The Mike Hammer Collection

THE GIRL HUNTERS

THE SNAKE

THET WISTED THING

“I write what people want to read.”

—Mickey Spillane

The muzzle of the gun was a pair of yawning chasms but there was no depth to their mouths. Down the length of the blued steel the blood crimson of her nails made a startling and symbolic contrast.

Death red, I thought. The fingers behind them should have been tan but weren’t. They were a tense, drawing white and with another fraction of an inch the machinery of the gun would go into motion.

The Girl Hunters

Mike Hammer’s voluptuous, long-lost love is alive—and targeted by the mastermind assassin known as The Dragon.

The Snake

Playing protector to a runaway baby-faced blonde, Mike Hammer trades barbs and lead with crooked politicos, snarling hoods, and sex-hungry females.

The Twisted Thing

A kidnapping case leads Mike Hammer into a fourteen-year-old mystery and into the sights of the most venomous killer the twofisted private eye has ever faced.

Also available:

The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 1, featuring:

I, the Jury, My Gun Is Quick, and Vengeance Is Mine!

Introduction by Max Allan Collins

The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 2, featuring:

One Lonely Night, The Big Kill, and Kiss Me, Deadly

Introduction by Lawrence Block

Praise for Mickey Spillane

“Spillane is a master in compelling you to always turn the next page.”

—The New York Times

“The toughest guy in all of mystery fiction.... In books like I, the Jury, One Lonely Night, and Kiss Me, Deadly, Spillane secured a permanent place for himself in the pantheon of such mystery greats as Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Ross Macdonald.”

—The Washington Post

“Is there any serious argument that Mike Hammer is the most famous fictional detective creation since the Second World War?”

—Donald Westlake

“One of the bestselling authors of the twentieth century. . . . With Hammer, Spillane secured his place in the pantheon, alongside such mystery greats as Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler.”

—Los Angeles Times

“[A] crime-writing legend.”

—New York Post

“There is not a single emotional word or adjective in Spillane’s description ; he presents nothing save visual facts; but he selects only those facts, only those eloquent details, which convey the visual reality of the scene and create a mood of desolate loneliness.”

—Ayn Rand

“I find [Spillane’s] early novels hugely entertaining in their meat-and-potatoes way. They go like lightning, they keep you guessing, and they don’t pretend to be anything other than ripping yarns.”

—National Review

“There are only a handful of towering figures in the history of the private-eye novel, which is one of the quintessential American contributions to the world of twentieth-century literature. Dashiell Hammett popularized the genre; Raymond Chandler was its greatest literary artist ; Mr. Spillane kept it alive when it fell out of favor.”

—The New York Sun

Mike Hammer Novels by Mickey Spillane

I, the Jury

My Gun Is Quick

Vengeance Is Mine!

One Lonely Night

The Big Kill

Kiss Me, Deadly

The Girl Hunters

The Snake

The Twisted Thing

The Body Lovers

Survival . . . ZERO!

The Killing Man

Black Alley

The Return of Mike Hammer

Among aficionados of tough crime fiction, few literary mysteries rival that of the disappearance in 1952 of fictional private eye Mike Hammer at the peak of his—and his creator Mickey Spillane’s—powers.

The still-unrivaled publishing success of this Brooklyn-born bartender’s son began inauspiciously in 1947 with the hardcover publication by E. P. Dutton of I, the Jury. A few reviewers noticed it as a particularly nasty example of hard-boiled detective fiction, a few praised it, most panned it, and sales were less than ten thousand copies. There was such little notice taken of Mike Hammer’s first adventure that when the young writer submitted a second Hammer novel, For Whom the Gods Would Destroy, Dutton rejected it. Spillane returned to the comic book field where, among other things, he wrote love comics.

Then, in December 1948, New American Library’s paperback edition of I, the Jury came out and started selling—and selling. In part thanks to a vivid cover portraying the now-famous denouement of the novel—a seated Mike Hammer’s back to the camera as he trains his .45 on a disrobing femme fatale—the book attracted legions of readers. Spillane was asked to resubmit For Whom the Gods Would Destroy, which he declined to do (more on that subject later), and instead My Gun Is Quick appeared in 1950, the second of six Hammer novels that would top bestseller lists worldwide, making Spillane the first pop-lit superstar—so big, it well and truly pissed off Ernest Hemingway, who asked to have Spillane’s picture removed from a barroom wall in Florida and got his own taken down for the trouble.

Sixty years later, to describe the impact of those six novels—and a seventh non-Hammer Spillane, The Long Wait—is to tempt credulity. The millions of copies the blue-collar writer sold unveiled an audience for franker, more violent popular fiction, and the mystery field in particular was riddled with his imitators. This went beyond just other writers copying Spillane—the first major publisher of paperback original fiction, Gold Medal Books, was created in 1950 to serve the market Spillane had uncovered. He was even their paid consultant, and provided a memorable blurb for one of their mainstays, John D. MacDonald (“I wish I had written this book!”). Gold Medal’s major Hammer imitation was the Shell Scott series by Richard S. Prather, zany comedies that nonetheless worked in the extreme violence and sex Spillane had first trafficked.

