The Body Lovers

Chapter 4

I came in out of the rain, threw my coat over the back of the desk chair and picked up the coffee Velda had waiting for me. She let me finish half of it before she came over and laid a two-page report down in front of me. "Rough night?"

Women. I didn't bother playing her game. "Not bad. I got a line on Greta Service."

"So did I."

"Brief me," I said.

"She had six hundred dollars in charges she had been paying off monthly. She cleaned them all up at once with cash payments, didn't draw on any more purchases and never left a forwarding address. One woman in the credit department knew her from when she was a saleswoman and waited on her. From what she hinted at, Greta Service was wearing finer clothes than the store supplied. Where were you last night?"

"Working." I synopsized the details of last night for her, emphasizing the relationship Greta Service had had with Helen Poston. Velda made a few notes on a scratch pad, her face serious. "Want me to follow it up?"

"Yeah, ask around her neighborhood. They'd remember a suicide, all right. Lay on a few bucks if you have to grease anybody. As far as they're concerned, you're a reporter doing a follow-up yarn. Just be careful."

"Like you?" She gave me a poke with her elbow.

I looked up at her and a teasing smile was playing with the corner of her mouth. "Okay, I won't bug you," she said. "Only you could have put on a clean shirt without lipstick on the collar?"

"I'm a show off," I said.

"What you are, chum. Sometimes I could kill you." She refilled my cracked cup from the quart container and asked, "What do you think?"

"A pattern's showing. Greta came up with money from some area. It looks more like she found a sponsor than a job."

"That's what the credit manager suggested. Did you check the m.p.'s with Pat?"

"No good. Who'd report her missing? Harry came directly to me. From now on it's legwork around probable places she might spend time in."

"Would they recognize her from that photo Hy gave you? It isn't very good."

"No, but I know where I can get a better one," I told her.

Velda picked up her coffee and sat on the arm of the chair beside me. "And I'll do the work while you carouse...is that it?"

"That's what I got you for, baby," I said cheerfully.

"You're asking for it," she growled back. "All this for a con."

"It goes further than that. Has Pat called?"

"No, but Hy has. He washed out the Miami trip for a few days to do a couple of features on Mitch Temple. You'd better buzz him."

"Okay." I finished the coffee and reached for my coat. "I'll check in this afternoon."

"Mike..."

"What, kitten?"

"It's those negligees..."

"Don't worry, I didn't forget. Mitch Temple wasn't killed for nothing. Pat'll run that lead right into the ground. When he has something I'll know about it."

The Proctor Group was located in the top half of a new forty-story building it had just built on Sixth Avenue, a glass and concrete monument to commercialism with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital.

Dulcie McInnes was listed on the lobby directory as Executive Fashion Editor with offices on the top floor. I got in the elevator along with a half dozen women who eyed me speculatively and seemed to pass knowing little glances between them when I pushed the top button.

It was a woman's world, all right. The decor was subtle pastels, the windows draped with feminine elegance and footsteps were muted by the thick pale green carpeting. Expensive oil paintings decorated the walls of the reception room, but something seemed to be missing.

The two harried little men I saw scuttled around like mice in a house full of cats, forcing badgered smiles at the dominant females who wore their hats like crowns, performing their insignificant tasks meticulously, gratefully acknowledging the curt nods of their overlords with abundant thank you's. What was missing were the whips on the wall. The damn place was a harem and they were the eunuchs. One looked at me as if I were a peddler who came to the front door of the mansion, was about to ask me my business when he caught the reproving eye of the receptionist and drifted off without a word.

She was a gray woman with the hard eyes and stem mouth of the dean of a girls' school. Her expression was one of immediate rejection and no compromise. She was the guardian dog at the portals of the castle, not there to greet, but to discourage any entry. Her suit had an almost military cut to it and her voice held a tone of total hostility.

"May I help you?"

Help? She was wanting to know what the hell I was doing there in the first place.

