The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  She waited until I was on the ramp to ask, “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a place called ‘The Angus Bull.’ It’s a new one for the racket boys.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Pat.”

  “And whom do I con?”

  “A man named Del Penner. If he isn’t there you’ll pick up a lead if you work it right. He was pushing Kid Hand and will probably take his place in the group. What you want to know is this . . . who is Mr. Dickerson?”

  She threw me a funny glance and I filled her in on the small details. I watched her out of the corner of my eyes while she picked it all apart and put it back together again. There was something new about her now that wasn’t there seven years ago. Then she had been a secretary, a girl with her own P.I. ticket and the right to carry a gun. Then she had been a girl with a peculiar past I hadn’t known about. Now she was a woman, still with a peculiar past and a gun, but with a strange new subtlety added that was nurtured during those years behind the Iron Curtain in the biggest chase scene civilization had ever known.

  “Where do we clear?”

  “Through Pat.”

  “Or your friend Rickerby?”

  “Keep him as an alternate. It isn’t his field yet, so we’ll stay local.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Running down the immediate past of a guy called Basil Levitt. Pat came up with nothing. They’re still on the job, but he had no office and no records. Whatever he carried he carried in his hat, but he sure was working for somebody. He was after you and the kid and was four days watching your joint. I don’t know what we have going, but these are the only leads we have.”

  “There’s Sue.”

  “She has nothing to say yet.”

  “Did you believe what she said about her father trying to kill her? ”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t logical. The kid’s a neurotic type and until something proves out I’m not going along with childish notions.”

  “Two dead men aren’t notions.”

  “There’s more to it than that, baby. Let me do it my way, okay?”

  “Sure. It’s always your way, isn’t it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is that why I love you?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you love me because I think that way?”

  “Why sure.”

  “I’m home, Mike.”

  I touched her knee and felt her leg harden. “You never were away, kid.”

  She was on her own when I dropped her downtown. She grinned at me, waved, and I let her go. There was something relaxing about the whole thing now. No more tight feeling in the gut. No more of that big empty hole that was her. She was there and bigger than ever, still with the gun on her belt and ready to follow.

  Going through Levitt’s place was only a matter of curiosity. It was a room, nothing more. The landlady said he had been there six months and never caused trouble, paid his rent, and she didn’t want to talk to any more cops. The neighbors didn’t know anything about him at all and didn’t want to find out. The local tavern owner had never served him and couldn’t care less. But up in his room the ashtrays had been full of butts and there were two empty cartons in the garbage and anyone who smokes that much had to pick up cigarettes somewhere.

  Basil Levitt did it two blocks away. He got his papers there too. The old lady who ran the place remembered him well and didn’t mind talking about it.

  “I know the one,” she told me. “I wondered when the cops would get down here. I even woulda seen them only I wanted to see how fast they’d get here. Sure took you long enough. Where you from, son?”

  “Uptown.”

  “You know what happened?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So what do you want with me?”

  “Just talk, Mom.”

  “So ask.”

  “Suppose you tell.” I grinned at her. “Maybe you want the third degree, sweetie, just like in TV . . . okay?”

  She waved her hand at me. “That stuff is dead. Who hits old ladies anymore except delinquents?”

  “Me. I hit old ladies.”

  “You look like the type. So ask me.”

  “Okay . . . any friends?”

  She shook her head. “No, but he makes phone calls. One of the hot boys . . . never shuts the door.” She nodded toward the pay booth in back.

  “You listened?”

  “Why not? I’m too old to screw so I get a kick out of love talk.”

  “How about that?”

  “Yeah, how? ” She smiled crookedly and opened herself a Coke. “He never talked love talk, never. Just money and always mad.”

  “More, Mom.”

  “He’d talk pretty big loot. Five G’s was the last . . . like he was a betting man. Was he, son?”

  “He bet his skin and lost. Now more.”

  She made a gesture with her shoulders. “Last time he was real mad. Said something was taking too long and wanted more loot. I don’t think he got it.”

  “Any names?”

  “Nope. He didn’t call somebody’s house, either.”

  I waited and she grinned broadly.

  “He only called at a certain time. He had to speak up like wherever the other party was, it was damn noisy. That’s how come I heard him.”

  “You’d make a good cop, Mom.”

  “I been around long enough, son. You want to know something else?”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “He carried a package once. It was all done up in brown paper and it wasn’t light. It was a gun. Rifle all taken down, I’d say. You like that bit?”

  “You’re doing great. How’d you know?”

  “Easy. It clunked when he set it down. Besides, I could smell the gun oil. My old man was a nut on those things before he kicked off. I smelled that stuff around the house for years.”

  Then I knew what bugged me right after Basil Levitt died. I said my thanks and turned to go. She said, “Hey . . .”

  “What?”

  “Would you really hit an old lady?”

  I grinned at her. “Only when they need it,” I said.

