"Sergeant Stanislaw tells me you're the best private detective in New Jersey," said Malcolm Selkins.

That was a lie. Stan might have recommended me, but he was far too cautious to claim I was the best P.I. in the state, or even on my block.

"I do my best," I said, trying to sound modest. It was easy to feel modest, sitting in the glassed- in porch which was obviously an expensive new addition to Selkins' Victorian mansion.

"The Sergeant also mentioned confidentiality," said Paul Barr. A strong, muscular man in his thirties, Barr was Selkins' assistant. That was one of those eternal puzzles; since Selkins was independently wealthy and held no job, what did he need assistance with?

Besides interviewing private eyes, of course. "Confidentiality is no problem," I assured them. "What is the problem?"

Selkins gazed out at the Atlantic Ocean, apparently forgetting I was there. He was a well- groomed, casually-dressed man of about fifty. I had seen pictures of him in newspaper reports dining for good causes at hundreds of fund-raising dinners. All that charity eating was beginning to show around his waist.

"My wife," he said at last. "Every Thursday she drives to Atlantic City. She spends the day there."

"Doing what, sir?"

"Visiting the casinos." He shot me a quick glance, as if expecting to see something in my face. He didn't.

"And what do you want me to do?"

Selkins held out his glass and Barr was instantly there, filling it with more lemonade. It was a hot day for March. I accepted a refill reluctantly: too much sugar.

The rich have their luxuries.

"Atlantic City is dangerous. I read the papers, I know what the crime rate is in that place. The damned casinos-"

He shrugged.

"No offense, Mr Crow," murmured Barr politely. "We realize you live there." He spoke very softly for a man with the build of a pro wrestler. He dressed more formally than his boss too, in a pale blue suit that must have been custom tailored. He looked ready for Wall Street, expect for the leather belt with the brass S & W logo that strained his belt loops. That was a bit out of place.

"I lived in A.C. before the casinos came," I told him. "Born there. But no offense taken. You expect Ms Selkins to have trouble?"

"She was robbed once already," said her husband. "Came home missing three thousand dollars and a gold bracelet. Some filthy addict took them off her in a casino restroom, if you can believe it."

I didn't necessarily believe it. There are other ways to lose three K in a casino, and the City has more places to hock gold jewelry than it has burger joints.

"You want me to bodyguard her on these trips?"

"Yes," said Selkins.

"No," said Barr. He seemed not the least embarrassed to be contradicting his boss. "We already suggested a bodyguard to Ms Selkins. She rejected the idea. She feels Mr Selkins is... overprotective."

"She told me to mind my own damned business," said Selkins, with a wry smile.

"So what do you want from me?"

"Can you follow my wife, Mr Crow? Tell me where she goes and keep her safe? Can you do all that, Mr Crow?"

I said I could. It turned out I was lying too.

#

Outside, I leaned against my car and looked at the scenery while I waited. That street held some of the prettiest houses in Cape May County, overdecorated birthday cakes that tourists go nuts for. To me, they always seem phony as a movie set.

Footsteps came rushing up behind me. "Yes, Mr Barr?" I said, not bothered to look. Showing off, I suppose.

"Oh," he cleared his throat. "Glad I caught you."

"Uh huh. Something else?"

"I didn't want to say this in front of Mr Selkins, but-"

"But?"

"I think it's possible Ms Selkins may be, well - meeting someone in the City. You should be on the lookout for that possibility."

I nodded, feeling better now that the other shoe had dropped. "Will do."

"Good." He pulled out a cream-colored business card. "This is my personal number. Please report directly to me. Mr Selkins' secretary is quite friendly with his wife, and I'd prefer she doesn't find out about this."

"No problem, Mr Barr."

"Excellent. Thanks." He started off, then hesitated and turned to face me. "May I ask what you were doing when I walked up? Admiring the architecture, perhaps?"

"Nope. Waiting for you to give me the rest of my assignment. I know deniability when I see it." He frowned all over his handsome face. "Deniability?"

"That's what politicians call it. If this ever winds up in court or a newspaper, I won't be able to claim Mr Selkins ever said a word about his wife being unfaithful. And as for what we just discussed, it's my word against yours. Off hand, I'd say your boss is getting advice from a divorce lawyer who is cautious to the point of paranoia."