"I'd like to see Dulcie McInnes," I said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Nope."

"Then I'm afraid it's impossible." The dismissal was as fast as that. To make it more pointed, she went back to sorting her mail.

Only she had the wrong mouse this time. I walked to the side of the desk, leaned over and whispered in her ear. Her eyes went wide open almost to the point of bursting, her face a dead white, then a slow flush began at her neck and suffused her cheeks and the stammer that came out of her mouth had a little squeak to it.

"Now," I said.

Her head bobbed and she tried to wet her lips with a tongue just as dry. She pushed back from the desk, got up and edged around me nervously and stepped inside the door marked Private beside her. In ten seconds she was back, holding the door open timorously to let me in, then closed it quickly with a short gasp of horror, when I grinned at her.

The woman on the couch wasn't what I expected at all. She had a mature beauty only middle age can bring when nature cooperates with fashion demands and scientific treatment. A touch of gray added a silvery quality to hair that fell in soft waves around a face that held a gentle tan. Her mouth was full and rich, curved in a welcoming smile. She put the layout sheets on the coffee table and stood up, sensing my immediate approval of the way the black sheath dress encompassed the swell of her breasts and dipped into the hollow and flare of her hips.

But it was her eyes that got you. They were a bright, unnatural emerald green full of laughter.

"Miss Mclnnes?"

Her teeth sparkled white under her smile and she held her hand out. "Whatever did you say to Miss Tabor? She was absolutely terrified."

"Maybe I'd better not repeat it."

"She never even got your name."

Her hand was firm and warm in mine, enthusiastic for the few moments she held it. "Mike Hammer," I said. "I'm a private investigator."

"Now that's a novelty up here," she laughed. "No wonder Miss Tabor was so upset. Haven't I read about you?"

"Probably."

She walked back to the couch and sat down, held out a box of cigarettes to me when I took the chair opposite her and lit us both with an ornate gold lighter.

"You've got me curious about your visit. Who's being investigated?"

I blew out a cloud of smoke and took the photograph from my pocket. "Nothing spectacular. I'm trying to find this woman. Greta Service...she's a model."

Dulcie McInnes took the photograph from my hand and studied it a minute. "Should I know her?"

"Probably not. She applied here for photographic work one time at Cleo's suggestion and..."

"Cleo?" Her head tilted with a gesture of interest. "She's one of our finest contributors."

"Think you may have some test pictures of her?"

"Undoubtedly. Just a moment." She picked up the phone, pressed a button on the base and said, "Marsha? See if we have any photos of Greta Service in our personnel files. No, she's a model. Bring them up, please."

When she hung up she asked, "Did she work for us?"

"Opinion is that Greta was, well...a little too stacked for high fashion jobs."

"Luckily for us we're only concerned with the woman's opinion. You men...all you want is pin-ups."

I looked at her and felt my mouth twist into a smile.

She threw back her head and laughed, her eyes sparkling in the light. "No, I'm not the high fashion type either, thank goodness. I'd hate to have to starve myself into a size six."

"I don't think that would help much either. When you're endowed, you're endowed. Don't knock it."

"Words like that rarely pass through these portals." Her eyes were filled with a mocking challenge. "I assume you're an expert on these matters."

"I haven't heard any complaints?"

Before she could answer there was a knock on the door and a tall, slim girl walked in with a folder, handed it to her boss and threw a nervous little glance toward me before she left. "You made quite an impression outside," Dulcie McInnes said and handed me the folder after examining it.

Inside was a typed résumé listing Greta Service's statistics and qualifications. Her address was the one in the Village. Several news clippings from the garment industry's trade papers showed her in various costumes with her face partially obscured by either a coat collar or wide-brimmed hat, and there were four composite photos with the Proctor Group stamp on the back.

