“Can we see those photos?”
“Sure. Why not?”
I picked up my beer, finished it, waited for him to finish his, then followed him out. We went back through the press section of the paper, took the service elevator up and got out at Hy’s floor. Except for a handful of night men, the place was empty, a gigantic echo chamber that magnified the sound of our feet against the tiled floor. Hy unlocked his office, flipped on the light and pointed to a chair.
It took him five minutes of rummaging through his old files, but he finally came up with the photos. They were 120 contact sheets still in a military folder that was getting stiff and yellow around the edges and when he laid them out he pointed to one in the top left-hand corner and gave me an enlarging glass to bring out the image.
His face came in loud and clear, chunky features that bore all the physical traits of a soldier with overtones of one used to command. The eyes were hard, the mouth a tight slash as they looked contemptuously at the camera.
Almost as if he knew what was going to happen, I thought.
Unlike the others, there was no harried expression, no trace of fear. Nor did he have the stolid composure of a prisoner. Again, it was as if he were not really a prisoner at all.
Hy pointed to the shots of the survivors of the accident. He wasn’t in any of those. The mangled bodies of the dead were unrecognizable.
Hy said, “Know him?”
I handed the photos back. “No.”
“Sure?”
“I never forget faces.”
“Then that’s one angle out.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“But where did you ever get hold of that bit?”
I reached for my hat. “Have you ever heard of a red herring?”
Hy chuckled and nodded. “I’ve dropped a few in my life.”
“I think I might have picked one up. It stinks.”
“So drop it. What are you going to do now?”
“Not drop it, old buddy. It stinks just a little too bad to be true. No, there’s another side to this Erlich angle I’d like to find out about.”
“Clue me.”
“Senator Knapp.”
“The Missile Man, Mr. America. Now how does he come in?”
“He comes in because he’s dead. The same bullet killed him as Richie Cole and the same gun shot at me. That package on Knapp that you gave me spelled out his war record pretty well. He was a light colonel when he went in and a major general when he came out. I’m wondering if I could tie his name in with Erlich’s anyplace.”
Hy’s mouth came open and he nearly lost the cigar. “Knapp working for another country?”
“Hell no,” I told him. “Were you?”
“But—”
“He could have had a cover assignment too.”
“For Pete’s sake, Mike, if Knapp had a job other than what was known he could have made political capital of it and—”
“Who knew about yours?”
“Well—nobody, naturally. At least, not until now,” he added.
“No friends?”
“No.”
“Only authorized personnel.”
“Exactly. And they were mighty damn limited.”
“Does Marilyn know about it now?”
“Mike—”
“Does she?”
“Sure, I told her one time, but all that stuff is seventeen years old. She listened politely like a wife will, made some silly remark and that was it.”
“The thing is, she knows about it.”
“Yes. So what?”
“Maybe Laura Knapp does too.”
Hy sat back again, sticking the cigar in his mouth. “Boy,” he said, “you sure are a cagy one. You’ll rationalize anything just to see that broad again, won’t you?”
I laughed back at him. “Could be,” I said. “Can I borrow that photo of Erlich?”
From his desk Hy pulled a pair of shears, cut out the shot of the Nazi agent and handed it to me. “Have fun, but you’re chasing a ghost now.”
“That’s how it goes. But at least if you run around long enough something will show up.”
“Yeah, like a broad.”
“Yeah,” I repeated, then reached for my hat and left.
Duck-Duck Jones told me that they had pulled the cop off Old Dewey’s place. A relative had showed up, some old dame who claimed to be his half sister and had taken over Dewey’s affairs. The only thing she couldn’t touch was the newsstand which he had left to Duck-Duck in a surprise letter held by Bucky Harris who owned the Clover Bar. Even Duck-Duck could hardly believe it, but now pride of ownership had taken hold and he was happy to take up where the old man left off.
When I had his ear I said, “Listen, Duck-Duck, before Dewey got bumped a guy left something with him to give to me.”
“Yeah? Like what, Mike?”
“I don’t know. A package or something. Maybe an envelope. Anyway, did you see anything laying around here with my name on it? Or just an unmarked thing.”
Duck folded a paper and thrust it at a customer, made change and turned back to me again. “I don’t see nuttin’, Mike. Honest. Besides, there ain’t no place to hide nuttin’ here. You wanna look around?”
I shook my head. “Naw, you would have found it by now.”
“Well what you want I should do if somethin’ shows up?”
“Hang onto it, Duck. I’ll be back.” I picked up a paper and threw a dime down.
I started to leave and Duck stopped me. “Hey, Mike, you still gonna do business here? Dewey got you down for some stuff.”
“You keep me on the list, Duck. I’ll pick up everything in a day or two.”
I waved, waited for the light and headed west across town. It was a long walk, but at the end of it was a guy who owed me two hundred bucks and had the chips to pay off on the spot. Then I hopped a cab to the car rental agency on Forty-ninth, took my time about picking out a Ford coupé and turned toward the West Side Drive.
