🐍 The Serpent In The Window
Martin was bored. He was also pretty near broke. He hadn't had a job in a couple of weeks and he was going stir crazy. He had chosen all of the furnishings and the decorations in his office himself but now he was getting sick of them. What had ever possessed him to buy paisley wallpaper anyway? That pretty interior decorator who had been so pushy, that's what. She had such a pretty smile and nice knockers that Martin hadn't minded that she was pushy. So now he had paisley wallpaper. His mind was rambling. But how could he blame it when all he had to do was to lie there on his expensive patent leather couch, puff his cheap cigarettes, and wait for someone to come to the office or for the damned phone to ring. He was just attempting a smoke ring and wondering if he had paid his phone bill when the damned thing made an unexpected noise. He thought he recognized that sound. Oh yes, it was ringing, and he'd better get up and answer it.
"Martin Spring Detective Agency" he answered. There was no sound and he wondered again if he had paid the phone bill.
"Martin Spring, private detective" he said again. He heard a rude click and he slammed the instrument of intrusion down on the desk. He went over and flopped on the couch again after cursing the imitation mahogany coffee table that got in his way. Just then, there was that sound again. Martin gave it a dirty look and then obeyed its summons.
"Martin Spring, what can I do for you?" he asked.
"Is this Mr. Spring?" asked a woman's voice at the other end.
"Yes, this is Martin Spring, how can I help you?" Martin answered, trying to conceal his irritation.
"I'm Mrs. Lambert" the woman hesitated "and I've got a problem." Martin agreed that she probably had and wondered if there was anything he could do to help her.
"Well ma'm, just what is your problem and how can I help you?" Martin was trying to be patient.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Mrs. Lambert answered.
"Well, we won't know that unless you try. Will we, Mrs. Lambert?" Martin was frowning.
"Well, it's just that, that ... It's my house, it's ... it's haunted." Mrs. Lambert finally admitted, almost unwillingly. Martin was just about to tell the lady that what she really needed was a shrink rather than a private detective when he remembered that the package of cigarettes in his pocket was probably going to be the last one he was ever going to buy unless he found a job real soon.
"Well, maybe I should come out and take a look at it." Martin offered. "What is your address?"
"Then you believe me?" Mrs. Lambert was ecstatic.
"Well now, I wouldn't exactly say that. But I think it's worth looking into." Martin answered, wondering how much it would be worth. "The address, Mrs. Lambert?"
"1737 Lakewood Drive." Mrs. Lambert replied, a little disappointed.
"All right then, I can be there in about half an hour." They said their goodbyes, and Martin grabbed his shoulder holster and overcoat and headed for the door.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The mystery of Mrs. Lambert's house haunted his mind all the way down Fifth Avenue to Riverside Drive and until he finally found his car, right where he thought he had left it. There it was, with a bright and shiny parking ticket on the windshield. Martin calmly tore the parking ticket in half and dropped it in the gutter. The boys at the precinct should know better than to give him a ticket. When he opened the door of the car he was greeted by a strangely familiar scent. No, it was two distinct scents, and he couldn't quite put his finger on either of them. That's funny. He didn't notice anything like that in the morning, but then he wasn't aware of too much of anything that morning. Gloria - that's what one of the scents was, and something he'd really like to put his finger on. He vaguely remembered taking Gloria home last night and that she was angry with him for some reason. He thought it might have had something to do with the amount of whiskey he'd consumed. That's it! That's what the other scent was. And he'd sure like to get his hands on some of that too. He started the car and put it in gear.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"All right. All right. Pull yourself together. This isn't getting us anywhere!" He scolded as he smacked himself in the forehead, almost knocking his hat off. He stood up quickly and straightened his clothing, looking around to make certain that no one had witnessed his little outburst. He had his reputation to think of, such as it was. And that's not all he had to think of. He had to think of a way to get to 1737 Lakewood Drive to check out Mrs. Lambert's spook house. Otherwise he might have to give up eating by the end of the week. Either that or sell the fancy new leather couch in his office. But then what would he lie on while he was waiting for potential clients to show up. Martin pulled a thin and almost empty money clip from his pocket. No, not enough to fix the tires. Not even enough for a taxi ride. Maybe he could give Gloria a call. No, he remembered that Gloria was mad at him. And besides, he had hit her up for the price of the whiskey last night. Well, there was always the bus. But he absolutely hated riding the bus. Only losers rode the bus. Martin thought this to himself as he looked from his four flat tires to the measly two bucks in his hand. Then he turned and headed toward the nearest bus stop. That Mrs. Lambert dame had better be worth something.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Martin woke up in a hospital. He didn't have a clue where he was or how he'd got there. He had no recollection of the little old lady from Pasadena or the policeman who had pulled him out of the tree. All he remembered was the "Splat!". God, he hated that sound. It was starting to come to him that he was in some sort of bed, he hurt like hell, and that he could barely move. A man with a stethoscope and a clipboard was standing over him, looking him over with a concerned look on his face.
