When she relaxed I said, “And what makes you think he wants to kill you?”
“I know . . . the way he looks at me. He . . . touches me.”
“Better, baby. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“Very well. There was a car. It almost hit me.”
“Did you recognize it?”
“No.”
“Go on.”
“There was a man one night. He followed me home from the theater. He tried to cut me off but I knew the roads and lost him not far from the house.”
“Did you recognize him or his car?”
“No.”
“Did you report the incidents?”
“No,” she said softly.
“Okay, Sue, my turn. Do you know you’re an exceptionally pretty girl?” She looked up at me. “Sure you do. Men are going to follow you, so get used to dodging. Nearly everybody has had a close call with a car, so don’t put too much store in that. And so far as your stepfather is concerned, he’d look at you like any man would his daughter and touch you the same way. You haven’t said anything concrete yet.”
“Then what about that man you killed and the other one?”
“Touché,” I said. But I couldn’t let it lay there. She was waiting and she was scared. I looked at Velda. “Did you tell her where you’ve been for seven years and what happened?”
“She knows.”
“And about me?”
“Everything.”
“Then maybe this is an answer . . . those men were part of an enemy organization who had to destroy Velda before she talked. They moved in to get her, not you. And now it’s over. Nobody’s going to kill her because now she’s said her piece and it’s too late. What do you think about that?”
“I’m not going back,” she said simply.
“Supposing I go see your stepfather. Suppose I can really find out the truth, even to what your mother told you. Would that help any?”
“Maybe.” Her voice was a whisper.
“Okay, kid, I’ll play Big Daddy.”
Velda looked up with eyes so full of thanks I had to laugh at her. She scooted the kid off to the other end of the room, took my arm, and walked me to the door. “You’ll do all you can?”
“You know, you’d think I’d know better by now.”
“Mike . . . don’t change.”
“No chance, baby.”
She opened the door. “Do you . . . believe that about . . . those men coming for me?”
After a few seconds I said, “No. Basil Levitt said he wanted both you and the kid so it wasn’t anything to do with the last operation. She’s in it someplace.” I knew I was frowning.
“What are you thinking of ?”
“Something he said, damn it.” I wiped my face with my hand and grimaced. “I’ve been away too long. I’m not clicking.”
“It will come.”
“Sure, honey,” I said. I touched her face lightly. “Later?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Put the kid to bed.”
She made a face at me, grinned and nodded.
It was like there had never been those seven years at all.
There wasn’t much trouble getting background material on Simpson Torrence. He had been making headlines since the ’30s, was featured in several of the latest magazines, and was the subject of three editorials in opposition newspapers. I took two hours to go over the bits and pieces and what I came up with made him a likely candidate for governor. In fact, several of his high-ranking constituents were looking past the mansion at Albany to the White House in Washington.
But good points I wasn’t looking for. If there was anything to the kid’s story at all, then something would have to point to another side of the guy’s character. People just don’t come all good.
I called Hy Gardner and asked him to meet me at the Blue Ribbon with anything he might have on Torrence. All he said was, “Now what?” But it meant he’d be there.
He showed up with Pete Ladero, who did legwork for a political columnist, and over lunch I picked out all the information on Torrence I could get. Substantially, it was the same as the better magazines had reported. Sim Torrence was a product of New York schools, had graduated magna cum laude and gone into public service immediately afterward. He had a small inheritance that made him independent enough to be able to afford the work and a determination that took him from an assistant D.A. through the main office into the State Legislature and Senate, and now he was standing at the threshold of the governorship. I said, “What’s wrong with the guy?”
“Nothing,” Pete told me. “Find out something and I’ll peddle it to the opposition for a million bucks.”
“Didn’t they try?”
“You kidding?”
Hy shoved his glasses up on his forehead. “So what’s the business then, Mike? What are you laying into Torrence for?”
“Curiosity right now. His name came up in a little deal a while back.”
“This for publication?”
“No. It’s strictly for curiosity value.”
“I wish to hell you’d say what you’re going to say.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “What about his marriage?”
Pete and Hy looked at each other, shrugged, and Pete said, “His wife died years ago. He never remarried.”
“Who was she?”
Pete thought a moment, then: “Her name was Devon, Sally Devon. If I remember right she was a fairly pretty showgirl when it was fashionable to marry showgirls. But hell, she died not long after the war. There was never any scandal connected with his marriage.”
“What about the kid?” I asked.
Pete shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve met her several times. Torrence adopted her when her mother died, sent her to pretty good schools, and she’s lived with him since.”
“She ran away.”
“You don’t run away when you’re over twenty-one,” he reminded me. “Sim probably has given her a checking account that will keep her provided for wherever she goes.” He paused a moment. “I don’t get the angle there.”
“Because I haven’t got one,” I said. “In my business names and people get dropped into funny places and no matter who they are they get checked out. Hell, it never hurts to prove a clean man clean.”
