The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  “You never live too long.”

  “Perhaps so. I can still enjoy things. I can dream. Do you dream, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Hammer.”

  “Mr. Hammer. Do you dream?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You’re not old enough to dream back like I do. It’s something like being reborn. I like to dream. They were good days then. I dream about them because they’re all I have to dream about. Yes, they were fine days.”

  “What was it you wanted to tell me, Miss Lee?” I asked her gently.

  “Oh?” She thought a moment, then: “There was something. Your young lady and I talked about Sally and Sue. Yes, that was it. Dear Sally, she was so lovely. It was a pity she died.”

  “Miss Lee . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “The night she died . . . do you remember it well?”

  “Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.” Her rocking slowed momentarily so she could shift positions, then started again.

  “Was she drunk, really drunk?”

  “Dear me, yes. Sally drank all the time. From very early in the morning. There was nothing I could do so I tried to keep her company and talk to her. She didn’t want to talk too much, you know. When she did it was drunk talk I couldn’t always understand. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I’ve heard it.”

  “There was that thing with the snakes you mentioned. It was rather an obsession with her.”

  “She was frightened of the snake?”

  Annette Lee lifted her head and peered at me. “No, that was the strange thing. She wasn’t afraid. It was . . . well, she hated it.”

  “Was the snake a person?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Could she have been referring to a person as The Snake? Not snakes or a snake. The Snake.”

  The rocking stopped completely. She looked at me curiously in the semi-darkened room, her fingertip touching her lips. “So that was what she meant.”

  “Go on.”

  “No wonder I didn’t understand. My goodness, never understood in all this time. Yes, she said the snake. It was always the snake. She hated the snake, that was why she wanted to live so far away from the city. She never wanted to go back.”

  “Annette . . . who was Sue’s father?”

  The old girl made a face at me and raised the thin line of her eyebrows. “Does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  “But I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Simply because I don’t know. Sue has Sally’s maiden name, you know. She never got her father’s name because she doesn’t know who he is. I’m afraid Sally was . . . a bit promiscuous. She had many men and among them would be Sue’s father. I doubt if Sally ever really knew either. A pity. Sue was such a lovely baby.”

  “Could it have been Blackie Conley?”

  For the first time Annette Lee giggled. “Dear no. Not him. Never Blackie.”

  “Why?”

  “Simply because he wasn’t capable. I think that was one of the reasons Blackie was so . . . so frustrated. He did like the ladies, you know. He slept with one after the other. He even married two of them but it never worked out. He always wanted an heir but he wasn’t capable. Why . . . the boys used to kid him about it.”

  Her feet pushed harder until she had to edge the chair away from the wall so that she faced me more directly. “Do you ever remember Bud Packer?”

  “Just the name.”

  “Bud was . . . joshing him one day about his . . . impotence and Blackie shot him. You know where. I think Blackie did time for that but I don’t rightly remember. No, Blackie was not Sue’s father by any means. Besides, you’re forgetting one big thing.”

  I let her say it.

  “Blackie’s been gone . . . for years. Long before Sue was born. Blackie is dead somewhere.”

  She put her head back and closed her eyes. I said, “Tired?”

  “No, just thinking. Daydreaming.”

  “How about this angle . . . could Sim Torrence have been the father? ”

  Her giggle broke into a soft cackle only the old can make. “Sim Torrence? I’m afraid not. Sue was born before they were married.”

  “He could still be the father.”

  “You don’t understand, Mr. . . .”

  “Hammer.”

  “Mr. Hammer. You see, I was with Sally always before. I knew the many faces she was with. I know who she slept with and none of them were Sim Torrence. It wasn’t until after the baby was born that they were married when he took her in and provided for them.” The flat laugh came out again. “Those two could never have a baby of their own though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she and Sim never slept together. After the baby was born Sally never let a man near her. She underwent a change. All she thought of was the baby, making plans for her, hoping for her to grow up and be somebody. You know, I hate to give away women-secrets, but Sally deliberately cultivated Sim Torrence. They knew each other for some time earlier. Some court case. She managed to meet him somehow and I remember them going out for a couple of weeks before she brought him to our apartment and told me they were going to get married.”

  “Did Torrence take it well?”

  “How does any man take it who is going to lose his bachelorhood?” She smiled knowingly. “He was rather shaken. Almost embarrassed. But he did provide well for Sally and Sue. They had a simple ceremony and moved into his town house.”

  “Were you with them?”

  “Oh yes. Sally wouldn’t leave me. Why, I was the only one who could take care of her and the baby. She wasn’t very domestic, you know. She wasn’t supposed to be. Yes, those were different women then. Showgirls. They had to be pampered.”

  “Why wouldn’t she let Torrence near her in bed?”

  “Does it sound strange that a woman who was a . . . a whore would be afraid of sex?”

  I shook my head. “Most of them are frigid anyway,” I said bluntly.

  “So true, so true. Well, that was Sally. Frigid. Having the baby scared her. Even having a man scared her.”

  “Was she scared of Torrence?”

