Even the Butler Was Poor Read Free

him out whenever—"
    "Yep, I'm aware of the gift you have for not listening."
    "I'm afraid poor Rick thought I'd paid more attention to him than I did," she said. "The clue he passed on to me is, I'm near certain, part of one of those old jokes he used to tell me."
    "He couldn't have just said, 'I hid the dough in my old boots.' Life, the world, everything would be much simpler if people didn't try to get cute—"
    "He was dying after all, Ben, which probably affects your judgment. You have to allow people to be a little dippy when they're—"
    "Okay, what exactly did he say to you?"
    She rested her hands on her knees. "Ninety-nine clop clop."
    "Beg pardon?"
    "Well, his dying words were ninety-nine clop clop," she said, a bit forlornly. "I know that's right, because I asked him to repeat it."
    "Of course you did." He stood up. "Remind me to die alone in some remote spot."
    "Well?" She made a vague urging motion with her right hand. "Ninety-nine clop clop."
    "It rings a vague bell, H.J." He shook his head, frowning. "But I'm not getting anything definite. Maybe if I—"
    "Isn't it part of a joke, a punchline or—"
    "Probably it is an old joke," he agreed. "In fact, I'm pretty certain it is. Suppose I think this over and phone you after my dinner date is over and maybe—"
    "It'll be dawn by then. I don't want to wait all night while you frolic with some—"
    "Hey, when clients consult Sherlock Holmes or Charlie Chan, they have to put up with the detective's little eccentricities."
    "Charlie Chan never kept a client cooling her heels while he hopped in the sack with some bimbo."
    "Which is why he ended up a bitter, aphoristic old man. Now then, you scoot on home so I—"
    From outside came a combination of unnerving sounds.
    A rattling skid, a screech of brakes, a thumping smash. "That must be Candy." Ben ran for the front door.
    "Candy? That's her name? Candy?"
    "Everybody can't have initials. Did you leave your car in the driveway?"
    "As opposed to what—parking it atop your gazebo? Of course I . . . Oh, shit." She ran to the door after him, and looked out into the night.
    "Candy tends to hit things that are left in the driveway."
    "So I see."

Chapter 2
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    S he was sitting, forlornly, in the least comfortable chair in the small parlor of her small cottage, staring vaguely in the direction of the television screen.
    A voice inside the set announced, "We'll be back to tonight's Multimillion Dollar Movie, Philo Vance's Secret , after these messages."
    A portly, jovial man of about fifty appeared on the screen. He was attired as a very correct butler and holding a fish up in one white-gloved hand. "Chumley here. For another bit of chitchat about My Man Chumley Fish & Chips, don't you know."
    The door chimes, a bit out of tune, sounded.
    H.J. stood up and used the remote control box that she realized she was holding in her left hand to kill the set. Stepping around an upended chair and over a scatter of paperbacks, she went out into the small narrow hallway.
    Not opening the door, she called out, "Identify yourself."
    "Hell, I've forgotten the password. It's been three years."
    "Oh, Ben." She unhooked the chain, unlocked the door, tugged it open. "I was hoping it was you. C'mon in, please."
    "Maybe I ought to wait until your cleaning lady shows up." He came into the hall, stooped and righted a toppled floor lamp.
    "It's worse in the parlor," she said, motioning him to follow. "Well, actually it's worst of all in my damn studio. They squirted about six tubes of paint all over the floor. When I saw that, I decided to postpone cleaning up for a spell."
    Ben paused on the threshold of the parlor, taking in the overturned furniture, the emptied bookshelves, the pulled out drawers, and scattered papers. "I wasn't expecting this much chaos from what you said over the phone I—"
    "What I was attempting to do was sound calm. But it's obvious somebody thoroughly searched my place while I was out at the