The Devil Met a Lady by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

secretary, and clients had always been scarce. What Niles did have was photographs on the wall, each inscribed. I looked at a few of them. It didn’t evade the keen eye of Toby Peters that the signature of Marlene Dietrich under the words, “With gratitude to the jewel of all the Niles,” and the signature of Richard Barthlemess under the inscription, “I don’t know where I’d have been without you, Grover,” were suspiciously similar.
    “You need help?” came a quivering man’s voice behind me.
    I turned slowly to face Niles, who looked pretty much the same as he had in ’38, if you overlooked the fact that he was ten times as nervous. He had added one thing, a pair of suspenders.
    “Remember me?” I asked with a smile, stepping toward him.
    The look on his twitching face was close to panic as he backed away.
    “Hey, I told him I was deaf and dumb,” Niles said, wiping his face with the handkerchief in his right hand and holding out his left in the hope that the gesture would keep me from advancing.
    “You told him?”
    “I’m safe,” he whimpered. “I’m zipped tight.”
    “Have a cookie,” I said, holding out the bag. “I recommend the Shirley Temples.”
    Grover Niles didn’t want a cookie.
    “The old lady downstairs has great ears,” he said, his back against the wall as I put my hand into the cookie bag. “She’ll hear.”
    “She’ll hear me give you a cookie?”
    “You’re toyin’ with me.” He almost wept. “Christ, don’t toy with me. You’re gonna shoot me, stab me, something.”
    “Who you afraid of, Grover?” I asked, pulling out a Shirley Temple and a W. C. Fields and holding them out to him. “Take ’em.”
    He took a cookie.
    “I’m not supposed to eat sweets,” he said, putting the Fields to his mouth without looking at it. “Doctor says I’m a borderline diabetic, you know. This isn’t, you know, I mean these aren’t my last cookies? They’re not … you didn’t put something in ’em?”
    “Rose-Rose Shale,” I said. “Remember?”
    He dropped his cookie.
    “Rose-Rose?”
    “Thirty-eight. You stiffed her for seventy-five bucks. I came for it. I don’t know what happened to Rose-Rose, but I know what happened to you. You turned into a lump of cranberry sauce.”
    “You … you’re the shamus,” he said with sudden relief, moving to the receptionist’s chair and plopping down.
    “You remember Rose-Rose?” I asked.
    “Remember her? I married her,” said Grover Niles, letting out a deep breath of air. “Two great months. Then she left me. Only time I ever married, if you don’t count Yolanda.”
    “Let’s not count Yolanda. Let’s talk business. A little after you met your future bride you bought a record from a man named Pinketts for ten thousand dollars.”
    “I knew it,” screamed Niles, leaping to his feet. “Wiklund.”
    “Who’s Wiklund? The guy you sold the record to?”
    “I don’t know about any records. I don’t remember any records. Wiklund is an actor—lousy, two bit. Name just popped out. You know the way it is. I’ve been under a lot of strain since the war.”
    “You paid ten thousand for the record. Bette Davis, Howard Hughes, and Ham Nelson in ‘Goodnight, Ladies.’ Grover, don’t tell me you forgot a ten-thousand-dollar deal.”
    “My memory is bad,” he said, looking at the door behind me. “It’s the diabetes. I’m a sick man. I’ve never been a ten-thousand-dollar dealer.”
    “Then you fronted for someone,” I tried. “I’ve got a guess. It’s wild and if I get it wrong, I want two more chances. Was his name Wiklund?”
    Grover Niles lurched as if he had been given a jolt of electricity.
    “Oh, Jesus,” he groaned, wiping his forehead and neck. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”
    “No, I don’t think his name was Jesus. Let me make another guess. Pinketts told you I worked on that job bugging Bette Davis and Howard Hughes. You told Wiklund. And just before I came through that door, somebody,