Larry Kent: Witch Rhymes With ...

By Larry Kent

When Larry Kent said goodbye to Eve Delmar, she was alive. The next morning she turned up dead—shot to death. But who wanted to kill her, and why? The chief suspect was her estranged husband ... but he was a friend of Larry’s, and when he denied murder, Larry believed him.
So he set out to find the real killer and save his friend from a hot date with the electric chair.
But the case soon turned even more complicated. What part did nightclub owner Earl Salem play in it all? How did a seven-year old, out-of-state murder tie in to it?
It was only when someone decided that Larry himself should be his next victim that he realized he was up against something bigger than he could have possibly suspected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Apr 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463691427

Larry Kent

Larry Kent is the house name of writers who contributed to a series of detective series in the 1950s. Kent worked as a P.I., smoking Luckies and drinking whiskey. His stomping grounds are pure New York, full of Harlem nightclubs and Manhatten steakhouses, but he did occasionally venture further afield, to Vegas, South America, Los Angeles, Berlin, Cuba and even New Jersey.

Book preview

When Larry Kent said goodbye to Eve Delmar, she was alive. The next morning she turned up dead—shot to death. But who wanted to kill her, and why? The chief suspect was her estranged husband … but he was a friend of Larry’s, and when he denied murder, Larry believed him.

So he set out to find the real killer and save his friend from a hot date with the electric chair.

But the case soon turned even more complicated. What part did nightclub owner Earl Salem play in it all? How did a seven-year old, out-of-state murder tie in to it?

It was only when someone decided that Larry himself should be his next victim that he realized he was up against something bigger than he could have possibly suspected.

LARRY KENT 646: WITCH RHYMES WITH …

By Don Haring

First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing

First Digital Edition: April 2019

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: David Whitehead

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

Chapter 1 ... the lady is a tramp ...

Oceanview is a small town on the Atlantic Ocean in New Jersey, about fifty minutes from New York City. The way I drive, the trip usually takes about forty minutes. However, the evening I went down to see Eve Delmar—Mrs. John Delmar—I crawled along the turnpike. I guess I wasn’t too anxious to see Eve. I left the city about seven-thirty and entered Oceanview at twenty-five to nine.

My destination was the Sunshine Garden Hotel. Land doesn’t come cheap in this part of the United States, so most hotels are built on small plots of ground. The Sunshine Garden was unique in that it covered an acre—and there wasn’t a suite that wasn’t on the ground floor. Actually, the hotel was a series of small buildings around a large, sprawling central building that contained the lobby and office, a cocktail bar, snack bar and restaurant. At least half the guests were permanent tenants who rented their suites by the month.

I wheeled the Corvette into the big parking lot beside the central building. A familiar figure came limping across the lot. I got out of the car and said, Hello, Benny.

Benny stopped beneath an arc-light. His round, homely face showed surprise.

Don’t you remember me? I asked.

His lips spread in a broad smile. "Mr. Kent? It is you, Mr. Kent! Hell’s bells, it’s been a long time."

Over a year, Benny. I put out my hand.

Gee, it’s good to see you again, Mr. Kent, he said, pumping my hand. I didn’t expect to see you—not here, anyhow—not after Mr. Delmar left. He’s not coming back, is he? He’s not coming back to live with his wife again, is he?

Benny seemed worried, concerned.

I don’t think so, I said.

Benny looked away, grunted. He’s a nice man, Mr. Delmar. I got along real good with him. I’m glad he’s not coming back to that lady. I mean ... well, he deserves the best, and she ... well ...

I know what you mean, I said. How’ve you been, Benny?

Oh, fine, Mr. Kent, just fine.

Any more operations?

No, sir. Those Veteran Administration doctors did a real good job on me the last time. He tapped a knuckle on his head. They gave me half a pound of silver, Mr. Kent. Aren’t many guys can say they’ve got a silver skull like I have.

No more headaches, Benny?

Only once in a while. But that’s no problem. I get a headache, I swallow a pill. Zam! Just like that, the headache’s gone. He scratched at his head. Only thing is, my memory ain’t so good any more. Like the other day. One of the tenants gave me a hot horse at Washington Park. I phoned my bookie to put a bet on the nag, but then I couldn’t remember the name. So I looked through all the entries. Do you think I could remember what horse the tenant gave me? The horse’s name just slid out of my brain. It came in first, too, at six to one. When the tenant told me about it, I said I had a deuce on the nag. I just didn’t have the heart to tell him I forgot. I mean, he was happy for me, y’know? Well, that’s how it is. Every now and then my head gets lazy, kind of. Not that I’m kicking. I’m a real lucky guy, Mr. Kent, and nobody knows that better than I do. Hell, that gook hand grenade went off only a foot from the top of my head. You should’ve seen my helmet! Man, you could stick your arm through it.

