Hair oil. The kind of hair oil a greaseball would use. I wasn’t sure, but there were ways of finding out. The hag was still in the corridor sweeping when I went down. I told her somebody had crashed the place before I got there and liked to knock it apart. She gave one unearthly shriek and took the steps two at a time until the building shook.
It was enough for one day. I went home and hit the sack. I didn’t sleep too well, because the redhead would smile, kiss her finger and put it on my cheek and wake me up.
At half past six the alarm went off with a racket that jerked me out of a wild dream and left me standing on the rug shaking like a kitten in a dog kennel. I shut it off and ducked into a cold shower to wash the sleep out of my eyes, then finish off the morning’s ceremonies with a close shave that left my face raw. I ate in my shorts, then stacked the dishes in the sink and laid out my clothes.
This had to be a new-suit day. I laid the tweeds on the bed and, for a change, paid a little attention to the things that went with it. By the time I had climbed into everything and ran a brush over my shoes I even began to look dignified. Or at least sharp enough to call on one of the original 400.
I found Arthur Berin-Grotin’s name in the Long Island directory, a town about sixty miles out on the Island that was a chosen spot for lovers, trapshooters and recluses. Buck had my car greased up and ready for me when I got to the garage, and by the time nine-thirty had rolled around I was tooling the heap along the highway, sniffing the breezes that blew in from the ocean. An hour later I reached a cutoff that sported a sign emblazoned with Old English lettering and an arrow that pointed to Arthur Berin-Grotin’s estate on the beach.
Under the wheels the road turned to macadam, then packed, crushed gravel, and developed into a long sweep of a drive that took me up to one of the fanciest joints this side of Buckingham Palace. The house was a symbol of luxury, but utterly devoid of any of the garishness that goes with new wealth. From its appearance it was ageless, neither young nor old. It could have stood there a hundred years or ten without a change to its dignity. Choice field stone reached up to the second floor, supporting smooth clapboard walls that gleamed in the sun like bleached bones. The windows must have been imported; those on the south side were all stained glass to filter out the fierce light of the sun, while the others were little lead-rimmed squares arranged in patterns that changed from room to room.
I drove up under the arched dome of a portico and killed the engine, wondering whether to wait for a major-domo to open the door for me or do it myself. I decided not to wait.
The bell was the kind you pull; a little brass knob set in the door-frame, and when I gave it a gentle tug I heard the subtle pealing of electric chimes inside. When the door opened I thought it had been done by an electric eye, but it wasn’t. The butler was so little and so old that he scarcely reached above the doorknob and didn’t seem strong enough to hold it open very long, so I stepped in before the wind blew it shut and turned on my best smile.
“I’d like to see Mr. Berin-Grotin, please.”
“Yes, sir. Your name please?” His voice crackled like an old hen’s.
“Michael Hammer, from New York.”
The old man took my hat and led me to a massive library paneled in dark oak and waved his hand toward a chair. “Would you care to wait here, sir? I’ll inform the master that you have arrived. There are cigars on the table.”
I thanked him and picked out a huge leather-covered chair and sank into it, looking around to see how society lived. It wasn’t bad. I picked up a cigar and bit the end off, then looked for a place to spit it. The only ash tray was a delicate bowl of rich Wedgwood pottery, and I’d be damned if I’d spoil it. Maybe society wasn’t so good after all. There were footsteps coming down the hall outside so I swallowed the damn thing to get rid of it.
When Arthur Berin-Grotin came into the room I stood up. Whether I wanted to or not, there are some people to whom you cannot help but show respect. He was one of them. He was an old man, all right, but the years had treated him lightly. There was no stoop to his shoulders and his eyes were as bright as an urchin’s. I guessed his height to be about six feet, but he might have been shorter. The shock of white hair that crowned his head flowed up to add inches to his stature.
“Mr. Berin-Grotin?” I asked.
“Yes, good morning, sir.” He held out his hand and we clasped firmly. “I’d rather you only use the first half of my name,” he added. “Hyphenated family names have always annoyed me, and since I am burdened with one myself I find it expedient to shorten it. You are Mr. Hammer?”
“That’s right.”
“And from New York. It sounds as though one of you is important,” he laughed. Unlike his butler, his voice had a good solid ring. He pulled a chair up to mine and nodded for me to be seated.
“Now,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
I gave it to him straight. “I’m a detective, Mr. Berin. I’m not on a case exactly, but I’m looking for something. An identity. The other day a girl was killed in the city. She was a redheaded prostitute, and she doesn’t have a name.”
“Ah, yes. I saw it in the papers. You have an interest in her?”
“Slightly. I gave her a handout, and the next day she was killed. I’m trying to find out who she was. It’s kind of nasty to die and not have anyone know you’re dead.”