Greta Service was all that was said about her. No dress could do justice to a body that was so obviously made for a bikini. There was no way of erasing the odd, sensual appeal of her face so beautifully framed by long jet black hair, and no matter how she posed, you got the impression she would rather be naked than in a dress of any price.

"You see it too?" she asked me.

"Lovely."

"I didn't mean that. She just isn't a Proctor Girl. It's one of the hazards of the business."

I picked the best of the lot and held it up. "Can I have this?"

"Certainly, if it will help. We keep the negatives on file downstairs. Occasionally we do have requests from certain manufacturers for this type, but not often."

I rolled it up and slipped it in my pocket. "Think anybody here might know anything about her?"

"I doubt it," she said. "Her application date was quite a few months ago and they interview girls daily down there. Women are such a common commodity in this business you can't tell one from the other after a while. I remember getting Cleo's note about this girl, but I passed it on to personnel to handle. She wasn't the first Cleo submitted and we have used several others she suggested. Top-notch free-lancers like Cleo aren't easy to find and they usually make a good choice. In this case, I imagine Cleo was doing a little wishful thinking. The Service girl would do better with one of the men's magazines."

"What's the going rate with them?"

She shrugged, thought a moment and said, "Only a fraction of ours. Once a Proctor Girl, the sky's the limit. Quite a few have wound up in Hollywood."

I got up and pulled my coat on. "That's it then. Thanks for your time, Miss McInnes."

"Glad you came." Her emerald eyes seemed to dance with my own. "It's made for an enjoyable morning." A tiny furrow creased her forehead. "Would you mind letting me know if you find her?"

"Sure."

"It's ridiculous, I know, but I get a maternal feeling about these girls. It isn't a bit easy for them at all."

She held out her hand and I wrapped my own around it. I squeezed too hard, but she didn't wince and her own grip was firm and pleasing. "You'll hear from me," I said.

"Don't forget."

The receptionist made a frightened, crablike move to get out of the way when I stepped through the door, her face flushing again when I looked at her. Then she sniffed with indignation and faked ignoring me. She was the only one. The other few in the room looked at me with open curiosity, their eyes full of speculation.

I pushed the down button and waited, listening to the rush of air in the elevator well behind the door. The noise stopped and the doors parted sullenly. A swarthy man clutching a black attaché case stepped out, his sleepy eyes sweeping over me carelessly before he headed toward the reception desk. I got in and pressed the lobby button, picked up several employees and a few who were obviously models on the way down and reached the street smelling of assorted imported perfumes.

Sixth Avenue had lost its identity over the last ten years. It was an empire now.

The lunch crowd had left the Blue Ribbon Restaurant when I met Hy Gardner and we had the corner table in the bar to ourselves. I sat with my back to the wall while Hy dug out a sheaf of notes and laid them on the table while he fished for words. He looked like a guy who couldn't scratch his itch and finally he said, "What the hell are you into now, Mike?"

"Ease off, buddy," I told him. "Clue me in first."

"Okay." He sat back and shoved his glasses up on his forehead. "You're on top of the Delaney kill, you had a contact with Mitch Temple before he was knocked off, then you were there with Pat at the apartment after Mitch was bumped and we couldn't even get in."

"Wait a minute .. "

"Quit dicing. One of the guys saw you take the side exit out. But you wanted something on Greta Service and if you think I don't think this is all part of one of your packages, you're crazy."

"Hy..."

"Look," he interrupted, "my Miami trip is loused up, one of our own guys got killed and you're playing footsies with me. Since when?"

"Can you cool it if I spell it out?"

"What am I, a kid? Man, after all we've been through..."

"All right, I'm not even sure there's a connection." I took five minutes and laid out the details for him while he jotted them down on the back of one of his papers. When I got done I said, "Make anything of it?"

"According to Harry Service his sister knew both the Poston and the Delaney girl. Your report verified the Poston tie-in, anyway. In their business it wouldn't be unusual--they probably have plenty of mutual friends. Dozens of them line up for one job and they're always meeting at the agencies. So far as you know, Greta Service is around someplace and the only one worried is her brother, and that's because he heard about the two deaths and the fact that his sister knew both of them."

