Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 02] (3 page)

“At least you’ve given me something to go on. If she bought all new clothes we can trace them. If we’re lucky we can pick up the old stuff and check them for laundry marks.”

He told me to wait for him and took off down the corridor. I sat there for five minutes and fidgeted, and cursed people who let their kids run loose. A hell of a way to die. They just lower you into a hole and cover you up, with nobody around but the worms, and the worms don’t cry. But Pat would find out who she was. He’d put a little effort behind the search and a pair of parents would turn up and wring themselves dry with grief. Not that it would do much good, but at least I’d feel better.

Pat came back looking sour. I guess I knew what was coming when he said, “They covered that angle downstairs. The salesclerks in the stores all said the same thing ... she took her old clothes with her and wore the new ones.”

“Then she must have left them at home.”

“Uh-huh. She wasn’t carrying them with her when she was found.”

“Nope, I don’t like that either, Pat. When a girl buys a new outfit, she won’t look at the old one, and what she had on when I met her was a year out of date. She probably chucked them somewhere.”

Pat reached into his desk and came up with a note pad. “I think the best we can do is publish her picture and hope someone steps up with an identification. At the same time we’ll get the bureau checking up in the neighborhood where you met her. Does that suit you?”

“Yeah. Can’t do more than that, I guess.”

He flipped the pages over, but before I could tell him where the hash house was a lab technician in a white smock came in and handed over a report sheet. Pat glanced at it, then his eyes squinted and he looked at me strangely.

I didn’t get it, so I stared back. Without a word he handed me the sheet and nodded to dismiss the technician. It was a report on Red. The information was the same that Pat had given me, but down at the bottom was somebody’s scrawled notation. It said very clearly that although there was a good chance that death could have been accidental, the chance was just as good that she had been murdered. Her neck had been broken in a manner that could have been caused only by the most freakish accident.

For the first time since I’d known him, Pat took a typical cop’s attitude. “A nice story you gave me, Mike. How much of it am I supposed to believe?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“Go to hell, Pat.” I said it coldly, burning up inside.

I knew damn well what was going on in that official mind. Just because we had tangled tails on a couple of cases before he thought I was pitching him a fast one. I got it off my chest in a hurry. “You used to be a nice boy, Pat,” I said. “There was a time when we did each other favors and no questions asked. Did I ever dummy up a deal on you?”

He started to answer, but I cut him off. “Yeah, sure, we’ve crossed once or twice, but you always have the bull on me before we start. That’s because you’re a cop. I can’t withhold information... all I can do is protect a client. Since when do you figure me to be putting the smear on you?”

This time Pat grinned. “Okay, that makes me sorry twice today. Do me another favor and admit I had a halfway decent reason to be suspicious. You’re usually in something up to your neck, and you aren’t above getting a little free info even from me, and I can’t blame you. It’s just that I have to look out for my own neck once in a while. You know the pressure that’s being put on our department. If we get caught short we have a lot of people to answer to.”

He kept talking, but I wasn’t listening to him. My eyes kept drifting back to that report sheet until that one word, MURDERED, kept jumping at me like it was alive. I was seeing Red standing there with the dimples in her cheeks, kissing her finger, and smiling a smile that was for me alone. Just a two-bit tramp who could have been a lady, and who was, for a few short minutes, a damn decent friend.

And I had jinxed her.

My guts were a tight little ball under my belt, because Red wasn’t the only one I remembered. There was that greaseball with the rod and the dirty sneer. There was the way Red had looked at him with terror in her eyes, and I felt my fingernails bite into my palms and I started cursing under my breath. It always starts that way, the crazy mad feeling that makes me want to choke the life out of some son of a bitch, and there’s nothing to grab but air. I knew damn well what it was then. They could cross all the probable words off in front of murder and let it stand alone.

Pat said, “Give, Mike.”

“There’s nothing to give,” I told him. “I’m teed off. Things like this give me the pip. I might as well have killed her myself.”

“What makes you think it’s murder?” He was watching me closely again.

I flipped the sheet to his desk. “I don’t know, but she’s dead and what difference does it make how she died. When you’re dead you’re dead and it doesn’t matter much to you any more how you got that way.”