  I stood in the room that had been Velda’s and scanned the other side of the street. It didn’t take long to sort out the only windows that were set right for an ambush. Ten bucks to a fat old man got me the key with no questions asked and when I opened the door to the first one that was it.

  The gun was an expensive sporting rifle with a load in the chamber, blocked in on a tripod screwed to a tabletop and the telescopic sights were centered on the same window I had looked out of a few minutes before. There were two empty cigarette cartons beside the gun, a tomato-juice can full of butts and spent matches, and the remains of a dozen sandwiches scattered around.

  Basil’s vigil had been a four-day one. For that long a time he had waited. At any time he could have had Velda. He knew she was there. He told me so. He had watched her that long but couldn’t move in.

  The reason for his wait was plain now. It wasn’t her he was after at all. It was the kid. He wanted her. He was on a contract to knock her off and had to wait for her to show.

  Only she didn’t. Velda had kept her upstairs out of sight. It was only when I came on the scene that he had to break his pattern. He didn’t know why I was there but couldn’t take any chances. I might be after the same target he was after but for a different reason: to get her out.

  So now it was back to the little Lolita-type again.

  CHAPTER 4

  It had been a long time since I had seen Joey Adams and his wife Cindy. Now, besides doing his major nightclub routines with time off for tent-circus Broadway musicals and worldwide junkets, he was president of AGVA. But he hadn’t changed a bit. Neither had Cindy. She was still her same stunning self in the trademark colors of scarlet and midnight whamming out a column for TV Guide.

  I told the girl not to announce me and when I went in Joey was p
erched on the edge of his desk trying to talk Cindy out of something new in minks. He wasn’t getting anywhere. I said, “Hello, buddy.”

  He looked over his shoulder, grinned, and hopped off the desk with his hand out. “I’ll be damned,” he said, “you finally picked up the rain check. Where you been?”

  “On the wrong street.” I looked past him. “Hello, beautiful.”

  Cindy threw me a flashing smile. “I told Joey you’d show up. We’ve been following the obituaries. You leave a trail, Mike.”

  “I was following one.”

  “That’s what Hy said. You big fink, why didn’t you come visit when you needed help?”

  “Hell, kid, I didn’t need any help to stay drunk.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Joey waved at her impatiently. “Come on, come on, what’s new? Look, suppose we . . .”

  “I need help now, pal.”

  It caught him off balance a second. “Listen, I’m no AA, but . . .”

  “Not that kind of help,” I grinned.

  “Oh?”

  “You’ve been bugging me to play cop for how long, Joey?”

  His eyes lit up like a marquee but Cindy got there first.

  “Listen, old friend, you keep my boy away from the shooters. Like he’s mine and I want to keep him in one piece. He’s just a comedian and those gun routines are hard on the complexion.”

  “Cut it out, Cindy. If Mike wants . . .”

  “Don’t sweat it, friend. Just a simple favor.”

  He looked disappointed.

  “But it’s something you can get to where I can’t,” I added.

  Joey laughed and faked a swing at my gut. “So name it, kid.”

  “How far back do your files go?”

  “Well,” he shrugged, “what do you want to know?”

  I sat on the edge of the desk and lined things up in my mind. “There was a showgirl named Sally Devon who was in business over twenty years ago. Name mean anything?”

  Joey squinted and shook his head. “Should it?”

  “Not necessarily. I doubt if she was a headliner.”

  “Mike . . .” Cindy uncoiled from her chair and stood beside Joey. “Wasn’t she Sim Torrence’s wife at one time?”

  I nodded.

  “How’d you know?” Joey asked.

  “I’m just clever.”

  “What do you know about her, honey?”

  “Nothing at all, but I happened to be talking politics to one of Joey’s friends and he dropped her name in the hat. He had worked with her at one time.”

  “Now she’s in politics,” Joey grunted. “So who were you talking to?”

  “Bert Reese.”

  “What do you think, Joey? Do a rundown for me? Maybe Bert can steer you to somebody else that would know about her.”

  “Sure, but if it’s politics you want, Cindy can . . .”

  “It’s not politics. Just get a line on her show-biz activities. She would’ve been in from twenty to thirty years back. Somebody at Equity might know her or the old chorus-line bunch. She was married to Sim Torrence while he was still a small-timer so the connection might bring somebody’s memory back. Seem possible?”

  “Sure, Mike, sure. The kids always keep in touch. They never forget. Hell, you know show business. I’ll dig around.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “I ought to have something by tomorrow. Where’ll I get in touch?”

  “My old office. I’m back in business, or reach me through the Blue Ribbon Restaurant.”

  He gave me that big grin again and winked. Now he was doing an act he liked. There are always frustrated cops and firemen. I shook hands with Joey, waved at Cindy, and left them to battle about the mink bit again.

  Rickerby’s man gave me a funny look and a curt nod when I showed, asked if there were anything else, and when I said no, made his phone call to clear and took off. Then I went upstairs.