The sixth Hammer novel, Kiss Me, Deadly (1952), became the first private eye novel to crack the New York Times bestseller list (the likes of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Erle Stanley Gardner had never come close), and the paperback edition was as wildly successful as its predecessors. Hollywood, via British producer/director Victor Saville, came calling, and the new Spillane book and three others were headed for the silver screen.

In the midst of success and celebrity that the young writer could never have imagined came a similarly shocking barrage of attacks. Though often characterized as a right-wing writer, Spillane was—like Dashiell Hammett (but not serving jail time!)—a victim of the McCarthy era. The former comic book writer found himself (alone among popular fiction practitioners) caught up in a four-color witch hunt that started with well-meaning but misguided psychiatrist Dr. Fredric Wertham and ended with a farcical Senate hearing. Wertham’s anticomics book Seduction of the Innocent (1954) detailed example after example of rampant violence, sexually suggestive content, and latent homosexuality in the superhero, crime, and horror “funnies” of the fifties. He singled out only one popular fiction author: Mickey Spillane.

Wertham was not alone in going after Spillane hammer and tongs—diatribes in countless publications from The Atlantic to Parents magazine attacked Spillane as a purveyor of filth, the nadir of popular culture, and the illegitimate father of juvenile delinquency. In public, and even in private, Spillane laughed all this off. But he was secretly troubled and frustrated that what he had conceived as sheer entertainment would be taken so seriously, and that he had become a kind of household-name villain, a synonym for sex and sadism.

How much effect this had on Spillane’s decision to stop writing Mike Hammer novels after his sixth one is unknown. I spoke to him about this many times, and got many answers (some elliptical, others disingenuous), and have come to feel there’s no one solution to the mystery.

Similarly, it’s hard to know whether Spillane’s conversion to the conservative religious sect the Jehovah’s Witnesses was in part a response to this over-the-top criticism. Did Spillane feel guilty, and were the Witnesses his redemption? He never said. He rarely spoke about his religious beliefs in public, and in private said only that he’d responded to what he’d been told by a couple of Watchtower-dispensing missionaries who came to his door in typical Witness fashion.

What can’t be denied is the problem created by his conservative faith for the hard-hitting, sexually provocative fiction for which he’d become rich and famous. Throughout his career, Spillane would alternate prolific periods with fallow ones, going in and out of the church, taking criticism from his fellow Witnesses as late as The Killing Man (1989), when he was nearly sent packing from his South Carolina Kingdom Hall over the use of profanity.

The criticism he received, whether from the New York Times or his church, was surely not the only factor for his seeming dry spell from 1952-1961. Spillane liked to say he wrote only when he needed the money, and in the 1950s, money was pouring in—he was the bestselling writer in the world, and Hollywood was adding to the coffers, as well, though in ways that frustrated him.

He spent a lot of time dueling with producer Saville, who rejected Spillane’s choice to play Mike Hammer, ex-Marine and cop Jack Stang. Spillane, playing himself, and Stang, essentially as Hammer, starred for producers John Wayne and Bob Fellows in the circus thriller Ring of Fear (1954). Stang, though physically impressive, didn’t make the impact onscreen that natural actor Spillane did—the author was clearly the Mike Hammer audiences had been expecting when Saville instead gave them Biff Elliot in I, the Jury.

Throughout the fifties, the absence of a new Hammer mystery did not keep the first six books from selling and selling, although finally NAL did develop a sort of fill-in, a British author named Fleming said to be the Spillane of the UK. Spillane was having the time of his life, touring with the Clyde Beatty Circus, racing stock cars, and fiddling with Hollywood projects. Saville made three more Spillane films, notably the classic Kiss Me Deadly (1955), directed by Robert Aldrich and with a nicely nasty Hammer in Ralph Meeker. A good, tough TV series starring Darren McGavin ran for two syndicated seasons in the late fifties; there was a radio show and, for a while, even a Hammer comic strip, with Spillane himself writing the Sunday stories.

During his bookless near decade, Spillane did keep his hand in the business—he wrote non-Hammer short stories and novellas for surprisingly low-end markets, usually dealing with editors and publishers he knew from his comic book days. The most successful writer in the world was selling his once- or twice-a-year short fiction to lower-tier publications such as Cavalier, Male, Saga, and Manhunt.

