Complex 90

by Mickey Spillane

  “Guess you can’t say the place was tossed,” I said, “when they’re this careful.”

  Locked drawers had been neatly opened and closed without forcing them, but scraps of paper I’d inserted to betray tampering were gone. So was the single hair stretched across the concealed gun cabinet built into the closet wall. None of the firearms appeared messed with, though.

  The big tell was a funny one—the apartment had been closed up for over two months, but there wasn’t any dust. They’d had to clean up after themselves because otherwise the dust would have betrayed them.

  Casey asked, “Anything missing?”

  “Not that I can see without a full-scale inventory.”

  “Were they looking for something?”

  “Don’t know. Just poking around, I think. Getting to know their prey.”

  I went to the window on the street. The building across the way had been renovated and refaced while I was away. Most of the windows were slatted with Venetian blinds and it was impossible to tell which apartment belonged to Rickerby’s boys.

  Casey said, “So how does it feel, being a piece of cheese that’s waiting for a rat to take a bite?”

  “It stinks, friend. But there are lots of ways to deal with rats.”

  I went over and pulled the .45 out of the wall cabinet, shoved a full clip into the end of the butt, jacked a shell into the chamber, and thumbed the hammer on half-cock, then to safety. My hand felt complete.

  I hefted the weapon. “You tell me, Des, how the hell are they’re gonna stop me?”

  “Simple. Manpower.”

  I grinned at him. “Ever hear of Charlie One-Horse?”

  Casey shook his head.

  But I didn’t explain.

  We got Blue Ribbons from the fridge and wound up in my little TV room with Johnny Carson going. We were both in athletic T-shirts and trousers, and the Negro’s massive musculature bore the puckered indentations and white scars that lived under that chestful of ribbons.

  “Okay,” the M.P. said. “I’ll bite at the cheese. Who was Charlie One-Horse?”

  “An Indian who declared a one-man war against the U.S. Army back in the eighteen-seventies. He did millions of dollars worth of damage to government property, knocked off a few hundred soldiers, and kept several regiments detached from regular duty just to catch him.”

  “Did they ever?”

  “Yeah, but not because the Army was that good. Charlie’s wife was having a baby and he wasn’t willing to leave her by herself just so he could get away again.”

  “What happened? Firing squad?”

  “You kidding? They handled him with kid gloves and tenderly put him down in nice quarters on his own reservation. They were afraid there might be more like him, out in the hills and valleys and plains, and they couldn’t afford the action.”

  “So now you’re Charlie One-Horse, I suppose?”

  “Let’s just say I’m on the war path. You keep watching Carson, buddy.” I hauled myself to my feet. “Charlie One-Horse need shuteye.”

  Then I was climbing between clean, crisp sheets. Nice to be back in my own rack again.

  With that .45 under the spare pillow where it belonged.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The law offices of Carmichael, Jasper and Porter were located in the Breck-Stillwell Building in midtown Manhattan, another of those imposing new structures defacing the city like steel-and-glass tombstones erected to the death of individuality.

  Although Allen Jasper still was a partner, he took no active role in the firm while he held his seat in the Senate, chiefly using his office to conduct government business when he was away from D.C.

  Des Casey and I entered a lushly wood-paneled waiting room about the size of the suite Allen and I had shared back at the Hotel National in Moscow. Each of the law partners had his own secretary at a desk. I directed Casey to a comfortable-looking couch, where he selected a Life magazine from an end table—the place was so high rent, the magazines were current issues.

  Senator Jasper’s secretary had been with him forever, a prim little old lady type who still wore lace at her throat.

  She expressed her disapproval of me by peering over her silver-framed slanting bifocals and pretending she didn’t know me. But she knew me, all right. Brother, how she knew me.

  She asked my name.

  “Paul Revere,” I said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. Just tell Allen the Redcoats are coming.”

  She reached for the intercom to announce me, but I didn’t wait and smiled at the indignant squawk I heard behind me as I walked on into his big private office.

  This was a chamber as almost as large as the waiting room, with the same rich masculine walls, the one at left arrayed with photographs of the senator with celebrities ranging from other political figures to supporters among the Hollywood crowd. The dominant picture, however, was a large elaborately framed family portrait, taken perhaps ten years ago, of Allen, his wife Emily, and their children.

  His work area was to the right as you entered, given over to some wooden file cabinets and a mahogany desk no bigger than a Sherman tank, its top neatly arranged with stacks of paperwork. But straight ahead, across the expanse of wall-to-wall rust-color carpeting, next to a postcard-worthy window on Manhattan, was an area for entertaining visitors, with modern-styled but comfortable-looking chairs and a couch. A wet bar, which could be concealed by a built-in folding screen, was showing off enough fancy bottles of booze to satisfy a Stork Club bartender.

  Senator Allen Jasper, his rangy frame in a sharply tailored suit, was just coming around that bar with a cocktail in either hand. It was only mid-morning, but hell, it must have been five o’clock somewhere. Who could blame him? He was in the company of a beautiful woman.

  His lovely guest’s cocktail dress further justified letting that wet bar breathe. Her high-necked dress was a shimmering money-green that draped a full-figured body that spelled out total sexual maturity. Nature had been considerate to this woman once upon a time and she had spent the years since not taking that for granted.

