Milo March #18, page 1
The Flaming Man
by
Kendell Foster Crossen
Writing as M.E. Chaber
With an Afterword by Kendra Crossen Burroughs
Steeger Books / 2020
Copyright Information
Published by Steeger Books
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©1997, 2020 by Kendra Crossen Burroughs
The unabridged novel has been lightly edited by Kendra Crossen Burroughs.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.
Publishing History
Hardcover
New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston (A Rinehart Suspense Novel), February 1969. Dust jacket by Pete Plascencia.
Toronto: Holt, Rinehart & Winston of Canada, 1969.
London: Robert Hale, 1970.
Paperback
New York: Paperback Library (63-353), A Milo March Mystery, #9, June 1970. Cover by Robert McGinnis.
Dedication
For Louise Waller
Dear Louise: “Youse is a good kid.”
M.E.C.
One
It was late spring in New York City. The weather was already a little sticky. Everyone was thinking about getting a place on the beach for the summer or putting in more air-conditioning. I was no exception. My bank account was. It looked as if the Great Society had never heard of me.
When the hot weather starts, all the rats—four-legged and two-legged—begin coming out of the woodwork and the sewers. There were rumblings and threats of riots. Murder and assassination (a political nicety for “murder”) were on the increase. Every big city was in heat, and violence was the male dog in search of the bitch.
Me? I’m March. Milo March. That’s what it says on the door of my office on Madison Avenue. It also says that I’m an insurance investigator. I wouldn’t have been sure if I hadn’t read it when I came in—business had been that bad for a few months. I was almost ready to believe that everyone had become honest and decided not to cheat the insurance companies anymore. Almost—but not quite.
I opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of V.O. I lifted it and looked at the contents. It was almost as low as my bank account. I poured a drink anyway and tucked the bottle back in the drawer, sipping the drink slowly. I thought of picking up the morning newspaper, but rejected the idea. Then the telephone rang. I thought quickly before answering it. The bills were all paid, so it couldn’t be a creditor. I picked up the receiver and said hello.
“Milo?”
I recognized the voice. It belonged to Martin Raymond, a vice-president of Intercontinental Insurance. Most of my business comes from them. Things were looking up. I reached into the drawer and patted the V.O. bottle.
“I think so,” I said. “I’m never sure until I’ve looked in the mirror, and I haven’t had the courage to look this morning. How are you, Martin?”
“Great,” he said. His voice dripped with the molasses of clean living. The whole act was a mirage, but he had to keep up the image. “Do you have time to do a little job for us?”
“It all depends on the size of the job,” I said carefully. It never paid to be eager with Martin. “You know I can’t stand those one-night stands.”
He laughed, just to show he appreciated me. “Well, it’s slightly bigger than that. Why don’t you run up here and we’ll try it on for size?”
“I forgot my running shoes today, but I’ll slip downstairs and catch the first milk train that comes along. Don’t give away the store before I get there.” I put down the receiver.
Intercontinental owns their own building on Madison Avenue only a few blocks from my office. It’s one of those modern structures, all glass and steel, with a few stones looking as if they’d been added as an afterthought. I walked to it and took the elevator to the executive floor.
When I stepped out of the elevator, I was ankle-deep in dark blue carpeting. I didn’t even think about it. My attention was on the vision in front of me. This one was a blonde, but it didn’t make any difference; she came from the same neighborhood as the other receptionist—about 38-24-36, a nice neighborhood no matter how you looked at it. I often wondered if they had a vice-president whose sole duty was to find and hire the receptionists. Lucky man.
“May I help you, sir?” It was the blonde interrupting my thoughts.
“Sure,” I said. “What time do you get off work?”
A smile started to tug at her mouth, but she pushed it away. “Just in time to meet my husband. … Whom did you wish to see?”
I glanced at her left hand. No rings. “You’ll never get to heaven,” I said, “telling those little white lies. Oh, well, I’ll see Martin Raymond—but he’ll be a poor substitute.”
This time she did smile as she reached for the phone. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Let’s surprise him. … No, I guess Martin wouldn’t go for that bit. Just tell his secretary that there’s a man here to pick up his Social Security in cash. She’ll know who it is.”
She was puzzled, but she picked up the phone and repeated what I’d said when she reached Martin’s secretary. She was smiling when she replaced the receiver. “You may go in, Mr. March.”
“Thank you,” I said. I walked to the door, then looked back. “You’d better get rid of that husband. I don’t think he’s any good for you—and you could help me spend Intercontinental’s money.” I stepped through the door and walked down the corridor, wading through more plush carpet.
Martin’s secretary looked up and nodded for me to go into his office, so I opened the door and entered. It looked like a vice-president’s office. It was furnished with antiques that had been altered to make them functional. An early American cupboard was now a liquor closet. A cobbler’s bench held sunken ashtrays, as well as cigarettes and matches.
