The Hardboiled Mystery Megapack

by John Roeburt

  I lit up and took a long, angry drag, turning around to get my glass filled up. The glass was gone but the bartender was bringing me a fresh one. I looked at him vaguely when he put it in front of me.

  “A friend of yours,” he said, smiling. “At the end of the bar.”

  I was about to tell him what the friend could do with it when I looked down to the other end of the bar and saw Valerie Coe smiling at me.

  Some of the anger melted.

  Taking my drink, I moved around the bar to her. Her smile was a little crooked as I sat down. I guessed it had been a wet night for platinum blondes.

  “Hi. Where’s the girl friend?”

  I grinned at her.

  “Home,” I said. “I thought you had a date?”

  She shrugged indifferently, but I detected a submerged anger beneath her calm.

  “He left. We weren’t compatible. You owe me a drink, Mister.”

  “Right,” I said, and had her glass filled. She was drinking double shots with ice. I looked at her blonde perfection next to me and silently wondered what kind of a nut her date had been. Valerie was beautiful even when cold and aloof, but with the lazy, animal-like warmth brought out by the liquor, she was pretty heady stuff to be walking out on. No walk could be that important.

  She smiled lazily at me when the drink came, and the sudden bold promise in her eyes quickened my pulse.

  “I have a bottle,” she said. “It’s three o’clock in the morning, and I’m bored, and I have a bottle that needs emptying. Interested?”

  Her fingers played lightly on my sleeve, burning right through the material.

  “A bottle?” I babbled.

  She nodded, closing her eyes.

  “At my apartment. Like a drink?”

  Is the grass green?

  I told her I just might, at that. Suddenly, the crash, the killing, China and Zato; the whole, miserable night seemed like a perfect problem for some future date. Like tomorrow. The most humane thing I could think of in the world at that moment was a drink in Valerie Coe’s apartment.

  We sipped salude to each other while her eyes brooded at me over the rim of the glass, and I felt the liquor swirl warmly in my guts.

  My stomach still hurt but somehow it was no longer important.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Valerie had an apartment among the plush, penthouse clique up in the East 50’s that must have cost somebody a tidy little fortune to lease. As we silently ascended in the cushioned little elevator, I wondered idly if Valerie was the somebody. Not that it made much difference. I was invited up for a drink, not to pay the rent.

  She lived on the ninth floor in a four-room apartment that took up half the floor. When we reached the deep-carpeted foyer she dug a little silver key out of her purse, handed it to me, and leaned indolently against the wall while I unlocked her door.

  The door opened into a large, rambling living room that made my little living room look like a nursery. Everything was low and modern with abstract paintings and little skinny lamps hanging all over the place. The cream-colored rug was almost knee-deep and felt like a cloud under my feet.

  I closed the door and whistled.

  “Like it?” she asked.

  “Like it,” I said. “Remind me to take up writing sometime.”

  She smiled and walked over to one of the sofas. She tossed her purse on the cushions.

  “I’ve been lucky,” she said. “You’d be surprised what a good agent can do. Take off your coat and get comfortable, Cole. I’ll do the same while you’re making drinks.”

  She indicated a glass bar by the sofa, and disappeared into the bedroom.

  I shrugged at the smirking Buddha on the coffee table and removed my coat. If she wanted me comfortable, comfortable I’d be. I vetoed an impulse to take off my shoes too, then walked over to the bar.

  She had everything from rye to wine, but I stayed with Ballantine’s and poured us a few hefty fingers apiece. After adding ice and a stingy shot of soda, I looked around some more and discovered a Hi-Fi set in the corner. She had a stack of albums next to the set, mostly show tunes and chamber stuff, and I had the ‘West Side Story’ spinning softly on the turntable by the time she came out of the bedroom.

  I stood looking at her as she posed for me in the doorway. I felt my heart start doing things inside my chest.

