Only Mr. Moon, dizzy murder specialist, would dust off the hot squat for his pal, Mouldy — then try it on, himself, for size!
Undoubtedly, there is at least one man in the world dumber than Mouldy Greene, but it has never been my bad luck to meet him. Marmaduke Greene, who derived his nickname from his sallow complexion, was the sad sack of my army outfit. In civilian life, I still had the Impulse to kick him every time he bent over, yet his talent for irritating me was tempered by a kind of exasperated fondness I had for the guy.
I had not realized how deep either the exasperation or the fondness was until Mouldy got tagged for a murder rap.
I learned about it at nine o’clock in the morning, which increased my exasperation, for my usual rising hour is noon. I awakened to a gentle shaking, opened one eye, and was confronted by a pleasing hunk of feminine anatomy.
In astonishment, I popped open the other eye and immediately understood why I was being offered a reverse view. I sleep raw, and in the early morning summer heat, I had kicked off the sheet almost completely. With her back to me, the woman was reaching behind herself and shaking my bare shoulder.
With one hand I brushed her fingers from my shoulder and with the other pulled the truant sheet to my chin.
“All right,” I said. “You can turn around now.”
I already knew that my caller was Fausta Moreni, for I had recognized both her figure and her natural, platinum blonde hair, but I pretended surprise when she swung around.
I said, “Who let you in?”
“Manny, your phone is out of order.”
Her tone made it an accusation, and though I was unable to generate any feeling of guilt, I explained that it must be the phone company’s fault, because I had paid the last bill.
“I will wait in the front room,” she announced, and marched out, closing the door behind her.
It takes me a little longer to dress than most people, because I have to strap a mechanical apparatus of cork and aluminum to the stump below my right knee. Nevertheless, I made it in fifteen minutes, including a shower and shave.
Fausta was standing by the mantel when I entered the front room. Ordinarily, we play a little game for our mutual amusement — she burlesques jealous infatuation, and I go along by simulating frightened resistance. Today, however, she bypassed her usual greeting technique, which was to fling her arms about my neck, plant an impassioned kiss on my chin, then step back and lightly slap me, just as though I had been the aggressor.
Instead, she announced simply, “Mouldy’s in jail, Manny.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I told you the eight-ball shouldn’t have a driver’s license, Fausta. It was only a question of time.”
“Not for a traffic violation,” she interrupted. “He’s been charged with murder.”
I let my jaw hang. Then I said irritably, “You know it’s three hours before I usually get up. Make me some Coffee before you tell me about it.”
She surprised me again by not responding as usual. Fausta is an extremely independent woman, as she can well afford to be, since as sole owner of the fabulously successful El Patio Club she possesses not only beauty, but riches. But, instead of telling me to make my own coffee-and then dunk my head in it, she obediently headed for the kitchen.
Obviously, she was upset.
When she told me the story over coffee, I was not surprised at her mental state, for like myself Fausta regarded Mouldy Greene with somewhat exasperated fondness. Mouldy was El Patio Club’s official customer greeter and Fausta’s pet employee.
Evenings, he stood just inside the club’s great double doors with a hideous smile on his flat face and his rhinoceros-sized body uncomfortably encased in a dinner jacket. With earthy informality he greeted each customer by name, usually the wrong one, pumped celebrities by the hand, and pounded the bare backs of dowagers. Once the customers got over the initial shock, they loved it, and in cafe society Mouldy was accepted as an institution.
The tale of Mouldy’s trouble was simple enough, at least on the surface. Apparently, what had happened was that a woman customer of El Patio had made a play for Mouldy. Mouldy had returned the play, and the previous evening had been enjoying a cozy time at her apartment when the husband walked in. Mouldy was accused of shooting the husband to death during the ensuing unpleasantness.
However, two factors made the tale a little incredible. Fausta and I agreed that no woman attractive enough to possess a jealous husband would make a pass at Mouldy; and unless the husband had been a professional strong man, it would never have occurred to Mouldy to use a gun on him. A guy who can lift one end of a grand piano with one hand doesn’t need a gun to defend himself.
After my second cup of coffee I said, “Let’s take a run down to headquarters.”