Barr smiled slowly. "You're every bit as clever as Sergeant Stanislaw promised. I'm looking forward to your reports."

#

Rose Selkins didn't get her picture in the paper as often as her husband, although she was a hell of a lot more fun to look at. She started out as Selkins' secretary. That meant she had no money in her own right and I suppose that's why she didn't appear in the social pages much, except hanging on her husband's arm at some charity ball.

She was at least ten years younger than her husband, and apparently no one had told her about the dangers of skin cancer. She had the kind of suntan blonds are supposed to be avoiding these days. The first day I followed her she wore a red pants suit that would look great in a casino, and even better sneaking off to a motel with some sweetheart.

Cape May is the southern tip of New Jersey, a peninsula that hangs South of the Mason-Dixon Line. It was no trouble following Rose forty miles up the Parkway to A.C. She kept her white Caddy a modest five miles over the speed limit where traffic permitted, and took no foolish chances. If she spotted me behind her, she gave no sign of it.

She arrived at the Marina Casino around eleven, left her car with the valet, and walked briskly to the game floor. That was when I saw how difficult this assignment was going to be.

I was going to have to spend all day in a casino. On duty. No gambling.

Some people, Sergeant Karel Stanislaw for instance, claim I have a gambling problem. Stan would never have recommended me for this job if he knew it meant spent spending the day in casinos.

So this was a good chance to prove that, while I like to gamble, I didn't need to. I picked up a soda and walked around the outside of the casino floor, watching my lady in red. She had converted a few hundred bucks to chips and was just digging in at the blackjack table.

The dealer's eyes met hers and I thought bingo, I've found her playmate already, but after a few minutes I changed my mind. He had just been acknowledging a regular customer.

Ms Selkins lost all her chips by one o'clock and walked out. Lunch was fish at a restaurant in the casino - she used more salt and pepper than I would go through in a month - and then back to the floor. She went to the slot machines this time, killing an hour and gaining back a piece what she'd lost before. A stop at the bar and then back to blackjack.

I hunted up some black coffee. It was promising to be a long afternoon.

At dinnertime I followed her to a different restaurant, still in the casino. More fish; more salt and pepper. Then for a big change she tried a few hours of roulette. The security people had begun to notice me, so I dropped a few coins into slot machines to keep them.

At exactly ten o'clock Rose Selkins cashed in her chips and walked out. On the trip back to Cape May I was hoping that she would stop at a motel a mile from home, that the whole day had been an elaborate beard for an hour in bed with a next-door neighbor.

No such luck. She went straight back to her gingerbread house, happy as a clam after a long day of losing money.

By my calculations she bled the family exchequer for about twelve hundred bucks, not counting what her husband was paying me to watch her do it. As for me, I made an amazing discovery: when you aren't there to gamble, casinos are boring as hell.

#

When Paul Barr called me five weeks later I figured my gravy train was derailing, and I didn't really regret it. Driving back and forth to Cape May twice every Thursday was beginning to make me feel like an overworked commuter.

"Your reports aren't as interesting as I hoped," Barr began.

"I just tell you what she does," I replied. "If you want me to make something up-"

"Of course not. About the matter we discussed..."

"The longest she's been out of my sight is fifteen minutes in the ladies' room. If she has a lover she isn't seeing him on Thursdays."

"You reported her having lunch or dinner with men-"

"And sometimes women. Always people she runs into on the floor of the casino. Never the same person twice, and no signs of intimacy with any of them."

Barr sighed. "How much is she losing?" "On the average, a grand a week. It's in the report."

"Is she still alternating between those two casinos?"

"That's right. The Marina one week and the Ruby the next."

"Is there any chance she spotted you? You must get pretty close to her at times."

"Not often. Ms Selkins stands out even at a distance. The only time I have to get close to her is at the Ruby when she picks up her car."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"The valet pulls up the cars to a spot around the corner from the main door. I practically have to breath down her neck to get to my car before she leaves, but it's dark in the lot and she hasn't spotted me yet."

"I suppose you use disguises."

"Different jackets and hats. Sunglasses. Nothing out of Mission Impossible. She's not looking, so it doesn't take much."

"Well, keep on it, Crow. And keep her safe."

#

The next Thursday was our turn for the Ruby. Rose at the Ruby. The Ruby and the Rose. Boredom was making me giddy.

