Malone Has a Visitor

I was eating a cheese sandwich when my personal secretary announced over the intercom that I had a visitor. One Jane Bowlsworthy wanted to see me, and she hadn't bothered to make an appointment. I looked at my buddy.

"That name mean anything to you? Bowlsworthy?"

He shook his head and carried on playing Minesweeper. I pressed the button on the intercom and told Rosemary to send her in.

The dame was wearing a fur coat and had the kind of hips that made you want to do a tango across the room. A small hat was perched on top of her head, cocked at an arrogant angle. A primal instinct somewhere within me wanted to knock it off.

"Bowlsworthy," she said, extending a limp wrist.

"Malone," I replied, choosing not to shake it. I maintained eye contact with her as I took a large bite out of my sandwich. My buddy took it upon himself to make himself scarce. He's got a good head on his shoulders. That's why I hired him.

I keep a crystal decanter of whisky on my desk for emergencies. I usually have emergencies at about nine a.m. every morning. I can't stand the mornings. I hate my job. I never wanted to be a private detective. I wanted to be an architect.

I poured myself a drink and offered Bowlsworthy one. She declined.

"I've got something I want to show you," she said, reaching inside her fur coat.

I gulped down a swig of the whisky and waited. It was just as I suspected. A brown envelope with some black and white gloss photographs in it.

"Fuji" she said.

"I had you down as a Nikon sort of lady," I deadpanned.

"I'm not lazy," she said.

"That's not what I said," I said.

There was a beat. She looked as though she was about to say something, but I guess she thought better of it. I had a hunch that our little meeting wasn't going exactly as she planned. That's the trouble with dames. They think they can flash their eyelashes at you a couple of times and you'll be putty in their hands. But I've seen it all. Ever since Brenda left me I became a tough guy.

I looked at the photos. Most of them were pretty dull. Just some couple having some lunch in a restaurant. A cat sleeping in a basket. But one of them was strange. A man was playing tennis, but instead of a racket he seemed to be using a frying pan.

"Who's the champ?" I said.

"Benelux," she said.

Everything came together.

"Eggs Benedict," I said.

"Who's that?"

"It's a recipe."

"Oh."

I got bored looking at the pictures and took another bite out of my sandwich. All this talk of eggs was making me hungry. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just hitting eleven a.m.

"So, Jane." I leaned back in my swivel chair and laced my fingers together. "I can call you Jane, can't I?"

"Call me what you want."

"Good. Jane." I listened to the sound of the word. Jane.

"Who's the Benelux character?"

"He's my husband."

Interesting. So Bowlsworthy had her husband taken out and collected on the insurance. I could see how the story panned out. I discreetly sent a text message to my buddy while I distracted the dame with a card trick in my other hand.

"Ace of clubs," she said. The police came crashing through the door a second later. Her eyes darkened with the knowledge that I had betrayed her somehow.

The Chief of Police was putting the handcuffs on her while I helped myself to another cigarette.

"How did you do it, Malone?" he was asking me.

"I don't know, Chief," I replied. "I don't know."