He said, “In a way, it’s a shame to put you to all the trouble. I’ve already canceled the credit cards, but my driver’s license and club cards are really the valuable items.”
“Sorry you didn’t get your money back too. It rarely happens, though, so feel lucky you even got anything.”
“Yes, I do. Very. There’s a matter of a reward that I mentioned.”
“A check to the Police Athletic League will do nicely, Mr. Dorn.”
For the first time Renée Talmage leaned out of the shadows. She was even lovelier than I had taken her to be. I figured her age in the early thirties when a woman was at her best, but it was almost impossible to pin it down accurately. “Mr. Hammer... your name is very familiar.”
I had to give her a silly grin. “Yeah, I know.”
“Are you ...”
I didn’t let her go any further. “Yeah, I’m the one,” I said.
Dorn let out a little laugh and gave us both a quizzical look. “Now what is this all about? Trust Renée here to come up with something odd about even the most complete stranger.”
“What she means, Mr. Dorn, is that I’m not with the police department at all. I’m a licensed private investigator who gets into enough trouble to make enough headlines to be recognized on occasions, which, funny enough, is good for business but hell on the hide occasionally. It was a guy I once knew who had your wallet among others. I located them and I’m paying my last respects by getting them back where they came from.”
Dorn recognized the seriousness in my voice and nodded. “I understand. Quite long ago... I had to do something similar. And this person you knew?”
“Dead now.”
The drinks came then and we raised our glasses to each other, two Manhattans against a highball, tasted them and nodded our satisfaction and put them down. Renée Talmage was still looking at me and Dorn gave me another chuckle. “I’m afraid you’re in for it now. My bloodthirsty co-worker here is an avid follower of mysteries in literature and films. She’ll press you for every detail if you let her.” He reached over and laid his hand on her arm. “Please, dear. The man was a friend of Mr. Hammer.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I have more than one friend with an illegal pastime. Too bad it caught up with him. So far it’s tabbed as murder that came out of an attempted robbery.”
“Attempted?” Renée Talmage leaned forward, the interest plain on her face.
“They never got what they went after. The money was all banked, squirreled away in a neighborhood account.”
“But the wallets ...”
“Discarded,” I told her. “With a guy like him it would be too chancy to risk using credit cards. He just wasn’t the type to own one.”
“And that’s your story,” Dorn said to her. “I think we can talk about more pleasant things while we eat.”
“Spoilsport,” she grimaced. “At last I have a chance to talk to a real private cop and you ruin it.” She looked at me, eyes twinkling. “Look out, Mr. Hammer, I may deliberately cultivate you, regardless.”
“Then start by calling me Mike. This Mr. Hammer routine gives me the squirms.”
Her laugh was rich and warm. “I was hoping you’d ask. So then, I am Renée, but this is William.”
Dorn looked at me sheepishly. “Unfortunately, I never acquired a nickname. Oh, I tried, but I guess I’m just the William type. Odd, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. Look at the trouble our last Vice President had. He had to settle for initials. At least you look like the mister belongs there.”
We ordered then, something in French that turned out to be better than I expected, and between courses Dorn drifted into his business. He had started out during the war years assembling radar components under military contract, developed a few patentable ideas and went on from there. He admitted freely that World War II, Korea and the Vietnam thing made him wealthy, but didn’t hesitate to state that the civilian applications of his products were of far more benefit than could be accrued by the military. Hell, I didn’t disagree with him. You make it whenever and however you can. Separate ethics from business and you get a big fat nothing.
Apparently Renée Talmage had been with him for ten years or so and was a pretty valuable asset to his business. Several times she came up with items of interest that belonged more in a man’s world than a woman’s. Dorn saw my look of surprise and said, “Don’t mind the brainy one, Mike. She does that to me sometimes... the big answers from those pretty lips. I pay her handsomely for her insight and she hasn’t been wrong yet. My only concern is that she might leave me and go in business for herself. That would be the end of my enterprises.”
“I can imagine. I got one like that myself,” I said.
At two thirty I told them I had to split, waited while Dorn signed the tab and walked to the street with them. Someplace the sun had disappeared into the haze and a bank of heavy, low clouds was beginning to roll in again. I offered to drop them off, but Dorn said they were going to walk back and gave me another firm handshake.
When Renée held out her fingers to me her eyes had that sparkle in them again and she said, “I really am going to cultivate you, Mike. I’m going to get you alone for lunch and make you tell me everything about yourself.”
“That won’t be hard,” I said.
Dorn had turned away to say hello to a foursome that followed us out and never heard her soft, impish answer. “It will be, Mike.”
I got back to the office and picked up the mail that had been shoved through the slot in the door and tossed it on Velda’s desk. For five minutes I prowled around, wondering why the hell she didn’t call, then went back to the mail again. There were bills, four checks, a couple of circulars and something I damned near missed, a yellow envelope from the messenger service we sometimes used. I ripped it open and dumped out the folded sheet inside.
The handwriting was hers, all right. All it said was “Call Sammy Brent about theater tickets. Will call office tonight.” The envelope was dated one fifteen, delivered from the Forty-fifth Street messenger service office. Whatever she was getting at was beyond me. Sammy Brent ran a tiny ticket office dealing mainly in off-Broadway productions and dinner theaters in the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut area.