  She wore a black silk blouse and a pair of red toreador pants. The blouse was buttonless and cut to a long, sharp V that ended in the band of the pants. The black silk was stretched tightly over her high, pointed breasts, making it obvious that there was nothing under it but her. My eyes fell to the V like bees drawn to honey. The cut of the opening was wide enough to show the inner curves of her full breasts, and the startling contrast of all that soft whiteness against the black silk made it hard to just stand there and look. She sighed, purposely prolonging it, so the silk got taut for a second, making her nipples stand out in pointed relief.

  She’d let her hair down, and it was longer than I had imagined, falling past her shoulders to the blackness of the silk like a soft platinum waterfall of shimmering waves. It framed her beautiful face like spun silver.

  Smiling like a cat who’s just cornered a not very elusive mouse, she came toward me in long, easy strides. The tight pants wrinkled at her hips and thighs as she moved. I felt glued to the spot, watching her. The long, slim muscles of her calves tightened smoothly each time her bare feet touched the rug.

  “Drinks ready?” she asked, stopping a foot away from me.

  I swallowed and nodded.

  “Over there,” I pointed.

  I followed her to the bar and the pants were even worse from behind. We touched glasses and sipped when we got there.

  She sipped—I gulped.

  “I like your—records,” I muttered inanely. Suddenly, I was about fifteen years old with glue on my tongue.

  “I’m glad,” she whispered. “I want you to like everything tonight, Cole. The music—the drink—everything.”

  She put her glass back on the bar and came up close to me with her arms going up to my shoulders and resting there. We weren’t actually touching, but I got pleasantly drunk on the heady scent that engulfed me.

  I felt pretty silly standing there like that with a drink in my hand, so I put it beside hers on the bar. When my hands were empty they just naturally went to her slender waist.

  She pressed against me, crushing her breasts against my chest as her arms tightened around my neck.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Kiss me hard, Cole.”

  Her face lifted and I bent my head to meet her. Her lips were soft and full beneath mine as we kissed. She made a low sound in her throat and her lips opened hungrily, her tongue searching.

  I pulled her to me, forgetting everything but the soft warmth in my arms. My lips crushed against hers, our bodies meeting fiercely. I tore my mouth away and kissed her throat urgently, my nostrils filled with the smell of her hair.

  My hand caressed her shoulder inside the blouse and moved slowly down to the full, ripe softness of her breast.

  “Yes!” she whispered. “Yes, Cole, yes!”

  I was on fire as I started to lift her into my arms to carry her to the bedroom.

  “No,” she panted. “Right here. Please, Cole, hurry!”

  We fell to the deep, soft rug and my hands shook as I tore at her clothes. Her low animal moans sent wonderful daggers through my body as first the blouse and then the pants were dropped to the floor beside her.

  I stopped for a second, bending over her, to drink in the soft, blonde beauty of her naked body. My eyes slowly caressed each part of her separately, from her heaving, scarlet-tipped breasts to the long, full thighs that twisted in passion beneath me.

  “Cole!” she moaned, pulling me down.

  * * * *

  How long we stayed on the rug, I don’t know. Time, people, the world; nothing was real but the demanding animal in my arms. She was a soft, firm, wild creature of utter abandon who su
rrendered herself completely to my inflamed emotions.

  Some time during the night we switched to the big, soft mattress in the bedroom, but it was impossible to remember when or how. Her appetite was insatiable throughout the long, ecstatic night. The bright rays of the morning sun had crept through the open bedroom window before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted.

  I woke up with the sun burning my eyes and a dull pain throbbing in my guts. I remained still a few minutes, wallowing in the softness of the bed and feeling weak as a kitten. My fuzzy thoughts drifted lazily back to Valerie and last night, and I grinned wearily at the ceiling.

  A woman is a woman is a woman.

  Dragging up some strength from somewhere, I rolled laboriously onto my left side and felt a new pain stab my stomach. I cursed and sat up. A note with my name on it was leaning against a hair brush on the dresser. I reached over and brought it back to bed with me.

