The Last Private Eye by John Birkett

paper across the desk—“and it’ll go no further.”
    Diane Martindale looked around the room to make sure none of the other people in the office were watching her. She opened a steel box on her desk, flipped through the card file, and pulled out an invoice card, which she handed to Rhineheart.
    The invoice was made out to the Capitol Investment Corp., with an address on East Broadway. There was a scribbled signature at the bottom, but Rhineheart couldn’t make it out.
    â€œYou look disappointed,” she said.
    â€œI am.” He handed her the card, and glanced at his watch. It was quarter after four, too late to make it to the tax assessor’s office and check out Capitol Investment Corp. before they closed. Well, the assessor’s office would be there tomorrow.
    He stood up and smiled at Diane Martindale. “You’ve been very helpful,” he said.
    She returned the smile and handed him a slip of paper. “My address and telephone number,” she said. “Call me anytime.”
    â€œSure,” Rhineheart said, but he didn’t really think so. She was a good-looking woman with a nice body, but so were Wanda Jean and Karen Simpson and five or six other women he knew. He had all the one-night ladies he needed. He stuck the slip of paper in his pocket, and walked out of the place, feeling old and tired and a little lonely.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    Rhineheart drove out to the track and caught the last two races. He bet the winner of the feature, and in the last, he had twenty dollars on the winning exacta, a 4 and 8 combination that paid $112.00. He left the track with over a thousand in his kick. He felt better. Hitting the exacta was like an omen. Maybe it meant he was going to find Carl Walsh, solve the case, be a winner for a change.
    Rhineheart ate dinner at Trattori’s, an Italian restaurant on Bardstown Road. He had Veal Parmesan and spaghetti and drank two glasses of wine. After dinner he drove over to the Backstretch.
    Marvin was sitting at a table in the rear. Marvin had a receding hairline and a potbelly. He wore a Derby Fever T-shirt and Bermuda shorts. He was peeling the label on his beer bottle. He peered at Rhineheart through thick, wire-rimmed glasses.
    â€œHello, Rhineheart.”
    â€œYou nervous, Marvin?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou seem a little nervous.”
    â€œWhat’d ya want to see me about, Rhineheart?”
    â€œI’m working on this case,” Rhineheart said. “I come across your name. I thought maybe you could help me out.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œIn an information way.”
    â€œI ain’t no snitch, Rhineheart.”
    â€œYou owe me two or three favors, Marvin.”
    â€œSure, of course. I’m just saying I ain’t nobody’s snitch, Rhineheart. Favor’s a different thing.”
    â€œWho bets with you, Marvin?”
    â€œHey, come on now, that’s confidential stuff. Like your job. You don’t go around talking about your clients, do you?”
    â€œDoes Howard Taggert bet with you?”
    Marvin shook his head. “I’m too small-time for someone like Taggert. If he bets, he bets personally with the Big Man.”
    â€œCorrati?”
    Marvin looked over his shoulder, then around the room. Finally, he nodded.
    â€œWhat about Duke Kingston?”
    â€œOut of my league also.”
    â€œDoes he bet?”
    â€œI hear he does.” He paused. “Heavy.”
    â€œWhat else do you hear about him?”
    â€œI don’t hear nothing else. I make it a point not to hear about people like that. They carry too much weight for guys like me.”
    â€œTell me about Carl Walsh.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œYou fuck with me, Marvin,” Rhineheart said, “and I’ll throw you through the window there.”
    Marvin held up a hand. “Easy, easy. Okay, Walsh bets with me. He’s into me for two dimes. I cut him off, told him to