My Gun Is Quick

Chapter Four

When I sat down beside the brunette the bartender watched me so hard the three drunks at the rail turned around too. The drunks didn't matter, they couldn't see that far, so I turned on my best nasty look and the bartender went about his business. Just the same he stayed down at the end where he could hear things if they were said too loud.

Lola uncrossed her long, lovely legs and leaned towards me. The big, floppy hat she was wearing wobbled an inch away from my eyes. "You're a nice guy, mister. What's your name?"

"Mike."

"Just Mike?"

"It's enough. How would you like to go for a ride and sober up a little."

"Ummm. You got a nice shiny convertible for Lola to ride in? I love men with convertibles."

"All right."

She stood up and I held her arm to keep her straight. Nice, very nice. Deep-dish apple pie in a black satin dress. I steered her towards the door, hardly taking my eyes off her. Tall, and as long as you didn't look too close, as pretty as they come. But close looks were what counted. She had that look around the eyes and a set of the mouth that spelled just one thing. She was for sale cheap.

My heap wasn't what she expected, but it was comfortable and she leaned back against the cushions and let the breeze blow across her face and fluff out her hair. Her eyes closed and I thought she was asleep until she reached up and tugged off the floppy hat. Then she did go to sleep.

I wasn't going anywhere... just driving, taking it easy along the main Stem, following anybody that was ahead of me. Somehow we got to the approach of the Manhattan Bridge and it was easier to go across than to cut out of traffic. This time I was behind a truck that led the way down Flatbush Avenue at a leisurely pace. Evidently he was in no hurry because he didn't bother going through light changes and never jumped the reds. He set such a nice pace that when he parked at Beverley Road for ten minutes I sat behind him and waited until he came back and followed him some more. The first thing I knew we had the lights of the city behind us and were skirting Floyd Bennett Field, and the air was carrying the salty tang of the ocean with it. We crossed the bridge then and he turned left, but I didn't follow. The winding macadam on the right led in the direction of the breezes and I took it to a gate and on into Rockaway Point.

We had been parked for an hour before Lola woke up. The radio was turned low, making music that mingled with the air and the stars and if murder hadn't led me here it could have been pretty nice.

She looked at me sleepily and said, "Hullo, you."

"Hi, kid."

"Where is Lola this time?"

"At the beach."

"And who with?"

"A guy called Mike... that's me. I found you back in the city under a rock. Remember?"

"No, but I'm glad you're with me." She twisted on her hip, and slouched back, looking at me. No remorse, no bewilderment. Just curiosity.

"What time is it?"

I said, "After midnight. Want to go home?"

"No."

"Want to take a walk, then?"

"Yes. Can I take off my shoes and walk in the sand?"

"Take off everything if you want to."

"Maybe I will when we get down on the beach, Mike."

"Don't do anything of the kind. I'm too damn susceptible."

It was pretty good strolling down that narrow lane, jumping the cracks in the sidewalk and making faces at the moon. Lola slipped her hand into mine and it was warm and soft, but holding tight as though I was something worth holding on to. I was remembering what Red said about guys like me never having to pay, and I wondered how true it was.

She took off her shoes like she wanted to and walked in the sand, kicking at mounds with her toes. When we reached the bulkhead we jumped down and walked to the water, and I took off my shoes too. It was cold, but it was nice, too nice to spoil by talking yet, and we waded up the beach, stepping up the wooden jetties and jumping to the other side, until there was nothing left but straight sandy beach, and even the houses were in the background.

"I like it here, Mike," she said. She let go my hand and picked up a clamshell, looking at it as if it were a rare specimen. I put my arm around her and we stepped out of the water that licked at our feet and walked to the rolling hillocks of the dunes. After we sat down I handed her a cigarette, and in the light of the flame I saw that her face had changed and was at peace with itself.

"Cold?" I asked.

"A little chilly. I haven't much on under the dress."

I didn't question it; I just gave her my coat, then leaned back on my elbows while she hugged her knees, staring out at the ocean.

When she took a long last drag on the cigarette she turned around and said, "Why did you bring me out here, Mike?"

"To talk. I need somebody to talk to."

She leaned back on the sand. "My mind's unfogging, Mike," she said. "Was it about Nancy?"

