Murder Never Knocks

Chapter Eight

Velda’s scream trailed into the night as she quickly pulled herself together and joined me, bending over the fallen little man. I peeled the stack of papers away and three slugs stuck out of Billy’s heavy padded jacket like misplaced metallic buttons. Just as the cabbie’s skull had caused a sniper’s bullet to thump me harmlessly in the chest, the thickness of all that newsprint had slowed this deadly trio way down.

But Billy was unconscious and breathing ragged, hit hard by the rounds even if they had stopped short of his body.

“They didn’t penetrate,” she said, relieved and a little astounded. Her face was moist with mist. “Is he all right?”

I plucked the slugs out, dropped them in my trenchcoat pocket. “He’s alive, but he may have broken bones or internal bleeding. We need to get him help.”

“When the police get here,” she said, a little confused as she stated the obvious, “they’ll call an ambulance.”

I looked across my fallen friend at Velda and put a hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to call one first.”

“What?”

“That all-night drugstore on Forty-ninth. Get over there and use the phone and call the ambulance service we use. You know the one. Get a wagon over here right now. We’re taking over.”

I saw the doubt flicker on her face, but then she just nodded, her gypsy ringlets flicking moisture at me, and rose and went off at a brisk pace.

I called out, “Tell them to take Billy to our favorite private hospital! The one outside Newburgh!”

“Figured that,” she called, her back to me, and I watched till she was swallowed by the night and the mist.

I got up and went to the little stool Billy used and took the seat cushion off and rested it under his head. Then I sat on the cushion-less stool and lit up a Lucky and thought about killing some people.

The black-and-green-and-white patrol car streaked up the slick street with its siren playing banshee till it rolled to a stop. Two uniforms, one tall and young, the other medium-size but heavy-set and around my age, rolled out.

I gave them a quick report and said, “I already called for the ambulance.”

This seemed to satisfy them, but when the heavy-set cop asked for my identification and I handed over my open wallet, his eyes went big, taking in my P.I. badge and ticket.

“Mike Hammer,” he said, the way most people say “goddamnit.”

“You may want to inform my friend Captain Chambers directly about this,” I said, hoping to head off any unpleasantness.

He had a voice like tearing cardboard. “How the hell many shooting incidents have you been in this week anyway, buddy?”

I shrugged, as I took back the wallet. “Depends on how you’re counting. It’s technically four, but I only returned fire in two.” I blew out smoke but resisted the temptation to do it in his face. “Why don’t you call it in to Pat Chambers before this gets disagreeable?”

The younger guy, kneeling over Billy, said, “He’s alive and there aren’t wounds that I can see.”

“Like I said,” I said, “that stack of newspapers saved him.”

“And he’s out like a light, breathing heavy,” the young cop continued. “Don’t see any spent slugs. Holes in his jacket where maybe they hit.”

His older partner noted all that but kept his eyes on me. “You were the target here, Hammer?”

“Ask the shooter. Or better still, turn this over to somebody in plainclothes.” This time I did let him have the smoke in the pan, but inconspicuously, like maybe it was an accident. “Call Pat Chambers, for instance. Or did I say that already?”

Finally he trundled over to the patrol car and radioed it in to Chambers.

I told the young cop, “There’s a kid who fills in for Billy sometimes called Duck-Duck Jones. He also works as a swamper at a dive called the Clover Bar.”

“I know of it. What the heck kind of handle is ‘Duck-Duck?’”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s a nickname, particularly since his upper teeth stick out to here. I’d advise getting hold of the kid and having him get over here to lock the stand up and be ready to fill in for Billy, if he’s hospitalized for a while.”

The young cop was nodding. “Good idea... Jeez.”

“Jeez what?”

“Will you look at the dish walking down the street? Pretty girl like that shouldn’t be out alone, though.”

I looked behind me and Velda was on her way back, closing an already short distance. “This one can take care of herself. She’s my secretary. I sent her off to call it in.”

“I didn’t figure she was a streetwalker,” he allowed. “Too classy looking.”

“I’ll tell her that. She’ll be highly complimented.”

I left the callow cop to figure that one out and went over to meet Velda far enough away that we could talk freely.

“Okay, Mike,” she said, almost whispering. “Ambulance should be here any time. Why did I send for it? I mean, I assume you mean to whisk Billy away and keep him out of Pat’s hands. Why?”

“Who do you think those bullets were for?”

“Well, you of course.”