"Greta disappeared," I said.

"Not disappeared," Hy stated. "Her immediate whereabouts are unknown. You think that's something new in this town? Hell, let a broad in that racket hook a guy who'll keep her in minks and she'll drop the old gang in a second. Since when do I tell you that?"

"You're not, friend. I got the same picture. It's just that I got a funny feeling about it."

"Oh boy," Hy said. "Oh, boy. I don't even like you when you get that look. You'll screw the works up for sure."

"Maybe. What's the news on Temple?"

Hy pulled his glasses down on the end of his nose and peered at me over them. "You don't hit one of us that easily. It gets everybody edgy and we have too many inside sources we can work. In our own way we're like cops. News is where the trouble is and we're right there. Right now everybody is in the field on this assignment and little things are drifting in the cops never even heard about."

"Like what?"

"Mitch was around too long not to keep a daily record. Bobby Dale dug it up in his personal effects in the office. The only thing hot he had going was the Poston and Delaney tie-in. He left a page full of speculation about that, including Pat Chambers' request through you to lay off running it."

"Don't blame Pat for that."

"I'm not. But it didn't stop Mitch from pushing the angle. He hit every damn store he could find who sold negligees like the ones those kids wore and spent over three hundred bucks making purchases in various ones. The boxes started arriving at the office the day he was killed."

"What came of it?"

"He found something that killed him, that's what. The day he was knifed he was all excited about something and spent a full hour in the morgue file going through stock photographs. He didn't pull any or there would have been a record of it and the attendant there didn't notice what section he was working in so we can't point it up from there."

"Any record of that?"

"It either happened too fast or he was too excited to put it down."

"That doesn't fit him at all."

"I know. Dale said he kept a private reference on him at all times."

"Nothing like that was found on the body."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't there. The position he died in was reaching for his coat. All he grabbed was that handkerchief, but he could have been trying to protect those papers. Whoever killed him simply lifted the stuff."

"But they couldn't be sure he didn't make a duplicate copy," I reminded him.

"It was a chance they took and it paid off. Right now everybody's backtracking Mitch's movements and something will show sooner or later. One thing we just found out was that Mitch made four calls to Norman Harrison, the political columnist on his paper. Norm wasn't home and his answering service took the message to call back. Mitch died before he could reach him. Ordinarily, Mitch and Norm rarely saw each other, so the request was kind of odd."

I went to say something, but Hy held up his hand. "Wait, that isn't all. The day he was poking around in the morgue file, Mitch sent a note by messenger to a man named Ronald Miller. He's an engineer for Pericon Chemicals in their foreign division. We contacted him in Cairo and he said Mitch wanted to see him on an important matter, but he was leaving for Egypt that day and couldn't make it. He didn't have any idea of what Mitch wanted, either. Their relationship was normal...they had served in the army together, got together occasionally and Mitch reviewed a couple of books this Miller wrote on his experiences in the Far East."

"It make sense?"

"I pulled the books from the library and went through them. One was an adventure novel and the other a technical travelogue. Neither sold very well. There wasn't a single thing in either one that fits this case."

"How long ago did he write them?"

"About ten years back."

"Nothing new since then?"

"No. Why?"

"Maybe he was intending to write another one."

"So what?"

"He could be an authority on something by now," I said.

"What's on your mind?"

"I don't know yet. How much of this has Pat got?"

"Everything. We're cooperating right down the line."

I grinned at him. "Late enough to get a head start, but cooperating."

"We're in business too," Hy agreed. "We still know the law on withholding evidence."

"And you decide what's evidence?"

For the first time Hy let a smile break through. "You ought to know, Mike. Now, where do you go from here?"

"Looking for Greta Service."

"Still on that kick?"

"It's the only one I got."

"Suppose it leads to Mitch?"