Was she as bored as I was? Presumably this was her one day of the week out from under her husband's eye. She sure didn't seem to be having a lot of fun. She was one of those grim, tight-lipped gamblers who made an hour of roulette look like a shift in the coal mines.

I admit I was beginning to feel sorry for her. Two or three times I felt an inclination to go over and whisper in her ear; to say, be careful, your husband is looking to bust the banns.

I didn't do that. I'm a professional, after all.

The only thing that kept me on the case, besides professional stubbornness, was the satisfaction I would get later telling Stanislaw that I spent all those days in a casino, earning my money and not losing a cent. So much for my alleged gambling problem.

And that got me thinking, there in the Ruby Casino.

Since I clearly had no gambling problem, I ought to put a few more coins in the machines. Otherwise, the security people were going to get ticked off. It was good cover in case Rose spotted me, too.

I turned a ten into quarters and found a slot machine convenient to Rose's favorite blackjack table. She went down about three hundred bucks while I went up about fifty.

After dinner she switched to roulette and I had to move over to the poker machines. These little beauties have five rubber balls that drop into holes marked with playing cards.

You can keep or discard balls, trying to improve your hand.

I did pretty good with them. Three of a kind, twice. A full house, once. The lady at the machine next to me got a royal flush, worth more than a grand.

Two machines standing next to each other were never going to both give jackpots, so I moved to the other end of the row.

I was up three hundred bucks when I happened to glance at my watch.

Quarter after ten.

Rose Selkins always left at ten.

I looked around. From my new machine I couldn't even see her table. I dropped my coin cup and ran. She was gone. Not at the table, not at the cashier's desk.

I left the casino floor, swearing out loud, and ran down the escalator three steps at a time, down the two flights to the valet parking.

People were screaming. Someone was at a phone, talking at the top of their voice. I pushed and punched my way crowd to get to the dark corner where people waited for their cars.

There was a man lying on the pavement, a short chunky man in a tan sports coat. My first thought was, thank God, it isn't her. Then the crowd moved apart a little more and I saw, on the sidewalk, blond hair mixed with blood. Rose Selkins lay a few yards beyond the man, bleeding all over the concrete.

Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the dark skies.

Looking for a protector, maybe. Her purse was gone and her neck was gashed where a necklace had been yanked off. There were two bullet-holes in her chest.

One of the car jockeys was telling his story to the crowd. "The lady gave me her keys and I went to get her Caddie. Somebody yelled 'give me your purse!' and there were two gunshots. Then I heard two more. That guy must have come to help her."

Damned nice somebody had.

The robber, the killer, was long gone. Jumped over the cyclone fence and adios. No point in chasing him.

I stayed where I was and guarded the bodies. That's what a bodyguard is for, isn't it?

#

"So where the hell were you?" asked Stanislaw. We were standing in the parking valet's booth, away from the crush of cops and technicians doing their rituals for the dead.

"I blew it, okay? I was late, don't rub it in."

"Marty, Marty. I recommended you."

"You're breaking my heart, Stan. If you're gonna arrest me for malpractice you better read me my rights."

He sighed and opened his notebook. "The dead man is Murray Whitelaw, according to his driver's license. Ever hear of him?"

"No."

"No known connection to the Selkins woman. Looks like another unlucky hero."

"It could have been me. It should have been me," I said. "I'm sick about it."

"Well, you would have stood a better chance in a fight than he did. And you were getting paid for it." He glanced up. "They're gonna take the bodies. I better get over there."

They lifted Rose Selkins first. There was something brown under her, something she had fallen on. I stepped forward to see what it was.

Then I really was sick, right there, against the wall. The thing under her was an ordinary, anonymous, man's hat, and that revealed everything.

#

They did it my way. I practically had to get on my knees and beg, but Stan finally agreed with me and he convinced the others.

Stan and a Cape May cop went to Malcolm Selkins' house and broke the news that his wife and an unidentified man had been killed by a mugger.

Selkins and Barr - Barr was there too - went through all the cliches of grief and shock. Then Barr suggested that perhaps the murdered man was Marty Crow, who had been hired to protect Ms Selkins.

They explained how they had feared for her safety in those bad neighborhoods, had even hired a bodyguard, had done everything they could possibly do.

