The Killing Man

by Mickey Spillane

  “Who else gets this research?”

  “This is departmental business. Pat gets it. How he disseminates it is up to him. With you it’s off the record. I guess you know that.”

  “No sweat. What I heard here I leave here. Thanks for the information.”

  “You know somethin‘? For a private cop you got the damnedest connections I’ve ever seen. You go in and outa the department like you really belonged there. You rub asses with the hotshots, walk through the shitpiles without stepping in it and come up smelling like a guy fresh outa the barber shop.”

  “You jealous?”

  “Nope, just curious as hell.” He started to cough again and stuck the cigarette pack in his pocket.

  “Those things are going to kill you,” I said.

  He gave me a cold-blooded grin. “Right now I’d say my chances are ‘bout the same as yours.”

  “Sure they are,” I said sourly, shaking my head.

  He waved the smoke away with his hand as I headed to the door. “Stay alive, Mike,” he said to my back.

  There was no way I could have avoided the three reporters on the main floor. They were waiting for anyone involved in the investigation of Smiley’s killing, hoping to get Pat, and I walked right into them. They would have had the official version as far as it went, but they were all old-timers and smelled a story brewing that hadn’t erupted into the news yet. Two of them remembered me from a couple other wild sorties and a major court case three years ago. I had always made good copy, and now with the kill in my office and me on the scene of another one, they were trying to make a chain out of something that was only a pile of loose links so far.

  I didn’t lie to them. They were too good at putting things together. I didn’t tell them everything either, and they knew it. What they got, the cops already had, so I didn’t leave myself open.

  The one reporter who had just been jotting things down when the others put the questions to me finally said, “That guy really messed up your girl, didn’t he?”

  My hands locked up again and I could feel the muscles in my neck go tight. “I’d like to kill that fucker,” I said. My voice was suddenly harsh and I spat on the floor.

  “She your girl?” he asked quietly. I caught myself just in time. He was watching me carefully, mentally recording my reaction.

  “Velda works for me,” I said. “We’re old friends.” I didn’t go any further and before he could press it, Pat came in the front doors with Candace Amory and two of the reporters half-ran to intercept them. The other took his time, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. I was glad when he joined the others.

  Pat and Candace dealt with them in a fast and friendly manner, then turned them over to the PR cop who was standing by. Pat had spotted me the minute he came in and waved his thumb at the elevator. The door closed and we started up. “What’re you doing here?” Pat said.

  “I thought you wanted a statement.”

  Candace gave us both a sharp look. “Didn’t you give one to the officer at the scene?” Her tone was like a reprimand.

  I kept my face flat. “Not in superfine detail, lady.”

  “We’ve done this before,” Pat told her brusquely. The door opened at his floor and we got off and went into his office. Pat went behind his desk, I eased into the comfortable chair by the window and Candace walked. It was an animal walk. It was a cat walk, an annoyed pissed-off strut that only a woman with a hair up her ass can do. When she stopped she stared straight at Pat and half hissed, “What’s with you two?”

  “Ask him.” Pat didn’t bother to look at her.

  Her eyes reached for me next. “I don’t believe this ... this comfortable arrangement. You’d think you were ranking officer in the department ...”

  “I’m licensed.”

  “Where did you ever learn—”

  “I’ve been through the FBI school, sat through all the sessions at the New York Police Academy, went through the fire marshal’s school here in the city ... want more?”

  Pat was really grinning now. “Ask him how he managed it. Sure makes a good story.”

  “And Pat and I were in the army together,” I added. “But don’t think I get extra privileges.”

  “Horseshit,” she said, and started to smile. When she walked to a chair and sat down it was still a cat walk, but now it was loose and easy.

  There were two eight-by-ten glossies on Pat’s desk and he handed them to me. “This thing is starting to pull in tight. Take a look.”

  One photo showed four barely discernible shoe-prints and the other was an enlargement of one of them.

  “What do you think?”

  “They look like moccasins. The sole and heel are all one.”

  “Right, and they’re different sizes ... two people.”

  He had me puzzled. “So?”

  “See the enlargement?”

  This time I looked at it carefully. There were odd geometric patterns from the sole in the print. I took a minute before it hit me. “Those are boating shoes ... nonskid soles. They come in all styles, from canvas to classics.”

  “That’s right,” Pat agreed. “Suggest anything?”

  It was all going over Candace’s head and the expression she wore was sheer bewilderment. I nodded. “They were pros, all right. They would be dress uppers and working lowers.”

  “That’s not all.” He picked up the phone, punched a number and told the listener to come to the office. In two minutes the cop who did the photography came in and handed Pat two more blowups, turned and left.

  He studied them for a few seconds, then let me see them. There were those soles again.

  “Whoever wore those shoes killed Smiley,” he said. “This one’s the same size as the one on the other shot, and you know where they came from, don’t you?”

  I handed the photos to Candace to look at. “Those were the ones who worked me over, weren’t they?” Pat was looking smug. “Damn good police work, pal.”