“Let’s not have any tangents, Mike. What do you know that I don’t?”

“What she looked like when she was alive. She was a nice kid.”

“Go on.”

“Nuts. There isn’t any place to go. If she was killed accidentally, I feel like hell. If she was murdered....”

“Yeah, Mike, I’ve heard it before... if she was killed you’re going to go out all by yourself and catch the bastard and rub his nose in the dirt. Maybe so hard that you break his neck, too.”

“Yeah,” I said. Then I said it again.

“Mike.”

“What?”

“Look, if it’s a kill it belongs in my department. It probably isn’t, but you get me so damn excited I’m getting positive that it is, and I’m getting mad, too, because you have thoughts in that scrambled brain of yours that will make the track nice and muddy if it’s another race. Let’s not have any more of that, Mike. Once was enough. I didn’t mind so much then, but no more of it. We’ve always played it square, though only God knows why I set myself up to be knocked down. Maybe I’m the jerk. Are you leveling with me on what you know?”

“I’m leveling, Pat.” I wasn’t lying. What I had told him was the truth. I just hadn’t told him the rest. It’s awfully nice to get so goddamn mad at something you want to bust wide open, and it’s a lot better to take that goddamn something your mad at and smash it against the wall and do all the things to it you wanted to do, wishing it could have been done before it was too late.

Pat was playing cop with his notebook again. “Where did you meet her?” he asked me.

“A joint under the el on Third Avenue. I came off the bridge and ran down Third and stopped at this joint along the way. I don’t remember the street because I was too tired to look, but I’ll go back and check up again and find it. There’s probably a thousand places like it, but I’ll find it.”

“This isn’t a stall, is it?”

“Yeah, it’s a stall. Lock me up for interfering with the processes of the law. I should have remembered every detail that happened that night.”

“Can it, Mike.”

“I told you I’d find it again, didn’t I?”

“Good enough. Meanwhile, we’ll pull an autopsy on her and try to locate the old clothes. Remember, when you find the place, let me know. I’ll probably find it without you anyway, but you can make it quicker... if you want to.”

“Sure,” I said. I was grinning, but nothing was funny. It was a way I could hold my mouth and be polite without letting him know that I felt as if ants were crawling all over me. We shook hands and said civilized “so longs” when I wanted to curse and swing at something instead.

I don’t like to get mad like that. But I couldn’t help it. Murder is an ugly word.

When I got downstairs I asked the desk sergeant where I could get in touch with Jake Larue. He gave me his home number and I went into a pay station just off the main corridor and dialed the number. Jake’s wife answered and she had to wake him up to put him on, and his voice wasn’t too friendly when he said hello.

I said, “This is Mike Hammer, Jake. What happened to that punk I gave you the other night?”

Jake said something indecent. Then, “That was some deal you handed us, Mike.”

“Why?”

“He had a license for that gun, that’s why. You trying to get me in a jam or something?”

“What are they doing, giving licenses away in New York State, now?”

“Nuts. His name is Feeney Last and he’s a combination chauffeur and bodyguard for that Berin-Grotin guy out on the Island.”

I whistled through my teeth and hung up. Now they were giving out licenses to guys who wanted to kill people. Oh, great. Just fine.

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER FOUR when I got back to the office. Velda was licking envelopes in an unladylike manner and glad of an excuse to stop. She said, “Pat called me a little while ago.”

“And told you to tell me to behave myself like a good boy, I suppose.”

“Or words to that effect. Who was she, Mike?”

“I didn’t find out. I will though.”

“Mike, being as how you’re the boss, I hate to say this, but there are a few prosperous clients knocking on the door and you’re fooling around where there isn’t any cash in sight.”

I threw my hat on the desk. “Wherever there’s murder there’s money, chick.”

“Murder?”

“I have that idea in mind.”

It was nice sitting there in the easy chair, stretched out in comfort. Velda let me yawn, then: “But what are you after, Mike?”

“A name,” I said. “Just a name for a kid who died without one. Morbid curiosity, isn’t it? But I can’t send flowers with just ‘Red’ on them.