I nodded.

"She's dead, Mike. I liked her, too."

"Who killed her?"

There was a long moment of silence while Lola searched my face. "You're a cop, aren't you?"

"A private dick. And I'm not hired by anybody, either."

"And you think she was murdered instead of being killed by a hit-and-run driver."

"Lola, I don't know what to think. Everything's going around in circles right now. Let's say I didn't like the way she died."

"Mike... what if I said I thought she was murdered, too?"

I jumped at that. "What makes you think so?"

"Oh, I don't know. Lots of things, maybe. If she wasn't murdered, she was killed accidentally before she could be murdered. Let's say that, Mike."

I turned on my side and my hand covered hers. The moonlight on the white V of the plunging neckline made it hard to concentrate. Her skin was white and smooth, in sharp contrast to the black satin. The only thing I could think of was the kind of bra she would be wearing under a dress like that. It would have to be an engineering marvel.

"How did you get to know her, Lola?"

Her answer was simple enough. "We worked together."

"You?" It didn't seem right.

"Don't I look the type?"

"Maybe... if a guy had dough and a convertible and was looking for an interesting sideline in life. But not down in that section. What were you doing there?"

"I worked in a house up the street."

"I thought all the girls were killed in the fire."

"They were, but I wasn't there at the time. I was... in a hospital. I had been there quite a while. I left today."

She looked at the sand and traced two letters in it--V.D.

"That's why I was in the hospital. That's why I was working down there instead of playing for guys with dough and convertibles. I had that once and lost it. I'm not very smart, am I, Mike?"

"No," I told her, "you're not. Anybody can do what you're doing and make a living at it. You never had to go in for that, neither did Nancy. There's no excuse for it. No matter what happens, there's only one way you wind up. No, Lola, there's no excuse for it."

"Sometimes there is."

She ran her fingers through my hair, then dropped her hand to cover mine. "Maybe that's why Nancy and I were so close... because there was some excuse for it. I was in love, Mike... terribly in love with a guy who was no damn good. I could have had anybody I wanted, but no, I had to fall for a guy who was no damn good at all. We were going to get married when he ran away with a two-bit bum who hung around all the saloons in town. I was pretty disgusted, I guess. If that was all men wanted I figured on playing the game. I played it pretty good, too. After that I had everything, but I never fell for anybody.

"At first I was bitter about it, but living became too easy. I had something men wanted, and they were willing to supply the overhead charges. It got so good that it wasn't worth while playing one sucker at a time. Then one day I met a smart girl who introduced me to the right people, and after that the dates were supplied and I made plenty of money, and had a lot of time to spend it in, too.

"I had a name and phone number, and if they had the dough all they had to do was call. That's why they called us call-girls. The suckers paid plenty, but they got what they wanted and were safe. Then one day I got drunk and slipped up. After that I wasn't safe to be with any more and the suckers complained, and they took away my name and my phone number, so all I had left was to go on the town.

"There's always people looking for left-overs like me. One got me set with an outfit that had a house and a vacancy and I worked there, then they set me down a couple of notches until I wound up in the place where I met Nancy. Most of the girls in the racket just drifted into it, that's why Nancy and I became friends. She had a reason for being there, too. It wasn't the same reason, but it was a reason and it put us above the others.

"One day I got smart. I pulled out of it and went to the hospital. When I was there Nancy was killed, and when I got back to the house it was burned. I came back to get Nancy, but she was gone, and she was the only friend I had left, so I went down to Barney's and got drunk."

"Where you made a very professional pass at me."

"I didn't mean to, Mike. I was drunk and I couldn't get out of the habit, I guess. Forgive me?"

When she turned the neckline fell away and I was ready to forgive her for anything. But first there was more I had to find out.

"Nancy... what about Nancy... did she follow the same route you did? About working her way down the ladder, I mean."

"It happens to the best of them sooner or later, Mike. Yes, Nancy was a call-girl too, only she had made the grade before me."

"And did she have to go to the hospital, too?"

A puzzled frown tugged at her forehead. "No, that was the strange part about it. She was very careful. First she was in the big money, then suddenly she quit it all and dropped out of sight. She was for ever running into people that hadn't seen her for a long time, and it frightened her. She stayed in the business as though it were a place to hide."

