Dead Giveaway
Loving Homage to the Detective Noir Genre
Note: Originally written and published in 2016, updated and re-edited in 2022.
The week started out lousy. My old Chrysler Saratoga got a flat 2 blocks from the office. It was raining so hard you couldn’t see a foot in front of you. My umbrella had turned inside out and by the time I got in the door, I was soaked like a soggy bun in a bucket of water. When I got through the door I found another rent letter from the landlord, pushed under the door like a clapped out pancake.
I knew what it was before I even opened it, so didn’t. I had a hangover from the night before — partying always does that to me. Actually I was still wearing my party clothes, somewhat rumpled and very wet. My soaking wet high heels were killing me and my head felt like an oil drum filled with nuts and bolts being shaken by a giant gloppeder gloppeder machine(Nod to The Secret Life of Walter Mitty).
The unpleasant stale smell in the office didn’t help. I should have opened the window and aired the place, but to do that, I would have to open the blinds, and that would let more light in and my eyes couldn’t take it.
I picked up the landlord’s envelope This one I opened. The usual “Pay your rent or you are out” message. I tossed it.
Then I saw the note. This had become attached to the landlords’ envelope and I missed it until I tossed the envelope. It was another threatening note.
Of course, I’m used to getting threats and insults. I’m a lady detective and we do not form a large segment of the private detective breed. The other detectives hate me, they feel that I have an unfair advantage over them (heels, cleavage and dresses). The cops hate me because I’m a private detective. The bad guys hate me because I look like a gangster’s moll, but act like a tough guy, have the chops to back it up and am a crack shot with my snubbie. (As “Hoops” Barker found out when he tried to ambush me. “Hoops” is now missing the use of the thumb on his right hand.)
The phone rang shrilly, I groped around for it on the desk, as I read the note. Some days I feel I should make an effort to tidy the desk — but as long as I can find my smokes, the ashtray, the whisky and the telephone I’m good. I finally extracted the still ringing telephone from under a pile of bills.
“Marlowe here” I snarled. The voice at the other end whines incoherently. It’s Peter “the Wrench”. The down side to being a detective is some of the characters I have to deal with. “The Wrench” is a good example of some one I have to employ from time to time, but would rather not. He’s very good at tracking unfindable people and very good at persuading intractable people. He’s annoying to deal with because he complains all the time. His constant whining reminds me of an unoiled door hinge in a short-order kitchen.
At the moment he is complaining about having to stand around in the rain while watching an unfaithful spouse. “That’s part of the job” I tell him unsympathetically. I need to discuss something with him face to face, so we agree to meet at my office later this evening.
I no sooner get settled with a shot of whisky, my first cigarette of the day, and idly begin to leaf through the latest edition of Detective Universe.
When, wouldn’t you know it — the telephone rings again.
This time it’s a client, A client is always a bonus, since it may mean a cash infusion which will keep the landlord off my back.
It’s Mr. M. The job is checking out some strange activities at his warehouse.
It seems that every day for the past week a package arrives for the foreman, it always contains a slightly stale Salami sandwich, and the package is always left hanging on a hook on one of the chains they use for raising crates. (The foreman is getting suspicious since his wife makes his lunch and knows that he hates Salami. He thinks she may be trying to tell him something. )
They haven’t been keeping any of the packages because they smell too strong. I tell them, hang on to the next one so we can get it tested. I arrange to drop by the warehouse later.
At last I am able to take that lifesaving puff from my newly lit cigarette and take a swallow of whisky. I kick my damp heels off and place my long suffering feet up on the desk. A moment of relaxation which I enjoy to the hilt. Now I’m back to puzzling over the threatening note.
The telephone shrills again. No peace for me this morning. Plus, I notice that it has started raining — again. The rain hurls large, spiteful drops against the dirty window, wetting a bedraggled pigeon taking refuge on the windowsill. Reluctantly I put the glass down and answer the telephone. “Marlow here” I say sourly.
It’s my old pal, Inspector Joe Mortimer, “Morty” for short. Morty and I go back a long way. He’s my only friend in the Police Department . Morty wants to know if I have received any more threatening notes, and if I have done any more serious checking into those threatening notes. I tell him yes to the first question, and no to the second, but that I am meeting with “The Wrench” tonight to discuss further strategy. Morty grumbles at me but seems partially satisfied. He hangs up. Morty tends to try to keep an eye on me.
I return to my whisky (nothing like the hair of the dog that bit you) and relight my cigarette which has gone out during the ‘phone call with Morty.
I sit there encircled with smoke and infused with a glow from my drink. My hangover head is throbbing like a Bugatti Type 59/50B on start up. I’m thinking — barely.
At the back of my mind I feel there may be a link between the threatening notes and the stale salami sandwiches being sent to the warehouse. Something keeps on niggling at my mind. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Since my stomach feels like the English Channel on a bad crossing day, I skip lunch and try to answer a few letters on the old Remington typewriter. Old faithful I call it. Since I can’t afford a secretary, I do all my own typing. I also make a lot of mistakes. After a few false starts I give up. I’m still puzzling about the link between the stale Salami sandwiches and the threatening notes.