"He was my friend too, Hy."

"Yeah. Maybe you're right. It's better if we cover all the angles. There's no reason for anybody else to take it from that end except you. I hope you come up with something."

I took the photo of Greta Service from my pocket and held it out to Hy. "Your bunch can help out. How about running off a batch of these and passing them around. Somebody might spot her around Manhattan. And get the original back to my office. I'd like an excuse to see that McInnes doll again when I hand it back."

Hy nodded and grinned. "Not that it'll do you any good, kid. She's class and you don't fit in that kind of company. You'd have to wear a monkey suit and there wouldn't be any place to hide that damn gun you carry."

Pat met me in his office, his hair mussed and shadows under his eyes, looking like he had been up all night. He said, "Sit down," answered the phone twice, then leaned back in his chair and wiped the back of his hand across his face. "Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it."

"Who's on your back now?"

"You must be kidding. I told you this was an election year. Everybody's passing the buck this time. That Temple kill really stirred the fudge."

"Got anything on it yet?"

He shook his head slowly. "Nothing but boxes of women's nightgowns. We hit all the stores they were bought at and most of the salesgirls remembered selling them, but that's about all. Mitch told the girls he was trying to match one a friend bought for his wife and looked for a description of anyone who bought either black or green, but both colors were so popular the girls couldn't come up with anything concrete."

"Why did he bother buying them then?"

"Got me. Probably just to make it look good. Come here, take a look."

The office next to Pat's was empty, but the desk and chair were piled high with empty boxes and a table along the wall was covered with a mound of filmy garments. I went over and separated them, looking at the labels. None were expensive, but the designs were clearly erotic and not intended for the average housewife. Half the pile were black numbers, the rest all shades of red, green and blue with two canary yellow styles.

"Find out which one he bought last?"

"No. Four of the sales slips were dated the same day he died and all were bought in the morning, but nobody could pinpoint the time. Each one of those stores sold a bunch of these things to men and women the same day. We have a team out trying to nail something down, but all we get is a big, fat zero. Why the hell do these things have to be so complicated?"

"Wish I could help."

"Don't do me any favors," Pat said. "I'm still getting nudged by the brains upstairs about how you happened to be the one to find the Delaney girl."

"What's new on her?"

"One thing for sure...neither she nor the Poston girl were identified as buyers of those gowns. We got a make on the Delaney kid by way of left field. About a month ago Vice raided a pornographic photography ring selling sixteen-millimeter stag reels and she was one of the featured players. One of our guys recognized her. The ones who sold the stuff couldn't put a finger on the ones who filmed it, but there was a scene with a window in the background that spotted certain buildings and we were able to locate the hotel they made it in. Right now we have a partial description of the ones who occupied the place and have the hotel covered in case they show again."

"Fat chance. That bunch shift around."

"It's the only chance we have. Dames who make money that way don't pay social security and rarely use their own names. We still got the body on ice. She has one distant relative in Oregon who wants nothing to do with the situation, so there we stand."

"And the Poston woman?"

"You know that angle."

"Don't tell me you aren't digging into probable sources of the poison that might have killed her."

Pat relaxed and grinned at me. "You think too much, Mike," he said. "Sure, we're on it, the Washington agencies have been notified, but the possibilities of getting a lead are so remote I'm not hoping we'll get the answer that way. The M.E. got off some letters to friends in the profession who share the same hobby. He thinks they might be able to supply the answers if anybody has imported that particular drug."

"This deal has some peculiar sexual connotations," I said.

"Most of them have."

"But not like this."

"So far nobody knows they're tied in yet. We're not even sure ourselves. Luckily, the papers are cooperating."

"What happens if they break it first?"

"All hell breaks loose. Think you can use a partner?"

"Any time," I laughed.

"Which brings us to why you came up here in the first place."

I said, "Remember Harry Service?"

Pat nodded.