It had turned out to be a beautiful day, it was almost noon, the sun was hot, and once on the New York Thru-way I had the wide concrete road nearly to myself. I stayed at the posted sixty and occasionally some fireball would come blasting by, otherwise it was smooth run with only a few trucks to pass. Just before I reached Harriman I saw the other car behind me close to a quarter mile and hold there. Fifteen miles further at the Newburgh entrance it was still there so I stepped it up to seventy. Momentarily, the distance widened, then closed and we stayed like that. Then just before the New Paltz exit the car began to close the gap, reached me, passed and kept on going. It was a dark blue Buick Special with a driver lazing behind the wheel and as he went by all the tension left my shoulders. What he had just pulled was a typical tricky habit of a guy who had driven a long way—staying behind a car until boredom set in, then running for it to find a new pacer for a while. I eased off back to sixty, turned through the toll gate at Kingston, picked up Route 28 and loafed my way up to the chalet called The Willows and when I cut the motor of the car I could hear music coming through the trees from behind the house and knew that she was waiting for me.
She was lying in the grass at the edge of the pool, stretched out on an oversize towel with her face cradled in her intertwined fingers. Her hair spilled forward over her head, letting the sun tan her neck, her arms pulled forward so that lines of muscles were in gentle bas-relief down her back into her hips. Her legs were stretched wide in open supplication of the inveterate sun worshipper and her skin glistened with a fine, golden sweat.
Beside her the shortwave portable boomed in a symphony, the thunder of it obliterating any sound of my feet. I sat there beside her, quietly, looking at the beauty of those long legs and the pert way her breasts flattened against the towel, and after long minutes passed the music became muted and drifted off into a finale of silence.
I said, “Hello, Laura,” and she started as though suddenly awakened from sleep, then realizing the state of affairs, reached for the edge of the to
wel to flip it around her. I let out a small laugh and did it for her.
She rolled over, eyes wide, then saw me and laughed back. “Hey, you.”
“You’ll get your tail burned lying around like that.”
“It’s worse having people sneak up on you.”
I shrugged and tucked my feet under me. “It was worth it. People like me don’t get to see such lovely sights very often.”
Her eyes lit up impishly. “That’s a lie. Besides, I’m not that new to you,” she reminded me.
“Out in the sunlight you are, kitten. You take on an entirely new perspective.”
“Are you making love or being clinical?” she demanded.
“I don’t know. One thing could lead into another.”
“Then maybe we should just let nature take its course.”
“Maybe.”
“Feel like a swim.”
“I didn’t bring a suit.”
“Well…” and she grinned again.
I gave her a poke in the ribs with my forefinger and she grunted. “There are some things I’m prudish about, baby.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” she whispered in amazement. “You never can tell, can you?”
“Sometimes never.”
“There are extra suits in the bathhouse.”
“That sounds better.”
“Then let me go get into one first. I’m not going to be all skin while you play coward.”
I reached for her but she was too fast, springing to her feet with the rebounding motion of a tumbler. She swung the towel sari-fashion around herself and smiled, knowing she was suddenly more desirable then than when she was naked. She let me eat her with my eyes for a second, then ran off boyishly, skirting the pool, and disappeared into the dressing room on the other side.
She came back out a minute later in the briefest black bikini I had ever seen, holding up a pair of shorts for me. She dropped them on a chair, took a run for the pool and dove in. I was a nut for letting myself feel like a colt, but the day was right, the woman was right and those seven years had been a long, hard grind. I walked over, picked up the shorts and without bothering to turn on the overhead light got dressed and went back out to the big, big day.
Underwater she was like an eel, golden brown, the black of the bikini making only the barest slashes against her skin. She was slippery and luscious and more tantalizing than a woman had a right to be. She surged up out of the water and sat on the edge of the pool with her stomach sucked in so that a muscular valley ran from her navel up into the cleft of her breasts whose curves arched up in proud nakedness a long way before feeling the constraint of the miniature halter.
She laughed, stuck her tongue out at me and walked to the grass by the radio and sat down. I said, “Damn,” softly, waited a bit, then followed her.
When I was comfortable she put her hand out on mine, making me seem almost prison-pale by comparison. “Now we can talk, Mike. You didn’t come all the way up here just to see me, did you?”
“I didn’t think so before I left.”
She closed her fingers over my wrist. “Can I tell you something very frankly?”
“Be my guest.”
“I like you, big man.”
I turned my head and nipped at her forearm. “The feeling’s mutual, big girl. It shouldn’t be though.”
“Why not?” Her eyes were steady and direct, deep and warm as they watched and waited for the answer.
“Because we’re not at all alike. We’re miles apart in the things we do and the way we think. I’m a trouble character, honey. It’s always been that way and it isn’t going to change. So be smart. Don’t encourage me because I’ll only be too anxious to get in the game. We had a pretty hello and a wonderful beginning and I came up here on a damn flimsy pretext because I was hungry for you and now that I’ve had a taste again I feel like a pig and want it all.”
“Ummmm,” Laura said.