The old man closed his eyes slightly and looked pained. “I understand completely, Mr. Hammer.” He folded his hands across his lap. “The same thought has occurred to me, and I dread it. I have outlived my wife and children and I am afraid that when I pass away the only tears to fall on my coffin will be those of strangers.”
“I doubt that, sir.”
He smiled. “Thank you. Nevertheless, in my vanity I am erecting a monument that will bring my name to the public eye on occasion.”
“I saw the picture of the vault in the papers.”
“Perhaps I seem morbid to you?”
“Not at all.”
“One prepares a house for every other phase of living ... why not for death? My silly hyphenated name will go to the grave with me, but at least it will remain in sight for many generations to come. A bit of foolishness on my part, yes; I care to think of it as pride. Pride in a name that has led a brilliant existence for countless years. Pride of family. Pride of accomplishment. However, the preparations concerning my death weren’t the purpose of your visit. You were speaking of this ... girl.”
“The redhead. Nobody seems to know her. Just before she was killed your chauffeur tried to pick her up in a joint downtown.”
“My chauffeur?” He seemed amazed.
“That’s right. Feeney Last, his name is.”
“And how did you know that?”
“He was messing with the redhead and I called him on it. He tried to pull a rod on me and I flattened him. Later I turned him over to the cops in a squad car to haul him in on a Sullivan charge and they found out he had a license for the gun.”
His bushy white eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. “He ... would have killed you, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t taking any chances.”
“He was in town that night, I know. I never thought he’d act like that! Had he been drinking?”
“Didn’t seem that way to me.”
“At any rate, it’s inexcusable. I regret the incident extremely, Mr. Hammer. Perhaps it would be better if I discharged him.”
“That’s up to you. If you need a tough boy around maybe he’s all right. I understand you need protection.”
“That I do. My home has been burglarized several times, and although I don’t keep much money on hand, I do have a rather valuable collection of odds and ends that I wouldn’t want stolen.”
“Where was he the night the girl was killed?”
The old gent knew what I was thinking and shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid you can dismiss the thought, Mr. Hammer. Feeney was with me all afternoon and all evening. We went
to New York that day and I kept several appointments in the afternoon. That night we went to the Albino Club for dinner, from there to a show, then back to the Albino Club for a snack before returning home. Feeney was with me every minute.”
“Your chauffeur?”
“No, as a companion. Here in the country Feeney assumes servant’s garb when I make social calls, because others expect it. However, when we go to the city I prefer to have someone to talk to and Feeney wears mufti, so to speak. I’m afraid I have to tell you that Feeney was in my company every minute of the time.”
“I see.” There was no sense trying to break an alibi like that. I knew damn well the old boy wasn’t lying, and the hardest guy to shake was one whose character was above reproach. I had a nasty taste in my mouth. I was hoping I could tag the greaseball with something.
Mr. Berin said, “I can understand your suspicion. Certainly, though, the fact that Feeney saw the girl before she died was a coincidence of a nature to invite it. From the papers I gathered that she was a victim of a hit-and-run driver.”
“That’s what the papers said,” I told him. “Nobody saw it happen, so how could you be sure? She was somebody I liked ... I hate like hell to see her buried in potter’s field.”
He passed a hand over his face, then looked up slowly. “Mr. Hammer ... could I help in some way ... for instance, could I take care of decent funeral arrangements for her? I ... would appreciate it if you would allow me to. Somehow I feel as though I should. Here I have everything, while she....”
I interrupted with a shake of my head. “I’d rather do it, but thanks anyway. Still, it won’t be like having her family take care of her.”
“If you do need assistance of any sort, I wish you would call on me, Mr. Hammer.”
“I might have to do that.” The butler came in then with a tray of brandy. We both took one, toasted each other with a raised glass and downed it. It was damn good brandy. I put the glass on a side table hating myself because it looked like everything stopped here. Almost I should say. The greaseball was still in it, because he might possibly know who the redhead was. So I made one last stab at it.
“Where did you get this Last character?”
“He came well recommended to me by a firm who had used his services in the past. I investigated thoroughly and his record is excellent. What connection could he have had with the deceased girl, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was only making use of her services. Where is he now, Mr. Berin?”
“He left for the cemetery with the name plate for the tomb early this morning. I instructed him to stay and see that it was properly installed. I doubt if he will be back before late this afternoon.”
There was as much here as I wanted to know. I said, “Maybe I’ll run out and see him there. Where’s the cemetery?”
He stood up and together we started walking toward the door. The little old butler appeared from out of nowhere and handed me my hat. Mr. Berin said, “Go back toward the city for ten miles. The cemetery lies west of the village at the first intersection. The gatekeeper will direct you once you reach it.”
I thanked him for his time and we shook hands again. He held the door open for me and I ran down the steps to the car. He was still there when I pulled away and I waved so long. In the rear-view mirror I saw him wave back.