"Hiding from what?"

"I never found out. Those were things you didn't ask about."

"Did she have anything worth hiding?"

"If she did I didn't see it, though she was mighty secretive about her personal belongings. The only expensive thing she had was a camera, an imported affair that she used when she had a job once. You know, taking pictures of couples on the street and handing them a card. They would send the card in with a quarter and get their picture."

"When was that... recently?"

"Oh, no, quite some time ago. I happened to see some of the cards she had left over and asked about them. I think the name was QUICK PIC... or something like that."

I put a cigarette in my mouth and lit it, then gave her a drag from it. "What's your whole name, Lola?"

"Does it matter?"

"Maybe."

"Bergan. Lola Bergan, and I come from a little town called Byeville down in Mississippi. It isn't a big town, but it's a nice town, and I still have a family there. My mother and father think I'm a famous New York model and I have a little sister that wants to grow up and be just like me, and if she does I'll beat her brains out."

There wasn't any answer to that. I said, "Lola, there's just one thing more. Answer me yes or no fast, and if you lie to me I'll know it. Does the name Feeney Last mean anything to you?"

"No, Mike. Should it?"

"No, perhaps not. It meant something to Red and some other people, but it shouldn't involve you. Maybe I'm on the wrong trolley."

"Mike... did you love Nancy?"

"Naw, she was a friend. I saw her once and spoke to her a few minutes and we got to be buddies. It was one of those things. Then some son of a bitch killed her."

"I'm sorry, Mike. I wish you could like me like that. Do you think you could?"

She turned again, and this time she was closer. Her head nestled against my shoulder and she moved my hand up her body until I knew that there was no marvel of engineering connected to the bra because there was no bra. And the studded belt she wore was the keynote to the whole ensemble, and when it was unsnapped the whole affair came apart in a whisper of black satin that folded back against the sand until all of her reflected the moonlight from above until I eclipsed the pale brilliance, and there was no sound except that of the waves and our breathing. Then soon even the waves were gone, and there was only the warmth of white skin and little muscles that played under my hand and the fragrance that was her mouth.

The redhead had been right.

At one-fifteen I awoke with the phone shrilling in my ears. I kicked the cover off the bed and shuffled over to the stand, wiping the sleep from my eyes. Then I barked a sharp hullo into the phone.

Velda said, "Where the devil have you been? I've been trying to get you all morning."

"I was here. Sleeping."

"What were you doing last night?"

"Working. What did ya want?"

"A gentleman came in this morning, a very wealthy gentleman. His name was Arthur Berin-Grotin and he wants to see you. I made an appointment for two-thirty here in the office and I suggest you keep it. In case you didn't know, the bank balance can stand relining."

"O.K., kid, I'll be there. Was his stooge with him?"

"He came alone. Maybe he had someone waiting, but he didn't come up."

"Good! Stick around until I show up. Won't be long. 'Bye, honey."

For ten minutes I splashed around in the shower, then made a bit to eat without drying off. A full pot of coffee put me back in shape and I started to get dressed. My suit was a mess, wrinkled from top to bottom, with the pockets and cuffs filled with sand. There were lipstick smears on the collar and shoulders, so it went back into the closet behind the other until I could get it to the tailor's. That left me with the custom-built tweed that was made to be worn over a rod, so I slapped on the shoulder holster and filled it with the .45, then slipped on the jacket. I looked in the mirror and grunted. A character straight out of a B movie. Downstairs I got a shave and a haircut, which left me with just enough time to get to the office a few minutes before the old gent.

Mr. Berin-Grotin came in at exactly two-thirty. My switch box buzzed and Velda called in from the waiting-room, "A gentleman here to see you, Mike."

I told her to send him in and sat back in my swivel chair, waiting: When he opened the door I got up and walked over with my mitt out. "Glad to see you again, Mr. Berin. Come over and park."

"Ah, thank you." He took an overstuffed leather chair by the desk and leaned forward on his cane. In the light from the window I could see a troubled look about his eyes.

"Young man," he said, "since you left me I have given more and more thought to the plight of the girl you were so interested in. The one that was found dead."