He stayed in contact with his book publishers, however, and may have been angling for an improved contract before getting back to work. He was notoriously casual about the business end of things, despite his workingman’s pride in his craft, and made a number of bad decisions toward the start of his run of success that he spent much of his life trying to correct. He may have been on a kind of informal strike with Dutton and Signet.

Whatever the case, his return in 1960 with the non-Hammer novel The Deep earned him mixed reviews (actually a big step up) and the expected blockbuster sales, particularly in paperback. But readers and reviewers alike were asking the same question: Where is Mike Hammer?

This collection answers that question, beginning with the novel that signaled the end of the long wait between Hammer books—The Girl Hunters (1961). Few Hammer fans would rate any of the later novels above the initial very famous six (I, The Jury; My Gun Is Quick; Vengeance is Mine!; One Lonely Night; The Big Kill; Kiss Me, Deadly). Most, however, would place The Girl Hunters next on that esteemed list.

Spillane is seldom credited with the innovative brand of continuity he developed in the Hammer series. Most mystery series have interchangeable parts—only the first and last of Agatha Christie’s Poirot novels have any real sense of continuity; Archie Goodwin and Nero Wolfe remain ageless as Rex Stout indicates the changing times around them; and—once Erle Stanley Gardner got his cast and format in place—Perry Mason, Della Street, and Paul Drake span four decades or more behaving exactly the same.

Spillane, however, explored the impact of events on his character, so that the shocking conclusion of I, the Jury haunts the detective, with his guilt coming to a head in the fourth Hammer book, the surreal nightmare One Lonely Night. Even in 1961’s The Girl Hunters , Hammer cops to feeling guilty over the “easy” decision he made on the last page of his 1947 debut novel.

The Girl Hunters answers the question of Hammer’s disappearance, literally—the detective, guilt-ridden for causing the seeming death of his partner-secretary, Velda, has been on a seven-year drunk, as evidenced by the famous first line: “They found me in the gutter.” Further, Spillane reveals that Hammer’s best friend, Captain Pat Chambers of homicide, is now his worst enemy, as Chambers too is revealed to have been in love with Velda. When word comes that Velda may be alive, Hammer the alcoholic goes cold turkey (well, beers don’t count, apparently) and soon is back on the mean streets.

But Spillane has a great time exploring his hero’s new frailties. This Hammer is weak and uncertain after having been out of the game for a long time, and must now coast on his old reputation—and Spillane seems almost puckishly aware of the parallel between himself and Hammer. Whether his religious conversion or the sex-and-sadism critical blasts were factors, it’s hard to say, but Spillane’s technique has changed—he is more sparing with the sex and violence, although both are present, used, as the writer liked to say, “as exclamation points.” The Girl Hunters signals a Hammer less likely to fire away with his .45 at the drop of a fedora, and shows a move to surprise endings that will often have Hammer tricking the bad guys into killing themselves so he doesn’t have to bear the direct guilt.

The body count is high, but Hammer himself isn’t responsible, although the vicious climatic fight with the Russian agent called The Dragon concludes with one of the most casually brutal acts Hammer ever perpetrated. With surprising ease, Spillane moves his fifties detective into the sixties, espionage substituting for the Mob and other more conventional villains. Hammer had fought “Commies” before (in One Lonely Night), but here he’s entered the world of his British offspring, James Bond. There’s a showbiz element connected to Spillane’s own celebrity, including the use of real-life columnist Hy Gardner, a rival and contemporary of Walter Winchell and Earl Wilson.

Spillane is at his best in The Girl Hunters, his storytelling fast-moving, consistently entertaining, and with crisp, tough dialogue and action that shocks when it comes, plus mood-setting descriptions that show off his gift for noir poetry. Spillane employs a surprising narrative technique, the absence of Velda from the story—she is the girl being hunted, but she does not appear.

Spillane saves her reappearance for The Snake, the eighth Mike Hammer and a direct sequel to The Girl Hunters. Readers should understand, however, that The Girl Hunters and The Snake were never intended to be one book, one continuous story, and are advised to keep in mind that three years separated the publication of the two. Those fresh from spending time with a drunk Mike Hammer who was struggling to get back to his old self will need a grain of salt, at least, to accept Hammer in The Snake—which begins perhaps an hour after The Girl Hunters ends. Improbably, Hammer is not only his old self again, but is accepted around Manhattan by his cronies as if he’d been away for seven weeks, not seven years.

Still, The Snake is a first-rate tough mystery, with Spillane abandoning espionage for more traditional Mob concerns. Hammer and Velda are instantly the team of old as they help a damsel in distress and wade into the murky waters of big-time politics. In some respects, this is as close to a “standard” Mike Hammer mystery as you’re likely to find. Had Spillane—like Stout, Christie, Gardner, and so many others—chosen to write dozens of Hammer novels rather than just a dozen (well, a baker’s dozen), The Snake might have been the template. Moving around Manhattan with ease, Hammer works his contacts among journalists and reestablishes a working relationship, if not quite his friendship, with Pat Chambers. Even Spillane’s old enemy Anthony Boucher praised the novel’s craft, calling it “certainly Mike Hammer’s best case.”

