The Killing Man

by Mickey Spillane

  “In my business the longevity factor is pretty lousy, Doctor. It makes business for you and a mess out of marriages.” I changed the subject and handed him the broken partial plate from the garage.

  He took it, turned it around and looked at it from all angles. “What am I supposed to say about it?”

  “What are the chances of having this identified?”

  “I assume you mean by the police?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, they send dental X rays, photos of partials and full dental plates and patients’ charts around the country. I don’t know what percentage results in an accurate identification by the technicians who did the work, but I know there have been numerous successes.” He reached out and dropped the partial in my hand. “A display this small wouldn’t be easy to track. Its very simplicity is the trouble.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  “The police are pretty resourceful, Mike. Their modern technology is awesome.”

  “Sure, when it can be concentrated.”

  “Can’t you narrow this down any?”

  I gave him a nice grin. “Burkey-boy, you are one hell of a smart medicine man.” I flipped the partial in the air, caught it and dropped it in my pocket.

  Burke reached in the drawer and pulled out a small pill-sample envelope. “Let’s be neat with that thing.”

  He watched me drop it in, seal it shut and put it away again. I told him thanks for his trouble, went down to the street and waved at a passing cab.

  Pat rolled the tooth between his fingers before he laid it on top of the desk. “You come up with the damnedest things, Mike.”

  “Your guys didn’t do a good sweep on that garage.”

  “Maybe if you had come right in that night the guys wouldn’t have been so loose about it.” I nodded. He was right on that. “What am I supposed to do with this anyway? And don’t say try to trace it. We’re not dealing with a dead body or a missing person, so what’s the priority? There’s probably been a million of these partials—”

  “Hold it, Pat,” I interrupted. “Just go to a pair of sources on this one. Check it out with the dental charts on FBI and CIA agents.”

  “Are you nuts!” Pat exploded. “You think our guys are going to pull a stunt like that?”

  “Why not?”

  He scanned my face. “Give me a reason. And not that bullshit about having a feeling.”

  “There was a finesse to the situation,” I said. They were after one answer, nothing more. They didn’t even try to kick the crap out of me for getting in a couple of good shots where they hurt. They left my rod alone. They had access to sodium Pentothal, they swabbed my arm with alcohol before injecting me. This is stuff guys with training will do automatically.“

  “Suppose it doesn’t pay off?”

  “You won’t know until you try, will you?”

  “Inquiries like this can raise a few eyebrows.”

  “Pat,” I said, “you know and I know that all of us have strange connections in odd places. The New York Police Department is a powerhouse, baby, and when they ask, everybody listens. Just go to your connections, kid.”

  The hard look on his face softened into an annoyed frown and he nodded agreement. “Okay, it’s a possible, so I’ll put it through.”

  “Good.”

  I started to get up and he said, “Wait.” He found a message slip under his desk blotter and handed it to me. “Here is a connection for you to go to, old buddy. Good luck.”

  Candace Amory had left a number for me to call.

  “But let’s keep our priorities straight first, Mike. You have something going for you, haven’t you?”

  “Like you said, a possible. Nothing concrete.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it, and cut the garbage about it just being an idea.”

  “No problem, but tell me ... how many guys you got working on my abduction?”

  “Guess.”

  “One.”

  “Right on.”

  “And what did he come up with?”

  Pat’s expression was a little shrewd. “I think we’ve been friends too long. You go first.”

  “Smiley’s a middleman for somebody. That garage of his might make money, but it’s a damn front.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  This time it was my turn to grin a little. “I might be able to do it better than you can. My rules are different. Now, what do you know?”

  “We’re on the same track, I think. Trouble is ... if he’s on some kind of a payoff, he isn’t leaving any tracks. He lives in a cheap apartment, has an old car ...” “And says he plays the ponies,” I put in.

  “Who’s to say he doesn’t? This time he did leave town ... we checked him out ... and probably did hit the track to keep his cover straight.”

  “You’ve been working, Pat.”

  “New York’s Finest on the job,” he said. “My guy tells me you’ve been nosing around the area down there.”

  Just trying to help. In this case, I’m my own client if there’s any controversy about legitimacy.“

  “So far, no squawks. If there were it would have hit the fan by now. The Terrible Trio have been prowling around here all day going through mug shots and burning up the phones.”

  “What trio?”

  “Coleman, Bradley and your candy lady,” he said.

  “I don’t get State’s involvement in this thing, Pat. Why would they want a rep on the ground floor? We’re dealing with a killer, not international intrigue. So Penta nailed one of their guys overseas ... and got an ex-mobster here ...”

  “He was looking for you.”

  “Balls. I don’t buy it. I’m no damn motive.”

  “Mike ... somehow you’re in this up to your ears.”

  “Yeah, great,” I said.

  “Cover your ass, pal. You prowl around like you own the city and somebody is sure as hell going to take you out.”

  I looked at my watch and stood up. “I won’t make it easy for him.”

  They knew me at the hospital, but wanted to see my ID anyway. A new cop on the door scanned my PI ticket, driver’s license, checking my face against the photo, before letting me into Velda’s room.

