They Call Me Stench

By Lawrence L. Warren

1944, the world is at war, it's hard time in America. Peter Stenchcomb gets by as a Private Investigator when he gets the chance. 'Stench' took a bullet in the left shoulder, two years past, that ended his ten year career as a detective with the L. A. Police Department. Now he does the best he can with a weak shoulder and a thirty dollar a month disability check. Stench is hired by a sultry young woman to report on her rich husband's late night activities. It soon becomes apparent that things are not as they appear and Stench is left ensnared in a million dollar insurance fraud scheme that leaves him holding the bag and at the top of the F.B.I. suspect list. The only way to get off the hook and clear his name is to elude the Fed's long enough to track down the missing cunning dame and get her to confess to the job. She turns on all her ample charm to out fox Stench and coax him into letting her skip town with her share of the loot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483571683

Book preview

20

Chapter 1

They call me Stench. Not for any particular reason other than the fact that my name is Stenchcomb. Peter Stenchcomb. I’m an ex-L.A. copper, eking out a living as a Private Investigator in the Los Angeles basin. It’s not a profession that I would recommend to anyone who wants to eat on a regular basis, but it keeps me in cigarettes and beer. And besides, I really can’t imagine myself as a 9 to 5’er working for some schmuck. The truth is, I’m simply not suited to do anything else.

After ten years on the police force I made Detective and was assigned to the Robbery Division. Shortly after I had arrived on the scene of a mid-town bank hold-up, a rookie uniformed officer on his beat showed up and decided to single-handedly apprehend the assumed suspect. At first it seemed like a Laurel and Hardy slapstick comedy, the nervous rookie holding his trembling pistol aimed at me. Before I could say a word or flash my police badge he plugged me in the left shoulder. Three months of hospitalization and reconstruction surgery resulted in the Department turning me out with a $30 a month disability pension. My left hand looks normal but is too weak to hold a mug of coffee for more than a few seconds before dropping it. They told me that over the next few years I may regain some of the strength back but this is considered a permanent paralysis. Unfit is how the Department phrased it. This is, of course, not a condition I share with everyone. Who’d hire a P. I. unable to put up his dukes?

They say that every dark cloud has a silver lining. My limited disability is accompanied with a Selective Service draft status of 4F. I don’t know what the four F’s stand for, but I do know what they mean. I won’t be getting an invitation to join Uncle Sam’s Army, sleeping in muddy foxholes and dodging Nip or Kraut bullets. Roosevelt declared war against Hirohito and Hitler two years ago when our Navy Base at Pearl Harbor was attacked. During that time the entire nation had geared-up for the war effort while I set myself up in business and established a connection with a handful of local law firms. When they need the lowdown on some character I’m called to dig it up. My fee is ten dollars a day plus expenses and I’m willing to do just about anything to earn it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those unlicensed gumshoes you hear about that will rough-up your old granny and then take your sawbuck on the pretense of finding who did it. I do the job I’m paid to do and give my typed written report for each day’s activity. When my courtroom testimony is required, I will swear under oath to the accuracy of my investigation.

I received a message that a Mrs. Bowen was seeking the services of a discreet Private Investigator and she had been given my name and I should expect to be hearing from her soon.

The next afternoon around three o’clock I’m downstairs, sitting at the bar having a beer at Sam’s Paradise Lounge. Sam is a regular guy and lets me drink on the tab when business is slow. It’s early January, 1944 and this is one of those slow times. Christmas and New Years are at last over and people are getting back into the routine of everyday life. From behind the bar, Sam tells me that Helen, our third floor telephone operator, has called down to tell me that there’s a lady waiting in my office.

Thanks Sam. I grab my hat and hurry down the street to the main entrance of our three story building and raced up the two flights of stairs to the top floor. My office is directly across the hall from the telephone operator’s switchboard alcove and Helen often acts as my makeshift receptionist.

It’s Mrs. Bowen, she whispers. I wink back at her with my best ‘that-a-girl’ smile and nonchalantly open my office door.

Mrs. Bowen is a knockout. A real dish, stacked to the nines. She’s sitting on my bed with her shapely legs crossed. Actually, it’s my office couch but I sleep there at night. She’s decked out in a dark blue suit that’s so tight it looks like it has been painted onto her hourglass full figure. The skirt is very short and the top is plunging as low as it dare plunge. I must admit that the first thing to cross my mind was how long would it take for her to wiggle out of it. She has matching blue high heels, handbag and small pill box hat. A bleached blonde, I would say in her mid-twenties, deep blue eyes and pale white skin like fresh snow. Ruby red lip rouge and heavy dark eye makeup that looked professionally applied. Very classy and just a little bit trashy. My kind of dame.

Hi, I manage to say after too long of a pause. I’m Stench.

She gave me a sheepish grin, as if she was pleased with my coy reaction.

I’m Clella-May Bowen, she replied with a thick southern twang and then stood-up with her left hand perched on her hip to give me the full view.

All I could do was stand there and gawk at her and hope my fly wasn’t unbuttoned. She eventually broke the spell by extending her lovely right hand for me to shake. I crossed the small office space and tried not to look like I was in a rush. Her hand was warm and soft and she smelled good. Some kind of tropical flower fragrance I guessed. The hand shake was too brief for my liking but I reminded myself that Mrs. Bowen was here on business, not a social call. I gestured to the chair in front of my desk and said, Have a seat.