The ending is (as they used to say) a corker, although the ambiguous nature of what happens next—i.e., do Velda and Mike consummate their love?—remains unresolved, at least as far as Spillane was concerned. This piece of continuity bedeviled Spillane, who, post-Snake, went back and forth on whether Hammer and Velda were intimate.

Clearly Spillane intended to write another batch of books about Mike Hammer, but several things interfered. He was sidetracked for a while working as screenwriter and star of the British-American production The Girl Hunters (1963). Last-minute funding problems caused the film to be shot in black-and-white, making it look shabby next to the early Bond films with which it was in direct competition (sharing Bond girl Shirley Eaton, who costarred in The Girl Hunters and had the small but memorable golden-girl role in Goldfinger).

Spillane received raves for his portrayal of his hero, a remarkable accomplishment—after all, it’s not as though Edgar Rice Burroughs could have pulled off Tarzan onscreen, although Agatha Christie would have made a pretty fair Marple. The high concept of mystery writer playing his own detective attracted lots of media, in particular a witty Esquire magazine piece by Terry Southern. But Bond’s emergence, and frankly dominance, screwed things up for Spillane—Ian Fleming, the Brit used by Signet to fill in for Spillane during “the long wait,” was now on top of publishing and movies.

The Snake had been intended to be the basis for the second Spillane-as-Hammer film, and the Lolita-ish Sue was written as a role for his then wife, Broadway starlet Sherri Malinou. But The Girl Hunters didn’t do well enough to justify a second film, and discouraged Spillane from focusing on his most famous character. Instead, he developed the Hammer clone Tiger Mann, a hard-boiled secret agent whose four adventures sold in the millions but did not generate TV shows or films despite the surrounding spy craze.

A brief aside—The Girl Hunters title was derived from the “Girl Hunt” ballet in the classic 1953 Fred Astaire film The Band Wagon, which overtly and beautifully spoofed Spillane and Mike Hammer. This gave the mystery writer great satisfaction, because Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies were Mickey Spillane’s cinema of choice.

Spillane wound up publishing only four Hammer novels in the sixties, although he began a number that were set aside for various reasons; over the remainder of his career, he began and set aside even more Hammer novels that he never published. After The Snake, Spillane developed a Hammer story that pitted his hero against the drug racket in a context of the swinging sixties. But he found himself up against a deadline to Dutton and Signet for a new Hammer novel, and rather than finish what would eventually become The Big Bang (published in 2010 as “the lost Mike Hammer sixties novel”), he pulled down a certain old, unpublished manuscript from his shelf—For Whom the Gods Would Destroy—and sent that instead, under the title The Twisted Thing.

This was, of course, the rejected novel he’d written right after selling I, the Jury (1947) to E. P. Dutton, making it chronologically the second Mike Hammer mystery. When Signet had a huge success with the paperback reprint of I, the Jury, however, the editor at Dutton came back to Spillane requesting For Whom the Gods Would Destroy, but (as indicated earlier) Spillane said no.

He chose to write My Gun Is Quick (1950) instead. The response from readers to the sex and violence of I, the Jury dictated a different Mike Hammer novel to follow the first. For Whom the Gods Would Destroy went onto a shelf in the writer’s upstate New York home, where the sole manuscript was nearly lost in a fire. The retrieved pages lacked only the final one, which had been burned black; Spillane wrote a replacement last page for it in 1966, though a restoration of the charred page revealed he had remembered the original ending almost word for word.

Spillane’s noir universe was so timeless that very little revision was required for publication in 1966 of a novel written in 1948. A small passage with Hammer’s cop friend, Pat Chambers, makes reference to the events of The Girl Hunters and The Snake, and The Twisted Thing fits in well with the 1960s Hammer novels, which were tough and sexy but eased up on the emotional fire and extremes of violence and passion that had made I, the Jury (and the five Hammer novels that quickly followed it) such icons of controversy in the early 1950s.

Ironically, critics—again including New York Times stalwart Anthony Boucher—greeted this “new” Hammer mystery with accolades. “I suggest,” said Boucher, “that [Mike Hammer’s] creator is one of the last of the great storytellers in the pulp tradition, as he amply demonstrates in The Twisted Thing.”

Boucher, in terming the novel “vintage” Spillane, didn’t know how right he was—or that he was responding enthusiastically to a novel written in the very period during which the critic had been (in his words) “one of the leaders in the attacks on Spillane.”

