The Killing Man

by Mickey Spillane

  “Did you find anything?”

  “There was a loaded clip from an automatic, but no gun. The only thing he had was an old toolbox.”

  “You’re coming at me fast and easy, buddy.”

  “Negative answers are easy to give.”

  “That place really get shaken down?”

  “We didn’t take it apart.” I pushed my drink aside. I still hadn’t tasted it. “What should we have found?”

  He gave me a long, steady look, then showed a little smile. “You would have known.”

  Now I tasted my drink. Charlie had given me a double charge and barely taste it was all I did. The guy opposite was watching me curiously, not quite knowing how to steer the conversation. Finally I said, “Let’s get something squared away here. You guys don’t give a shit who knocked off DiCica, do you?”

  “Couldn’t care less.”

  “Don’t hand me that,” I told him. “You mean unless he got from Tony what you wanted.”

  After thinking about it he acknowledged the point. “Something like that.”

  I said, “You know, I don’t give a rat’s ass what Tony had. The guy who took him out thought he was me, and Igive a shit who did the killing.”

  “Some people aren’t going to look at it that way,” he told me. “Until they’re absolutely satisfied, you’re going to have a problem.”

  “There’s one hell of a hole in your presentation, fella,” I said. “Tony’s been running loose a long time. If he had something, why didn’t they get it from him when he was alive?”

  “You know about Tony’s history?”

  “I know.”

  “If you guess the answer I’ll tell you if it’s right.”

  Hell, there could only be one answer. I said, “Tony had something he could hang somebody with.” The guy kept watching me. “He had permanent amnesia after getting his head bashed in and didn’t remember having it or putting it somewhere.” The eyes were still on mine. The storyline started to open up now. “Just lately he said or did something that might indicate a sudden return of memory.” The eyes narrowed and I knew I had it.

  When he put his drink away in two quick swallows, he rolled the empty glass in his fingers a moment. “It came in the day he was killed. A week before he suddenly recognized somebody they kept close to him and called him by his right name.”

  “Then he relapsed back into the amnesia again?”

  “Nobody knows that.”

  “Don’t tell me they never checked his apartment before.”

  “Twice. Didn’t find a damn thing. If they had splintered the place he might have panicked. After all, he was living in a whole new world. If he stayed that way and the stuff stayed with him everything would’ve been okay. But he came out of it.”

  Now I was beginning to see what he was getting at. “And you think somebody else was watching him too, waiting for him to shake off the amnesia.”

  He just looked at me, not saying a word.

  “Where do I come in?” I asked him.

  “Mike, you got a big reputation, you know that?”

  “So?”

  “You have your fingers in all kinds of shit. You move with the clean guys and you go with the dirty ones just as easy. Nobody likes to mess with you because you’ve blown a few asses off with that cannon of yours and you got buddies up in Badgeville where it counts. So you’d be just the kind of guy Tony DiCica would run to with a story that would keep his head on his shoulders.”

  “Crazy,” I said.

  “Not really. He’d been to your office three times before.”

  “Business with the printer. My secretary took care of it.”

  “You say. He could have been discussing his business.”

  “Wrong,” I stated.

  “Can you prove otherwise?”

  I thought a second. “No.”

  “The day he was killed he had come in to arrange something with you. Before you got there somebody else showed up and did the job, expecting to walk away with the information. He didn’t have it on him, but he sure would have talked when he was getting his fingers whacked off.”

  This thing was really coming back at me. “Okay, what’s my part?”

  “He is your client, Mr. Hammer. He has told you all in return for an escape route you are to furnish.”

  “That’s a lot of bullshit, you know.”

  A gesture of his hands meant it didn’t make any difference. “You see, as far as certain people are concerned, you are in until they say you’re out. The information Tony had can be worth a lot of money and can cause a lot of killing. One way or another, they expect to get it back.”

  “What happens if the cops get it first?”

  “Nobody really expects that to happen,” he said. He pulled his cuff back and looked at his watch. “If the killer didn’t get the info from Tony he’ll be thinking the same way the others are ... that you have it or know where it is.”

  I took one more sip of my drink and stood up. “I guess everybody wants me dead.”

  “At least certain people are giving you a few days of grace to make a decision.”

  I could feel my lips pulling back in controlled anger and knew it wasn’t a nice grin at all. I pulled the .45 out, watched his eyes go blank until I flipped out the clip and fingered a shell loose. I handed it to him. “Give them that,” I said.

  “What’s this supposed to mean?”

  “They’ll know,” I told him.

  4

  I’ve often wondered how Petey Benson got his information. The phone was his friend and the taxis were his ally. He seemed to know nobody, yet knew everybody. Twice in recent years his inside stories blew two administrations out of office and his penetration into a Wall Street operation almost wrecked a bank. Crime wasn’t his bag, but devious causes were. Breaking down the intricate machinations of the power jockeys brought a glow to his face.

  We met in front of the Plaza Hotel, then ducked inside to the bar. At this time there were only two others at the far end, immersed in their own business. Petey slid an envelope to me and I pulled out two sheets of handwritten notes and a photostat.