  It was from Valerie, of course. She’d gone out and didn’t know how long she’d be gone. She hoped I’d have a long, blissful sleep and assured me that I deserved it. This, I didn’t have to be told. She closed the note with love and affection and signed it, “Thanks.”

  She was welcome.

  I made the bathroom and washed some of the muck out of my brain with cold water. My watch told me it was eleven o’clock. A whole new day was starting without me.

  I checked Valerie’s medicine cabinet for some Bromo and got a surprise. One whole shelf was devoted to male toilet articles. Shaving cream, brush, blades, lotion and even some male hair tonic. I shut the cabinet door and shrugged. Somebody either lived here with her or made regular visits. Considering last night, it figured. She needed somebody.

  I got dressed in the bedroom and sat by the telephone for five minutes before I got the courage to dial Toni’s number. Besides the guilt I was starting to feel about Valerie, I wanted to be sure Toni was really all right after last night.

  The phone buzzed twice before it was answered, and Toni’s soft “Hello” tinkled at me. I felt guiltier than ever.

  “Hi, kitten. Everything okay?”

  “Cole!” she cried. “Where are you? Paul Javitts has been trying to find you all morning.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  “It’s about last night, I guess. He came over here to see me and I told him what happened, but he wants to see you, too. Are you home?”

  “No,” I mumbled, feeling like a heel. “No, I’m—not home. You all right, kitten? I mean, the crash and everything?”

  She giggled softly.

  “I’m still in bed, lover. I’m fine but it’s an excuse I’m giving my conscience. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “Yeah, I’m fine. Look, honey, did Javitts say he had anything for me? About the case, I mean?”

  “Uh-uh. He just had me sign a statement about what happened and said he wanted to talk to you but couldn’t find you. Didn’t you go home last night?”

  “I guess I didn’t hear him knock,” I muttered. Which was true in a way. “What’s he doing on Staten Island, by the way?”

  “We used his name, remember? Are you going to see him?”

  “I’m going down now. You sure you’re all right?”

  “Fine. When will I see you?”

  “I’ll call you. And, kitten?”

  “M-m-m?”

  “Nothing. ’Bye.”

  I hung up before I really goofed. I’d almost said something embarrassing, like how I loved her or something. That’s how guilty I felt.

  * * * *

  Javitts’ office was downtown at the headquarters on Broome Street. It was crowding noon when I parked and went into the huge gray building.

  Javitts was sitting behind his desk when I entered his office, typing out a report with two stiff fingers. I stood in the doorway watching him bull his way over the keys.

  “The Police Department run short of stenographers, Paul?” I asked, “or did you chase them all away with those blunt fingers of yours in the wrong places?”

  He stopped typing and looked over the carriage at me. The morbid lines in his face were as deep as ever.

  “Well, hello, killer,” he said. “Nice of you to stop in.”

  I smiled and walked to the desk.

  “It’s a funny thing about killings,” he said, when I’d sat across from him, “even killings done in self-defense. The commissioner has a real phobia about getting the whole thing down on paper from the people involved.” He smirked at me, sarcastically. “It’s tiring, I know, especially for a real busy private-eye like yourself, but maybe you could spare us just a minute or two of your time?”

  I shrugged. “The cop who took us home this morning said you people would want a statement later today. This is still today, isn’t it?”

  He pushed away from the typewriter and leaned back.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Toni filled me in on the crash, but what happened after that?”

  I told him the whole thing, adding that I didn’t know the two men in the other car.

  “We’re running them through the file now,” he said. “We’ll know who they were by this afternoon. You got any ideas?”

  I shook my head, lighting a Camel.

  “Nothing sure. What’s your big interest, by the way? Staten Island a branch of Manhattan now? Or are you just naturally concerned about my likeable hide.”

  “Toni’s maybe, but not yours, Sherlock. You’re too stupid to die.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke at me. “I figure the hit attempt ties in with the Parks case.”