Looking at The Twisted Thing in that context, Spillane’s shelving it and substituting My Gun Is Quick is easy to understand: the latter novel plays off the violence and vengeance of I, the Jury with sexual passages that were frank for the day, and exhibits a generally seamy, sordid feel, beginning with Hammer’s encountering a friendly hooker in a diner.

The Twisted Thing, however, implies the vengeful Hammer of the first novel was not envisioned by the writer as the Hammer of all the novels—rather, I, the Jury appears intended to tell just that one tale of murdered-friend retribution. In The Twisted Thing there is casual sex and vintage Spillane rough stuff, but the dominant theme is a father-son relationship between Mike Hammer and fourteen-year-old child genius Ruston York.

The Twisted Thing takes place in a small town where Hammer is initially involved with rescuing young Ruston from kidnappers—both Velda and Manhattan are largely absent from the novel. A tough, corrupt local cop—the evocatively named Dilwick—provides the initial conflict, but the young genius’s wealthy father is soon murdered, and away Hammer goes. Hoods and a casino right out of The Big Sleep provide the toughest of tough dicks with further fun and games, but his detective work is right out of Christie, a search for missing documents more typical of Hercule Poirot than Mike Hammer.

The Girl Hunters is likely the best of the sixties Hammers, but The Twisted Thing isn’t a sixties Hammer at all, but rather a late forties one. The ending, revealing the identity of the murderer, comes in typical abrupt, shocking Spillane style, and makes a lot of sense as the second such ending Spillane wrote, a huge surprise in 1966 that still has power today. The small-town setting, the classic pulp cast—troubled millionaire, willing wench, crooked cops, casino thugs—represent classic pulp at its liveliest. But the father-son relationship at the novel’s core makes The Twisted Thing unique among Hammer novels.

Mike Hammer has come to be synonymous with tough private eyes, as has Mickey Spillane with hard-boiled mystery fiction. We may not know for a certainty why Spillane withdrew Mike Hammer, temporarily, from the public stage; but reading these, you’ll say it’s easy to understand why that public welcomed back both Spillane and Hammer so enthusiastically.

—Max Allan Collins

Summer 2010

Max Allan Collins has earned an unprecedented fifteen Private Eye Writers of America Shamus nominations, winning twice for novels in his historical Nathan Heller series. His graphic novel Road to Perdition is the basis of the Academy Award-winning Tom Hanks film. Shortly before Mickey Spillane’s passing, the writer asked Collins to complete various unfinished works, including the Mike Hammer novel The Big Bang (begun 1964, published 2010). Both Spillane and Collins are recipients of the Eye, the Private Eye Writers life achievement award.

THE GIRL HUNTERS

This one is for Elliott Graham

who sweated more waiting for Mike than he did as a dog face

waiting for us brown-shoes fly-boys to give him aerial cover.

So here we go again, E.G., with more to come.

But this one is for you.

CHAPTER 1

They found me in the gutter. The night was the only thing I had left and not much of it at that. I heard the car stop, the doors open and shut and the two voices talking. A pair of arms jerked me to my feet and held me there.

“Drunk,” the cop said.

The other one turned me around into the light. “He don’t smell bad. That cut on his head didn’t come from a fall either.”

“Mugged?”

“Maybe.”

I didn’t give a damn which way they called it. They were both wrong anyhow. Two hours ago I was drunk. Not now. Two hours ago I was a roaring lion. Then the bottle sailed across the room. No lion left now.

Now was a time when I wasn’t anything. Nothing was left inside except the feeling a ship must have when it’s torpedoed, sinks and hits bottom.

A hand twisted into my chin and lifted my face up. “Ah, the guy’s a bum. Somebody messed him up a little bit.”

“You’ll never make sergeant, son. That’s a hundred-buck suit and it fits too good to be anything but his own. The dirt is fresh, not worn on.”

“Okay, Daddy, let’s check his wallet, see who he is and run him in.”

The cop with the deep voice chuckled, patted me down and came up with my wallet. “Empty,” he said.

Hell, there had been two bills in it when I started out. It must have been a pretty good night. Two hundred bucks’ worth of night.

I heard the cop whistle between his teeth. “We got ourselves a real fish.”

“Society boy? He don’t look so good for a society boy. Not with his face. He’s been splashed.”

“Uh-uh. Michael Hammer, it says here on the card. He’s a private jingle who gets around.”

“So he gets tossed in the can and he won’t get around so much.”

The arm under mine hoisted me a little straighter and steered me toward the car. My feet moved; lumps on the end of a string that swung like pendulums.

“You’re only joking,” the cop said. “There are certain people who wouldn’t like you to make such noises with your mouth.”

“Like who?”

“Captain Chambers.”

It was the other cop’s turn to whistle.

“I told you this jingle was a fish,” my pal said. “Go buzz the station. Ask what we should do with him. And use a phone—we don’t want this on the air.”

