Laurel and Hardy Murders by Marvin Kaye Read Free Book Online Page B

a low voice, “and don’t you know a blow to the adam’s apple could kill someone?”
    It happened fast, practically as soon as Butler and I entered the apartment/office. Hilary went to shake his hand, but he gave her an affectionate pat on the bottom. The next thing I knew, he was scuttling behind me and the initial blow meant for Butler’s neck landed on my own clavicle.
    “Get out of the way!” she ordered, drawing back her hand for an intended karate chop in the general direction of the Old Man’s gullet. I grabbed her hand with difficulty—she’s petite, but strong as hell—and did my best to reason with her.
    “Jeez, toots!” Butler said, over my shoulder. “I meant it as a compliment! If you were a dog, I wouldn’t’ve bothered!”
    She stared at the two of us, speechless. I was positive his unique explanation would further incense her, and for a second I think Hilary thought so, too. Then the absurdity of the situation struck her and she exhaled a series of little gasps that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
    “That,” she remarked, “is the damnedest excuse I ever heard. Okay, you can come out from behind Daddy Gene’s back, the Big Bad Broad won’t hurt you.”
    Hilary asked how my collarbone felt. I said it hurt enough to convince me I wasn’t cut out to be a masochist, but I was pretty sure it was still in one working piece.
    “Glad to hear it, brightness. Now kindly tell me why you brought this old lech over here.”
    I pretended to explain, and she assumed the attitude of one who listens with polite interest. It was really a put-up performance for Butler’s benefit. I’d told Hilary all about my Philadelphia escapades and she’d promised to watch our rematch to see whether she could catch him foxing the cards.
    We adjourned to the sitting room-library where I’d left a new pack upon the tabletop where we were going to play. Butler walked ahead, and when he couldn’t see us, Hilary shook her head in dismay.
    “Saint preserve us,” she muttered, her blue eyes glancing at the ceiling in mock appeal, “he has to be a detective yet!”
    To Hilary, that was undoubtedly the unkindest cut of all.
    The next hour and a quarter was devoted to gin rummy. We used a Bee-back deck, which I’d bought because of the eye-confusing red crisscross design which I’d heard was the hardest to mark impromptu.
    Despite my precautions, Butler gained the lead after two hands and kept it practically straight through. My indebtedness mounted.
    Hilary watched us silently as we played, perched on the edge of the sofa, her azure bathrobe comfortably wrapped around her tantalizing body. I pretended to myself that part of the reason I was not playing well was because the view of her legs distracted me more than it did Butler.
    The Old Man had an uncanny knack of catching quick gins. He played in a loose, relaxed style, not squinting nervously over the cards he drew. The whole time we sat, he yakked about all manner of things, from his formidable relatives to the current status of the Two Tars tent. As he talked, he frequently lubricated his larynx with a swig from the fifth of gin stuck in his jacket pocket. At Hilary’s request, he limited his cigar intake to two.
    “Well, boy,” he grinned after raking in his earnings at the end of the match, “you ready to admit the Old Man’s a better player?”
    “I still think you’re pulling something. No offense.” I’ve often wondered about people who say something inflammatory and then try to minimize it with the ridiculous phrase I’d just employed. But I meant it. I tried to convince Butler that I was more interested in learning how he’d flummoxed me than in achieving redress.
    Nodding, Butler obtained Hilary’s permission to light a third stogie. “Say, toots,” he asked her, “you ain’t got some walnuts in the house?” She shook her head. Shrugging, he muttered to himself, as if he couldn’t comprehend a household lacking such a basic