"Where am I?" Martin finally asked.
"You're at Memorial Hospital." the doctor answered.
"What happened?" Martin asked.
"You had a little accident. You stepped in front of a little old lady and her Plymouth." the doctor replied. Suddenly it started coming back to him. He was trying to catch the bus. He had run out into the street. And all of a sudden there was this Plymouth Volare, painted blue, flying toward him. Martin didn't have time to get out of the way.
"What are the damages?" Martin asked.
The doctor frowned. "Well, you've got a broken collar bone, several cracked ribs, a punctured lung, your right leg was broken in two places, your left leg is even worse, plus a large variety of lesser injuries."
"I suppose I shouldn't mention that I don't have any medical insurance." Martin quipped.
"No, I wouldn't say that too loud if I were you." The doctor answered sternly. "You can't afford to be moved right now."
"It's that bad, huh?" Martin asked.
"Yes, it's that bad." was the reply. "You're going to be with us for some time."
Martin frowned. Besides all of his aches and pains and feeling like a prisoner he had no idea what he was going to do about Mrs. Lambert and her spook house. He didn't even have a way to contact her to let her know that he wasn't coming. But there was nothing he could do about it. He was trapped there, like an animal in a cage, with no control at all over his own fate. After hours of just lying there in that bed, doing nothing, wishing he could see his paisley wallpaper again, Martin's mind began to drift, and as it often did at times like this it started drifting toward the past. And as he often did at times like these he started to think about Guy.
Martin had been at the precinct for fourteen years and Guy was his partner. That was until he took a bullet, a bullet that maybe he shouldn't have had to take. Martin blamed the police force, he blamed the whole rotten town, but most of all he blamed himself. He never blamed Guy, though Guy had been stupid. He put himself in a dangerous situation and he got shot. He was on a stakeout in a really rough part of town and he had gone alone. Martin was supposed to have gone with him but Guy couldn't find him. He had been shacked up someplace with Gloria (another Gloria - he didn't remember her real name). So Guy went alone and he got shot. What a waste. After that Martin quit the force and became a private dick. So now he spends most of his time looking through people's dirty laundry. Oh well, it was a living. As he lay there trapped in that bed Martin's mind continued to drift into the past ...
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
When Martin woke up again there was a rather attractive woman (in a cheap sort of way) sitting in a chair beside him. She had just tossed away an unlit cigarette and was looking in her purse for a stick of gum.
"Gloria?" Martin exclaimed. She looked at him but didn't answer. He couldn't interpret the expression on her face."How did you get here?"
"I took a cab." Gloria quipped. "It's safer than the bus."
"No, I mean, how did you know I was here?" Martin asked.
"Bernie called me." Gloria replied.
"Bernie?" Martin sneered. Bernie Miles was Martin's best ex-friend from down at the precinct. "How the hell did he know I was here?"
"Bernie was the one who pulled you out of that tree." Gloria answered. Martin frowned. Neither one of them said anything for several minutes. Then Martin came up with an idea.
"Gloria, would you do me a favor?"
"Now what?" It was obvious that Gloria still wasn't very happy about their last date.
"You see, I was supposed to meet this lady, and now I don't have any way to contact her."
"Oh, so now you want me to patch things up between you and one of your lady friends?"