The cop grunted something and left. I felt hands easing me into the squad car, then shoving me upright against the seat. The hands went down and dragged my feet in, propping them against the floorboard. The door shut and the one on the other side opened. A heavy body climbed in under the wheel and a tendril of smoke drifted across my face. It made me feel a little sick.

The other cop came back and got in beside me. “The captain wants us to take him up to his house,” he said. “He told me thanks.”

“Good enough. A favor to a captain is like money in the bank, I always say.”

“Then how come you ain’t wearing plainclothes then?”

“Maybe I’m not the type, son. I’ll leave it to you young guys.”

The car started up. I tried to open my eyes but it took too much effort and I let them stay closed.

You can stay dead only so long. Where first there was nothing, the pieces all come drifting back together like a movie of an exploding shell run in reverse. The fragments come back slowly, grating together as they seek a matching part and painfully jar into place. You’re whole again, finally, but the scars and the worn places are all there to remind you that once you were dead. There’s life once more and, with it, a dull pain that pulsates at regular intervals, a light that’s too bright to look into and sound that’s more than you can stand. The flesh is weak and crawly, slack from the disuse that is the death, sensitive with the agonizing fire that is life. There’s memory that makes you want to crawl back into the void but the life is too vital to let you go.

The terrible shattered feeling was inside me, the pieces having a hard time trying to come together. My throat was still raw and cottony; constricted, somehow, from the tensed-up muscles at the back of my neck.

When I looked up Pat was holding out his cigarettes to me. “Smoke?”

I shook my head.

His voice had a callous edge to it when he said, “You quit?”

“Yeah.”

I felt his shrug. “When?”

“When I ran out of loot. Now knock it off.”

“You had loot enough to drink with.” His voice had a real dirty tone now.

There are times when you can’t take anything at all, no jokes, no rubs—nothing. Like the man said, you want nothing from nobody never. I propped my hands on the arms of the chair and pushed myself to my feet. The inside of my thighs quivered with the effort.

“Pat—I don’t know what the hell you’re pulling. I don’t give a damn either. Whatever it is, I don’t appreciate it. Just keep off my back, old buddy.”

A flat expression drifted across his face before the hardness came back. “We stopped being buddies a long time ago, Mike.”

“Good. Let’s keep it like that. Now where the hell’s my clothes?”

He spit a stream of smoke at my face and if I didn’t have to hold the back of the chair to stand up I would have belted him one. “In the garbage,” he said. “It’s where you belong too but this time you’re lucky.”

“You son of a bitch.”

I got another faceful of smoke and choked on it.

“You used to look a lot bigger to me, Mike. Once I couldn’t have taken you. But now you call me things like that and I’ll belt you silly.”

“You son of a bitch,” I said.

I saw it coming but couldn’t move, a blurred white open-handed smash that took me right off my feet into the chair that turned over and left me in a sprawled lump against the wall. There was no pain to it, just a taut sickness in the belly that turned into a wrenching dry heave that tasted of blood from the cut inside my mouth. I could feel myself twitching spasmodically with every contraction of my stomach and when it was over I lay there with relief so great I thought I was dead.

He let me get up by myself and half fall into the chair. When I could focus again, I said, “Thanks, buddy. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Pat shrugged noncommittally and held out a glass. “Water. It’ll settle your stomach.”

“Drop dead.”

He put the glass down on an end table as the bell rang. When he came back he threw a box down on the sofa and pointed to it. “New clothes. Get dressed.”

“I don’t have any new clothes.”

“You have now. You can pay me later.”

“I’ll pay you up the guzukus later.”

He walked over, seemingly balancing on the balls of his feet. Very quietly he said, “You can get yourself another belt in the kisser without trying hard, mister.”

I couldn’t let it go. I tried to swing coming up out of the chair and like the last time I could see it coming but couldn’t get out of the way. All I heard was a meaty smash that had a familiar sound to it and my stomach tried to heave again but it was too late. The beautiful black had come again.

My jaws hurt. My neck hurt. My whole side felt like it was coming out. But most of all my jaws hurt. Each tooth was an independent source of silent agony while the pain in my head seemed to center just behind each ear. My tongue was too thick to talk and when I got my eyes open I had to squint them shut again to make out the checkerboard pattern of the ceiling.

When the fuzziness went away I sat up, trying to remember what happened. I was on the couch this time, dressed in a navy blue suit. The shirt was clean and white, the top button open and the black knitted tie hanging down loose. Even the shoes were new and in the open part of my mind it was like the simple wonder of a child discovering the new and strange world of the ants when he turns over a rock.

“You awake?”

I looked up and Pat was standing in the archway, another guy behind him carrying a small black bag.

When I didn’t answer Pat said, “Take a look at him, Larry.”