“Wrong. These pro shooters are generally right on target. If that cabbie the other day hadn’t stuck his head between me and that bullet, you’d be at a funeral-home visitation about now. No, honey, the guy in that Lincoln shot exactly who he meant to shoot. He just wasn’t counting on Billy having that fat stack of papers to slow the slugs.”

Her mouth made a scarlet O. “Billy!.. You mean, because he witnessed that...”

“I knew you’d catch up, sugar.”

She was frowning at me, not angry, but her mind working fast. “Are you saying Leif Borensen hired your murder, and Billy’s? What’s the connection?”

“We are. Think about it.”

She didn’t have to think long, not with those wheels turning like they were. “My God, Mike — your reputation! Your well-deserved, well-known reputation for getting even. Billy’s your friend, our friend. If somebody took Billy out, you’d be all over it.”

“That’s right. Hitting me first, or trying to, was a preemptive attack.”

But she was shaking her head, having trouble making some of the pieces fit together. “Mike, why didn’t that contract killer shoot you tonight as well as Billy? And why not take me down as well?”

I flipped a hand. “Could be a couple of reasons. Maybe it was just a coincidence I happened to be around when the hit on Billy went down, and the shooter knew only that his target was our friend at the newsstand. Or... it could be something even more sinister.”

Her eyebrows took a hike. “More sinister than that?”

“Yup. Keep in mind our friend on the phone last night. He’s been having bad luck with the hired help, in addition to which he’s now deemed me worthy of his personal attention. That may have been him tonight.”

“But he could have killed you, Mike!”

“No. This is a game to him. A challenge. He’s playing with me, Velda. Cat and mouse, and he thinks I’m the mouse. Only he’s got a sewer rat by the tail. He figures he can get to me psychologically. Better men, and women, have tried. I have the same psychology as the .45 in my pocket — set me in motion and I go off.”

The ambulance came screaming up. It was similar enough to the city variety that the two cops thought nothing of it when a pair of attendants in white brought a stretcher out and strapped Billy on and hauled him up and into the back of their vehicle. They’d done enough jobs like this for me, and select others, to know to move fast and give any questions from the cops the most perfunctory answers.

But these cops accepted the ambulance at face value, assuming it was from a nearby hospital. They didn’t notice the upstate plates, or the lack of certain designations on the side panels. Just not plainclothes material.

“Velda,” I said softly, “go home, pack a bag, and drive up to that hospital right now. Get there ASAP, deal with the docs, and camp out in Billy’s room. He may still be on the firing line and will need protection. I’ll see you later tonight or in the morning, after I’ve dealt with Pat.”

Her eyebrows went up again. “You’ve been pushing that friendship to the breaking point.”

I nodded. “It may take some fancy footwork to stay out of stir this time. I really am a material witness on this one.”

She nodded, sucked in damp air, and gave me a kiss on the mouth before heading off to catch a cab.

“Where’s she going?” the fat cop asked.

“Home.”

“You said she witnessed this, too!”

“She did. Why, did you want to talk to her? Oh... well, there’s a Yellow. Guess she’s on her way. Sorry. My oversight.”

“Is that what it is. I wonder if Captain Chambers will see it that way, smart-ass?”

Another patrol car arrived in about five minutes and gave me a lift over to headquarters. This time I only spent fifteen minutes on the bench outside Pat’s office. Not time enough to stretch out for a snooze. That was okay. I didn’t feel like sleeping.

When the door opened, he gave me a long-suffering look and a thumb over a shoulder. I followed him in, closing the door behind me, and slid into the visitor’s chair opposite his desk. He took his time getting to his swivel chair and all but fell into it.

Pat, a consummate professional whose suits were off the rack but well-selected, looked like an unmade bed. He was in his shirtsleeves and his tie was loose and wrinkled. He needed a shave and his eyes were bloodshot.

He growled, “You’re having a hell of a week, Mike.”

“Maybe, but I look better than you.”

He closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. He said, “That’s because you don’t have to go around cleaning up after yourself. You just wait for me and the rest of the NYPD to do it for you, and if you make a remark about being a taxpayer, I’ll slam your ass in the drunk tank.”

“You need to get home and get some rest, buddy. What are you doing here, this close to midnight?” I started to get up. “We can do this tomorrow.”

“Sit!”

“I’m not a damn spaniel.”

“Sit anyway.”

I sat.

“Mike,” he said, “I’ve seen the statement you gave to the officers at the scene. Is there anything you’d care to add to it?”

That statement had been factually accurate. So I said, “No. Other than maybe, for hitmen, these guys don’t seem to be able to hit much of anything they aim at.”