  “Of every man, Mr. . . .” and this time she remembered my name and smiled, “. . . Hammer. Yes, Sim Torrence scared her but I think he understood. He let her stay at that place in the country. He came up on occasions and it was very strained but he was very understanding about it too. Of course, like all men, he could bury himself in his work. That was his real wife, his work.”

  “Miss Lee . . . the last time I was here we talked about Blackie Conley, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “You said you knew about the plans he made for that robbery he and Sonny Motley were involved in. What were they?”

  She stopped rocking, her face curious again. “Are you looking for the money?”

  “I’m a cop, Miss Lee. I’m looking for a killer, for the money . . . for anything that will help keep trouble from Sue.”

  “Sue? But that was before she was born.”

  “It can come back to hurt her. Now what did you hear?”

  She nodded, pressing her lips together, her hands grasping the arms of the rocker. “Do you really think . . . ?”

  “It might help.”

  “I see.” She paused, thought a moment, then said, “You know that Sonny really didn’t plan the robbery. It was his gang, but he didn’t plan it. They were . . . acting for someone.”

  “I know about that.”

  “Blackie had instructions to find a place where they were going to hide out. He was told where to go and how to do it. I remember because I listened to the call.” She chuckled at the thought. “I never did like Blackie. He was at Sally’s place when he took the call. In fact, that was where they did all their planning, at Sally’s apartment. Sonny was going with her then when she wasn’t sneaking off with Blackie.”

  “I see.”

  “Really,” she told me, “I wasn’t supposed to know about t
hese things. I was always in the other room out of sight, but I was worried about Sally and tried to find out what was going on. I listened in and they didn’t know it.”

  “None of this came out at the trial,” I reminded her.

  “Nor was it about to, young man. I didn’t want to involve Sally any more than she was. She did appear in court, you know.”

  “Briefly. She wasn’t implicated. She was treated as an innocent victim.”

  Those watery old eyes found mine and laughed in their depths. “No, Sally wasn’t so innocent. She knew everything that went on. Sally’s pose was very deliberate. Very deliberate. She was a better actress than anyone imagined.”

  Annette Lee leaned forward like some old conspirator. “Now that it can’t hurt her, let me tell you something. It was through dear Sally that this robbery came about. All arrangements, all contacts were made through her. Sonny was quite a man in those days and ran a sizable operation. But it was through Sally Devon that another party interested Sonny in that robbery. No, Sally was hardly the innocent victim.”

  I didn’t let her see me take it in. I passed it off quickly to get her back on the track again, but now the angles were starting to show. I said, “When Blackie Conley got this call . . . what happened?”

  Jerked suddenly from one train of thought, she sat back frowning. “Oh . . . Blackie . . . well, I heard this voice . . .”

  “A man?”

  “Yes. He told Blackie to see a man in a certain real estate agency, one that could be trusted. He gave him the phone number.”

  I added, “And Blackie arranged to rent a house in the Catskills?”

  “That’s right. He made the call right then and said he’d be in the next day.” She opened her eyes again, now her fingers tapping a silent tune on the chair. “But then he made another call to Howie Green.”

  “Who?”

  “Howie Green. He was a bootlegger, dearie, but he owned properties here in the city. He invested his money wisely, Howie did, and always had something to show for it. Howie was as crooked as they come, but smarter than most of them. One of Howie’s enterprises was a real estate agency that used to be someplace on Broadway. Oh yes, Howie was a big man, but he owed Blackie Conley a favor. Blackie killed a man for Howie and held it over his head. He told Howie he wanted a place to hole up in somewhere away from the city and to pick it out.”

  “Where was it, Annette?”

  “I don’t know, young man. Howie merely said he’d do it for him. That was all. I suppose Blackie took care of it later. However, it’s all over now. Howie Green’s dead too. He died in an accident not long afterward.”

  “Before the robbery?”

  “I really don’t remember that.”

  I reached for my hat and stood up. “You’ve been a great help, Annette.”

  “Have I really?”

  I nodded.

  “Will Sue be . . . all right?”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “Someday,” she asked me, “will you bring her to me? I would like to see her again.”

  “We’ll make a point of it.”

  “Good-bye then. It was nice of you to come over,”

  “My pleasure, Miss Lee.”

  At two o’clock I contacted Pat and made a date to meet him at his office. He didn’t like the idea because he knew Grebb would want to sit in on the conversation but thought he could arrange it so we could be alone.

  I took a cab downtown, found Pat alone at his desk buried in the usual paperwork, waited for him to finish, then said, “What officers were in on the Motley holdup? Any still around?”

  “This your day for surprises?”

  “Hit me.”

  “Inspector Grebb was one. He was a beat cop who was alerted for the action.”

  “Oh hell.”

  “Why?”

  “Think he’d remember the details?”

  “I don’t remember Grebb ever forgetting anything.”

  “Then let’s call him in.”

  “You sure about this?” Pat asked me.

  “It’s the easy way. So we give him a bite after all.”

  Pat nodded, lifted the phone, and made a call. When he hung up he said, “The Inspector will be happy to see you.”

  “I bet.”