The Yellow Pages listed his agency and I dialed the number, getting a heavy, lower East Side accent in an impatient hello twice. I said, “Sammy?”
“Sure, who else? You think I can afford help here?”
“Mike Hammer, buddy.”
“Hey, Mike, whattaya know?”
“Velda said I should call you about theater tickets. What the hell’s going on?”
“Yeah, yeah. That crazy broad of yours shows up here like some Times Square floozie on the loose and I didn’t even know her. Man, what legs! She’s got her dress up to ... good thing the old lady wasn’t around. Man, she’s got a top and bottom you can’t...”
“What’s with the tickets?”
“Oh.” His voice suddenly went quiet. “Well, she was asking about Lippy Sullivan. Real sorry about that, Mike.”
“I know.”
“Good guy, him. You know, he was hustlin’ for me.”
“What?”
“He picked up extra change scalping tickets. Not for the big shows, but like the regular ones I handle. Conventions come in, those guys got a broad and no place to go, he’d meet them in bars and hotels and hustle tickets.”
“What!”
“He was a good guy, Mike.”
“Look, how’d you pay him?”
“Cash. He’d get a percent of the price over the going rate. Like maybe a buck or two. It was a good deal. We was both satisfied. You know, he was a good talker. He could make friends real easy. That’s why he did pretty good at it. No fortune, but he picked up walking-around money.” When I didn’t answer him he said, “It was okay, wasn’t it, Mike? Like I ain’t the only one who ...”
“It was okay, Sammy. Thanks.”
And it was starting to spell out a brand-new
story.
I searched my memory for the return address that had been on the envelope in Lippy’s garbage, finally remembered it as being simply NEW USED FURNITURE on Eighth Avenue and dug the number out of the directory.
Yes, the clerk remembered Lippy buying a couch. It wasn’t often they sold a new one in that neighborhood. He had picked it out on a Saturday afternoon just a couple of weeks before he died and paid for it in cash with small bills. No, he didn’t say why he wanted it. But permament roomers in the area often changed furniture. The land-lords wouldn’t and what transients usually rented with their meager earnings were hardly worth using. I thanked the clerk and hung up.
When I looked down the .45 was in my hand, the butt a familiar thing against my palm. It was black and oily with walnut grips, an old friend who had been down the road with me a long time.
I slid it back in the holster and walked to the window so I could look out at the big city of fun. The clouds were rolling around the edges, melting into each other, bringing a premature darkness down around the towering columns of brick and steel. It’s a big place, New York. Millions of people who run down holes in the ground like moles, or climb up the sides of cliffs to their own little caves. Most were just people. Just plain people. And then there were the others, the killers. There was one out there now and that one belonged all to me.
Okay, Lippy, the pattern’s showing its weave now. Sammy nailed it down without knowing it. You worked your tail off for an honest buck but you were just too damn friendly. Who did you meet, Lippy? What dip hustling the theater district did you pick up to move in with you? Sure, I could understand it. Dames were out of your line. It was strictly friends and how many did you have? You were glad to have somebody get close to you, to yak with and drink with. You found a friend, Lippy, until you found out he wasn’t honest like you were. You latched onto a lousy cheap crook. What happened, pal? Maybe you located his cache and stuck it where he couldn’t get to it, then dumped those wallets in the garbage. So he came back and tried to take it from you. No, Lippy, there waan’t any reason at all for it, was there? You would have shared your pad, your income, your beer... anything to keep him straight and your friend that you could believe in and trust. No reason for him to kill you at all. Only I have a reason, friend, and my reason is bigger than the one you didn’t have.
All I had to do was find the right pickpocket.
So I sat there and ran it over in my mind until I could see it happen. It shouldn’t be too much of a job now I knew in which direction to take off. There was only that little nagging thought that something was out of focus. Something I should see clearly. It wasn’t that complicated at all.
Outside, the darkness had sucked the daylight out of the city and I sat there watching it fight back with bravely lit windows in empty offices and the weaving beams of headlights from the street traffic. In a little while the flow would start from the restaurants to the theaters and it would be the working hour for the one I wanted. If he was there.
Meyer Solomon was a bailbondsman who owed me a favor and he was glad to pay it back. I asked him to find out if anybody had been booked on a pickpocket charge within the last two days and he told me he’d check it out right away. So I stayed by the phone for another forty minutes until it finally jangled and I picked it up.
“Mike? Meyer here.”
“Let’s have it.”
“Got six of ‘em. Four were bums working the subway on sleepers and the other two are pros. You looking to hire one of ’em?”
“Not quite. Who are the pros?”
“Remember Coo-Coo Weist?”
“Damn, Meyer, he must be eighty years old.”
“Still working, though. Made a mistake when he tried it on an off-duty detective.”
“Who else?”
“A kid named Johnny Baines. A Philly punk who came here about three years ago. Good nimble fingers on that guy. The last time he was busted he was carrying over ten grand. This time he only had a couple hundred on him but it wasn’t his fault.”