  “Hey, kid,” I said softly.

  In the dim light I saw her head turn slightly and knew she was awake. They had propped her up, the sheet lying lightly across her breasts, her arms outside it. The facial swelling had lessened, but the discoloration still put a dark shadow on her face. One eye still was closed and I knew smiling wasn’t easy.

  “Do I look terrible?”

  I let out a small laugh and walked to the bed. “I’ve seen you when you looked better.” I took her hand in mine and let the warmth of her seep into me. Inside, I could feel a madness clawing at my guts, scratching at my mind because somebody did this to her. They took soft beauty and a loving body and tried to smash it into a lifeless hulk because it was there in the way and killing was the simple way of moving it.

  “Mike, don‘t,” she said.

  I sucked my breath in, held it, then eased it out. I was squeezing her hand too hard and relaxed my fingers. “Everything okay, kitten?”

  “Yes. They’re taking care of me.” She tilted her head up. “I miss you.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s been happening?”

  I filled her in with some general information, but she stopped me. She wanted details, so I gave them to her.

  Finally, after thinking a few minutes, she said, “The one you call the ‘walker’ ... it was him all right.”

  “It’s not much of an identification.”

  “Maybe ... I can add something,” she said. “If that caller ... the one who made the appointment to see you ... is the walker, or the one you call Penta ...”

  “What about him?”

  “I taped that incoming call. You could get a voice-print off that and keep it for a match-up.”

  “Damn!” It was beautiful, all we needed was a suspect to tie into, but at least it was a
plus. Generally, incoming calls aren’t monitored so the caller wouldn’t be wary about leaving his voice recorded.

  “How come you had it on?”

  “I was getting ready to call Byers for those figures you wanted. He’s always in a hurry, so I’d tape him and transcribe everything later.”

  “Where’s the tape, honey?”

  “I put it ... in the Byers file.”

  “Velda doll, I could kiss you.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  I grinned at her. “Will it hurt?”

  “Not that much.”

  I put my hands on the mattress and bent down so my face was close to hers. Her tongue slipped between her lips, wetting them, and as my mouth touched hers she closed the one eye. A kiss is strange. It’s a living thing, a communication, a whole wild emotion expressed in a simple moist touch and when her tongue barely met mine, a silent explosion. We felt, we tasted, then satisfied, separated.

  “You know what you do to me?” I asked her.

  She smiled.

  “Now I’m horny as hell and I can’t go out in the hall like this. Not yet.”

  “You can kiss me again while you’re waiting.”

  “No. Ill need a cold shower if I do.” I stood up, still feeling her mouth on mine. “I’ll be back tomorrow, kitten.”

  Her smile was crooked and her eye laughed. “What are you going to do with ... that?” she asked me.

  “Hold my hat over it,” I told her.

  The night watchman at the desk told me hello and added, “Working late tonight?”

  I signed the entry list. “Just picking up some things.”

  “How’s Velda doin‘?”

  “Coming along fine.”

  “Damn shame, that. The cops got anybody yet?”

  “No, but they’re working on it.” I gave him back the form and headed for the elevator bank.

  Only at night do you realize that an office building is almost alive. Suddenly there is no movement and what sound there is has a hollow ring to it and seems to be amplified far beyond normal. The lighting has changed and you get to thinking about funeral parlors and look for coffins in the darkened corners. What was alive during the day is dead at night.

  I pulled the .45 out, threw the safety off and cocked it. I tried the door handle first, making sure it was locked, then slipped the key in and turned it soundlessly. I gave it a full ten seconds, then knelt down, shoved the door open and went in fast, hit the floor in a roll and came up against the cabinets on the far side with the gun in my fist ready to fire.

  There still was no sound or movement after thirty seconds, and I felt for the light switch above my head and flipped it on. The room was empty. So was my inner office.

  Had anybody been watching it would have been a good show, but I wasn’t taking any chances at this point. I closed and locked the door, went to the smaller of the filing cabinets and opened the drawer with Byers’ file in it. The miniature spool of tape was in the folder. At Velda’s desk I flipped open the recorder and slipped the spool in, then punched the play button.

  Three brief messages came on before Velda’s voice said, “Michael Hammer Investigations.”

  The man’s tone was muffled, as though he held the phone a little away from him and spoke through a handkerchief. “Yes,” he said. “Would it be possible for me to see Mr. Hammer today? Noon today would be best.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hammer doesn’t come in on Saturday.”

  “Is it ... is it possible to contact him?”

  “Well, that all depends. Can you tell me who is calling and the nature of your business?”

  There was a brief moment of thoughtful hesitancy before he said, “My name is Lewison, Bruce Lewison ... and my business is extremely urgent.”

  Velda persisted with: “Who recommended this agency, sir?”

  Politely, the other voice said, “I’m afraid my business is a little too confidential to discuss. However, if you would relay to Mr. Hammer the urgency I’m sure he would understand. And I can pay for his services in advance if need be.”

  I could almost hear Velda’s mind working. “In that case, sir, I’m sure he’d be glad to see you. I’ll have him here at noon.”