"No, no, it's not like that at all. It's some old broad. I don't exactly remember her name. A Mrs. Limbergercheese or something. I was supposed to come out and look at her spook house."
"Spook house? What, are you taking up exorcism in your spare time?"
"Look, I'm a little short of cash right now, and I thought I just might be able to help the old bat out. Are you gonna help me out or what?"
"Okay, okay, what is it you want me to do?"
"Just go out to 1737 Lakewood Drive and explain to the lady why I couldn't make it."
"All right." Gloria grudgingly agreed.
"Oh, and while you're at it" Martin piped up again. "Why don't you give my lawyer a call and tell him to sue the pants off the old broad who hit me?"
"Well, there were actually two little old ladies in the car." Gloria explained. "A Mrs. Lily Eastwick and her sister Violet Lambert, and they both say that you ran out into the street without looking."
"Well," Martin was flustered "Tell him to sue the pants off of them anyway. They gotta learn to look where they're going."
For the next twenty minutes neither one of them had very much to say, so Gloria decided that she might as well leave. They said their goodbyes and Gloria went off to accomplish his errand. As Martin was drifting back to sleep he was thinking to himself "One of those ladies' names sure sounds familiar. I wonder where I've heard it before."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The night was bright, a common sight,
The familiar nocturnal black and white supplanted by the city lights,
Incandescence tinted white proclaiming mastery over night,
Competing with the pale blue light of a distant orb, cold but bright.
But deep in the alley the night was dark, shielded from the light but not the heat by brick and asphalt and the smell of garbage. Here the night was as warm as pancakes, and as dark and thick and sickly sweet as maple syrup. The young officer had his eye and ear pressed against a basement window. He knew that something was going on down there but he couldn't quite make it out. They had received a tip down at the station that this was a meeting place for drug dealers, and he and his partner were assigned to take a look. He couldn't locate his partner right at the moment but he guessed that couldn't be helped. He was going to do his duty even if he had to do it alone. Except for the occasional sound of distant traffic the alley was as quiet as night can be. He could hear the sound of voices from below but he couldn't quite make out what they were saying. Intent on his mission he didn't notice another sound, the sound of footsteps on the pavement. Someone was approaching quietly, alerted to his presence. "A snooper!" a voice rang out, followed by a shot. He was hit in the shoulder. He pulled his gun from his holster and fired back. Did he hit anything? He couldn't tell. The alley was too dark. All of a sudden he could hear the sound of windows opening, voices shouting, and more gunfire. He felt the burning sensation of bullets entering his flesh, and pretty soon he couldn't hear anything. Nothing at all. The night was completely dark, and quiet.
Martin woke up drenched in sweat in a night almost as dark. (The shades were pulled down to keep out the light so Martin didn't know if it was really night or not.) It had all been a dream - a series of dreams - strange, unbelievable dreams, all except for that last one. Nurse Ratchet was just some character from a movie he had seen long ago. Gloria hadn't returned yet, and Guy was gone, never to return again except for in his dreams. He wondered what time it was and what was keeping Gloria. She should have been back by now.
The cab pulled up at 1737 Lakewood Drive. Gloria got out. "Could you please wait? This should only take a minute." The house was one of the old mansions, the kind that the movie stars lived in, and it wasn't in too good a shape. Gloria imagined that it once was beautiful and probably set someone back a lot of dough, but it obviously hadn't been lived in for a very long time. She followed a badly worn sidewalk and forced her way through hedges that were desperately in need of a trim to find a large and beautiful mahogany door standing slightly ajar. Gloria knocked, causing the door to open even further. Out of curiosity more than anything else she stepped inside. "Is there anyone here?" she asked sheepishly. From what Gloria could make out in the darkness the inside of the house was in even worse shape than the outside. The furniture was covered with old sheets and there was dust and cobwebs everywhere. It reminded her of Miss Havisham's house from "Great Expectations". She kept expecting to find an old moldy wedding cake. All of a sudden she realized that she wasn't standing in the doorway any longer. She had sort of let her curiosity get the best of her and was kind of exploring the old house. She had forgotten her original misson and didn't know what she'd say if someone were to find her there. All of a sudden she heard a noise. ...