  He appreciated the compliment. “We’re pretty good pros too. The manufacturer of those shoes has been identified and is sending a list of outlets that sell them, though that may not be much help. But shoes are things people keep, so we have something else to look for.”

  “What leads do you have, Captain?”

  He didn’t mention the tape I had given him. Pat could work closely with the DA, but he didn’t have to get in bed with him. “There are things we are processing right now,” he told her. “We should have some results shortly.”

  I felt like I was in the middle of a dream. Pat was talking to her and I could hear but I wasn’t listening. Their voices were a far-off drone and I was sitting in the darkened garage tied to a chair, my mind stupefied from an injected drug. I was being induced to remember someone called Penta, but there was no way I could remember anything except a dream of someone behind me gagging and muttering a curse then forcefully spitting out something ugly.

  Pat said, “You with us, Mike?”

  I jolted alert. “Sorry about that. I was trying to remember something.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not quite.” Apparently Candace had finished her conversation with Pat during my dream sequence and she was putting on touches of lipstick. My stomach was growling, telling me I hadn’t eaten all day. “Anybody for an early supper?”

  “Another time,” Pat told me.

  I held out an offering hand to Candace. She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I’m meeting with Bennett Bradley and Mr. Coleman in a little while.” Her eyes caught mine over the top of her mirror. “But I’ll join you for a drink when we’re finished.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up where?”

  “At my office. Sevenish sound all right?”

  “Perfect,” I said. “What’ll we talk about?”

  She ran her tongue over her mouth to wet the lipstick. She didn’t look up. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Pat didn’t have to say a word. I knew what he was thinking.

  A hot, soapy
shower turned me new again. I turned the power head from a stinging needle spray to the thudding vibrating sequence, then back to normal for a final five minutes while I shaved my beard off under the running water.

  When I dried off, I pulled my Jockey shorts on, made a tall CC and ginger with a twist and turned on the phone recorder. The first call was from the dry cleaners telling me my clothes were ready. The second was from Russell Graves in Manchester, England, who wanted me to return his call. He gave me the number and I put the phone on my shoulder and dialed it.

  The British phone did its double burp, rang twice, and a heavily accented voice said, “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Russell? This is Mike Hammer. What’s happening?”

  This time he didn’t sound flippant at all. “Mr. Hammer ... I think you had better know, well ... this business with the mutilated fingers?” “Yes?” “Twice I have been called upon by persons I suspect are from the police. They wanted to know about my interest in the... the dead man.” “Did they identify themselves?”

  I heard him swallow. “They didn’t have to. They have a way about them, y‘know.”

  “Russell, you are in England, buddy. The police don’t work that way.”

  “These were... a different sort of police.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “British intelligence agents don’t work under the same rules as our bobbies.”

  “They threaten you?”

  “Let me say . . . they were threatening. Only when they determined I was a bona fide reporter did they leave. The implication I got was... that I was an unwelcome intruder.”

  “Did they say that?”

  “It was what they didn’t say, y‘know. I’m afraid there’s something very big in the wind. They were very frightening.”

  “Why the call then?”

  “Because . . . one mentioned, well, rather out of turn, I doubt if he was aware of it . . . not to go looking for ‘the others.’ Now, he might have said ‘any others,’ but I’m quite sure he said ‘the others.’ In that case, there would be more.”

  “Beautiful, Russell, you did fine. Don’t go out looking for any of them.”

  “Oh, you can be sure of that, Mike. I’m really not into violence. Those men were quite burly. Knew what they were about too. Thought you’d want to know, however.”

  I thanked him again and hung up.

  I sure was in the middle of something.

  They hadn’t quite finished their meeting when I got to Candace Amory’s office. Her door was open and I could hear their quietly argumentative voices down the hall. In a steely tone I heard Coleman say, “In all this time there has to be somebody able to identify him. This one-name ‘Penta’ business must have some significance.”

  “Well, we’re coordinating all the information the embassy’s gathered in. We really haven’t all that many men in the field—”

  I interrupted him from the doorway. “Why not, Mr. Bradley?”

  The interplay of glances between the three of them was quick. Candace reacted with sudden surprise and I knew she had forgotten our date for a drink. Before she could answer, Bradley said, “Why should we? A couple of killings—”

  “Cut the crap, Bradley. If this Penta demands State’s being on the scene we’re in a big-league ball game.”

  “Mr. Hammer ...” He turned sharply, facing me, a big guy carrying a lot of federal authority. He was all set to read me right out of the picture, but he wasn’t that big.

  I walked into the room and said, “Which couple of killings are you referring to? I can name three more civilian jobs that carry Penta’s trademark and a lot of others on the political scene without any fingers.” I was lying about the last bunch, but he didn’t know that and I saw him stiffen visibly. He looked at Coleman quickly, then back to me. “How do you know that?”

  Now it was better. He wasn’t challenging me at all. He knew that someplace I had gotten information I wasn’t supposed to have, and he didn’t know what I was going to do with it. I wasn’t somebody he could put a hold on and he had to make up his mind fast.

