I – The Dame

It wasn't raining when she walked in. It wasn't dark. It wasn't even cold. However, with what went down, it might as well have been. My name is Pierard. Anthony Pierard. My friends called me Tony. My enemies call me things that shouldn't be repeated in public. The police don't call unless they've got a warrant. I'm a private eye, a gumshoe that likes anonymity. I've got six slugs in me. One's lead, the rest are bourbon.

But I digress. That night, it was a nice 78 degrees outside, and the stars glittered like cheap sequins in the hazy New York sky. Not at all the kind of night my business takes me to. I walked into my office, and sighed. I hung my coat up on the rack, and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Another day, another dollar, or so I hear. Merle, my secretary, called my way.

"Some English dame in there for you. Name of Hatherly. Real looker."

"Thanks, Blackie."

Blackie for Blackbird. That was her name, translated from old French. At least, that's what she'd told me. I don't speak French.

I opened the door, and there she was. 5'6" tall, and slender. Redhead. Gams to sin for. The French called her type "fem fatal" or something, I still don't speak French. All I knew was that she was trouble.

She glanced furtively at me, almost as if trapped by something, and then began to speak. Nice English accent. Damn her. I got a real thing for English women.

"Mr. Pierard? My name is Virginia Hatherly. I'm in trouble."

"I could tell that from the fact that you waited for me. Mos' bill collectors are long gone by now. What can I do for you?" I pulled a chair for her. She expertly eased into the leather, and sighed. I sat down at my desk.

"It's my fiancée, or rather my ex-fiancée. I've dissolved our relationship, and he won't stop stalking me. I'm ever so frightened…"

I shook my head. "Doll, I've been in this business a long time. Too long, ya might say. Fact of th' matter is, I've heard better. Try again, sister. Tell the truth." A look of rage crossed her too-pretty features, and I finished my part. "And don't play the wounded kitten, either. You're good, doll, I'll give ya that, but I can spot a ruse at fifty feet."

She looked long and hard at me, and a half-smile crept across her face. "Fine, Mr. Pierard. If you must have it, have it. My brother isn't himself. He hasn't been since he came back from the War." Real concern slipped across her face. "My father, Dr. Hatherly, thinks he might have extreme shell shock. We are an old family, Mr. Pierard. We've never had any madness in our blood. We've always prided ourselves on our strength of will.

"Perhaps because of this pride, I don't believe it is insanity. I want you to find out for me."

I chuckled. "Lady, you got the wrong guy. I'm a detective, not a doctor. You want that, you hire one."

The fretful look on her face was replaced with one of pleading. Suddenly, she had my collar in her fist, and was crying. "Please, Mr. Pierard! You are my only hope!"

I hate crying women. They always force me to do silly things. Things like accepting stupid jobs. "Awright, lady. It'll cost you one hundred and fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. What have I got to work on?"

She blinked through her tears, and smiled a little. "Done. The only lead is this address: 6464 East Central Street. Malcolm has been seen there recently more often than at home. Oh! Thank you, Mr. Pierard!" She kissed my cheek, and swayed out the door. She handed something to Merle, and was gone.

I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and lit a cigarette. I blew the smoke toward the ceiling fan, which wafted it throughout the room. I closed my eyes, reviewing what I knew. 6464 East Central Street. A man acting strange. A man…

Damn it!

I got up, ground out my cigarette, and hurried out of my office. Maybe she was still on the street. I couldn't believe I had done something so amateur, so stupid! I grabbed my coat on the way out, put it on while I dashed down the stairs, and burst out into the new rain. I scanned the busy street for her, all the while cursing myself.

I hadn't gotten a description of her brother.

No sign of her. Damn! I shook my head, and turned around.

I headed back inside; my thoughts poured around me like the rain. Who was this "Virginia Hatherly?" Who was her brother? What happened back in the War? What, in heaven's name, did the brother look like?

My questions died as the door shut behind me. Three big goons in carbon-copy suits stood in front of me, one with a dopey grin on his fat mug. The pistols the other two held looked like toys in their hammy mitts, but from the way they held them, I gathered they'd make me just as dead as real ones. I was about to go for my piece, a .357 Colt Revolver, when Smiley spoke.

"Mr. Pierard, I presume?" I nodded. He continued. "You're supposed to know all the tricks. For your sake, I'd suggest not pulling any."