  It didn’t take him long to get up there. He didn’t have Charlie Force with him either. He came in with the patient attitude of the professional cop, always ready to wait, always ready to act when the time came. He might have been a tough, sour old apple, but he made it the hard way and you couldn’t take it away from him.

  Inwardly I laughed at myself because if I wasn’t careful I could almost like him.

  “Whose party is it this time?” he asked.

  Pat said, “He’s throwing it.”

  “I never thought you’d ask, Hammer.” He dragged a chair out with his foot, sat in it heavily and sighed, but it was all an act. He was no more tired or bored than I was. “Shoot,” he said.

  “Pat tells me you were in on the Motley thing thirty years ago.”

  “My second day on the beat, Hammer. That shows you how close to retirement I am. My present job is a gratuity. One last fling for the old dog in a department he always wanted to run.”

  “Better luck in your next one.”

  “We aren’t talking about that. What’s with the Motley job?”

  “How did the cops get wise?”

  “Why don’t you read the transcript of the trial? It was mentioned.”

  “This is easier. Besides, I wanted to be sure.”

  Grebb pulled a cigar from his pocket, snapped off the end, and fired it up. “Like a lot of big ones that went bust,” he said, “somebody pulled the cork. The department got a call. It went through the D.A.’s office.”

  “Torrence?”

  “No, one of the others got it and passed it to him. Torrence handled it personally though.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Staked out where the truck was hidden in case they got through somehow. They never made it. We got the truck and the driver. Second day on the beat too, I’ll never forget it. Fresh out of school, still hardly shaving, and I get a hot one right off. Made me decide to stay in the department.”

  “How long did you have to get ready?”

  “About an hour, if I remember right. It was plenty of time. We could have done it in fifteen minutes.”

  “They ever find out who made the call?”

  “Nope.”

  “They look very hard?”

  Grebb just shrugged noncommittally. Then he said, “Let’s face it, we’d sooner have stoolies on the outside where they can call these things in than a live guy testifying in court who winds up a dead squealer a day later. We didn’t break our backs running down anybody. Whoever it was played it the way we liked it. The job was a bust and we nailed the crew.”

  “It wasn’t a bust, Inspector.”

  He stared at me until his face hurt.

  “Nobody ever located the money.”

  “That’s happened before. One of those things.”

  “Blackie Conley simply disappeared.”

  The cigar bobbed in his mouth. “And if he lived very long afterward he’s a better man than I am. By now he’d be dead anyway.” He took the cigar away from his mouth and flipped the ash off with his pinky. “But let’s get back to the money . . . that’s the interesting part.”

  “I have an idea it might show up.”

  “Maybe we better listen to your idea.”

  “Uh-uh. Facts I’ll give you, ideas stay in my pocket until I can prove them out.”

  “Facts then.”

  “None you don’t already have if you want to check the transcript like you suggested. I just make something different out of them, that’s all.”

  Grebb put the cigar back between his teeth and pushed himself out of his chair. When he was on his feet he glanced at Pat meaningfully, said, “Don’t let me wait too long, Captain,” then went out.

  “I wish
you’d quit pushing him,” Pat told me. “Now what’s with this bit?”

  I sat in the chair Grebb had vacated and propped my feet on Pat’s desk. “I think Blackie Conley’s alive.”

  “How’d he do it?”

  “He was the planner behind the operation. He set it up, then phoned in a double cross. Trouble was, he should have cut it shorter. He almost lost it himself. He laid out one escape plan, but took an alternate. He got away in that cab with the three million bucks and sat on it someplace.”

  Pat tapped a pencil on the desk as I gave him the information Annette Lee gave me. Every once in a while he’d make a note on a pad, study it, then make another.

  “We’ll have to locate whatever records are left of Howie Green’s business. If he was dealing in real estate it will be a matter of public record.”

  “You don’t think Blackie would use his own name, do you?”

  “We can narrow it down. Look, check your file on Green.” Pat put in another call and for the twenty minutes it took to get the papers up we went over the angles of the case. I still wouldn’t lay it out the way I saw it, but he had enough to reach the same conclusion if he thought the same way.

  The uniformed officer handed Pat a yellowed folder and Pat opened it on his desk. Howie Green, deceased. Known bootlegger, six arrests, two minor convictions. Suspected of duplicity in a murder of one Francis Gorman, another bootlegger who moved into his territory. Charge dropped. Known to have large holdings that were legally acquired as far as the law could prove. His annual income made him a rich man for the times. He was killed by a hit-and-run driver not far from his own house and the date given was three days before the robbery of the three million bucks.

  “Pretty angle, Pat.”

  “Spell it out.”

  “If Conley did get hideout property from Green, paid for it, made the transaction, and accepted the papers in a phony name and took possession, then killed him before Green knew what he wanted it for, who could say where he was? Chances were that nobody but Conley and Green ever saw each other and Green wasn’t around to talk anymore.”

  Pat closed the folder and shoved it in his desk. “We could check all the transactions Green made in the few weeks prior to his death.”

  “Time, buddy. We haven’t got the time.”