Hard Case Crime: Blackmailer by George Axelrod Page A

was back on. His voice took on the throaty quality with just a trace of left-over southern accent. If you closed your eyes you could swear you were talking to Janis Whitney.
    “My God, Walter,” I said, “that’s uncanny.”
    “Isn’t it?” Walter said. “I have an amazing gift for mimicry. And an almost perfect ear.”
    “You had her voice exactly,” I said. “Even to that trace of southern accent that she hasn’t quite lost yet.”
    “Speaking of uncanny,” Walter said, “it’s uncanny how Janis has got rid of her drawl. You just barely notice it now. And I regard it as particularly uncanny since she was born and raised in Utica, New York.”
    Then Walter sighed. All the amusement went out of his face. “Now then, Richard, I don’t like to hurry you but we must settle this one way or the other. I musthave the contracts signed as soon as possible. Why don’t you call your partner and have him come up here now? We can get this settled this afternoon.”
    “Listen, Walter,” I said. “We’ll get this settled all right. I may do this and I may not. I’ll talk it over with Pat. But I’m not going to talk to him here. I don’t like to have my private conversations recorded. I don’t like to have people peering at me through mirrors. Pat and I will talk this over and if we’re interested we’ll let you know about it.”
    Walter sighed again. “You’re such a wild one,” he said. “I shall expect to hear from you by five this afternoon. I cannot possibly delay any longer than that.”
    “You’ll hear from me,” I said. “You’ll hear plenty.”
    I turned and left the room.

Chapter Eight
    I had not been to the office in a week. But nothing had changed.
    “You look just ghastly, Mr. Sherman,” Miss Dennison said by way of greeting.
    “Thank you, Miss Dennison. Is Mr. Conrad in his office?”
    “No.” She smiled maliciously. “He’s at Twenty One with Miss Carstairs. She was very disappointed you weren’t here.”
    In spite of the fact that I was feeling even more ghastly than I looked, I could not help grinning. “Poor Pat,” I said. “Poor Pat.”
    I went into my office, sat down at the desk and stared out the window.
    After a while I picked up the telephone. I had decided that it was now time to find out a little about a man named Max Shriber.
    I made three casual telephone calls. To three people who, between them, know everything there is to know about everything. One was a book salesman, one was an associate editor at a large publishing house, and the third was a lady literary agent.
    The book salesman knew only that Max Shriber wasa big agent. I was getting a little tired of that phrase. The associate editor had met him twice, knew very little about him, but was under the impression that he had once been a gangster. The lady literary agent told me that he handled some very big people, both writers and actors. That he was very attractive in a George Raft sort of way, and that there were rumors that he had spent time in jail for killing a man.
    It all added up to nothing. Gossip.
    Nothing.
    I was on the point of making a fourth phone call when Miss Dennison buzzed me.
    I could tell by her voice that something terribly exciting had just happened.
    “Mr. Sherman,” she said, gasping a little, “there’s a lady to see you.”
    “Tell her to go away,” I said. “I can’t talk to authors’ wives today.”
    “This isn’t an author’s wife!” Miss Dennison said. “This is Janis Whitney.”
    I was genuinely startled.
    “Who?”
    “Janis Whitney.” Miss Dennison lowered her voice discreetly. “You know—the movie star.”
    “Oh,” I said. “That Janis Whitney. Tell her I’ll be right out.”
    I tried to be very calm. I was so cool and poised and collected that I knocked over my chair getting up. I picked up the chair, poured myself a drink, gulped itdown, and, slowing myself down to a dignified walk, went out to the reception room.
    Janis smiled, stood up and raised