The gatekeeper was only too happy to show me all the pretty tomb-stones and the newly dug graves. He took over the right seat of the car like a tour guide on a sight-seeing bus and started a spiel that he hardly interrupted by taking a breath. It was quite a joint, quite a joint. From the names on all the marble it seemed as if only the rich and famous died. Apparently there were three prerequisites necessary before they’d let you rot under their well-tended sod: Fortune, Fame or Position. Nearly everyone had had all three. At least very few went to their reward with just one.
It was easy to see that the winding road was leading to a grand climax. In the northeast corner of the grounds was a hillock topped by a miniature Acropolis, and the guide was being very particular to keep my attention diverted the other way so it would come as a complete surprise. He waited until we were at the foot of the hill, then pointed it out with a flourish, speaking with awed respect in his voice.
“This,” he said, “is to be a great tribute to a great man ... Mr. Arthur Berin-Grotin. Yes, a fitting tribute. Seldom has one man done so much to win a place in the hearts of the people.” He was almost in tears.
I just nodded.
“A very sensible man,” he continued. “Too often those final preparations are hurried and a person’s name is lost to posterity. Not so with Mr. Berin-Gratin....”
“Mr. Berin,” I corrected.
“Ah, you know him then.”
“Somewhat. Do you think it would be okay if I looked at the place close up?”
“Oh, certainly.” He opened the door. “Come, I’ll take you there.”
“I’d rather go alone. I may never have another chance to get back, and ... well, you understand.”
He was sympathetic at once. “Of course. You go right ahead, I’ll walk back. I must see to certain plots at this end, anyway.”
I waited until he was lost among the headstones, then lit a cigarette and walked up the path. The men were working on the far side of the scaffolding and never saw me come up. Or else they were used to sight-seers. The place was bigger than it looked. Curved marble columns rose upward for fifteen feet, overshadowing huge solid-bronze doors that were embellished with hand-crafted Greek designs.
The lintel over the doors was a curved affair held in place with an engraved keystone. Cut in the granite was the three-feather emblem of the royal family, or a good bottle of American whiskey. Each plume, the tall center one and the two outward-curving side plumes, was exact in detail until they could have passed for fossil impressions. There were words under it in Latin. Two of them were Berin-Grotin. Very simple, very dignified. The pride of a name, and the public could draw its own conclusions from the grandeur of the structure.
I started to walk around the side, then flattened against a recess in the wall. The greaseball was there, jawing out the workman for something or other. His voice had the same nasty tone that it had had the other night, only this time he had on a brown gabardine chauffeur’s uniform instead of a sharp suit. One of the workmen told him to shut up and he threw a rock at the scaffolding.
Just on a hunch I reached in my pocket and took out the plastic comb, and slid it down the walk so that it stopped right by his feet. He didn’t turn around for a minute, but when he did he kicked the comb and sent it skittering back in my direction. Instinctively, his hand went to his breast pocket, then he bent over and picked it up, wiped it on his hand and ran it through his hair, then returned it to his shirt.
I didn’t need any more after that. The greaseball was the guy who made a mess out of the redhead’s room.
He didn’t see me until I said, “Hello, Feeney.”
Then his lips drew back over his teeth and his ears went flat against the side of his head. “You dirty son of a bitch,” he snarled.
Both of us saw the same thing at the same time. No guns. Feeney must have liked it that way because the sneer turned into a sardonic smile and he dropped his hand casually into his pocket. Maybe he thought I was dumb or something. I was just as casual when I flicked open the buttons of my nice new jacket and slouched back against the wall.
“What do you want, shamus?”
“You, greaseball.”
“You think I’m easy to take?”
“Sure.”
He kept on grinning.
I said, “I went up to the redhead’s room last night. What were you looking for, Feeney?”
I thought he’d shake apart, he got so mad. There was a crazy light going in his eyes. “There was a comb on the floor by the window When you doubled over to get out it dropped out of your pocket. That comb you just picked up.”
He yanked his hand out of his pocket and the
partially opened blade of the knife caught on cloth and snapped into place. I had my jacket off one arm and flipped it into his face. For a second it blinded him and the thrust missed my belly by an inch. He jumped back, then came in at me again, but my luck was better. The knife snagged in the jacket and I yanked it out of his hand.
Feeney Last wasn’t easy. He ripped out a curse and came into me with both fists before I could get the coat all the way off. I caught a stinger on the cheek and under the chin, then smashed a right into his face that sent him reeling back to bounce off one of the columns. I tore the sleeve half off the jacket shucking it, and rushed him. That time I was a damn fool. He braced against the pillar and lashed out with a kick that landed in my gut and turned me over twice. If I hadn’t kept rolling his heels would have broken my back. Feeney was too anxious; he tried it again. I grabbed his foot and he landed on the stone flooring with a sickening smash.
The Mike Hammer Collection Volume 1 Page 23