  “I appreciate that, madam. Thank you.”

  The conversation ended. The voice was nobody I could recognize, nor could anybody else, most likely, but in this age of electronic technology the experts could pull a voiceprint off that tape that would make identification as exact as if he had left his fingerprints behind. I rewound the tape, took it from the case, put it in a plastic holder and dropped it in my pocket. I got a fresh reel from the drawer and put it on the machine.

  When I closed the top my fingers froze to the plastic. There was no way Velda would have left the answering machine without a tape in it. A fresh one would go on before she even filed the old one.

  The son of a bitch had come back. He had figured out the remote possibility of having been recorded, did a highly skilled job of opening the door locks and searching the place, the way a real enterprising reporter might. But he had already gotten what he came for ... the tape from the recorder.

  Too bad, sucker, I thought, too bad.

  He wasn’t up on efficient office procedure at all. He never figured Velda would file his taped message and insert a new reel before he got there. But then, he didn’t know Velda’s sensitivity level at all. Bruce Lewison my ass. She knew it was a phony name and red-flagged it for me in an off-file.

  I got out of the cab at the rear of my apartment building and went down the garage ramp. I took the service elevator up to my floor, stepped out at the far end of the corridor where I had a good view of the whole area, then went to my door. The splinter I had inserted between the door and the jamb was still there, so nobody had tried to bust in.

  The late news was on. I built a drink and sat in front of the TV watching everybody go through the motions of laying the city naked. Local politics was still a mess, but the mayor did his funny bit and made a joke of it. There was a street killing, a multicar accident on the East Side Highway and a tenement fire on One Hundred Twelfth Street. Almost the same as the news last night.

  When I was putting some more ice in my drink the phone rang and I picked it up and said hello. A voice in an echo chamber with a British accent said, “Mr. Hammer, is that you?”

  “Russell?”

  “Yes, right. This is he. I have some news for you.”

  “Great.”

  “I must say, it was a bit of a go, y‘know. Very difficult to get any information from the authorities except that the case was still under investigation. The people here knew that an American was killed, but didn’t know why. The thing that was gruesome was the way he died. A knife in his throat was the murder weapon, but his fingers had been cut off his right hand.”

  “Did the press carry that?”

  “Afraid not, old boy. The only one here who knew about it was the man who discovered the body. Getting him to talk wasn’t easy at all. The constabulary had explicitly forbidden him to mention it to anyone.”

  “Then how’d you manage it?”

  “Very simply, Mr. Hammer. I offered him twenty-five pounds and my vow of silence.”

  “Russell,” I told him, “you did fine. I’ll send you a check at the going rate of exchange.”

  “Don’t forget my football tickets and the story.”

  “You got it, friend.”

  I hung up and sat back with my drink. Now Penta had an MO. He liked to chop off fingers. He took five off the agent in England and ten off the poor slob in my office. The numbers seemed to have a significance. And the chances were, Penta had left his trademark in other places as well. There was always a pattern to mutilations, always a reason for them. The big ones that hit the news generally had sexual overtones, breasts and bellies being targets for a deviate’s knife, or male castration and on into animal and sometimes human sacrifices. Crazy. They were all crazy ... but every one of them had a reason for happening. />
  Penta. Was there a reference to five? Five fingers? But there were ten cut from DiCica’s hands.

  It was crazy, all right, but that was what was going to trip up Penta. I finished my drink, took a shower and went to bed. I set the alarm for six and set the switch.

  At seven thirty I parked two blocks away from Smiley’s Automotive and walked back on the opposite side of the street. Outside the tire-recapping place a lone truck loaded with used casings was parked, the driver asleep behind the wheel. An old van rattled by and turned the corner up ahead, and that was the end of the traffic. Nobody seemed to be anxious enough about business to open early.

  Smiley’s Automotive was just another place on the block. It was there. Nothing was happening. Behind the dirty windows in the door was the dull glow of a night bulb. After ten minutes nothing had changed and I walked across the street, and only when I got up close I saw the quarter-inch gap in the personnel door where it hadn’t been closed all the way.

  When I nudged it with the tip of my toe it swung open, and I went in fast, the .45 in my hand, and flattened out against the wall long enough to get my bearings, then took four steps to the steel lift and crouched down behind it.

  Nothing moved.

  I inched my way to the other end of the lift and paused there, listening. The tiny scratching noises I heard were coming from the small office in the rear off to my left, minute hurried noises that stopped and started, then were joined by others, and when I heard the brief whistle sound I realized what I was hearing.

  I got up, moved to the door quietly and the rats that were running all over the place saw me and dashed across the desk. When I flicked the light switch on with my elbow I saw all the tiny paw prints and tail streaks from the blood they had been gorging themselves on, a thickening deep red pool that oozed out of the balding head that had been smashed open with a two-foot-long Stilson wrench.

  The body was still in the swivel chair, the head and arms flopped forward on the desk. Apparently that single blow had taken him out so fast he hadn’t moved a muscle afterward. The eyes were still open, half a dead cigar was in the corner of his mouth, extinguished by the blood that puddled around it.