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Martin was feeling a bit better. He still couldn't hardly move and he was sick of the hospital food, but he was watching a football game on TV and it was helping to take his mind off of all of his aches and pains. Da Bears were winning as usual but the Giants were threatening to come back in the fourth quarter. Just then he heard a knock on the door and someone say, "It's me. Can I come in?"
"Gloria," he thought to himself, "Why couldn't she have waited until the game was over?" "Come in," he heard himself say. Gloria walked in, immediately noticing that Martin appeared to be doing better. Inside she was bubbling with excitement over all the news she had to tell him. "Did you go see that Lambert dame?" Martin asked. Apparently the name had come back to him since their last conversation.
"Well," Gloria answered, "I did go to the house."
"Did you talk to the lady or not?" Martin interrupted. He wasn't being particularly polite to someone who had gone out of her way to do him a big favor.
"Will you let me tell the story?" Gloria asked crossly. Martin frowned and crossed his arms as best he could but he didn't say anything. "Well, I went to the house, and there was an old lady there, but it wasn't Mrs. Lambert. It was Norma Desmond!"
"Norma Desmond?" Martin was incredulous. "You mean Norma Desmond, the actress?"
"Yes, Norma Desmond!" Gloria was obviously excited. "What do you think of that?"
"Well," Martin answered, "I find that hard to believe, considering that Norma Desmond's been dead for more than fifty years."
"She has?" Gloria was puzzled and obviously not very pleased with Martin's demeanor.
"Yes," Martin explained, "Don't you remember? Well, maybe you're too young. Anyway, the old broad went nutso and shot this writer that had been living with her for a while. They put her in a nut house and she died a few years later."
"Look," Gloria was getting frustrated, "I saw the old lady myself, with my own two eyes. I even touched her. And she did seem a bit crazy, but she definitely told me that her name was Norma Desmond!"
"Well," Martin replied, "There was definitely a crazy lady in that house."
"Meaning me, I suppose." Gloria was getting angry now.
"No," Martin answered, "That's not what I meant, though you do have a point. I was talking about the lady. Don't you see? There's some crazy lady living in that house who THINKS she's Norma Desmond! That's the only logical explanation."
Gloria didn't say anything for some time as the obvious answer finally dawned on her. Her excitement about being a lady gumshoe quickly faded away into disappointment.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Martin was asleep. The room was completely dark and there was no sound at all. The sun was shining brightly outside but Martin didn't see the light because his shades were tightly drawn. There were noises both inside and outside his room but Martin didn't hear them because he was partially sedated. He had had a bad day and the doctor felt that he needed some rest. Martin was dead to the world. He didn't hear his window open slightly nor the ophidian form that crossed the window sill and slithered across the floor to his bed. He didn't feel the fangs that punctured his throat. And he would never see, hear, or feel anything ever again. Martin was dead.
Gloria was just beginning her day. She was sitting at her kitchen table, wearing a cotton robe, drinking a cup of coffee, and wondering what she should do next when the phone rang. Gloria answered it.
"Gloria, Martin is dead." Bernie Miles' voice spoke gravely, "You'd better come down here right away."
Gloria quickly got dressed and headed for the precinct.
Bernie Miles was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands when Gloria barged in.
"OK now. What happened?" Gloria asked as she was walking through the door.
"It appears that he was bitten by a poisonous snake." Bernie answered, "His window was partially open. It must have come in that way. Whoever did this must have been pretty agile. Martin was on the third floor but there was a narrow ledge that someone could have crawled on from another window. And we think that whoever did this must have known that Martin's room was being watched."
"All right. You'd better tell me what's going on." Gloria demanded, "Why was his room being watched? And why have you been following me around? And don't give me any more of that bullshit that you gave me the other day!"
"Well," Bernie replied, "We've been hesitant to tell you what's really going on but now I think you've got a right to know."
"I should think so!" Gloria was getting angry.
"Basically," Bernie explained, "We've been looking for this man." Bernie slapped a black and white photo down on the desk. It was a picture of a man in a trenchcoat with an evil expression on his face. Gloria didn't recognize him.
