Detective

1.
    “I W ANT TO K ILL S OMEONE .”
    “Who doesn’t.”
    “No. I mean it. I really want to kill someone.”
    “Everyone wants to kill someone. It’s no big deal. I, myself, have a long list, usually headed by my wife.”
    “You don’t understand. I’m going to do it.”
    For the first time, I gave him my full attention. I looked him over and tried to recall his name. I’m terrible with names. He was a short, plump man, somewhere in his mid-forties, with a bald head ringed with black, greasy curls, and a pudgy face moist with perspiration, which didn’t necessarily indicate nervousness on his part since it was mid-July and I have no air-conditioning in the office. I was perspiring freely too, and I wasn’t a bit nervous, at least not until I realized this unattractive man really was contemplating murder.
    “That,” I said, “is different.”
    He leaned in eagerly. “Then you’ll help me?”
    “No.”
    “I’ll pay you.”
    “No.”
    “I’ll pay you well.”
    “No.”
    He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He didn’t seem to know what to say next. He fished in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief and mopped his brow. The handkerchief was soaked already, and the result was negligible. It didn’t matter. He was just buying time. I waited.
     “Look,” he said. “I think I got off on the wrong foot here. I’m a little upset, as you can see. I’m in terrible trouble. I need your help. I’ll give you $10,000.”
    “No.”
    He stared at me. Just a trace of annoyance crept into his voice. “How much do you want?”
    “That’s not the point. You want me to help you kill someone. I’m not going to do it. It doesn’t matter how much money you offer.”
    His head was shaking back and forth rhythmically. “No. No. You don’t understand. I don’t want you to kill him. I’m going to kill him. I don’t need you for that.”
    “Well, that’s a relief.”
    “But I still need your help.” He leaned in ingratiatingly, and his name almost came to me. Morris. Morris something. Something Jewish.
    I held up my hand. “All right. Hold it. You’re telling me you’re going to commit a crime. Whether you want me to do it or not, you’re getting me in a lot of trouble. I’m not a lawyer, I’m a private detective. Anything you tell me is not a confidential communication. What you are doing is making me an accessory before the fact to a crime, in fact a capital crime, to wit, Murder One, a cold-blooded, premeditated killing.”
    “No. I’m not.”
    “Yes you are. You—”
    “But you haven’t heard my story—”
    “I don’t want to hear your story. I don’t want to know anything about this.”
    “But you don’t understand. I’m going crazy. I have to talk to someone.”
    “Why me?”
    “I was going by. I saw your sign.”
    I groaned. My sign. I had listed myself as a private detective on the call board in the lobby because I needed to get mail. It never occurred to me someone would walk in off the street.
    I hesitated, thinking about the sign, and he pounced. “Please. At least just listen to me. I’ve got to talk to someone.”
    I sighed. All right, if I took the job, I had to accept the responsibilities. “O.K.,” I said. “But no names.”
    “What?”
    “Just give me the general picture. No names, no addresses. I don’t want to know the names of anyone involved!”
    As I said that, the name Alberg rang a bell. Morris Alberg. “Can you do that, Mr. Alberg?”
    “Albrect,” he corrected. I began to doubt the “Morris.”
    “Yeah, yeah, sure.”
    “O.K.,” I said, “ why do you want to kill this guy?”
    I didn’t care. Nothing he had to say would change my mind. Maybe I’m from the old school, but, as far as I’m concerned, killing people is a no-no. I am not a violent person by nature. I do not like violent people. I do not like violence. By and large, I don’t like the detective business very much, and I don’t like most of the people I come in contact with in the course of my work. I didn’t like Morris Alberg, or Albrect, or Whatever, and I could think of no conceivable reason why I should be concerned in the least with his reason for wanting to kill someone. I had asked the question simply as a matter of form, or politeness, if you will, but I knew that there was nothing he could say that would make me the least bit interested in his case.
    I was wrong. There was one right answer, and Albrect had it.
    “Because he’s trying to kill