“Milo, my boy, how are you?” Martin exclaimed. Suddenly I was his long-lost brother, so I knew it couldn’t be an easy case.
“Exhausted,” I said. “It was that long hike through the jungles.”
“That’s my boy. Anything for a laugh. Help yourself to a drink.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I splashed some V.O. in a glass, and added a cube of ice from the lower part of the cupboard, while thinking that Martha Washington never had it so good. Then I went over and sat down next to the desk.
“How much did you pay for the carpeting in the corridor and the reception room?”
He looked surprised. “I don’t know. Why?”
“I was just thinking that you could have saved a lot of money and gotten the same results by covering the floor with about three inches of Jell-O.”
It took him about a minute to realize it was a joke, and then he laughed heartily. That was one thing about Martin Raymond—he didn’t have a sense of humor, but he had an instinct for knowing when he was supposed to laugh, and he always put on a good show.
I lit a cigarette and waited for him to finish the scene. “What’s the case?” I asked then.
He immediately became all efficiency. “Fire. I suppose you’ve been reading the newspapers?”
“Of course. I never miss Dick Tracy. After all, we’re more or less in the same business. Actually, I feel closer to Fearless Fosdick because he’s also underpaid.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “You underpaid? At three hundred dollars a day and expenses!” He pulled himself together and got the business look back on his face. “A man named Harry Masters. Lived in Los Angeles. President of a large corporation with holdings all over the city. Among other things, the corporation owned a fairly large building in southeast Los Angeles. There were two stores on the ground floor. One sold TV sets, radios, record players, that sort of stuff. It was owned by Masters and run by his brother-in-law. The other was a clothing store leased to a local merchant. The rest of the building consisted of offices. I understand the occupants were mostly lawyers, doctors, and dentists who worked in the community. One floor was occupied by the corporation, although they had several other offices around the city. During the riots a few days ago, it was burned down.”
“Somebody dropped a cigarette, I suppose?”
“Molotov cocktails,” he said grimly. “I don’t know how many. The building was completely gutted, however.”
“Insured, I presume?”
“Yes. By us. For two million dollars.”
“Who gets the bread?”
“The corporation.”
“If it was burned down by the rioters, don’t you still have to pay?”
“I think so,” he said.
“And you want me to go out there and smell around. You have a nasty mind, Martin. You think maybe someone burned it.”
“It’s always possible,” he said. “There were also three people who were trapped in the building and died there.”
I lit another cigarette. “So the plot thickens. Who were they?”
“Identification is not yet certain, but it is believed that two of them were Masters and his brother-in-law and the third one was the night watchman.”
“Also insured?”
“I don’t know about the watchman, but we carried policies on the other two men. There are two policies on Masters. One for two hundred thousand dollars, which his wife will collect—if he’s dead. Another one for five hundred thousand dollars. The corporation is the beneficiary. The brother-in-law had a policy for fifty thousand dollars, which goes to his sister, Mrs. Masters.”
“So we have two million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” I said. “A tidy little sum. Do you have a concrete reason for being suspicious, or is it just your nasty thoughts?”
“There is no evidence,” he said slowly, “but there’s something wrong about the case. I can feel it. You know about that.”
“I know,” I said. “Is that the whole story?”
“There’s more information in the file. My secretary has one for you. I—I suppose you want some expense money?”
“That’s the name of the game, Martin. You can’t expect me to do my best on bread and water.”
“It’s not the bread and water, it’s the martinis and the girls. Will five—” He saw my expression and broke off. He sighed. It sounded as if he’d just been told he had only two weeks to live. “All right. My secretary will see that you get a thousand dollars. But try to make it last. You have no idea how the board complains about your expense vouchers.”
I smiled at him. “I have an idea. I also have an idea that they forget about it when I save them a few million dollars. And in this case, what happens if the thousand dollars doesn’t last?”
He sighed again. “Call me, and if you seem to be getting anyplace, we’ll send you more.”
“You’re all heart,” I told him.
I went out, stopping at the secretary’s desk. “Hi, sweetheart. Want to run away with me?”
“I could afford to, on what you usually con him out of,” she said. She handed me a manila envelope. “Here’s the file on the Masters case. How much did you catch him for this time?”
“A thousand dollars.”
She shook her head. “You’re really wasting your time, Milo. You should go after the big con rackets instead of this small change.” She scribbled on a piece of paper, signed her name, then pushed it across to me. “Take that to the cashier. You should know the way; you’ve been there often enough. And don’t spend it all on that blond receptionist before you get out of the building.”
“Jealous,” I said.
I took the slip and made my way to the cashier. Two minutes later I had a handful of hundred-dollar bills. They warmed the cockles of my heart.