  What nature had endowed, she had nurtured so that any man seeing this woman felt as if he had an engraved invitation in his hand. addressed to somebody else. Her hair seemed to be platinum at first, but on closer inspection I made it a premature white, yet still possessing the silky softness of youth.

  Jasper didn’t hear me come in. He was busy setting the drink before her on the glass coffee table near the couch. They were talking and joking, her laughter with a high-pitched tinkly quality to it that even the senator’s booming voice couldn’t conquer.

  I called out, “Hope I’m not interrupting anything, Senator.”

  Recognizing the voice, he glanced my way with an immediate smile and came across the room with those long bird-legged strides. He grabbed my hand as if saving somebody falling off a building.

  “Mike, damn it man, I’ve been waiting for you to get in touch! Man, am I glad to see you, alive and well.”

  I grinned at him; he was still pumping my hand. “Yeah, well, it was touch and go for a while.”

  His expression turned serious, almost somber, and there was embarrassment in it. “I’m surprised you’re even speaking to me.”

  “Why, Allen?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought I’d hung you out to dry, when I wasn’t there at the Pentagon to back you up. But I couldn’t get in to be part of that. So much for senatorial privilege!”

  “You didn’t miss anything much.”

  “That alphabet soup of agencies put on a hell of an act in Washington to sidetrack me when you got back. I finally just said to hell with it. I knew those bureaucrats wouldn’t be any match for you, Mike.”

  “I figured it was something like that.”

  He took me by the arm and ushered me deeper into the office. “I want you to meet somebody.” He walked me over to the stunning older woman. He grinned at her the way a father does when he’s giving h
is spoiled little girl a pony. “Irene... this is Mike Hammer. Mike, Irene Carroll.”

  “Hello, Mike,” she said, standing. “If I may take that liberty?”

  “Take all the liberties you like,” I said.

  She held out her hand and I accepted it like a reward. She had a soft, warm grip, but there was strength there too. “I’ve heard so much about you, it’s hard to believe you’re real.”

  “If not, I’ve done a good job fooling myself,” I said.

  “In fact,” she said, leaning toward me confidentially, “I rather intruded on Allen so that I could meet you.”

  “Then you must be psychic,” I said, lightly, “since Allen didn’t know I was stopping by.”

  Jasper said, “Oh, I told Irene I figured I’d be hearing from you this morning. You recognize the name, of course?”

  I nodded. Hell, who didn’t know Irene Carroll? You could sum her up by newspaper shorthand: Wealthy Widow, Prominent Socialite, Washington Hostess. Intimate of kings and presidents and (when necessary) dictators. Tosser of the biggest parties in Washington and provider of the terrain for the policy-makers of the world to maneuver on.

  The celebrated Washington hostess notorious for wearing a queen’s fortune of jewels to her own and the parties of others... who had been absent from the senator’s shindig the night the shooting had started.

  “Judging by the press coverage,” she said with the kind of perfect smile that requires practice, “they haven’t decided yet whether you’re a national hero or an international heel.”

  I gave her my own grin, which had required no practice at all. “I bet you remember what Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara just before the fadeout.”

  That made her laugh some more, that many-faceted laugh with more tones than a wind chime.

  Allen Jasper threw his arm around my shoulder. “Well, even if you don’t give a damn, Mike, I’m going to do everything in my power to see to it personally that the public gets the real facts.”

  When you’d been in Washington as long as Jasper, you had to differentiate between the real facts and the other kind.

  I gave him a choppy laugh. “Allen, will you quit talking like a politician? What the public thinks matters to me not a whit. What I don’t go for is being the brunt of extradition efforts. Look at that legally and see what comes up.”

  Jasper nodded, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. A lot of people thought him just a politico when he had one of the best legal minds in New York.

  “I’ll do that, my friend,” he assured me.

  Irene Carroll put her drink down and her light manner disappeared. “Could I be of any help, Mike?”

  “Why?”

  The short question caught her off guard, but she recovered fast. “If you’re Allen’s friend, you’re my friend. I move in powerful circles, Mike. Affairs of this nature aren’t new to me.”

  “Ever been shot at, Irene?”

  Her eyes crinkled. “Well... hardly.”

  “Then it’s new to you.”

  She thought about whether to be offended, then—to her credit—that tinkly laugh blossomed again and pleasure showed in her expression. “You know, Mike, meeting you is even more fun than hearing about all your wild adventures.”

  “Meaning no offense, Irene, to me they aren’t adventures. They’re a matter of life and death.”

  She raised a conciliatory palm. “I mean no offense, either. But it was worth the trip from Washington just to hear a man talk who doesn’t monitor his every word. If I ever do get shot, I’ll be sure to come to you for advice about what to do about it.”

  “Check in with a doctor first,” I said with a smile, “but after that, I’ll be glad to consult.”

  She reached for the mink stole slung over the back of a nearby chair. Speaking archly, she said, “I know you boys have a lot to talk about that an innocent girl shouldn’t hear... so I’ll say ciao.”