The one he spoke to pulled a stethoscope from his pocket and hung it around his neck. Then everything started coming back again. I said, “I’m all right. You don’t hit that hard.”

“I wasn’t half trying, wise guy.”

“Then why the medic?”

“General principles. This is Larry Snyder. He’s a friend of mine.”

“So what?” The doc had the stethoscope against my chest but I couldn’t stop him even if I had wanted to. The examination was quick, but pretty thorough. When he finished he stood up and pulled out a prescription pad.

Pat asked, “Well?”

“He’s been around. Fairly well marked out. Fist fights, couple of bullet scars—”

“He’s had them.”

“Fist marks are recent. Other bruises made by some blunt instrument. One rib—”

“Shoes,” I interrupted. “I got stomped.”

“Typical alcoholic condition,” he continued. “From all external signs I’d say he isn’t too far from total. You know how they are.”

“Damn it,” I said, “quit talking about me in the third person.”

Pat grunted something under his breath and turned to Larry. “Any suggestions?”

“What can you do with them?” the doctor laughed. “They hit the road again as soon as you let them out of your sight. Like him—you buy him new clothes and as soon as he’s near a swap shop he’ll turn them in on rags with cash to boot and pitch a big one. They go back harder than ever once they’re off awhile.”

“Meanwhile I can cool him for a day.”

“Sure. He’s okay now. Depends upon personal supervision.”

Pat let out a terse laugh. “I don’t care what he does when I let him loose. I want him sober for one hour. I need him.”

When I glanced up I saw the doctor looking at Pat strangely, then me. “Wait a minute. This is that guy you were telling me about one time?”

Pat nodded. “That’s right.”

“I thought you were friends.”

“We were at one time, but nobody’s friends with a damn drunken bum. He’s nothing but a lousy lush and I’d as soon throw his can in the tank as I would any other lush. Being friends once doesn’t mean anything to me. Friends can wear out pretty fast sometimes. He wore out. Now he’s part of a job. For old times’ sake I throw in a few favors on the side but they’re strictly for old times’ sake and only happen once. Just once. After that he stays bum and I stay cop. I catch him out of line and he’s had it.”

Larry laughed gently and patted him on the shoulder. Pat’s face was all tight in a mean grimace and it was a way I had never seen him before. “Relax,” Larry told him. “Don’t you get wound up.”

“So I hate slobs,” he said.

“You want a prescription too? There are economy-sized bottles of tranquilizers nowadays.”

Pat sucked in his breath and a grin pulled at his mouth. “That’s all I need is a problem.” He waved a thumb at me. “Like him.”

Larry looked down at me like he would at any specimen. “He doesn’t look like a problem type. He probably plain likes the sauce.”

“No, he’s got a problem, right?”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Tell the man what your problem is, Mikey boy.”

Larry said, “Pat—”

He shoved his hand away from his arm. “No, go ahead and tell him, Mike. I’d like to hear it again myself.”

“You son of a bitch,” I said.

He smiled then. His teeth were shiny and white under tight lips and the two steps he took toward me were stiff-kneed. “I told you what I’d do if you got big-mouthed again.”

For once I was ready. I wasn’t able to get up, so I kicked him right smack in the crotch and once in the mouth when he started to fold up and I would have gotten one more in if the damn doctor hadn’t laid me out with a single swipe of his bag that almost took my head off.

It was an hour before either one of us was any good, but from now on I wasn’t going to get another chance to lay Pat up with a sucker trick. He was waiting for me to try it and if I did he’d have my guts all over the floor.

The doctor had gone and come, getting his own prescriptions filled. I got two pills and a shot. Pat had a fistful of aspirins, but he needed a couple of leeches along the side of his face where he was all black and blue.

But yet he sat there with the disgust and sarcasm still on his face whenever he looked at me and once more he said, “You didn’t tell the doctor your problem, Mike.”

I just looked at him.

Larry waved his hand for him to cut it out and finished repacking his kit.

Pat wasn’t going to let it alone, though. He said, “Mike lost his girl. A real nice kid. They were going to get married.”

That great big place in my chest started to open up again, a huge hole that could grow until there was nothing left of me, only that huge hole. “Shut up, Pat.”

“He likes to think she ran off, but he knows all the time she’s dead. He sent her out on too hot a job and she never came back, right, Mikey boy? She’s dead.”

“Maybe you’d better forget it, Pat,” Larry told him softly.

“Why forget it? She was my friend too. She had no business playing guns with hoods. But no, wise guy here sends her out. His secretary. She has a P.I. ticket and a gun, but she’s nothing but a girl and she never comes back. You know where she probably is, Doc? At the bottom of the river someplace, that’s where.”

And now the hole was all I had left. I was all nothing, a hole that could twist and scorch my mind with such incredible pain that even relief was inconceivable because there was no room for anything except that pain. Out of it all I could feel some movement. I knew I was watching Pat and I could hear his voice but nothing made sense at all.