  Petey asked me, “Want a drink?”

  I wanted to read the notes, but said, “CC and ginger.”

  What he had scribbled were highlights of Candace Amory’s background. Her family was one of those deadly kind that dropped a smoldering genius into the political arena every other generation, spewing out minor luminaries along the way. None of the Amorys ever really made the big time because they were smart enough to stay where the power base could be manipulated. Within her own family Candace Amory was a wild hair up everybody’s ass, but seemingly controllable.

  It was the photostat that laid it all out. Petey had finished his drink, so I pushed mine over to him. “Where did you get this?” I asked him.

  “Trade secret.”

  What I had was an essay the Ice Lady had written. It was a statement of fact so direct, so concisely put together that I knew this was an exact timetable that Miss Amory was going to adhere to and fulfill. The young Candace was promising that she would be the district attorney of New York City, thence to the governorship of the state and from there to the presidency of the United States.

  If she hadn’t already made it into the DA’s office and already insinuated herself into a first-class, spectacular news story, I would have said it was just the drivel the young and inexperienced enjoy fantasizing about.

  But this was real.

  “Clue me, Petey. Things like this just don’t lay around. Where did you dig it up?”

  “Buy me another drink.”

  I bought him another drink.

  “You haven’t figured it out yet?”

  “No. I’m a dumb detective.”

  “Go to college, Mike?”

  “Sure I did, why?”

  “They make you do an essay on yourself as part of your admittance application?”

  “Damn,” I said. “That was pretty sharp, buddy. And they jus
t handed this over to you?”

  Across his fresh drink he said, “No, I stole it. You see, those are things I know how to do. Help any?”

  “It gives me an edge,” I told him.

  “You’ll need more than that if you tangle assholes with that lady.”

  “Well, no guts, no glory,” I said. I reached in my pocket and dug out some change. “I suppose you know her phone number?”

  He said sure and gave it to me, reminding me that it was unlisted. So much for privacy. “What’re you calling her for?”

  “I’m going to ask her out to supper.”

  “Hell, man, it’s already suppertime. Women don’t buy that kind of action.”

  “This one might,” I said.

  I went out to a pay phone and called the Ice Lady. She said she had nothing better to do and would meet me at the Four Seasons. I told her she would meet me at the Pub on Fifty-seventh Street since I was buying. She knew better than to argue. I had a date.

  Petey said, “Well?”

  I glanced at my watch. “I’ll see her in half an hour.”

  His mouth dropped open. “How did you manage that?”

  “To paraphrase you, old buddy,” I told him, “that is one of the things I know how to do.”

  What I didn’t tell him was that I knew she’d been sitting there waiting for me to call ever since she put on that show with her titties.

  The Irishman who ran the Pub gave me a big hello, reserved a table for me in back and set up a Miller Lite on the bar while I waited. I was early because I knew she’d be early. Anyone who wanted the presidency had to be early.

  She smiled coming in the door and I said, “Good evening, Miss Amory.”

  “Hello, Mr. Hammer. Am I in time?”

  “Right on the button. Want a drink at the bar or shall we go back to the table?”

  “Oh, let’s go to the table. It’s been a long day. I’d rather sit down.”

  I waved toward the rear and let her follow the waiter. The Pub had good Irish class, great corned beef and typical New York customers. It wasn’t upper crust and the elite choose other places to see or be seen, and from her surreptitious motions I knew Candace Amory was putting it in a niche of its own, adding another check mark on my character sheet.

  When we sat down I said, “It’s a good address.”

  Puzzled, she looked at me, a cigarette halfway to her lips. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I pointed to the butt between her fingers. “Why do you smoke?”

  “Habit I suppose.” Again she seemed puzzled.

  “A mouth like yours doesn’t need a cigarette in it.”

  Her tongue flicked out and wet her lips. “Oh? What does it need, Mr. Hammer?”

  I gave her a little smile and her face got red. I got her off the hook nice and easy. “How about a hot corned beef sandwich?”

  For a minute there some of the frost had melted on the Ice Lady, but the confusion only lasted a few moments. At least the first points were mine. She put the cigarette down.

  A lot of things can get said across a dinner table. The mere fact of eating gives you time to think, to plan, to probe. We each had our own reasons for being there and all the weapons were out in the open.

  The lady was coolly conscious of the way her dress accentuated the curve of her bosom, showing you just so much, yet letting you know there was so much more to be seen. When she’d walked to the table, shrugging the coat off her shoulders, she knew that eyes were watching her, drinking up her catlike grace, taking in sharp breaths at the sensuous rhythm of her walk. Now I had all her weaponry concentrated on me and I was glad I had enough years on me to tell me not to get blindsided like an amateur.

  “Tell me, Mr. Hammer ...”

  “Mike.”

  “Then you may call me Candace.”

  “Never Candy?”

  “No, never. And I am Candace only socially.”

  “Wouldn’t be proper at a board meeting?” She smiled. “Nor in a courtroom.”

  “Now what did you want me to tell you?” I asked.

  “What your motives are in asking me for supper.”