Pete agreed with a nod, finished his coffee, and told us so-long. Hy said, “Satisfied?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Do I get a hint at least?”
“Sure. The two dead men the night I found Velda.”
Hy frowned and pulled his glasses off, his cigar working across his mouth. “The ones who followed you and tried to nail Velda at the last minute?”
“That’s the story the papers got, friend.”
He waited, staring at me.
I said, “They had nothing to do with the espionage bit. They were part of another story.”
“Brother!” Hy poked the cigar out in the ashtray and reached for his pencil and scratch sheets.
“No story yet, Hy. Hold it back. I’ll tell you when.”
Reluctantly, he put them back. “Okay, I’ll wait.”
“Velda had Torrence’s kid with her. She took her in like a stray cat. Strictly coincidence, but there we are. The kid said she was hiding out from her old man, but whether she’s lying or not, we know one thing: two dead men and a possible third say trouble’s there.”
“How the hell can you suppress stuff like that!” Hy exploded.
“Angles, buddy.”
“Boy, you sure come on like gangbusters. I hope you’re protecting yourself.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Hy had to get back to his desk at the Tribune building so I dropped him off and went ahead to Pat’s office. The uniformed sergeant at the desk waved to me, said Pat was upstairs in new quarters and to go ahead up.
He was eating at his desk as usual, too crammed with work to take time out at a lunch counter. Bu
t he wasn’t too busy to talk to me. I was part of his work. He grinned and said, “How is Velda?”
“Fine, but not for you.”
“Who knows?” He reached for the coffee container. “What’s up?”
“What did you get on Levitt and the other guy?”
“Nothing new on Levitt. He’d been sporting some fresh money lately without saying where it came from. It was assumed that he picked up his old blackmail operations.”
“And the other one?”
“Kid Hand. You knew him, didn’t you?”
“I’ve seen him around. Small-time muscle.”
“Then you haven’t seen him lately. He’s gone up in the world. Word has it that he’s been handling all the bookie operations on the Upper West Side.”
“Tillson’s old run?”
“Hell, Tillson was knocked off a year ago.”
“So who’s Hand working for?”
“I wish I knew. Mr. Big has been given the innocuous-sounding name of Mr. Dickerson, but nobody seems to know any more about him.”
“Somebody’s going to be taking over Hand’s end. There’ll be a shake-up somewhere.”
“Mike . . . you just don’t know the rackets anymore. It’s all I.B.M.-style now. Business, purely business, and they’re not being caught without a chain of command. No, there won’t be a shake-up. It’ll all happen nice and normally. Somebody else will be appointed to Kid Hand’s job and that will be that.”
“You guessed the bug, though, didn’t you?”
Pat nodded. “Certainly. What’s a wheel like Hand taking on a muscle job for anyway? You know the answer?”
“Sure. I’d say he was doing somebody a favor. Like somebody big.”
“Yeah,” Pat said sourly. “Now the question is, who was killing who? You nailed Hand, Levitt fired two shots, and we recovered one out of the ceiling.”
“Another one got Hand’s friend in the gut. You might check the hospitals.”
“Now you tell me.”
“Nuts, Pat. You figured it right after it happened.”
He swung around idly in his chair, sipping at the coffee container. When he was ready he said, “What were they really after, Mike?”
I took my time too. “I don’t know. Not yet I don’t. But I’ll find out.”
“Great. And with all that top cover you got I have to sweat you out.”
“Something like that.”
“Let me clue you, Mike. We have a new Inspector. He’s a tough nut and a smart one. Between him and the D.A., you’re liable to find your tail in a jam. Right now they’re trying hard to bust you loose for them to work over, so you’d better have pretty powerful friends in that office you seem to be working for.”
I put my hat on and stood up. “Anything I come up with you’ll get.”
“Gee, thanks,” he said sarcastically, then grinned.
Sim Torrence lived inside a walled estate in Westchester that reflected the quiet dignity of real wealth and importance. A pair of ornate iron gates were opened wide, welcoming visitors, and I turned my rented Ford up the drive.
The house, a brick colonial type, was surrounded by blue spruces that reached to the eaves. Two black Caddies were parked in front of one wing and I pulled up behind them, got out, touched the doorbell, and waited.
I had expected a maid or a butler, but not a stunning brunette with electric blue eyes that seemed to spark at you. She had an early season tan that made her eyes and the red of her mouth jump right at you and when she smiled and said quizzically, “Yes? ” it was like touching a hot line.
I grinned crookedly. “My name is Hammer. I’m looking for Mr. Torrence.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but I think he’ll see me. It’s about his daughter.”
The eyes sparked again with some peculiar fear. “Is she . . . all right?”
“Fine.”
Then relief took over and she held out her hand to me. “Please come in, Mr. Hammer. I’m Geraldine King, Mr. Torrence’s secretary. He’s going to be awfully glad to see you. Since Sue ran off again he’s been so upset he can’t do a thing.”