He ignored that. “Let’s say I accept everything in your statement. I may want a more formal one, stenographer and the works, but for now... let’s say I accept it.”

“Let’s say that.” I dug a Lucky out of the deck and lit it up. It wasn’t my fault that having a cigarette in my lips gave me a smirk.

Pat said, “Why don’t you add just one little detail. Why don’t you tell me where Velda ran off to, just after the shooting? She was there when it went down, at Batson’s side just like you were. Where did you send her, Mike?”

I gestured vaguely. “That all-night Rexall’s on Lexington and Forty-ninth.”

“To get you some aspirin?”

“No, to call the incident in.”

“Our dispatcher has no record of that.”

“Velda probably didn’t give her name. She was a little flustered. She likes Billy.”

“Velda. Flustered.” He shook his head. “As it happens, we do have a witness, a pedestrian, who called us from a phone booth to report the shooting, and he did give his name, which wasn’t Velda Sterling.”

“I’d be surprised if it was.”

Pat breathed in and breathed out, like a dragon out of lighter fluid. “Do you think I don’t know that she called some ambulance service you use? Do you think I don’t know that, for some insane reason, you decided to spirit Billy Batson away?”

“I don’t know what you know. What am I, psychic?”

“Skip the psyche. You’re just sick.”

I grinned and the Lucky bobbled. “Decent comeback for a guy who looks about ten minutes shy of passing out. How about some coffee? We could both use it. I’ve got a smoke for you, if you want to start again.”

He reached for the phone like he was going to throw it at me, but instead ordered up some coffee for us. He even made sure mine got milk and sugar. What a pal.

Then he hung up, folded his hands like he was about to lead us in prayer, and said, “I know you have a private hospital you use, somewhere in town, when you want to keep somebody under wraps. You think I don’t, Mike?”

Well, it wasn’t in town, but that was more than I thought he knew, all right.

I just said, “Don’t you know what hospital, Pat? I’d think a detective of your caliber would have learned that by now.”

“A detective of your caliber, which is .45, should know he’s right on the edge of an obstruction of justice charge. If that sticks, you’re out of the P.I. business. You won’t be able to get a license to sell hot dogs.”

“Why, is my fly open?”

He slammed a fist on his blotter and everything on his desk jumped. “You won’t be able to get a hunting license for goddamn ducks!”

We sat and glowered at each other, and I let my smoke exit in his general vicinity. Then an almost attractive policewoman who could use some make-up delivered our coffee. We thanked her. She said you’re welcome and left.

“Let’s try this again,” I said. “This time with me asking a few questions.”

He sighed, let some coffee roll down his throat, said, “Why not?”

“Who do you make for the target on that street corner tonight?”

He gave me the you’re nuts look. “What do you mean? You were.”

“Something I’ve always wondered,” I said, sitting up. “Do you keep separate files on all your cases? You know, so there’s no chance of one case brushing up against another and contaminating it.”

Only somebody who knew me as well as Pat would have read the sarcasm in my easy tone. His eyes tightened and he leaned forward.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m an idiot.”

I gestured with an open hand, as if to say, No argument.

“Billy was the target,” he said, and bounced a fist off his desk. “It’s that hit-and-run he saw! He’s the only witness who can identify the driver. Damnit. I’m an ass.”

I gestured with the open hand again.

Then he pointed a finger at me, a prosecutor indicating the defendant. “But everybody’s going to read this thing as another hit attempt on you. The odds of you being involved in three tries on your life and an attempt on someone else’s life are infinitesimal... Mike, if I look into this as if Billy is the target, I’ll get laughed off the force.”

“If you don’t do that,” I said, “you don’t deserve to be on the force.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

I nodded. “Borensen.”

His eyes widened, but soon he was nodding. “Makes sense. Really makes sense. Hell, he could have set you up for the kill twice!”

So I emptied the bag on his desk, gave him everything from Hy’s background on Borensen’s youthful drug-dealing activities through his mob money laundering past and present.

“And you’re convinced,” Pat said, “that Borensen put a high-priced hit out on you to clear a safe path to removing Billy.”

I leaned back, folded my arms. “Is that too big a leap for you, old buddy?”

He shook his head. “No. Not at all. You’d have stepped right up to the plate with a big bad bat in your hands, if they murdered that little guy. What kind of shape is he in, anyway?”

“I don’t know. He was still out cold when they loaded him in the ambulance.”

He frowned. “I don’t get it, Mike. Why not leave Billy to us?”