"The redhead. Her name was Nancy Sanford."

His eyebrows went up. "You discovered that already?"

"Hell, no, the cops got that angle. All I ever found out was some junk that makes no sense." I leaned back and fired up a smoke, wondering what he wanted. He told me soon enough.

"Did they find her parents... anyone who would take care of... the body?"

"Nah. There's not much they can do, anyhow. The city is filled with a thousand girls like her. Ten to one she's from out of the state and has been away from home so long nobody gives a damn any more. The only one who's trying to give her back her past is me. Maybe I'll be sorry for it."

"That is exactly what I came to see you about, Mr. Hammer."

"Mike... I hate formalities."

"Oh, yes... Mike. At any rate, when you left I thought and thought about the girl. I made a few judicious calls to friends I have with the newspapers, but they couldn't help in the least. They said the girl was just a... a drifter. It seems a shame that things like that must happen. I believe that we're all to blame somehow.

"Your deep concern has transferred itself to me, and I think I may be of some help to you. I am continually giving to charities of some sort... but that's a rather abstract sort of giving, don't you think? Here is a chance for me to help someone, albeit a trifle late, and I feel I must."

"I told you once, I'll take care of the funeral arrangements myself," I said.

"I realize you intend to... but that's not what I mean. What I wish to do is to employ you. If you carry on an investigation you must be financed, and since I am as anxious as you to have her remains properly cared for, I would be deeply grateful if you would let me give you the means of locating her relatives. Will you do it?"

It was a break I hadn't expected. I took my feet off the desk and swung the chair around. "It's all right with me," I told him. "I would have poked around anyway, but this makes it a lot easier."

He reached in his jacket pocket for his wallet and thumbed it open. "And what are your rates, Mike?"

"A flat fifty a day. No expense account. The fifty takes care of it all."

"Have you any idea how long it may take?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Who can tell. Sometimes chasing a name is easy, sometimes not."

"In that case, let me do this..." He laid a sheaf of crisp new bills on my desk. The top one was a beautiful fifty. "Here is one thousand dollars. Not a retainer... but payment in full. Please stay with it until you think it has been spent. If you find out about the girl quickly, good. If you don't locate her history in twenty days, then it is probably a hopeless task and not worth your time. Is that a satisfactory arrangement?"

"I'm stealing your money, Mr. Berin."

His face brightened into an easy smile and the trouble lines were gone. "I don't think so, Mr. Hammer. I have become familiar with your record and know how far you are capable of going. With an added incentive of having an interest in the girl yourself, you should make excellent progress. I hope so. It isn't a pleasant thing to see someone go like that... no one to know or care..."

"I care."

"Yes, I know you do, Mike, and I care, too, because yours is a genuine, unselfish interest to restore some touch of decency to her. She couldn't have been all bad. Do whatever you think is necessary, and in the interim, if there is a need for more money you will call on me, won't you?"

"Certainly."

"The whole affair makes me feel so very small. Here I am preparing for a grand exit from this life, spending thousands that will be a memorial to my name, and this girl dies as if she had never existed. You see, I know what aloneness is; I know the feeling of having no one to call your own, not even an entombed memory to worship. My wife, as you may know, was an ardent sportswoman. She loved the sea, but she loved it too much. During one of her cruises aboard a yacht that should never have been out of still waters she was washed overboard. My only son was killed in the First World War. His daughter was the dearest thing to my heart, and when she died I knew what it was like to be utterly, completely alone in this world. Like my wife, she loved the sea too dearly, too. It finally took her during a storm off the Bahamas. Perhaps you understand now why I have erected a memorial to myself... for there is not even so much as a headstone for the others, except perhaps a cross over my son's grave in France. And that, too, is why I want no one else to share my burden of having nothing left, nothing at all. I am thankful that there are people like you, Mike. My faith in the kindnesses of man was extremely low. I thought that all people cared about was money, now I know I was quite wrong."

I nodded, blowing a streamer of smoke at the ceiling. "Money is great, Mr. Berin, but sometimes a guy gets pretty damn sore and money doesn't matter anymore. A guy can get just plain curious, too... and money doesn't matter then either."