"He wants me to find his sister. She hasn't contacted him in a long time."

"You? He wants you to do this?"

"Come on, Pat, he isn't the kind to go to the cops."

"How'd he reach you?"

"Supposing I forget you asked that question."

Pat gave me a disgusted look and said, "Okay, okay. What do you want from me?"

"A letter from the brass getting me in to see Harry. Somebody in the front office has got to be the friendly type."

"Not as far as you're concerned."

"I can push it if I have to."

"I know you can. Just don't. Let me see what I can do." He gave me a quizzical glance and stuck his hands deep into his pockets. "One thing, old buddy. And tell me true, Harry contacted you, right?"

"If you don't believe it I can show you how."

"Never mind."

"Why?" I asked him.

"Because if you initiated the contact I'd say it was tying into my immediate business."

My laugh didn't sound too convincing, but Pat bought it. "You know me," I said.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

The attendant at the morgue file of the paper was a crackly little old guy who used to be one of the best rewrite men on the staff until the demands of age caught up with him. Now he was content to spend his time among the artifacts of journalism, complaining about the new generation and how easy they had it.

I said, "Hi, Biff," and he squinted my way, fished for his glasses and got them on his nose.

"Mike Hammer, I'll be damned." He held out a gnarled hand and I took it. "Nice of you to visit an old man," he said with a smile. "I sure used up a lot of adjectives on you in the old days."

"Some of them weren't very nice."

"Company policy," he laughed. "You always made a great bad guy. But how the hell did you always come out clean?"

"That's my policy," I said.

He came around the counter lighting the stub of a chewed cigar. "You got it made, Mike. Now, what can I do for you?"

"Mitch Temple was in the other day..."

He coughed in the cigar smoke and regarded me with amazement. "You're in this?"

"Sideways. Can you keep it quiet?"

"Sure. I'm not on a beat."

I gave him a quick picture of my meeting with Mitch Temple and the possibility that his death might be involved in something I was working on. Biff knew I wasn't putting it all on the line, but it was to be expected and he didn't mind. Let him alone and he'd put some of the pieces together himself.

Biff said, "All I can do is tell you what I told the others. Mitch came down and spent a while here going through the files. I was busy at the desk and didn't pay any attention to him. He didn't ask for anything and didn't check anything out."

"His column doesn't often carry photographs."

"That's right. When it did they were usually new ones supplied by some press agent. Then they were filed away down here."

"What section was he working in?"

"Hell, Mike, I can't see beyond that first tier. He was out of sight all the time. All the rest asked me that same question. I could hear him banging drawers, but that was all."

"Anybody else come in while he was here?"

Biff thought a moment, then said, "I know where he wasn't. All the show-biz and Broadway files are on the left there. He was back in the general news section, but they're cross-indexed alphabetically, by occupation and a few other headings. Hell, Mike, Al Casey who does the feature crime yarns even dusted around for Mitch's prints on the cabinets and didn't come up with anything. I don't know where he was poking around."

I didn't pay any attention to the other old guy in the coveralls who was pushing a broom around the floor until he said, "I sure know where he was."

Both of us turned around slowly and looked at him. He never stopped his sweeping. My voice came out in a hoarse whisper. "Where?"

"The P-T section. He left all the damn butts squashed out on the floor and I had to scrape 'em up."

"Why didn't you say, something?" Biff said.

"Nobody asked me," he growled.

I said, "Show me," and Biff led me back around the floor-to-ceiling rows of files until we came to the section between P and T.

Then all we did was stand there. There were forty separate drawers in the section, each a good four feet deep and crammed with folders. Biff said, "You know how many items are in this place?" I shook my head. "Figure at least a hundred to the drawer and each folder with at least ten photographs. You got a lot of looking to do, friend. Maybe you can suggest something."

"How do you get to the top drawers?"

"There's a stepladder down the end."

I waved for Biff to follow me and found the old guy emptying his sweepings into a trash can. "Did Mitch Temple have that ladder out when he was here?"