It was a pleasure to see their faces when I walked in.

"Crow!" said Selkins, falsetto. He shot a nervous glance at Barr.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mr Selkins. I'm still alive and kicking. You shot the wrong man."

"Me?" He pulled himself together. "I've been here all evening. I must have spoken to half a dozen people on the phone."

"Alibi all set," said Stanislaw, wryly.

"I didn't mean you, literally," I told Selkins. "It could have been a hired mechanic, but my money is on Barr. You were crazy to trust him on this, but I don't think he was crazy enough to hire a stranger."

"You're the one who's crazy," said Barr. "I haven't shot anybody."

"You changed your belt," I told him.

He looked baffled. "What?"

"Last time I saw you you were wearing a belt with a Smith and Wesson logo. How many handguns do you own, I wonder?"

"A belt doesn't prove anything," said Stan. "You better tell the whole story."

"Let's start with the obvious," I said. "Mr Selkins decided to kill his wife. I don't know why, but a woman who donates a grand to the casinos every week could be a liability, even for a charitable man. Maybe she would have fought a divorce."

"Why bring in a private eye?" asked the local cop.

"Selkins knew he'd be the first suspect when his wife died. He's a real belts and suspenders guy, wanting to be doubly safe. So he set up an alibi, plus they made it look like a robbery. Then, just to prove what a good husband he was, he hired a bodyguard. No wonder he didn't want her to know about me."

"The killer was must have been awfully confident," said Stan. "He knew you had a gun. Wouldn't he be afraid you'd shoot him while he was shooting Rose Selkins?"

"He took care of that, but let's start at the beginning. On the day they hired me Barr went out of his way to assure me that they weren't really interested in protection. They wanted divorce evidence. So he had me watching out for lovers, not robbers."

"Pretty cute," said Stanislaw.

"Very," I agreed. "I might have fallen for the whole shebang if it wasn't for the hat."

"The hat?" said Barr. "What hat?"

"Murray Whitelaw's hat. Whitelaw is the poor joker you shot on that dark sidewalk, thinking it was me, because I told you I always came out right after Ms Selkins.

"The idea was that he rushed to Ms Selkins' aid after she was shot by the mugger. The valet heard the mugger's voice, and then two shots, then a pause and two more shots."

"So?" snapped Barr.

"So," I said, "Here's what really happened. You shouted 'give me your purse' so the valet would hear it. Whitelaw spun around to face you. Who wouldn't? You shot him in the chest. Then you killed Ms Selkins. You popped Whitelaw first, because you thought he was a private eye and you didn't want him to have a chance to pull a gun."

"Garbage," said Barr.

"Then tell me one thing. If Rose Selkins was shot first, she fell down while Whitelaw was still on his feet. Right?"

"I suppose so."

"So how did she land on top of Whitelaw's hat?"

#

The whole plan was to get them to spill it right then, and that didn't happen. Maybe they would have cracked later at the station; I doubt it. But for once we filled an inside straight.

As the cops were leading them out in handcuffs a car pulled up and a beautiful blond woman stepped out. She looked a lot like Rose, but at least ten years younger.

"Walter, what's happening? Paul?"

The look on their faces, especially Selkins', made it clear that this was the person they least wanted to see just then. She turned to Stanislaw. "Where are you taking them?"

"To the police station, ma'am. We need to ask them some questions. And you are?"

"I'm Mr Selkins' secretary, Irene Barr. Paul there is my brother. What's going on?"

#

"Selkins admits he wanted to marry his secretary," Stanislaw told me as we drove back to A.C. "That's why he trusted Barr so much. If Barr played his cards right he was about to move from being a millionaire's assistant to being his brother-in-law."

"Nice promotion," I agreed.

"Meanwhile, you pulled off quite a feat tonight, Marty."

"Me? What?"

My old friend sighed. "By being a gambling junkie you managed, not only to stay alive, but also to solve a double murder."

"I'm no gambling addict, Stan. I just lost track of the time, is all."

He took his eyes off the road and stared at me like he was trying to read my collar tag through my head. "You know why you're not an alcoholic, Marty?"

"Huh?" I gawked at him. "You know I can't drink, Stan. Booze makes me sick."

"Yeah. And that's the only reason."

I have no idea what he meant by that. Night driving brings out the mystic in him.

THE END

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