My new client stood up, giving me an old-fashioned bow. "That takes care of the matter, then?"

"Almost. Where do you want me to send my report?"

"I never gave it a thought. It really doesn't matter, but if you come across anything you might feel is interesting, call or write to me at my home. It's entirely up to you. I'm more interested in results than the procedure."

"Oh... one other thing. Is Feeney Last still with you?"

His eyes twinkled this time and a grin crossed his face. "Fortunately, no. It seems that he had quite a scare. Quite a scare. He saved me the task of discharging him, by resigning. At present my gardener is serving in his capacity. Good day, Mike."

I stood up and led him to the door and shook hands there. On the way out he gave Velda a gentlemanly bow and strode out the door. She waited until the door had shut and said, "He's nice, Mike. I like him."

"I like him, too, kid. You don't have many around like him anymore."

"And he's got money, too. We're back in business again, huh?"

"Uh-huh." I looked at the intercom box. She had the switch up and had overheard the conversation. I frowned at her the way a boss should, but it didn't scare her a bit.

"Just curious, Mike. He was such an interesting guy." She smiled.

I faked a punch at her jaw and sat on the desk, reaching for the phone. When I got the dial tone I poked out Pat's number and held on until he got on the wire. He gave me a breezy hullo and said, "What's new, kid?"

"A few things here and there, but nothing that you can call withholding evidence. Look, have you had lunch yet?"

"An hour ago."

"Well, how about some coffee and Danish. I want to know a few things, if you care to tell me."

"What kind of things?

"Stuff the police ought to know and the general public shouldn't. Or would you rather have me find out for myself?"

"Nuts to you! It's better to have you obligated to me. I'll meet you in Mooney's as soon as you can make it. How's that?"

"Fine," I said, then hung up.

Pat beat me to the beanery by five minutes. He already had a table over in the back and was sipping coffee from an oversize mug the place used as a trademark. I pulled out a chair and sat down. I didn't have time to waste; as soon as the waiter came over with my coffee and pastry I got right down to cases. "Pat, what's the angle on the call-girl racket in this town?"

The cup stopped half-way to his mouth. "Now, that's a hell of a question to ask me. If I tell you, it implies that I'm crooked and I'm looking the other way. If I don't, I look stupid for not knowing what goes on."

I gave him a disgusted grunt, then: "Pat, there are certain things that are going to happen in every town no matter how strait-laced the citizens are or how tough the cops are. It's like taxes. We got 'em and we can't get rid of 'em. And who likes taxes except the small group of bureaucrats that handle the mazuma?"

"Now you've made me feel better," he chuckled. "There isn't too much I can tell you because those outfits are good at keeping things to themselves. We rarely get complaints because their clientele isn't in a position to lay themselves open to criticism by entering a complaint. However, the police are well aware of the existing situation and try to enforce the letter of the law. But remember one thing--politics. There are ways of bogging the police down and it's a hurdle hard to jump.

"Then there's the matter of evidence. The higher-ups don't run houses or keep books where they can be found. It's a matter of merely suggesting to someone just who is available and letting him do the rest. I think the girls come across with a cut of the take or the proper persons aren't steered in their direction. They may get shoved around a little, too. In fact, there have been several deaths over the years that point suspiciously in that direction."

"That they got shoved too hard, you mean?" I asked.

"Exactly.

"How did the coroner call them?"

"Suicides, mainly... except for Russ Bowen. You know about him... he was the guy who ran a chain of houses and tried to buck the combine. We found him shot full of holes a couple of months ago and his houses closed out. We never could get a line on the killing. Even the stoolies clammed up when we mentioned his name. Yes, Russ was murdered, but the others were all called suicides."

"And you?"

"Murder, Mike. The cases are still open, and some day we're going to nail the goons that are behind them. Not only the hired hands that did the dirty work, but the ones that run the organizations. They're the ones we want... the ones that turn decent kids into a life of filth and despair while they sit back and collect the big money. The ones that can kill and get away with it and sit back and laugh while the papers call it suicide!"

His face was a mask of hate. My eyes caught his and held for a long moment. "Suicide... or accident, Pat?" I queried.

"Yes, both. We've had them that looked that way, too, and..."