“Let’s just say I want him in my protective custody. Think about it. To everybody but you in this department, Billy will be an unfortunate little guy who took some bullets meant for Mike Hammer. How long can you arrange a twenty-four-hour police guard for that?”

“I have some influence.”

“Okay. So maybe hiding Billy away somewhere isn’t necessary. Maybe Billy would be just as well off or better out at Bellevue under police protection. But have you considered I might have another agenda?”

“Such as?”

“Such as someone we both care about.”

His eyes flared. “...Velda.”

I nodded. “Pat, I want her out of here, away from my side. I’m entering into a very dangerous sort of competition, and I don’t want to see her get between me and the next bullet triggered my way.”

He was sitting forward. “What do you mean... dangerous competition?”

I told him, in some detail, about last night’s phone call from the self-styled greatest of all contract killers. Pat frowned through much of my account, occasionally shaking his head.

“Mike, this guy is worse than just some professional killer. He’s a lunatic. A madman.”

“Maybe that’s why he identifies so closely with me.”

“It’s not funny, but... I get it, where Velda’s concerned. You know she wouldn’t leave town or in any way lay low, if you just asked her to, for her safety. You had to give her a job that got her out of harm’s way.”

“That’s right. Pat, I have a suggestion.”

“I’m not surprised. What is it?”

“The Martin Foster suicide. That wasn’t your case.”

“No. That was out on Long Island.”

“Well, get whatever you can on it from the local PD out there. Look at everything. Crime scene photos, autopsy report, the works.”

He was frowning. “You think Borensen staged it?”

“Very possible. Whether he knew his prospective father-in-law had cancer or not is immaterial. What likely happened is Dick Blazen told Foster the truth about his son-in-law-to-be. Which meant they both had to go.”

“Why, because Borensen loves the girl?”

“Well, it would be easy enough to. But you might start with all the money she’ll inherit.”

“Okay. Can I assume you’re working this from your own end?”

I saluted him with my coffee cup. “You know, when I get to the finish line before you — and I will get there before you, Pat — how would you like me to drop Borensen right in your lap?”

“And not just kill his ass?”

“Well, no promises, but... yes, if he doesn’t pull anything. With his connections, a live Viking might be very useful to your department in putting some worthy mob slobs in the Graybar Hotel.”

“Agreed.” Pat went deadpan on me. “Now you’ll tell me what you want from me.”

“I assume you weren’t working that hit-and-run.”

He nodded. “Vehicular homicide isn’t my bailiwick.”

“Well, round up everything the department has on that crime.” I dug in my trenchcoat pocket and found the three slugs from earlier and tossed them on the desk. “And you’re going to want these. I dug ’em out of Billy’s jacket tonight.”

“What the hell did you take them for?” His face got a little red.

“Just wanted to make sure they got to you. Didn’t want to leave them to the uniforms, and I planned to get Billy out of there before any plainclothes showed.”

The red faded but he was still annoyed. “You’re tampering with crime scenes now?”

Really I’d been tampering with crime scenes for a long time, but I said, “You have a decent chain of evidence. I’m an officer of the court, after all, and I preserved material that might have been lost in the shuffle, and instead turned them over to the Captain of Homicide.”

“Where would I be without your help?”

I chose to treat that as a rhetorical question, since the answer might embarrass him.

“Look, Pat, assuming Billy is just unconscious, and not in a coma or anything, what we really need on Borensen right now is an ID. You had a police photographer at the Waldorf suite this afternoon. You were interviewing Borensen while your guy was snapping shots. Think it’s possible that our suspect might be in the background of one?”

Pat was already reaching for the phone. He got the crime lab and made the request.

After he hung up, he said, “I can see why we need a photo for Billy to identify, since Hy says shots of Borensen are as scarce as honest P.I.’s. But what would make the man feel he had to get rid of Billy? All the bastard needed to do was stay away from Billy’s corner. It’s not like we’d haul Borensen in for a line-up, or that Billy would turn him up in our mug books. Back when you say he was dealing drugs, Borensen was never even arrested.”

“Let me answer you with a question. What do guys who run newsstands do when things get slow?”

Pat shrugged, thinking about it. “Well, they sure don’t read the girlie mags. They could get hauled in for that, and it would discourage female customers. And they don’t read the funny books, because it just doesn’t look good. I suppose they read the papers. Each day’s papers.”

I gave him a big sunny smile. “And what will be in the paper, one day soon? Not on the sports page. Not on the editorial page. Not in the funnies. But the—”

“Shit,” Pat said. “The society page.”

“Wedding photos,” we said.