  “Brilliant, Lieutenant. What’s the latest on the Parks thing?”

  “Fingerprints negative. The only prints in his sister’s apartment were theirs. Same goes for Rick’s walk-up. Just his prints and one other set. These were on record. Belong to Peggy McCoy. She was busted for possession, but a judge let her go. Miss Parks says she was Ricky’s girl.”

  “She was. Anything else?”

  “Phony tips. Nothing important. Because of the way he was killed, I checked most of the paroled and discharged buggos. But that’s a blank, too. Nobody’s missing from Creedmore or Islip or any of those joints, and the only possibilities that might figure with a sadistic angle are just names on circulars. A guy from Youngstown, Ohio who tortured a family to death, a Canadian woman who hacked up her husband, and a kid from Chicago wanted for mutilating a woman. They’re all in this area.”

  He dragged on the cigarette. “So you see how lost we are. We’re searching for straws. Parks, a small-time hustler with a thousand people with gripes against him, but none big enough to kill him over. How’re you making out?”

  “Same. Potatoes and no meat. You run across Manny Zato’s name?”

  “Zato? What’s he got to do with it?”

  “He was pushing to Parks.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s better than nothing. Agree?”

  “Zato’s a fox, Cole. We’ve had him pegged for a long time, but it’s done us no good. Personally, he stays too clean. He’s not the type to butcher one of his customers for kicks.”

  “Not even if the customer had something he wanted? Something important?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the key I need.”

  “Well, keep plugging, boy. If Zato figures in, I’ll be a happy New York cop. Now, about that statement?”

  He buzzed for a stenographer, and when she came in with her little machine I rehashed last night’s crash and shooting. It didn’t take long. When it was finished Javitts waved her out to type it up. I’d sign it on the way out.

  “Mind if I use your phone?” I asked. “I haven’t checked in yet.”

  “Use it. Dial nine for an outside line.”

  I called my favorite operator and was told about three morning calls. One from Toni, one from Javitts, and one from Louise Parks. Toni and Paul were taken care of.

  “Any message from Miss Parks,” I asked.

  “Y
es. Here it is. It’s strange. She said to tell you she’s found what the killer wanted, and it proves who killed her brother. She said you’ll have this proof today, and meanwhile she was going to set up the killer for you. She told me to make you understand there was no danger, because she would use the proof as a bargaining agent.”

  The operator’s crisp voice paused.

  “Sound crazy, Mister Winters? It’s what she said.”

  My fingers turned white around the phone. “Yes, thanks. She say anything else?”

  “That was all, Mister Winters.”

  “Okay. Thanks again.”

  Paul saw my expression and stood up.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked.

  “Louise Parks.” I cursed. “She’s found the key and wants to brace the killer with it.”

  I grabbed the phone, digging for my address book. Javitts barked into another phone, ordering a squad car.

  I called the realty company. Louise was still on sick leave. I called her apartment. I got eight buzzes and no answer. I then joined Paul at the door.

  “The car’s in front,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  We made it up to the Bronx in record time, a siren clearing the way. On the way I called myself sixteen kinds of a fool for playing all-night games with Valerie, instead of sitting by a phone.

  The squad car screeched to a stop at Louise’s brownstone, and I was on the sidewalk before it had stopped. Paul followed as I ran up the steps and into the hallway, my heart in my throat. I prayed fast and sincerely as we went up the stairs.

  Her door was closed but unlocked. I pushed inside without knocking. The living room was quiet and untouched, easing the thudding in my chest, until I looked into the bedroom.

  A sick rage grabbed my muscles and I felt like crying out with futility as I crossed the room and looked inside.

  We were much too late.

  I heard Paul’s sharp intake of breath as we both stared at the carnage on the bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  She was on her back, naked, mid-center on the bed, her hands and feet tied spread-eagle to the bedposts. I had to force myself to look at the killer’s work. It was fiendish.