  I took another bite of the corned beef. “To get you to open up and let me in on what’s happening. Our Penta guy is getting some pretty high-level attention.”

  “Deservedly so.”

  “Bradley never mentioned the name of the agent who was murdered.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Do you know?”

  She shook her head. “Nor do I want to. Dead men are ... dead. The live ones can be made to talk and put on a witness stand. We are looking for a multiple killer now, a torture murderer who has to be stopped before he gets to somebody else.”

  “And that’s what you really wanted to know in the beginning, wasn’t it, Candace?”

  This time her expression went through a variety of phases before it steadied into a defiant stare. “Tell me,” she said deliberately.

  “How come I’m not scared to death to be out alone knowing Penta wanted me? If I was the one he wanted.”

  “You amaze me, Mike. Why aren’t you?”

  “All of a sudden I’m on my toes. I don’t feel like being mugged again. I don’t like being a target, either, so the first slob who goes to do a heavy on me is going to get a slug up his kiester. Or wherever.”

  “Wherever sounds better.” This time she got into her sandwich.

  “Tell me something, Candace, aren’t you spooked about the way all this is being handled?” She kept eating, waiting for an explanation. “Everybody is talking to me, inviting me in for open conferences, ostensibly giving me classified information ... everything that’s in direct violation of law-enforcement practices.”

  “Not necessarily. Witnesses can be treated ... in a friendly fashion.”

  “Again, pardon the language, bullshit. You damn well know that I’m not anything so far. I’m an innocent bystander in a murder, a victim in a mugging and a suspect of an indefinable sort at this point. But I’m something else too, lady. I’m a guy with a reputation that has to hold the line. I’m a damn headhunter and I get the feeling every one of you are standing by waiting to see who makes the first move and hoping I can simplify your case with a .45 in Penta’s nose.”

  She took a ladylike nibble at her sandwich. “Very forcefully said.”

  “So why the heavy hitters from the agencies?”

  Once again she timed it nicely, finishing her coffee before she made her decision. “My friend Jerome Coleman was formerly with the FBI.”

  I took a wild shot. “He was one of your instructors at the academy in Norfolk, wasn’t he?” The guess was right and caught her completely off guard.

  “Why ... yes.” Her eyes were asking me a question.

  “Just something I picked up,” I said. Her association with the FBI would be public information, but not her friendship with Coleman. “Go on.”

  “He was in my office when we got news of the murder in your office. The name Penta touched something in his memory and he called Frank Carmody. That’s when the federal agencies came into the picture. Penta was wanted for the murder of their man overseas.”

  “They must have a description of him,” I suggested.

  “Not an iota. No prints, no photos, nothing.”

  “Where did all this happen?”

  “England. Somewhere in England. Outside Manchester, I think.”

  “Yet they know his name.”

  “Yes. I don’t know how.”

  I was getting some ideas, but they would take time to look into. Now I had to let her have her turn. I said, “What can I do for you?”

  She looked down at the small diamond-studded watch on her wrist. “Take me home, for one thing. We can talk on the way.”

  I paid the bill and walked her out of the place, enjoying the envious looks I got. This time her walk was more sedate, but she couldn’t hide the contours of her body. A cab was at the curb and we got in and she gave the driver her address. We were almost there when
I said to her, “You haven’t answered my question yet, Candace.”

  “I’ve been told you’re very aggressive,” she started.

  “Sure, I’m in a tough business.”

  “Then tell me ... what do you plan on doing about this ... matter?”

  The lady asked some dramatic questions, all right. The cab pulled up outside her apartment, a uniformed doorman ran up, opened the door and we got out. He said good evening to Candace, barely nodded to me, then seemed to recognize me and nodded again, annoyed because he didn’t remember my name.

  “Would you care to come up for a drink?”

  No way I’d spoil her plan of attack. I said yes, went inside, took the elevator up to the twelfth floor and did the bit of opening the door for her with her own keys.

  Miss Candace Amory lived like the princess she was. The place was magazine-picture perfect, a miniature New York castle that unlimited money could buy. The damned place even looked comfortable. I think the music started automatically when we walked in, something low and sultry and classical. It was nearly nine thirty and I wondered when Ravel’s Bolero would come on.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Appreciating your house.”

  “Is it suitably seductive?”

  “Fits you well,” I said.

  She laughed, said, “I suppose now I should go in and put on something more comfortable. Is that my line?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I can handle buttons and snaps.”

  “Touché. Make us a drink while I call my office.”

  I went to the bar and built a pair of highballs. I put them on the coffee table and took a seat in the overstuffed chair across from the matching sofa. I wondered how she would handle this one.

  She listened to her messages, wrote down some notes, then dialed again. The person she spoke to was the district attorney. She told him she’d be home all night, then came over, picked up her drink and eased herself down on the sofa. “Afraid of me?”

  “Nope.” I lifted my glass in a toast. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” she said. “Once more. What are your plans?”

  “Legally,” I told her, “I have no position at all. I can contribute knowledge and information to the police department and associated agencies, but I stay hands-off on the case itself.”