"Well, who the hell is that?" Gloria asked, "And what does he have to do with me, or Martin?"
"To explain that I'm going to have to go back to the beginning." Bernie replied, "First of all, we've suspected for some time that Martin's accident wasn't really an accident at all. It was no mere coincidence that Mrs. Violet Lambert called Martin to ask him to come out and take a look at that spook house, that his tires were slashed so he couldn't take his car, and that he was run down in the street by Mrs. Lily Eastwick, Mrs. Lambert's sister. Martin wasn't supposed to live through that accident."
"What?" Gloria exclaimed, "Why would those two little old ladies want to kill Martin?" But she realized that in the back of her mind she had been wondering herself if that might be true all along.
"Well, to explain that I'm going to have to go back even farther." Bernie replied, "Do you remember Guy Schaefer, Martin's former partner?"
"I never actually met him." Gloria answered, "But Martin talked about him a lot."
"Then you know what happened to him?" Bernie asked.
"Yes," Gloria answered. "But what does that have to do with anything?"
"You know that little old lady you found in that house?" Bernie went on, "The one in the cake. The one who think's she's Norma Desmond?"
"Yes," Gloria answered, "But what does she have to do with Guy?"
"Her name is Betty Green, formerly Betty Schaefer." Bernie explained, "She is Guy's mother. She was there the night that Norma Desmond shot that writer who had been living with her for a while. I've been told that she was in love with him. Anyway, that whole incident sort of had a bad effect on her, kind of drove her to the edge so to speak. She had a natural aversion to gunplay as a result of what happened but it was more than that. But she seemed to get over it all right and she eventually got married and had a family. Then thirty-some years later her son, one of the finest men from the precinct, was shot to death in a dark alley by some thug, and that was at least partially Martin's fault. Well, that finally pushed her over the edge. She's been nutso ever since and for a good share of that time she's thought that she was Norma Desmond."
"But what does that have to do with those two little old ladies?" Gloria was still confused.
"Those two little old ladies are Betty's sisters, Guy's aunts." Bernie went on to explain, "And they blame Martin for what happened to Guy and to their sister Betty."
"Are you suggesting that those two little old ladies came up with this plot to kill Martin?" Gloria didn't believe that for a minute.
"Well no, not exactly." Bernie answered, "And that's what brings us to this man." Bernie pointed to the picture on the desk. "That's Jonathan Green, Guy's half-brother. He's involved with various racketeers in this city and he's a cold-blooded killer. We don't think that the two old ladies would have had anything to do with this murder plot without his coercion. He may have even threatened them to get them to go along with his scheme. But we're not completely clear on his motive. He and his half-brother never got along too well, being on opposite sides of the law, so we don't think that Guy's death had anything to do with it. We're wondering if he's been seeking revenge as a result of what happened to his mother."
"What do you want me to do?" Gloria asked.
"Well," Bernie replied, "On the one hand I'd kind of like you to just stay out of the way. I have a feeling you might be in danger though I really can't say why. On the other hand I'd kind of like you to give me some help. We have sort of a problem."
"What's that?" Gloria asked.
"Well, we've been tracking Jonathan for some time now." Bernie answered, "And he always seems to stay one step ahead of us. We have a suspicion that someone from the precinct has been tipping him off but we don't know who. The fact that he seemed to know that Martin's room was being watched kind of confirms this."
"Well," Gloria responded, "You know I'll do anything I can to help catch Martin's killer. He was nothing but a big jerk but I loved him anyway. Don't ask me why."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The pigeon was struggling, flopping around on the pavement with a broken wing. Standing next to the poor bird was the dark figure of a man apparently enjoying the spectacle. Though it was quite warm that day the man was wearing a long heavy overcoat with his collar pulled up and his hat pulled down to partially conceal a Phantom of the Opera style mask. Either to put the bird out of its misery or simply for his own enjoyment he ground its skull into the pavement with a heavy shoe. Was that a grin on his face or a grimace? It was hard to tell. Next he crouched down and with gloved hands removed the message from the pigeon's leg. He glanced at it quickly, frowned, stuffed the message into his pocket, and walked away.