  I could hear her all the way, like a wild bird singing a crazy melody. She had an incredible range to her voice and just let it go, trilling some strange tune that had a familiar note, but was being interpreted out of its symphonic character.

  The singing didn’t come from the floor where I had left her, either. It was higher up and I made the last flight in a rush and stood at the end of the corridor with the .45 in my hand wondering what the hell was going on. She had everything wrapped up in that voice, fear, hate, anxiety, but no hope at all.

  When I pushed the door open slowly her voice came flooding out from the peculiar echo chamber of the empty room. She stood facing the corner, both hands against the wall, her head down, her shoulders weaving gently with the rhythm of her voice, her silken blond hair a gold reflection from the small bulb overhead.

  I said, “Sue . . .” and she turned slowly, never stopping, but, seeing me there, went into a quiet ballet step until she stopped and let her voice die out on a high lilting note. There was something gone in her eyes and it took a half minute for her to realize just who I was.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  “It’s empty,” she said finally.

  “Why do you want it like that?”

  She let her hands drift behind her back. “Furniture looks at you. It means people and I don’t want any people.”

  “Why, Sue?”

  “They hurt you.”

  “Did somebody hurt you?”

  “You know.”

  “I know that nobody has hurt you so far.”

  “So far. They killed my mother.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes I do. A snake killed her.”

  “A what?”

  “A snake.”

  “Your mother died of natural causes. She was . . . a sick woman.”

  This time Sue shook her head patiently. “I’ve been remembering. She was afraid of a snake. She told me so. She said it was the snake.”

  “You were too young to remember.”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  I held out my hand to her and she took it. “Let’s go downstairs, sugar. I want to talk to you.”

  “All right. Can I come back up here when I want to?”

  “Sure. No trouble. Just don’t go outside.”

  Those big brown eyes came up to mine with a sudden hunted look. “You know somebody wants to hurt me too, don’t you?”

  “Okay, kid, I won’t try to con you. Maybe it will make you a little cautious. I think somebody is after you. Why, I don’t know, but stick it out the way I tell you to, all right?”

  “All right, Mike.”

  I waited until she had finished her coffee before I dropped the bomb on her. I said, “Sue . . .”

  Then her eyes looked up and with a sudden intuition she knew what I was going to say.

  “Would you mind going home?”

  “I won’t go,” she said simply.

  “You want to find out what really happened to your mother, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “You can help if you do what I ask.”

  “How will that help?”

  “You got big ears, kid. I’m an old soldier who knows his way around this business and you just don’t fool me, baby. You can do anything you want to. Go back there and stay with it. Somebody wants you nailed, sugar, and if I can get you in a safe place I can scrounge without having you to worry about.”

  Sue smiled without meaning to and looked down at her hands. “He wants me dead.”

  “Okay, we’ll play it your way. If he does there’s nothing he can do about it now. There’re too many eyes watching you.”

  “Are yours, Mike?”

  I grinned. “Hell, I can’t take ’em off you.”

  “Don’t fool with me, Mike.”

  “All right, Sue. Now listen. Your old man paid me five grand to handle this mess. It isn’t like he’s caught in a trap and is trying to con me because he knows all about me. I’m no mouse. I’ve knocked over too many punks and broke too many big ones to
play little-boy games with.”

  “Are you really convinced, Mike?”

  “Honey, until it’s all locked up, tight, I’m never convinced, but at this stage we have to work the angles. Now, will you go back?”

  She waited a moment, then looked up again. “If you want me to.” “I want you to.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  Those big brown eyes were a little too much. “Sure, but what’s a guy like me going to do with a girl like you?”

  A smile touched her mouth. “Plenty, I think,” she said.

  Sim Torrence was out, but Geraldine King made the arrangements for a limousine to pick up Sue. I waited for it to arrive, watched her leave, then went back to my office. I got out at the eighth floor, edged around the guy leaning up against the wall beside the buttons with his back to me, and if it didn’t suddenly occur to me that his position was a little too awkward to be normal and that he might be sick I never would have turned around and I would have died face down on the marble floor.

  I had that one split-second glance at a pain- and hate-contorted face before I threw myself back toward the wall scratching for the .45 when his gun blasted twice and both shots rocketed off the floor beside my face.

  Then I had the .45 out and ready but it was too late. He had stepped back into the elevator I had just left and the doors were closing. There wasn’t any sense chasing him. The exit stairs were down the far end of the corridor and the elevator was a quick one. I got up, dusted myself off, and looked up at the guy who stuck his head out of a neighboring door. He said, “What was that?”

  “Be damned if I know. Sounded like it was in the elevator.”

  “Something’s always happening to that thing,” he said passively, then closed his door.

  Both slugs were imbedded in the plaster at the end of the hall, flattened at the nose and scratched, but with enough rifling marks showing for the lab to make something out of it. I dropped them in my pocket and went to my office. I dialed Pat, told him what had happened, and heard him let out a short laugh. “You’re still lucky, Mike. For how long?”

  “Who knows?”

  “You recognize him?”