  But she took my hand again, and gave me an impish wink. Her voice took on a kittenish purr that had also taken practice. “Why don’t you call me, Mike? I’d like to pick up our conversation where it left off.”

  “You still at the Wentworth?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s a real invitation, Mike. I’m not just being polite.”

  “You’ll hear from me, Irene,” I said.

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Almost as an afterthought, she turned to her host and said, “Goodbye, Allen. Please give my best to Emily.”

  “I’ll be sure to,” he said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  The way she swept out, you would think she’d brought a retinue with her.

  “Now there’s a broad,” I said.

  Jasper chuckled. “Yes, and I’m sure she’d take no offense at having Mike Hammer call her one. They just don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  Maybe. But when you did make them, you could have a real good time..

  The senator was heading over to the wet bar, where he’d left his drink. “You want anything, Mike?”

  “Little early.”

  “Mine’s just a Coke. You want one?”

  “Sure.”

  While he fixed me up, I took a walk around the spacious chamber. It didn’t take me long to spot the miniature microphone built right into one of the artificial flowers that decorated a cabinet along one wall.

  Astonished, he watched me pluck it out, trace the lead inside the cabinet to a transistorized voice-activated recorder. He started to speak, and I raised a hand.

  I knew what he didn’t: that the pros plant decoys. I found the real ones under the window sills by the little living room area and also behind his desk. I ripped both loose. I pronounced the office debugged, and then we were sitting across from each other in comfy chairs, the coffee table between us with Irene’s drink still on it, a reminder of her recent company.

  Jasper was studying me with a touch of amazement mingled with anger. “Just like Moscow,” he said. “How did you know they’d be there?”

  “Because they’re covering all the angles.”

  “By ‘they’ do you mean our side or theirs?”

  “Our people know better.” Anyway, Art Rickerby did. He’d know I’d check for electronic eavesdropping before saying anything worth hearing. “This is our K.G.B. pals.”

  “You’re only back a day!”

  “Allen, they’re way ahead of us. They knew I’d be coming here, if I made it home, and they had these things installed long ago.”

  “The K.G.B.... here in Manhattan? How—”

  I cut him short. “Money can buy almost anything, buddy. A window washer, maybe somebody posing as the building janitor, a phone company rep... anybody. Check with your secretary. She’ll know who had access to your office in the last few weeks.”

  His eyes were narrow slits now. “They’ll have to come back for them, won’t they? To check and find what they got?”

  “They’ll be monitoring their recorders from a remote location. You think we can search every room in this building? And if I put the feds on that job, the other side’ll know we’re on to them, and just leave the electronic toys behind.”

  “But if we don’t let on that we’re on to them, at some point those toys will be retrieved, right?”

  “Forget it, Allen. You’ll nail some joker who never knew the score in the first place. Frankly, I think it’s another test.”

  I gave him a rundown on my caller at the office yesterday, and watched him tighten up like a tick about to burst.

  “Damn it, Mike, this has gone beyond the jurisdiction of any of these federal investigative agencies. This requires congressional action!”

  “Spare me, Allen. Like anything ever comes of those hearings.”

  He flinched. That one had hurt.

  I waved dismissively. “If I had been knocked off yesterday, everything would be settled by now. To the Kremlin crowd, as long as I’m breathing, I’m a major embarrassment. But what I want to settle is why I got snatched off that Moscow street.”

  �
�Don’t we know that already? Weren’t you grabbed for the propaganda value, and to get back at you for past ‘sins against the State’?”

  “Then why didn’t they grab me the minute I set foot on Russian soil?”

  “I can answer that, Mike. That would have guaranteed an international incident. They had okayed your entry into the country as my approved bodyguard, and arresting you would have been obvious trickery. Instead, they set up that business about you passing off money to a known dissident.”

  My fists tightened. “Our innocent little translator.”

  His face fell. “Poor Zora. She was their dupe in this travesty, this tragedy.”

  “So were we. But that justified my arrest.”

  He nodded. “Right. They had allowed you in as my bodyguard, in good faith, but you ‘betrayed’ that trust by engaging in espionage activities.”

  I sipped my Coke. “What happened on your end, after they dragged me off?”

  Jasper laughed again, humorlessly this time. “I became persona non grata immediately. I was ushered out like a drunken bum being thrown out of a saloon.”

  “Immediately?”

  “Damn near. When I heard of your arrest, I lodged a protest with the American embassy. I was on the phone with our people when an M.V.D. contingent arrived to escort me to the airport, where I was put aboard an Aeroflot plane bound for the States. By then, you had broken loose and there wasn’t anything more to do but wait. I’ve been catching a lot of political hell since.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I’m not sure you can, Mike. Luckily, your escapade over there played like something out of Hitchcock. I was lost in the first reel, and you became the hero or villain, depending on the audience’s political point of view. In a way, you took the curse off me. You always were good news copy anyway, and this latest episode...”

  He let the sentence hang there because my expression had turned into a scowl.

  “They were going to kill me, Allen.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound like I took it lightly, Mike.”

  I leaned back and rubbed my aching thigh. “If you had used Marley as your bodyguard, none of this would have happened. How did you come to choose me as his substitute?”