  I gave him a simple noncommittal shrug.

  Coleman cleared his throat. It had caught him off guard too. “You seem to have some unusual sources, Mr. Hammer.”

  I still didn’t say anything.

  “Did Captain Chambers tell you this?”

  Truthfully, I said, “I don’t think Pat even knows about it.” I was full of truth these days. Ray Wilson probably hadn’t had time to tell him and he didn’t know Russell Graves.

  “And, of course, you aren’t going to tell us where you got the information from.”

  “What difference does it make?” I asked him.

  “Now we all know what the facts are.” Candace Amory’s face seemed to be frozen, but her eyes were blazing. I added, “Too bad you didn’t let the lady district attorney in on your show.”

  Ice was in her voice too.“Yes, that is too bad. I thought we were a team.”

  “We were going to, Miss Amory. For the moment we thought it best to ignore the background and concentrate on the current situation.” Bradley was really trying now. “Perhaps if Mr. Hammer leaves, we can put our cards on the table—”

  I didn’t let him finish. “Why don’t you tell her you’re after a terrorist, Bradley?” I ignored him then and looked at Candace. “He’s a hit man, kid. A coolly professional killer who can work in the big time and enjoys signing his work with finger mutilation. Somebody took him out of his grade and put him in the political arena. Now he’s over here.”

  Candace walked to the door, closed it, then came back to the table. To Bradley she said, “I assume this is true?”

  “Generally, yes.”

  While the static was still in the air I said, “Why don’t you put the cards on the table, people? Whether you like it or not, I’m in. There’s no way you can cut me out now.”

  Before Bradley could stop her, Candace looked directly at him, but was speaking to me. “Mr. Bradley is the State Department’s expert on this Penta person. I though his assignment was fairly recent, but it looks like he’s been at it for some time now. Is that right, Mr. Bradley? Or do I reach my associates in Washington to find out?”

  There was no embarrassment in Bradley’s face at all. They train the State guys well. When something sours, they go with the play and take the best way out.

  He talked to me too, but his eyes were on hers. “Yes, it’s quite true. I have led a specially selected team to locate and seize Penta for the past eleven years. We’ve gotten close several times, so have the British, but every time he has eluded us. There have been nine important political assassinations credited to him, but on these there were no mutilations. Instead, there was a simple slash across the backs of all four fingers and the thumb in each case. Rather than leaving a signature, he was initialing his work. When our agent apparently surprised him in England, he reverted to his previous method of total finger amputation to show his displeasure.”

  “Who’s his boss?” I asked him.

  “It would have to be an unfriendly. Somebody funds him well.”

  From the side, Coleman cut in with, “We suspect that he could be somebody in a low level of politics or a police organization. The way he moves, he seems to have a great deal of insight into our activities.”

  “And if you must know, Mr. Hammer, it was because of the death of our agent in England that I was removed from my post and brought back to the States.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I’m the only one who has had any previous experience with this person’s operation. When Victor Starson gets here, I’ll be relieved and transferred to Washington.”

  “Meanwhile,” I reminded him, “Penta is here.”

  “And so are you, Mr. Hammer. Please remember that it was you he came for.”

  “Now we’re back to square one. I’m a political zero. I have no ties to government policy in any way. I’m the one big mistake in this scenario.” />
  “This killer hasn’t made a mistake yet,” Bradley said softly. “As long as his identity is an absolute mystery, all the odds are on his side.”

  “Buddy, he’s no ghost. He’s been seen by a lot of people. Trouble is, they never knew who they were looking at.” I paused and looked at all three of them. To Bradley I said, “But you are wrong about him never making a mistake.”

  They waited to hear the rest of it, but I looked at my watch, then at Candace. “We going to get that drink, Miss Amory?”

  But Coleman wouldn’t let it drop. “You were saying, Mr. Hammer . . .”

  “I was saying that this is a police matter in the City of New York and you’ll just have to wait for Captain Chambers to release any fresh information. You ready, Miss Amory?”

  Everybody left. The good-byes were fuzzy. Candace and I got in a cab and I had the driver take us to the Old English Tavern. Petey Benson was at the bar talking baseball to a yuppie type and almost dropped his teeth when he saw me with Candace.

  I nudged Candace’s shoulder. “Care to meet a fan?”

  “Does he vote?”

  “What difference does it make? You were appointed.”

  “One day that will change.”

  “He votes,” I told her.

  She smiled pleasantly. “Then by all means, introduce us.”

  Petey was a little uncertain about taking the hand she held out, but grinned and gave her fingers a squeeze. He appreciated civilian authority from an objective viewpoint, not this close. “Petey’s one of the good-guy reporters, Miss Amory. Got real hidden talents.”

  “Wonderful,” she said.

  Silently, Petey was kicking my tail.

  I told him, “You feel like doing me a favor, pal?”

  “Nope, I don’t ever . . .”

  “Get into your files and get me some information on DiCica. Not his record or any late stuff. Go back as far as you can.”