“What do you know about a guy called Berin-Grotin, Velda?” I watched a fly run across the ceiling upside down, making it sound casual.

After a moment she told me: “That must be Arthur Berin-Grotin. He’s an old society gent about eighty, supposedly one of the original 400. At one time he was the biggest sport on the Stem, but he got tangled with old age and became almighty pious trying to make up for all his youthful escapades.”

I remembered him then, mostly from stories the old-timers like to pass out when they comer you in a bar for a hatful of free drinks. “Why would a guy like that need a bodyguard?” I asked her.

Velda dug back into her memory. “If I remember correctly, his estate out on the Island was robbed several times. An old man would be inclined to be squeamish, and I can’t say that I blame him. I’d hire a bodyguard, too. The funny part is that the burglar could have had what he wanted for the asking by simply knocking on the door. Arthur Berin-Grotin is a sucker for hard-luck stories ... besides being one of the city’s biggest philanthropists.”

“Lots of money, hey?”

“Umm.”

“Where did you get the dope on him?”

“If you read anything but the funnies, you’d know. He’s in the news as often as a movie star. Apparently he has a fierce sense of pride, and if he isn’t suing somebody for libel, he’s disinheriting some distant relative for besmirching the fair name of Berin-Grotin. A month ago he financed a million-dollar cat and dog hospital or something. Oh, wait a minute....”

She got up and began ruffling through a heap of newspapers on top of the file. After a brief search she pulled out a rotogravure section a few weeks old and folded it back. “Here’s something about him.”

It was a picture taken in a cemetery. Amid a background of tombstones and monuments was the half-built form of a mausoleum. There were two workers on the scaffolding laying marble slabs in place, and from the looks of it money was being poured into the job. Next to it was the artist’s conception of the finished job, a classic Greek temple arrangement. Arthur Berin-Grotin was playing it safe. He was making sure he’d have a roof over his head after he died.

Velda put the paper back on the pile. “Is he a client, Mike?”

“Nope. I happened to run across his name and was interested.”

“You’re lying.”

“And you’re getting fresh with the boss,” I grinned at her. She stuck out her tongue and went back to her desk. I got up and told her to knock off early, then jammed on my hat. There were a few things that I had in mind, but I needed a little time to pass before I could get started.

Downstairs I found a bar and called for a beer. I was on my third when the paper boy came in with the evening edition. I flipped him a dime and spread it on the bar. Pat had done a good job. Her picture was on the front page. Under it was the question, “Do you know this girl?” Sure, I knew her. Red. I couldn’t forget her. I was wondering if anybody else was having trouble forgetting her, too.

I tucked the paper in my pocket and walked down to my car. The taxis and commuters were jamming traffic all the way downtown, and by the time I had crossed over to Third Avenue, it was nearly six o’clock. I didn’t have a bit of trouble finding that hash house again. There was even a place to park right outside it. I went in and climbed on a stool and laid the paper down in front of me with the picture up. Down at the end Shorty was pushing crackers and soup over to another bum. He hadn’t seen me yet.

When he did he went a little white around the nostrils and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off my face. He said, “Whatta ya want?”

“Eggs. Bacon and eggs... over light. And coffee.”

He sort of sidled down the counter and fished in a basket for the eggs. One dropped and splattered all over the floor. Shorty didn’t even seem to notice it. The bum was making a slobbering noise with his soup and the bacon on the griddle started to drown him out. Behind the grill was a stainless steel reflector, and twice I caught Shorty looking in it at me. The spatula was big enough to handle a cake, yet he couldn’t balance an egg on it. He made each on the third try.

Shorty was suffering badly from the shakes. It didn’t help any when he had to push the paper away to set the plate down and saw Red’s picture staring at him.

I said, “One thing about eggs; you can’t spoil them with bum cooking. No matter what you do they still taste like eggs.” Shorty just stared at me. “Yeah, eggs are eggs. Once in a while you get a bad one, though. Makes me mad as hell to get hold of one. Did you ever smash a bad egg wide open? They make a noisy pop and stink like hell. Bad eggs can be poison, too.”