On my way out I gave the receptionist a smile calculated to make her regret that she had not accepted my suggestion, and stepped briskly into the elevator. When I was back on Madison Avenue, I looked at my watch. It was still too early for the good restaurants to be open. I did find a bar that was open, though, had a drink, and broke one of the big bills. Then I took a taxi down to the Blue Mill Inn on Commerce Street in the Village. Alcino was just starting to work back of the bar, and I ordered a dry martini. It was perfect, as they always are there.
After a couple of sips, I went to the phone booth, made a reservation on a flight to Los Angeles, then called my answering service and told them I’d be out of town for a few days. I went back to the bar, finished my martini, and had two more. Then I ordered a rare steak with a salad. I made it perfect with coffee and brandy.
Later I strolled up to my apartment on Perry Street and packed a bag for the trip. I set the clock and took a nap. When I awakened, I had just enough time for a cup of coffee with a shot of V.O. before I called a taxi to take me to Kennedy Airport.
I picked up my ticket, had one drink in the bar, and boarded the jet. We took off a few minutes later and I waited patiently while the Captain made his little speech over the intercom, then until the stewardess came around.
“I’ll have a dry martini,” I told her, “and go light on the dryness.”
I said it even though I knew that the martinis were already mixed and sealed in a little bottle. All the girl did was open the bottle and pour it into a glass.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
She came back a few minutes later with my drink. “I hope it’s dry enough, sir.” She was going to play it straight.
I took a sip and frowned seriously as I tasted. “Excellent,” I said. “Give my compliments to the company that bottles it.” We both had a good laugh over that. “And bring me another one,” I added.
She looked a little doubtful, but she got it.
I opened my manila envelope from Intercontinental and took out the file. I read all of it, but there wasn’t too much to add to what Martin had told me. The name of the brother-in-law was there, Larry Beld. There was also a report on Masters, which showed that he was a swinger. He and his wife had been married for thirty years and had no children. He always had at least one girlfriend somewhere nearby. He also liked to gamble and usually went to Reno, Nevada, at least once a month. Despite all this, his corporation was very solvent. The business had started as a small company making belts. At the time the report was made out, they were still in the belt business, but were also involved in real estate, and the manufacture of radar equipment for the government, and of radio and TV parts. They owned a number of shops in Los Angeles and kept a few fingers in other pies.
That was about it. There was nothing to indicate that Masters himself was in financial trouble. He spent a lot of money, but he made even more. He’d been playing footsie with a variety of girls for years, but there was no evidence that his wife or any of the girls objected.
It was like most of the cases that came my way. If there was going to be anything to work on, I’d have to dig it up myself. So I put away the file, finished my second martini, and went to sleep.
A few hours later the big plane went into a glide for International Airport. I knew it was already dark in New York, but here the sun was reflecting brightly from the Pacific Ocean. We came down in a smooth landing.
I went into the terminal, claimed my bag, reset my watch, and got a cab. The driver took me to the Continental Hotel. It made me feel I was being loyal to Intercontinental.
After I’d checked in at the hotel and settled in my room, I called room service and ordered a bottle of V.O. and a bucket of ice. I unpacked my suitcase, and by that time the waiter was knocking on the door.
As I made a drink, I considered what to do. Back in New York it was dinnertime. Here it wasn’t—though my system hadn’t accepted that yet. But it was still too late to start working. I picked up the phone and called a car-rental place I always used when I was in town. They were open and promised to deliver a car to me within a half hour.
I sipped my drink and finally decided I’d go down to Hollywood for a few drinks, and then pick a place to eat. I took a shower and changed clothes. I’d timed it perfectly. The phone rang and the desk clerk told me my car was ready. I went down and signed for it, got in, and started driving east.
I had several favorite bars in Hollywood, but I had decided I would go to one that I’d discovered the last time I was here—the Casa Del Monte on Hollywood Boulevard and Gramercy. It was run by Leonard Del Monte. Everything about the place was just enough out of focus to make it interesting.
I parked the Cadillac on Gramercy and went into the bar. It was so dark inside that I had to stand still for a minute so that my eyes could adjust. Then I moved over to a stool at the bar. There were seven or eight people sitting there and the owner was serving. He was talking to the other customers, moving back and forth in a sort of rhythmic step that reminded me of the way Bojangles Robinson used to dance. I remembered that nearly everyone called the owner Bo instead of using his real name, and that was probably the reason.
He looked up, saw me, and came down, still keeping time to the music from the jukebox.
“Hello, Bo,” I said.
He took a closer look at me. “Hi,” he said. “You’re March, aren’t you? Milo. You were here a few months ago. How’s the action in New York?”
“The same as everywhere. You throw down your chips and they pull them in.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Still drinking the same? Gin and grapefruit juice?”
“Sometimes, but I think I’ll have a martini now.”
He mixed one swiftly and poured it. “This one’s on me.” He poured himself a shot of brandy and lifted his glass. “Glad to see you back. Going to be around long?”