“Again?”
She glanced up at me and nodded. “She’s gone off several times before. If she only knew what she does to Mr. Torrence when she gets in one of her peeves she’d be more considerate. In here, Mr. Hammer.” She pointed into a large study that smelled of cigars and old leather. “Make yourself at home, please.”
There wasn’t much time for that. Before I had a chance to make a circuit of the room I heard the sound of hurried feet and Big Sim Torrence, the Man-Most-Likely-To-Succeed, came in looking not at all like a politician, but with the genuine worry of any distraught father.
He held out his hand, grabbed mine, and said, “Thanks for coming, Mr. Hammer.” He paused, offered me a chair, and sat down. “Now, where is Sue? Is she all right?”
“Sure. Right now she’s with a friend of mine.”
“Where, Mr. Hammer?”
“In the city.”
He perched on the edge of the chair and frowned. “She . . . does intend to come back here?”
“Maybe.”
His face hardened then. It was a face that had an expression I had seen a thousand times in courtrooms. It became a prosecuting attorney’s face who suddenly found himself with a hostile witness and was determined to drag out the right answers the hard way.
Torrence said, “Perhaps I don’t understand your concern in this matter.”
“Perhaps not. First, let me tell you that it’s by accident that I’m here at all. Sue was sort of taken in hand by my secretary and I made a promise to look into things before letting her return.”
“Oh?” He looked down into his hands. “You are . . . qualified for this matter then?”
The wallet worked its magic again and the hostility faded from his face. His expression was serious, yet touched with impatience. “Then please get to the point, Mr. Hammer. I’ve worried enough about Sue so . . .”
“It’s simple enough. The kid says she’s scared stiff of you.”
A look of pain flitted across his eyes. He held up his hand to stop me, nodded, and looked toward the window. “I know, I know. She says I killed her mother.”
He caught me a little off base. When he looked around once more I said, “That’s right.”
“May I explain something?”
“I wish somebody would.”
Torrence settled back in his chair, rubbing his face with one hand. His voice was flat, as though he had gone through the routine countless times before. “I married Sally Devon six months after her husband died. Sue was less than a year old at the time. I had known Sally for years then and it was like . . . well, we were old friends. What I didn’t know was that Sally had become an alcoholic. In the first years of our marriage she grew worse in spite of everything we tried to do. Sally took to staying at my place in the Catskills with an old lady for a housekeeper, refusing to come into the city, refusing any help . . . just drinking herself to death. She kept Sue with her although it was old Mrs. Lee who really took care of the child. One night she drank herself into a stupor, went outside into the bitter cold for something, and passed out. She was unconscious when Mrs. Lee found her and dead before either a doctor or I could get to her. For some reason the child thinks I had something to do with it.”
“She says her mother told her something before she died.”
“I know that too. She can’t recall anything, but continues to make the charge against me.” He paused and rubbed his temples. “Sue has been a problem. I’ve tried the best schools and let her follow her own desires but nothing seems to help matters any. She wants to be a showgirl like her mother was.” He looked up at me slowly. “I wish I knew the answer.”
This time I was pretty direct. “She says you’re trying to kill her.”
His reaction was one of amazement. “What?” Very slowly he came to the edge of his seat. “What’s that?”
“A car tried to
run her down, she was deliberately followed, and somebody took a shot at her.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am about the last time. I was there when it happened.” I didn’t bother giving him any of the details.
“But . . . why haven’t I heard . . .?”
“Because it involved another matter too. In time you’ll hear about it. Not now. Just let’s say it happened.”
For the first time his courtroom composure left him. He waved his hands like a lost person and shook his head.
I said, “Mr. Torrence, do you have any enemies?”
“Enemies?”
“That’s right.”
“I . . . don’t think so.” He reflected a moment and went on. “Political enemies, perhaps. There are two parties and . . .”
“Would they want to kill you?” I interrupted.
“No . . . certainly not. Disagree, but that’s all.”
“What about women?” I asked bluntly.
He paid no attention to my tone. “Mr. Hammer . . . I haven’t kept company with a woman since Sally died. This is a pretty well-known fact.”
I looked toward the door meaningfully. “You keep pretty company.”
“Geraldine King was assigned to me by our state chairman. She has been with me through three political campaigns. Between times she works with others in the party running for office.”
“No offense,” I said. “But how about other possibles? Could you have made any special enemies during your political career?”
“Again, none that I know of who would want to kill me.”
“You were a D.A. once.”
“That was twenty-some years ago.”
“So go back that far.”
Torrence shrugged impatiently. “There were a dozen threats, some made right in the courtroom. Two attempts that were unsuccessful.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Police routine stopped the action. Both persons were apprehended and sent back to prison. Since then both have died, one of T.B., the other of an ulcer.”
The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3 Page 22
