediately be mailed back; but I had never had to do that and I never expected to. I didn’t want even any minor stains on my record and reputation as the most ethical man in the business.

I put the money in my money belt and strapped it under my shirt until I could get to the bank that afternoon. After memorizing the instructions, I burned the paper and ground out the ashes.

This was on the morning of Monday, March 2. That afternoon I visited the bank and transferred the five grand to my safe-deposit box. For current expenses I removed a couple of hundred from the rapidly shrinking amount previously in the box. Until I had completed my assignment, I wouldn’t touch the new five thousand even if the box became otherwise empty, because there was always the remotest possible chance that I’d have to return the fee.

At about 8:30 that evening my door chimes sounded. When I answered the door, I found Joey Thomas standing in the hall.

“Evening, Speck,” he said, giving me an uncertain smile. “Can I come in?”

Shrugging, I stepped aside to let him enter. I had nothing against Joey Thomas, but he was no bosom pal either. As a freelance legman and sometime strong-arm man for a half dozen bookies, he was more or less on the inside; but he didn’t carry enough weight to make him worth cultivating. I like to mingle socially only with the top echelons.

He stood in the center of my front room with the same uncertain smile on his face until I told him to sit down. When I asked if he wanted a drink, he accepted so eagerly that it was obvious he needed it.

I only mixed one, because I don’t drink myself. Not good for business.

When he was settled with a bourbon highball he said, “This isn’t a social call, Speck. It’s business — strictly business.”

I frowned. I hadn’t been aware that he was far enough on the inside to know my business. Of course, even those on the fringes could guess, from my known associations, that I must be in pretty solid with a lot of big people; but only those really high up were supposed to know precisely what my function was.

I said, “What makes you think I have any business?”

He downed most of his highball before speaking, presumably to give himself courage. “I heard some rumors — you know how it is — and finally figured it out. You’re not going to get sore at me, are you?”

I said irritably, “Even if I do, all you’re risking is a bawling out. What the devil are you so scared of?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you practicing your specialty on me.”

I made my voice cold. “If I had a specialty, as you call it, I’d practice it only for money. I wouldn’t waste it on a personal grudge.”

He breathed a little easier. “You do work for the — ah — The Arranger, don’t you?”

Practically everybody in the know has heard of The Arranger, so his reference to the Big Guy didn’t surprise me. It would have surprised me, though, if he knew who The Arranger was — because even I didn’t know that.

I said, “If I did, what business would it be of yours?”

“I want to hire you, Speck.”

After contemplating him for a moment I said, “The rumors you heard were all wrong. If you have business for The Arranger, go through proper channels. You must know some contacts.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “Only through proper channels the fee is ten grand, and I can’t raise that much. I figure your cut must be about half. So why don’t we eliminate the middleman? I can go sixty-five hundred, so we’d both be ahead.”

Before I tied in with The Arranger I used to free-lance, which had required working out my own deals. Nothing in my unwritten contract said I couldn’t take on an outside job, and I could certainly use the extra money. It was at least worth hearing out.

I said, “Bargain-basement shopping, huh? Go ahead and talk. I’m listening.”

He took a deep breath and said, “It’s my wife, Joan.”

Already I didn’t like it. I have no objection to hitting women, but I prefer these matters on an impersonal plane. When I get an assignment from The Arranger, I never even know the subject’s name — which is the way I like it.

In the old free-lance days I had frequently known who I was hitting, but I hadn’t worked a freelance job in a long time and had gotten in the habit of liking things the way they were. I even carried my preference for anonymous subjects to the point where I deliberately avoided newspapers, and radio and TV news reports, for days afterward — so I wouldn’t ever learn who the subject was.