I patted him on the back. You’re doing real well, Benny.

You can say that again. I get a hundred and twenty bucks a month pension, eighty a week here at the hotel—hell, I’m really living. Hey, you want me to put some gas in your car or something?

Yes, Benny, if you don’t mind. Have the tank filled up and tell the station attendant to check the oil and battery, will you?

I’ll do that part myself, Mr. Kent.

Here. I gave him a ten dollar bill. Thanks, Benny.

My pleasure. Hey, how long are you going to be here?

Well, I’m not sure.

Then I’ll get onto it right away. I’ll have your car back in five minutes. This is like old times, eh? He frowned. Only ... this wasn’t the car you had last time I saw you here at the hotel. It was a Buick, wasn’t it?

It was a Pontiac, but I said, That’s right, Benny. That memory of yours isn’t as bad as you think it is.

He smiled. Hey, that’s a fact, ain’t it. How long since you were here?

Over a year.

A year, eh? Hey, that’s not bad. Over a year, and I remembered. That’s not bad at all. Okay, Mr. Kent, I’ll get in your car and take it straight to the garage. You go and—

He stopped. Did you come here to—It’s none of my business, maybe, Mr. Kent, but—

I’ve come to see Eve Delmar, I said. She phoned and said she wanted to see me.

Furrows appeared in Benny’s forehead. I could feel his brain struggling. He said, Maybe ... maybe she wants to make up with Mr. Delmar. You think that could be it, Mr. Kent?

It takes two for that kind of thing, Benny.

It wouldn’t be right, you know. He shook his head back and forth, slowly. I’d sure like for Mr. Delmar to live here again, but that wouldn’t be right. He looked at me. I always try to mind my own business, but I can’t help noticing certain things. I mean ... parties in there ... and men ... and the way she drinks. She’s just not good enough for Mr. Delmar.

Sure, Benny.

A man like him, Mr. Kent—a good man like him, he deserves the best. Do you see him in the city?

We have lunch together at least once a week.

How is he?

Fine. Never better.

I’m glad to hear that.

And Jack will be glad to hear that you’re finished with the operations. I’ll tell him about it next time I see him.

And give him my best, too, eh?

I will, Benny.

Thanks. Well, I better take care of your car. See you later.

I walked across the parking lot, past the central building, then along a flagstone path that wound between the suites. The place was well looked after. Each suite sat on an island of close cropped lawn. The islands were separated by either box hedges or flower plots. Set here and there, apparently at random, were fir trees and flowering shrubs. There were four clusters of suites, called wings; North, South, East and West. Eve Delmar lived in suite 27, in the West Wing. It was at the far edge of that particular cluster.

I heard Eve’s record player long before I reached suite 27. It was giving out full blast. Tiger Rag. One of Eve’s favorite numbers. Jack preferred classical music, played low. When they had their last argument, more than a year back, Eve broke all Jack’s records while he was packing his things. He told me about it a few months later. By then he was able to see the humor in it. But he hadn’t had much of a sense of humor during the last six or seven months he lived with Eve.

I was almost to Eve’s door when I heard something nearby. It was just a small sound, but it stopped me in my tracks. There was a tall shrub between the suite and the flagstone path. Standing in the shadows of this shrub was a man.

I said, Hello, Peller.

Peller stepped onto the flagstone path. He was a small, fat man with narrow, hunched shoulders. But he had the face of a thin man. It was as though someone had given him the wrong head.

Well, well, well, Peller said. It’s Mr. Larry Kent.

I said, Well, well, well. You’re still sneaking around, I see.

Just doing my job, Mr. Kent, that’s all. A hotel detective has to know what’s going on. It’s what I get paid for.

You’re a lucky man, Peller. Every other place I know, they put Peeping Toms in jail.

You’ve got no call to make a crack like that, Peller said, sounding hurt. After all, we’re both in the same kind of business. Besides, you never know when you might need a feller’s help.

You’re so right, I said. Tell you what. Give me your card. The next time I need a dirty old man to peep into a girl’s bedroom window, I’ll let you know. Now, if you’ll get out of my way ...

Wait. Wait just a second, Mr. Kent—

I grabbed two handfuls of his coat, lifted him off the flagstone path, set him down on