The notes are always short and cryptic. “Dear Miss Marlowe, You have been warned. A friend”. That one is printed in a thick pencil. One of them reads “Dear Miss Marlowe, Do Not Take This Case — It Will Be Bad for Your Health” This note is written in block capitals in purple ink. There is vague yet familiar odor to both notes.
The rest of the day passed slowly, too slowly. Three calls from creditors; a not-so-friendly visit from the landlord; Morty called again, this time with some information on one of my cases; the garage called to say they had fixed the flat.
6 o’clock at last, I can shut up the office and go home to get cleaned up and a change of clothes for my warehouse visit. Maybe I’ll squeeze in a bite to eat at Joe’s Diner, it’s on the way to the warehouse.
By 8 o’clock I was headed to the warehouse. This place is in the industrial part of town, not far from the docks. The rain has stopped but it’s quite foggy. I park on the street near the building entrance. I can see my client’s car parked just ahead of me, I’m parked close to a street light. I get out of the car and head toward to entrance.
The fog swirling around deadens the city sounds. Periodically, I hear the mournful moan of the foghorn — I pause at some undefined sound close by. I pull out my gun and look around.
I hear a slight scraping sound and a clink. I flatten against the wall and take the safety off. Best not to take chances. I hear a crash and an enraged yowl as two cats streak past, clearly in a dispute. I relax.
I ring the door bell at the side entrance to the building. My client, Mr. M opens the door and lets me in. He’s full of worry over the stale salami sandwiches and wants to know what my plan is. I tell him I’ll know better once I check out the crime scene.
Since the workers have left for the day, the place is very quiet, and only a couple of lights are on. Mr. M. indicates the chains and hooks where the sandwiches have been appearing.
I examine them closely for any possible clues. The hooks have a strangely familiar smell.
It’s around 1:00AM when I get back to the office to meet with The Wrench. He’s late. I am getting annoyed — I have better things to do than sit around in my office waiting for him. I light a cigarette. I left the ceiling lights off in the office, most of the light is from the street light. It’s very quiet and then I hear a footstep outside, then silence.
Hairs go up the back of my neck. I hear another footstep. My gun finds its’ way into my hand as I creep toward the window. I carefully poke the gun through the slats of the Venetian blinds and I see a dark form lurking just outside of the street light’s direct range.
Because of the fog I can’t make out who it is.
I decide to go outside and find out. To muffle my footsteps, I don an old pair of galoshes I keep for emergencies. I slip down the hall and let myself out the back door. I sneak around the building and see the figure standing near the street light, facing my office window. The rubber soles of the galoshes make tiny squishing noises as sneak across the still wet pavement.
I come up directly behind the lurker and jam my gun in the back of his neck. He says “ow”. I recognize the whiny voice, it’s Peter The Wrench.
Furious, I say “why are you just standing here and not over near the door?” He says “I was waiting for you to come back, but the lights never came on and I thought if I stood near the streetlight, you’d see me when you did come back. I also thought if I waited inside the front door, you might shoot me.” he adds “Could you take the gun out of my neck now?”
Back in my office, we both light cigarettes. I could really use a drink right now. I pull the bottle toward me and fill two glasses. “The Wrench” is slouched down in the chair, cigarette in hand, resembling a bag of sawdust wearing a hat. He accepts the proffered glass. We sit in silence for a bit, allowing the life-saving amber liquid work it’s way through our systems.
I show him the several threatening notes. “We need to get to the bottom of this” I tell him. He examines the notes minutely. Then he says “Were you having a salami sandwich when you opened these notes?” “What?” I say angrily “I don’t even like salami” . The Wrench looks at me owlishly. “well, even so, these notes smell very strongly of Salami, and it’s making me hungry.” It’s typical of The Wrench to be thinking about his stomach.
We sit and stare at the notes, the silences crackles between us like a tortoise walking over egg shells. “Wait” says the Wrench, “what if there’s a connection between these notes and the stale Salami sandwiches at the warehouse?”. That makes me stop and think. So, the Salami sandwich guy is after both my client and me?
This problem has me stumped. Other than the smell of stale Salami I am unable to see the link between the threatening notes to me and the stale Salami sandwiches at the warehouse. I ask myself if the person sending the threatening notes is trying to stop me from investigating the stale Salami sandwich mystery.
— —
To be continued ….Don’t miss the next issue of Detective Universe to see the exciting conclusion of Dead Heat!
How This Story and Photoshoot came about
For how we came up with this idea, and some of the details of getting everything ready for the shoot, click here.
The photography, lighting and set design was done by Bruce M. Walker
The part of Phillippa Marlowe, private dick, was enacted by Louise Peacock
The project was shot at Studio By House in Mississauga (you can reach Peter via email for more information about the studio) info@housethephotographer.com )
The part of Peter the Wrench was enacted by Peter Domanski — thanks to Peter for being a good sport as usual.
Hair, makeup and wardrobe — Louise Peacock
Creative Director — Louise Peacock