Her high heels clicked out a loud rhythm across the hardwood floor like only a real dame knows how to do while I watched from behind. Everything was in shipshape. Her nylon seams were straight and tight and all the moving parts looked to be well oiled and working fine. I waited until she was settled in before taking my place on the other side of the desk.

Tell me, Mrs. Bowen, what brings you to see me?

I need help in a very private matter, she said in a very low voice as if someone else was in the room and would overhear. I don’t want anyone else to know I’m here, especially Arnold, my husband.

Yes, I understand. Be assured that whatever you tell me will be strictly confidential.

I want you to follow my husband and tell me what he’s doing at night. I need to know the details about where he goes and who he meets.

Can you tell me what you think is going on? What exactly I should be looking for?

Arnold’s never been one much for love makin’, but he’s two-timin’ me. It’s not like I’m some kind of lovesick Juliet or anything, but I do have my reasons for needin’ to know.

All I could do is sit there silently and stare straight at her. I needed time to sort out my various thoughts…. Either Arnold is the biggest moron in L. A. if he’s cheating on this luscious dame, or some kind of Don Juan. But brother, I can tell you this, I can’t wait to lay eyes on the other broad if she’s anything like this one.

I took a business card out of a drawer and slid it across the desktop to her. My fee and terms are clearly spelled out on the back. She leaned forward and picked it up with a full display of firm white cleavage. She read the card for a moment and then nodded her head in agreement.

You must understand, Mrs. Bowen, that I will only be following your husband and reporting his activities. I do not take pictures and I will not be trying to catch him in bed with another woman. If he does see another woman and spends any time with her, I will provide her name and address in my daily report. Any further action will be by you. She considered my words carefully and then again nodded her bleached blonde head. I will need a recent photograph of Mr. Bowen and the address of his office and home. Let’s start by you giving me as much background information as possible on you and your husband. Is that alright?

She sat back tall in her chair and recrossed those curvy smooth legs as if committing to seeing this through to whatever the outcome would be. Lucky me, I’d watch her do that again all day.

Well yes, I guess it’s alright. I’m sure you can tell that I’m not from around these parts and not accustomed to these sorts of things. I was born and reared in Mobile, aside the Tensaw River. That’s in Alabama. Well, I met Arnold at the Tensaw Diner, I was a waitress and he came into the diner two or three times a day for a couple weeks. He was in Mobile on business. You see, Arnold owns a big company here in California. The Bowen Tool and Die Company in San Pedro, they make metal parts for the war. He’s very rich and a lot older than me. But that’s okay, I never wanted any babies no how.

Her southern draw was thicker than molasses and she was batting those dark eyelashes at me like Little Orphan Annie ratting out Daddy Warbucks.

How old is your husband, Mrs. Bowen?

I’d like you to call me Clella-May. Mrs. Bowen makes me sound like some dried up old schoolteacher. And besides, I’m not goin’ to be Mrs. Arnold Bowen much longer. At least I hope not.

Okay, Clella-May.

Arnold is old enough to be my daddy. He’s forty-three, twenty years older than me.

Tell me how long have you two been married?

One year and three months. It happened like this, Arnold took a likin’ to me right off and always gave me an extra dollar tip. Missis Bell, she owns the Tensaw Diner, taught me early on to be especially nice to the older men. You know, show a little, flirt a little, make ’em think you cotton to ‘em. Well, after about a week or so, Arnold began askin’ me more private stuff like was I married or have a boyfriend. Of course, I told him no, even though there’s always been some boy or nother sniffin’ ‘round my skirt since I can recollect. Then, he just up an’ tells me he’s lookin’ for a wife an’ that I’d be the perfect Mrs. Bowen. If I’d consent to marrin’ him I’d live in a big house in California and be rich. Well a course, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. That night I went home and told my ailen’ mamma what happen’d. She cried an’ then started packin’ my overnight grip right off, sayin’ she didn’t wanna see me slingin’ hash for the rest of my life. So, two days later I’m wedded to Arnold in a little town out in the desert. Las Vegas. That’s in Nevada.

"Why do you believe that Arnold’s fooling around?’

Well, like I said, Arnold is not much for makin’ whoopee, just more watchin’ me while I’m gettin’ undressed or takin’ my nightly bath. He even has a big easy chair next to the tub in my private lavatory. For the last month he don’t even come ‘round to watch no more, he’s busy somewhere else and gone all night now,

So, the beautiful young wife doesn’t live happily ever after with the rich old geezer!

It ain’t as high an’ mighty as some folks make it out to be, I can tell you that for sure.

Okay Clella-May, here’s what we’re going to do, for the next three nights I’ll shadow Arnold’s every move. If there’s anything funny going on we’ll find it. I’ll contact you in four days with my detailed reports.

She stood-up and placed her handbag on the corner of the desk and rummaged through it until she found what she was after, a pink envelope.

I beg you not to let Arnold learn ‘bout any of this and I’d sure feel much better if we would meet back here. I’m obliged for your help and kindness, Mr. Stenchcomb.

Stench, I said.

She