Rage of Angels by Sidney Sheldon

KENNETH BAILEY

ACE INVEST GA IONS

 

Beneath it:

ROCKEFELLER C LLECTION AG NCY

 

Jennifer took a deep breath, opened the door and walked in. She was standing in the middle of a small, windowless office. There were three scarred desks and chairs crowded into the room, two of them occupied.

Seated at one of the desks was a bald, shabbily dressed, middle-aged man working on some papers. Against the opposite wall at another desk was a man in his early thirties. He had brick-red hair and bright blue eyes. His skin was pale and freckled. He was dressed in tight-fitting jeans, a tee shirt, and white canvas shoes without socks. He was talking into the telephone.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Desser, I have two of my best operatives working on your case. We should have news of your husband any day now. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for a little more expense money…No, don’t bother mailing it. The mails are terrible. I’ll be in your neighborhood this afternoon. I’ll stop by and pick it up.”

He replaced the receiver and looked up and saw Jennifer.

He rose to his feet, smiled and held out a strong, firm hand. “I’m Kenneth Bailey. And what can I do for you this morning?”

Jennifer looked around the small, airless room and said uncertainly, “I—I came about your ad.”

“Oh.” There was surprise in his blue eyes.

The bald-headed man was staring at Jennifer.

Kenneth Bailey said, “This is Otto Wenzel. He’s the Rockefeller Collection Agency.”

Jennifer nodded. “Hello.” She turned back to Kenneth Bailey. “And you’re Ace Investigations?”

“That’s right. What’s your scam?”

“My—?” Then, realizing, “I’m an attorney.”

Kenneth Bailey studied her skeptically. “And you want to set up an office here?”

Jennifer looked around the dreary office again and visualized herself at the empty desk, between these two men.

“Perhaps I’ll look a little further,” she said. “I’m not sure—”

“Your rent would only be ninety dollars a month.”

“I could buy this building for ninety dollars a month,” Jennifer replied. She turned to leave.

“Hey, wait a minute.”

Jennifer paused.

Kenneth Bailey ran a hand over his pale chin. “I’ll make a deal with you. Sixty. When your business gets rolling we’ll talk about an increase.”

It was a bargain. Jennifer knew that she could never find any space elsewhere for that amount. On the other hand, there was no way she could ever attract clients to this hellhole. There was one other thing she had to consider. She did not have the sixty dollars.

“I’ll take it,” Jennifer said.

“You won’t be sorry,” Kenneth Bailey promised. “When do you want to move your things in?”

“They’re in.”

 

 

Kenneth Bailey painted the sign on the door himself. It read:

JENNIFER PARKER

ATTORNEY AT LAW

 

Jennifer studied the sign with mixed feelings. In her deepest depressions it had never occurred to her that she would have her name under that of a private investigator and a bill collector. Yet, as she looked at the faintly crooked sign, she could not help feeling a sense of pride. She was an attorney. The sign on the door proved it.

 

 

Now that Jennifer had office space, the only thing she lacked was clients.

Jennifer could no longer afford even the Steak & Brew. She made herself a breakfast of toast and coffee on the hot plate she had set up over the radiator in her tiny bathroom. She ate no lunch and had dinner at Chock Full O’Nuts or Zum Zum, where they served large pieces of wurst, slabs of bread and hot potato salad.

She arrived at her desk promptly at nine o’clock every morning, but there was nothing for her to do except listen to Ken Bailey and Otto Wenzel talking on the telephone.

Ken Bailey’s cases seemed to consist mostly of finding runaway spouses and children, and at first Jennifer was convinced that he was a con man, making extravagant promises and collecting large advances. But Jennifer quickly learned that Ken Bailey worked hard and delivered often. He was bright and he was clever.

Otto Wenzel was an enigma. His telephone rang constantly. He would pick it up, mutter a few words into it, write something on a piece of paper and disappear for a few hours.