“Don’t laugh,” I told her. “White eyes is not speaking with forked tongue. This old soldier has been around.”
“There and back?’
“All the way, buddy.”
Her grin was the kind they paint on pixie dolls. “Okay, old soldier, so kill me.”
“It’ll take days and days.”
“Ummm,” she said again. “But tell me your pretext for coming in the first place.”
I reached out and turned the radio down. “It’s about Leo.”
The smile faded and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Oh?”
“Did he ever tell you about his—well, job let’s say, during the war?”
She didn’t seem certain of what I asked. “Well, he was a general. He was on General Stoeffler’s staff.”
“I know that. But what did he do? Did he ever speak about what his job was?”
Again, she looked at me, puzzled. “Yes. Procurement was their job. He never went into great detail and I always thought it was because he never saw any direct action. He seemed rather ashamed of the fact.”
I felt myself make a disgusted face.
“Is there—anything specific—like—”
“No,” I said bluntly, “it’s just that I wondered if he could possibly have had an undercover job.”
“I don’t understand, Mike.” She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at me. “Are you asking if Leo was part of the cloak-and-dagger set?”
I nodded.
The puzzled look came back again and she moved her head in easy negative. “I think I would have known. I’ve seen all his old personal stuff from the war, his decorations, his photos, his letters of commendation and heard what stories he had to tell. But as I said, he always seemed to be ashamed that he wasn’t on the front line getting shot at. Fortunately, the country had a better need for him.”
“It was a good try,” I said and sat up.
“I’m sorry, Mike.”
Then I thought of something, told her to wait and went back to the bathhouse. I got dressed and saw the disappointment in her eyes from all the way across the pool when I came out, but the line had to be drawn someplace.
Laura gave me a look of mock disgust and patted the grass next to her. When I squatted down I took out the photo of Gerald Erlich and passed it over. “Take a look, honey. Have you ever seen that face in any of your husband’s effects?”
She studied it, her eyes squinting in the sun, and when she had made sure she handed it back. “No, I never have. Who is he?”
“His name used to be Gerald Erlich. He was a trained espionage agent working for the Nazis during the war.”
“But what did he have to do with Leo?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “His name has been coming up a little too often to be coincidental.”
“Mike—” She bit her lip, thinking, then: “I have Leo’s effects in the house. Do you think you might find something useful in them? They might make more sense to you than they do to me.”
“It sure won’t hurt to look.” I held out my hand to help her up and that was as far as I got. The radio between us suddenly burst apart almost spontaneously and slammed backward into the pool.
I gave her a shove that threw her ten feet away, rolled the other way and got to my feet running like hell for the west side of the house. It had to have been a shot and from the direction the radio skidded I could figure the origin. It had to be a silenced blast from a pistol because a rifle would have had either Laura or me with no trouble at all. I skirted the trees, stopped and listened, and from almost directly ahead I heard a door slam and headed for it wishing I had kept the .45 on me and to hell with Pat. The bushes were too thick to break through so I had to cut down the driveway, the gravel crunching under my feet. I never had a chance. All I saw was the tail end of a dark blue Buick special pulling away to make a turn that hid it completely.
And now the picture was coming out a little clearer. It hadn’t been a tired driver on the Thruway at all. The bastard had picked me up at Duck’s stand, figured he had given me som
ething when he had handed me the paper, probably hired a car the same time I did with plenty of time to do it in since I wasn’t hurrying at all. He followed me until he was sure he knew where I was headed and waited me out.
Damn. It was too close. But what got me was, how many silenced shots had he fired before hitting that radio? He had been too far away for accurate shooting apparently, but he could have been plunking them all around us hoping for a hit until he got the radio. Damn!
And I was really important. He knew where I was heading. Even since I had started to operate I had had a tail on me and it had almost paid off for him. But if I were important dead, so was Laura, because now that killer could never be sure I hadn’t let her in on the whole business. Another damn.
She stood over the wreckage of the portable she had fished from the pool, white showing at the corners of her mouth. Her hands trembled so that she clasped them in front of her and she breathed as though she had done the running, not me. Breathlessly, she said, “Mike—what was it? Please, Mike—”
I put my arm around her shoulder and with a queer sob she buried her face against me. When she looked up she had herself under control. “It was a shot, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. A silenced gun.”
“But—”
“It’s the second time he’s tried for me.”
“Do you think—”
“He’s gone for now,” I said.
“But who was he?”
“I think he was The Dragon, sugar.”
For a few seconds she didn’t answer, then she turned her face up toward mine. “Who?”
“Nobody you know. He’s an assassin. Up until now his record has been pretty good. He must be getting the jumps.”
“My gracious, Mike, this is crazy! It’s absolutely crazy.”
I nodded in agreement. “You’ll never know, but now we have a real problem. You’re going to need protection.”
“Me!”
“Anybody I’m close to is in trouble. The best thing we can do is call the local cops.”
She gave me a dismayed glance. “But I can’t—I have to be in Washington—Oh, Mike!”
The Girl Hunters Page 11
