Death Likes It Hot by Edgar Box
A SIGNET BOOK
Published by THE NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
Copyright, 1954, by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper or radio broadcast. For information address E. P. Dutton & Co. Inc., 201 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
Published as a SIGNET BOOK by arrangement with E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., who have authorized this softcover edition.
First Printing, July, 1955
Second Printing (Canada), August, 1956
Third Printing, February, 1958
Fourth Printing, September, 1964
SIGNET TRADEMARK TtEO. U.8. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COÜNTRID9 REGISTERED TU ADEM AR K—MAROA REOIflTIlADA HECHO BN OIIIOAQO, U.S.A.
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CHAPTER ONE
1
THE death of Peaches Sandoe the midget at the hands, or rather the feet, of a maddened elephant in the sideshow of the circus at Madison Square Garden was at first thought to be an accident, the sort of tragedy you’re bound to run into from time to time if you run a circus with both elephants and midgets in it. A few days later, though, there was talk of foul play.
I read with a good deal of interest the Daily News' account. A threatening conversation had been overheard; someone (unrevealed) had gone to the police with a startling story (unrevealed) and an accusation against an unnamed party. It was very peculiar.
Miss Flynn, my conscience and secretary, elderly, firm, intolerant, ruthless but pleasingly gray, looked over my shoulder as was her wont. “You will not, I presume . . .”
“Get involved in this grisly affair? No. Or at least not until I’m asked which is unlikely since the circus has its own public relations setup. . .”
“It's possible that some member of the circus, however, knowing your propensity for Shady Personages and Crime might engage your services. . .”
“They’ll have to catch me first. Miss Flynn, I’m gone.” I stood up abruptly; she looked bewildered . . . wondering if perhaps I had gone over to the world of be-bops: Miss Flynn is a student of argot though her own conversation is very courtly, cool in fact.
“I’m gone for a week,” I explained.
She nodded, understanding at last. “You'll accept Mrs. Veering’s invitation to partake of the sun at her palatial estate on Long Island?”
“Just this moment decided. No reason to hang around here. August is a dead month. We haven’t any business you can't handle better than I.” She inclined her head in agreement. “So I’ll go out to Easthampton and see what it is she wants me to do.”
“Social Position has never been Mrs. Veering’s aim.” Miss Flynn is a resolute snob and follows with grim fascination Cholly Knickerbocker’s rich accounts of the rich.
“Well, she won't be the first dowager we put over on an unsuspecting public.”
Miss Flynn scowled. Next to my affinity for Shady Personages and Crime she dislikes nearly all the clients of my public relations firm: ambitious well-heeled characters trying to exploit products or themselves in the press. With the exception of a singing dog who lost her voice, my record has been pretty good in this crooked profession. Recently business had slowed down. In August New York dies and everybody tries to get out of the heat. Mrs. Veering’s mysterious summons had come at exactly the right time.
"Alma Edderdale, I know, is a friend of yours . . .and a dear one of mine . . . it was at the advice of a friend of hers that I got your name. I do wish you could come see me here Friday to spend the week end and talk over with me a little project close to my heart. Let me know soon. Trusting you won’t let me down, I am, sincerely yours, Rose Clayton Veering." That was the message on thick expensive note paper with the discreet legend at the top: “The North Dunes, Eastharnpton, Long Island, N.Y.” No hint of what she wanted. My first impulse had been to write and tell her that I’d have to have a clear idea before I came of what she wanted. But the heat of August relaxed my professionalism. A week end in Eastharnpton, in a big house...
I dictated an acceptance telegram to Miss Flynn who snorted from time to time but otherwise said nothing.
I then fired a number of instructions in my best businessexecutive voice, knowing that in my absence Miss Flynn wuold do exactly as she pleased anyway, then we gravely shook hands and I left the office: two small rooms with two desks and a filing cabinet in East 55th Street (good address, small office, high rent) and headed down Park Avenue through the sullen heat to my apartment on 49th Street (big rooms, bad address, low rent.)
2
The Long Island Cannon Ball Express pulled away from the station and there was every indication that it would be able to make Montauk before nightfall; if not . . . well, those who travel that railroad are living dangerously and they know it. Cinders blew in my face from an open window. The seat sharply cut off the circulation in my legs. The hot sun shone brazenly in my face ... it was like the days of my childhood fifteen years (well, maybe twenty years) before, when I used to visit relatives in Southampton. Everything had changed since then except the Long Island Railroad and the Atlantic Ocean.
The Journal American was full of the Peaches Sandoe murder case even though there were no facts out of which to make a story. This doesn’t bother newspapers, however, and there were some fine pictures of naked girls wearing sequins and plumes. Peaches Sandoe herself was, in life, a rather dowdy-looking, middle-aged midget with a 1920’s bob.
I was well into the N.Y. Globe’s account, written by my old friend and rival Elmer Bush, when a fragrant thigh struck mine and a soft female voice said, “Excuse . . . why if it isn’t Peter Sargeant!”
“Liz Bessemer!” We stared at one another in amazement though why either should have been particularly surprised I don’t know since we see each other at least once a month at one party or another and I have, on several occasions, tried to get a date out of her without success since I’m shy and she is usually engaged to some young blade around town. Though it was perfectly logical that we both find ourselves on a Friday heading for a week end on Long Island by Cannon Ball Express, we professed amazement at seeing each other.
Amazement turned to excitement, at least on my part, when I found she was visiting an aunt and uncle in Easthampton. “I just had to get out of the city and since Mummy is out in Las Vegas getting a divorce” (Liz though a big girl of twenty-five with blue eyes and dark brown hair and a figure shaped like a Maiden-Form Bra ad still refers to her progenitress as “Mummy” which is significant, I think), “and I wasn’t invited any place this week end, I just thought I'd go on out and stay with my aunt who’s been after me all summer to visit her. So you’re going to be there too?”
I nodded and we kicked the ball around a bit. She knew of Mrs. Veering, even knew her place which, it seemed, was about half a mile down the road from where she would be staying. I experienced lust, mild but persistent. Mentally, I caressed the generous arm of coincidence.