“Why not?”
Meyer let out a sour laugh. “Because he was only three hours out of the clink where he spent ninety days on a D and D rap. He never really had a chance to get operating right. You going bail for somebody, Mike?”
“Not this time, Meyer. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Mike.”
I hung up and went back to the window again.
He was still out there somewhere.
I called downstairs, had a sandwich, coffee and the evening papers sent up. The hunt was getting heavier for Schneider’s killers and the reporters were hitting every detail with relish. Another time it would have been funny, because contract killers who blasted one of their own kind seldom got that kind of attention. Right now they’d be running scared, not only from the cops, but from the guy who gave them the job. Their business days were over. Two National Guard units were being called out on a security maneuver, detailed upstate. The same thing was happening in five other states. In view of the tense international situation the military deemed it smart policy to stay prepared. It made for lots of space, dozens of pictures and if somebody was lucky they might come up with something. Somehow I didn’t feel very excited about sitting on the edge of annihilation.
At twelve fifteen the phone went off beside my ear and I rolled off the old leather couch and grabbed it. My voice still sounded husky from being asleep and I said, “Yeah?”
“Mike?” Her voice sounded guarded.
“Where the hell have you been, Velda?”
“Shut up and listen. I rented one of those fleabag apartments across the street from Lippy’s rooming house, downstairs in the front. If you called Sammy Brent then you have it spotted... the tickets and all?”
“Loud and clear. Lippy had somebody staying with him.”
“That’s what it looks like, but he was never seen going in or out and nobody seems to know a thing about it. Apparently he was a pretty cagy character to get away with that, but I know how he did it. In this neighborhood at the right hours he wouldn’t be noticed at all.”
“All right kid, get with it.”
“Somebody’s in Lippy’s old room right now. I spotted the beam of a pencil flash under the window shade.”
“Damn!”
“I can move in ...”
“You stay put, you hear? I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“That can be too late.”
“Let it. Just watch for me. I’ll get off at the corner and walk on up. Cover the outside and keep your ass down.”
I grabbed an extra clip for the .45 out of the desk drawer, slammed the door shut behind me and used the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. A cab was ahead of me, waiting for a red light at the corner and I reached it as the signals changed and told him where to go. When the driver saw the five I threw on the seat beside him he made it across town and south to the corner I wanted in exactly six minutes and didn’t bother to stick around to see what it was all about.
It was an old block, a hangover from a century of an orgy of progress, a four-storied chasm with feeble yellow eyes to show that there still was a pulse beat somewhere behind the crumbling brownstone facades. Halfway down the street a handful of kids were playing craps under an overhead light and on the other side a pair of drifters were shuffling toward Ninth. It wasn’t the kind of street you bothered to sit around and watch at night. It was one you wanted to get away from.
I flashed a quick look at the rooftops and the areaways under the stoops when I reached Lippy’s old place, found nothing and spotted Velda in the doorway across the street. I gave her the “wait and see” signal, then took the sandstone steps two at a time, the .45 in my hand.
A 25-watt bulb hung from a dropcord in the ceiling of the vestibule and I reached up and unscrewed it, making sure I had my distance and direction to the right door clear in my mind. The darkness would have been complete except for the pale glow that seeped out from under the super’s door, but it was enough. His
TV was on loud enough to cover any sound my feet might make and I went past his apartment to Lippy’s and tried the knob.
The door was locked.
I took one step back, planted myself and thumbed the hammer back on the rod. Then I took a running hop, smashed the door open with my foot and went rolling inside taking furniture with me that was briefly outlined in the white blast of a gunshot that sent a slug ripping into the floor beside my head.
My hand tightened on the butt of the .45 and blew the darkness apart while I was skittering in a different direction, the wild thunder of the shot echoing around the room. Glass crashed from the far end and a chair went over, then running legs hit me when I was halfway up, fell and I had my hands on his neck, wrenched him back and banged two fast rights into his ear and heard him let out a choked yell. Whoever he was, he was big and strong and wrenched out of my hands, his arms flailing. I swung with the gun, felt the sight rip into flesh and skull bone. It was almost enough and I would have had him the next time around, but the beam of a pencil flash hit me in the face and there was a dull, clicking sound against the top of my head and all the strength went out of me in one full gush.
A faraway voice said almost indistinctly, “Get up so I can kill him!” But then there were two popping sounds, a muffled curse, and I lay there in the dreary state of semiconsciousness knowing something was happening without knowing or caring what until a hazy dawn of artificial light made everything finally come into misty focus that solidified into specific little objects I could recognize.
Velda said, “You stupid jerk.”
“Don’t be redundant,” I told her. “Where are they?”
“Out. Gone. The back window was open for a secondary exit and they used it. If I hadn’t fired coming into the building you would have been dead by now.”
The yelling and screaming of the fun watchers on the street were coming closer and a siren was whining to a stop in front of the house. I pushed myself to a sitting position, saw the .45 on the floor and reached for it. I thumbed out the clip, ejected the live slug in the breech, caught it and slid it back into the clip, then reloaded the piece and stuck it back in the holster. “You see them?” I asked.
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