"Yep." He spit into the can, slid the top on and walked away.

"I know," Biff muttered, "nobody asked him. Now what?"

"Half of those files are eliminated. If Al Casey has the time he might try working over the other half."

"If I know him, he'll make the time," Biff said.

"Just do me a favor, keep me out of it," I told him.

Biff's face twisted into a puzzled expression. "You mean I'm supposed to have had the idea?"

"You've had them before, haven't you?"

"That was before."

"Well, you got one again."

I grabbed a cruising cab on Forty-second Street and had him take me back to the Hackard Building. The working crowd had cleared out an hour ago and the city was going through its momentary lull while the night closed in around it. I took the elevator up to the eighth floor and walked down the corridor to my office, my heels echoing hollowly in the empty space.

My keys were in my hand, but I didn't put them in the lock. Tacked to the frame was a white sheet of paper that covered one of the panes of frosted glass with the simple typewritten note, Back Later, across it.

I slid the .45 out of the sling, thumbed the safety off and the hammer back and moved so my shadow wouldn't fall across the door. I had had other notes stuck on my door, but this one had been written on my own brand of bonded paper in the brown typing we always used and had to come from inside the room, Only it was something neither Velda nor I would have done.

I reached over and pulled the paper away. There was a fist-sized hole in the pane right by the lock that a glass cutter had made and the note was tacked over it so nobody would notice it and possibly report it downstairs.

They didn't even bother to lock up after they had left. The knob turned under my hand and I shoved the door open. I reached in, flicked the light on, then walked inside and kicked the door shut with my foot.

Somebody had been very neat about it. Thorough, but neat. The place had been given a professional shakedown from one end to the other and not one thing had been missed. The desk drawers and cabinets had been emptied, but their contents were in inverted piles, systematically scrutinized and left lying there. Nobody ripped up seat cushions any more, but each one had been turned over and inspected for signs of fresh stitching and all the furniture had been pulled out to see if anything had been concealed behind it.

Now it was getting interesting. Somewhere out there in the maw of the city somebody was concerned about my participation in something. I sat down in my chair, swung around and looked out at the lights that outlined New York.

The possibilities were limited. To somebody, the fact that I was the one to find the Delaney girl could have seemed like more than a coincidence. With her background, she could have been involved in something heavy enough to warrant investigation from private sources and I was on her tail.

Or was it Greta Service? The prison grapevine could have passed along Harry's concern about his sister's absence and his contact with me and if Greta had been wrapped up with the wrong people, they wouldn't want me poking around.

Then there was Mitch Temple. A guy like that could always, pop an exposé that was worth a kill if it could be kept quiet.

Somebody wanted to know how much I knew. Somebody didn't know I knew about the thread that tied all three of those people together.

I picked up the phone and dialed Velda's apartment. After four rings her service answered and when I identified myself, said she hadn't called in since that afternoon. I left a message for her to contact me at the usual places and hung up.

There was no sense dusting the place down for prints; a pro would have worn gloves anyway. Nothing was missing as far as I could see and the data Velda had compiled for me would be in the safe at Lakland's--a precaution we always took.

I used a piece of cardboard and covered the hole in the glass from the inside, then snapped the lock, walked out and closed the door.

Silence has a funny sound. You hear it in the jungles when everything is too still and you know there's somebody in the trees with a gun ready to pick you off. You hear it in a crowded room when everybody turns off the conversation when you walk in the door and you know the hostile element is ready and waiting.

I could hear it in the corridor and before the parrots could scream with indignation of sudden movement and the monkeys jump with alarm at shattering blasts, I hit the floor and rolled, the .45 in my hand spitting back at the half-opened door behind me where the guy in the black suit was trying to bring me into the sights of his automatic and getting nowhere because his bullets were tearing aimlessly into the tile and ricocheting off the walls while mine had already punched three holes into his chest.