Now the hate was gone and his face was friendly again, but there was something different about the eyes that I had never seen before. "You're a bastard, Mike. You set me up very pretty."

"I did?" I tried to play innocent, but it didn't work.

"Cut it and get to the redhead. Nancy, I believe her name was. What are you handing me?"

I took my time about finishing the Danish. After it soaked long enough in the coffee I fished it out and ate it, licking the sugar from my fingers. When I lit a butt I said, "I'm not handing you a thing, Pat. You just told me something I've been trying to tell you right along. I've always said Red was murdered. Now, what do you think?"

Pat wrapped his fists into hard knots and pressed them into the table. He had a hard time talking through clenched teeth. "Damn your soul, Mike, we had that case nicely wrapped up. She was killed accidentally beyond a shadow of doubt, and I'm positive of it. I'm so positive of it I'd bet my right arm against a plugged nickel I couldn't be wrong! Maybe people make mistakes, but the sciences of the laboratory don't!"

It was fun watching him beat his head against the wall. His words turned into a torrent of sharp sounds and he leaned against the edge of the table with fire leaping from his eyes.

"I saw the evidence. I checked on the evidence. I'm certain of the evidence as is everyone else concerned with the case. In the beginning you had me dancing on hot coals because I thought that maybe you were right. Then I knew what had happened and I knew you were wrong. Mind you, I didn't say think--I said knew! And right now I still know you are wrong and I am right."

"But..." I protested.

"But you, you bastard, you've got me all crazied up again and I'm thinking I'm wrong even when I know I'm right! Why don't you drop dead!"

It had been a long time since I had seen Pat like that. I grinned at him and blew a wreath of smoke around his head. The draft made a halo of it and I said, "The smoke it encircled his head like a wreath."

"What?"

"Excerpt from the 'Night Before Christmas.' You probably can't go back that far."

Pat ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. "You give me the pip. Maybe I'm nuts. What makes me get all excited about things like this? Ordinarily I'm cool, calm and collected. I run my office with precision and great efficiency, then you come along and I get like a rookie on his first beat with a gang war going on in the back alleys."

I shoved the deck of Luckies towards him and he stuck one in his mouth. When I thumbed a match and lit him I said very quietly, "Pat, offices like yours are great things. You take one lousy little clue and make a case out of it and somebody pays society for a misdeed. Sure, you serve justice. You do more good than a million guys working separately, but there's one thing you miss."

"Tell me what." He was getting sarcastic again.

"The excitement of the chase, Pat. The thrill of running something down and pumping a slug into it. Right now you are so damn fond of indisputable proof you can't figure an angle anymore. Since when can't murder be made to look like an accident?"

"She was hit by the car, Mike. The driver admits he hit somebody but he was too fuzzy to remember who. The lab found traces on the car. They found traces on her. We had witnesses who saw her staggering down the street dead drunk a little while before she got it. The guy that hit her is ordinarily an upstanding citizen with no underworld connections. We checked."

I nodded. "Yet now you're beginning to entertain doubts. Right?"

He said something obscene.

"Right is right! Entertain is no word for it. You have me refuting everything I ever learned and I'll wind up being a stupe. Do you know why?"

"Yeah, but tell me again, Pat."

This time he leaned on the table and practically hissed through his teeth. "Because right in here"--he tapped the side of his head--"you're a sharp article. You could be a good crook, but you're a better cop. You get something and hang on to it longer than anybody else and make something of it. You got a brain and the sense to use it and you have something I haven't got which is a feeling for things. Damn it, I'd like to poke you in the ear."

"Stop hating yourself. You were going to tell me something. Who's behind the racket?"

"I wish I knew. All I know is a few names of the guys we suspect of having a hand in it."

"They'll do."

"Oh, no! First let's hear what you have. Remember, please, that I'm the one who should know things. Of all the crazy things that happen, imagine a cop and a private eye chumming up like we do. Give out, Mike, sing me a song."

It was going to take a while, so I ordered some more coffee for us both, and when it came I started at the beginning and didn't stop until I brought Pat up to date--all but a few of the more intimate details. He didn't bother to jot anything down; his mind was filing away each item for future reference and I could see him laying the facts side by side, trying to make something of them.

