by Brad Latham
Lockwood nodded wearily and slowly let Raff Spencer slip off his body onto the couch, a few feet from where Muffy sat, dressed now, but haphazardly, the buttons not mated to their respective holes, her hair mussed, her face red and marked, probably from being dug as far into the carpet as it could get.
Raff was beginning to stir. “Better handcuff him,” Lockwood told Brannigan. A cop near Lockwood took out his handcuffs and looked inquisitively at his superior.
Brannigan gave him no answer, instead asking Lockwood, “Why?”
“He killed Stephanie Meilleux, Set up the robbery.”
Brannigan didn’t even bother looking at the cop. “Cuff him,” was all he said.
Lockwood suddenly realized he didn’t feel too good. He lowered himself into a chair and fought to keep from losing his breakfast.
“Take a look at his arm,” Brannigan told the doctor who’d just arrived.
“Did you recover the jewels?” he asked.
The Hook looked around, surprised. “Didn’t you find them when you came in?”
“No.”
Lockwood’s eye dropped to the floor where he’d last seen them. Then he looked at Muffy. She was staring into space, seemingly out of it.
“Muffy,” he said firmly. “I want the jewels.”
She looked at him, and then away.
“Muffy.”
She ignored him.
He raised up a bit in the chair, and his voice made even Brannigan look uneasy. “Take off your blouse.”
You could see she was trying to fight him, but already her body had sagged, her eyes gone frightened and childlike.
“Do it.”
Everything about her suddenly softened into something submissive, and her hand went to her shirt.
“What’s the idea?” Brannigan began, but then his mouth fell open as Muffy reached down between her breasts and pulled all of it out; necklace, earrings, bracelet, her hand going back each time for another article. And then she sat there, quiet and passive, palm upturned in her lap, the jewels glittering as they lay over her flesh and the rich material of her skirt.
“What’s she doin’ with them?” Brannigan asked, as puzzled-looking as Lockwood had ever seen him.
“I’ll explain later,” The Hook said. “Could you send somebody down the fire stairs for my jacket and what’s left of my shirt?”
The people in the lobby stared as they trooped through: the cops, Brannigan, the two ambulance drivers with the stretcher carrying Jock Bunche, the doctor, coroner, the manacled Raff, Muffy, also in handcuffs, and the battered Lockwood.
In the street, a crowd formed around them, the meat wagon pulling away first, then a silent and subdued Raff in the first police car driving off. Muffy was in the back seat of the other cop car, next to Brannigan. She was coming back to herself, and had the window open, chattering at Lockwood.
“Nothing will happen to me, you know,” she insisted, hands daintily rebuttoning her blouse, her hair already in place, every strand of it. “I’m so tangentially involved, really, what can they possibly accuse me of? Besides,” she added brightly, “I’ve got money, you know. My family can afford to hire the best lawyers. And we will.”
Lockwood just looked at her, saying nothing.
This seemed to nettle her, and she began working harder, trying to get a response. “You know, I was angry with you. Very, very angry. But I’m not anymore. You’re a very exciting man. Doing what you did to Jock. And then to Raff.” She was beginning to look herself again, golden and healthy and beautiful, and totally involved with no one but herself.
“What an idiot that Jock was. He wasn’t supposed to be noisy and rude on opening night. That was to be the second night. But like everything he did, he got it all wrong. You could never be like that. By the way,” she smiled up at him, “I’m still planning that party. And I still love my idea, don’t you? You know, where you pretend you’re the security guard, and….”
She was still talking as the car drew away, shouting back at him as it moved off into traffic. The Hook stood there for a moment, impassive, watching the flawless skin and the shining blond hair grow smaller and smaller, fading into the distance. Then, he turned on his heel and walked away.
THE ALL-AMERICAN BLONDE
in the black satin gown is
wailing in the nightclub spotlight.
She can’t sing worth a damn.
But the legs are great and
they’re only a sample of
the rest of the package.
Trouble is her jewels are missing, and
her boyfriends keep turning up dead.
THE HOOK
is on the case.
He’s Bill Lockwood, insurance investigator.
Background: Ivy League and
the hell of World War I.
He wears a Brooks Brothers suit—
and a Colt .38.
And someone’s trying to splatter him
on the sidewalks of New York.