When I finished he put a cigarette in his mouth and sat back thinking. When he fully absorbed everything, he said, "You have a nice accumulation of events, Mike. Now theorize."

"I can't," I told him. "There's no place to start."

"Start with Red."

"She was killed. That means she was killed for a reason."

"The same reason she had for being in the racket?"

"Maybe... or maybe the reason developed afterwards. What would a girl in her position have that would make it worthwhile being killed. Blackmail? I've thought of that, but it doesn't fit. Who would take her word in court? Maybe she had proof of someone's misconduct, but I doubt it. That's a tough racket and she wasn't mingling with anybody who counted. If she was playing against small stuff that same small stuff was tough enough to take care of her clean and simple without a lot of dummying. I have that feeling, as you call it, that the reason was a big one. I'm mad at somebody, Pat, and that person is going to answer to me for her death."

"Find the motive and you find the murderer," Pat said. "What about this Feeney Last character?"

"To me he looks like a punk. When he hit the city he went off on a spree and wound up in Red's neighborhood. He's the kind of a guy that would pull off a blackmail stunt all right. He said Red swiped his pay-off material and as long as she was what she was I wouldn't put it past her. But there's always another angle to that. He could have lost it, or whoever was being blackmailed paid off to see that it was destroyed. If Red was paid enough she might have lifted it from him while he was with her."

"Could he have killed her?"

"Sure, but not with any fancy trimmings. Feeney's no artist. He likes knives and guns. The only trouble is... he doesn't seem to expect to run into any opposition. No, Feeney didn't kill her. If he did, Red would have died quick and messy."

Pat dragged on the cigarette again. "What about your client, Mike?"

"Berin-Grotin? Hell, he couldn't have a hangnail without the papers knowing about it. He's from another generation, Pat. Money, position, good manners... everything you could expect of a gentleman of the old school. He's fiercely proud of his name, you know... constantly alert that nothing should cloud the escutcheon of his family. The old boy's no fool, either. He wanted protection so he hired Feeney, but he was ready to get rid of him as soon as the jerk got himself in trouble. It seemed to me that he was a little leery of Feeney, anyway. I got the impression that he was happy over what had happened up there in the cemetery."

"Which brings us to Lola. What there?"

"Nothing. She knew Red."

"Come on, Mike, she wasn't a complete nonentity, was she?"

"You can say that again." I let out a little laugh. "Marvellous personality, Pat. A body that'd make your hair stand on end. Lola's another of the decent kids you were speaking about, that went wrong. Only this one wised up in time."

"O.K., then let's go back a step. You told me the guy in the hash house and that Cobbie Bennett were afraid of something. Think around that."

"It doesn't think right, Pat. Shorty was a con and he was more than anxious to stay away from murder. Cobbie's in a racket where nothing looks good except dough. Anything could scare him. Both those guys scare too damn easily, that's why I can't attach too much significance to either one. I've thought it over a dozen times and that's how it shapes up."

Pat grunted, and I could feel his mind working it over, sorting and filing, trying for an answer. When none came he shrugged his shoulders and said, "The guys I know who may be part of the game are small fry. They run errands and do the legwork. I've made my own guesses before this, but I won't pass them on to you, for if I do you'll go hog wild and get me in a jam. Yourself, too, and like I said, they were only guesses with nothing to back them up."

"You usually guess pretty good, Pat. I'll take them."

"Yeah, but you're not going to get them. But I will do this: I'll see if I can make more out of it than guesses. We have ways of finding out, but I don't want to scare off the game."

"Good deal! Between the two of us we ought to make something of it."

Pat snubbed the butt out and stared into the ashtray. "Now for the sixty-four dollar question, Mike. You got me into this, so what do you expect me to do?"

"You got men at your fingertips. Let them scout around. Let them rake in the details. Work at it like it was a murder and something will show up. Details are what we need."

"All right, Mike, my neck is out so far it hurts. I'm going against everything I know by attaching a murder tag to this and I expect some cooperation from you. All the way, understand?"

"You'll get it."

"And since I'm putting men on it, what can I expect from you?"

"Hell," I said, "I have a date with Lola tonight. Maybe she's got a girlfriend."