His voice was far away saying, “Look at him, Larry. His eyes are all gone. And look at his hand. You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to kill me. He’s going after a gun that isn’t there anymore because he hasn’t got a license to carry one. He lost that and his business and everything else when he shot up the people he thought got Velda. Oh, he knocked off some goodies and got away with it because they were all hoods caught in the middle of an armed robbery. But that was it for our tough boy there. Then what does he do? He cries his soul out into a whiskey bottle. Damn—look at his hand. He’s pointing a gun at me he doesn’t even have anymore and his finger’s pulling the trigger. Damn, he’d kill me right where I sit.”

Then I lost sight of Pat entirely because my head was going from side to side and the hole was being filled in again from the doctor’s wide-fingered slaps until once more I could see and feel as much as I could in the half life that was left in me.

This time the doctor had lost his disdainful smirk. He pulled the skin down under my eyes, stared at my pupils, felt my pulse and did things to my earlobe with his fingernail that I could barely feel. He stopped, stood up and turned his back to me. “This guy is shot down, Pat.”

“It couldn’t’ve happened to a better guy.”

“I’m not kidding. He’s a case. What do you expect to get out of him?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Because I’d say he couldn’t stay rational. That little exhibition was a beauty. I’d hate to see it if he was pressed further.”

“Then stick around. I’ll press him good, the punk.”

“You’re asking for trouble. Somebody like him can go off the deep end anytime. For a minute there I thought he’d flipped. When it happens they don’t come back very easily. What is it you wanted him to do?”

I was listening now. Not because I wanted to, but because it was something buried too far in my nature to ignore. It was something from way back like a hunger that can’t be ignored.

Pat said, “I want him to interrogate a prisoner.”

For a moment there was silence, then: “You can’t be serious.”

“The hell I’m not. The guy won’t talk to anybody else but him.”

“Come off it, Pat. You have ways to make a person talk.”

“Sure, under the right circumstances, but not when they’re in the hospital with doctors and nurses hovering over them.”

“Oh?”

“The guy’s been shot. He’s only holding on so he can talk to this slob. The doctors can’t say what keeps him alive except his determination to make this contact.”

“But—”

“But nuts, Larry!” His voice started to rise with suppressed rage. “We use any means we can when the chips are down. This guy was shot and we want the one who pulled the trigger. It’s going to be a murder rap any minute and if there’s a lead we’ll damn well get it. I don’t care what it takes to make this punk sober, but that’s the way he’s going to be and I don’t care if the effort kills him, he’s going to do it.”

“Okay, Pat. It’s your show. Run it. Just remember that there are plenty of ways of killing a guy.”

I felt Pat’s eyes reach out for me. “For him I don’t give a damn.”

Somehow I managed a grin and felt around for the words. I couldn’t get a real punch line across, but to me they sounded good enough.

Just two words.

CHAPTER 2

Pat had arranged everything with his usual methodical care. The years hadn’t changed him a bit. The great arranger. Mr. Go, Go, Go himself. I felt the silly grin come back that really had no meaning, and someplace in the back of my mind a clinical voice told me softly that it could be a symptom of incipient hysteria. The grin got sillier and I couldn’t help it.

Larry and Pat blocked me in on either side, a hand under each arm keeping me upright and forcing me forward. As far as anybody was concerned I was another sick one coming in the emergency entrance and if he looked close enough he could even smell the hundred-proof sickness.

I made them take me to the men’s room so I could vomit again, and when I sluiced down in frigid water I felt a small bit better. Enough so I could wipe off the grin. I was glad there was no mirror over the basin. It had been a long time since I had looked at myself and I didn’t want to start now.

Behind me the door opened and there was some hurried medical chatter between Larry and a white-coated intern who had come in with a plainclothesman. Pat finally said, “How is he?”

“Going fast,” Larry said. “He won’t let them operate either. He knows he’s had it and doesn’t want to die under ether before he sees your friend here.”

“Damn it, don’t call him my friend.”

The intern glanced at me critically, running his eyes up and down then doing a quickie around my face. His fingers flicked out to spread my eyelids open for a look into my pupils and I batted them away.

“Keep your hands off me, sonny,” I said.

Pat waved him down. “Let him be miserable, Doctor. Don’t try to help him.”

The intern shrugged, but kept looking anyway. I had suddenly become an interesting psychological study for him.

“You’d better get him up there. The guy hasn’t long to live. Minutes at the most.”

Pat looked at me. “You ready?”

“You asking?” I said.

“Not really. You don’t have a choice.”

“No?”

Larry said, “Mike—go ahead and do it.”

I nodded. “Sure, why not. I always did have to do half his work for him anyway.” Pat’s mouth went tight and I grinned again. “Clue me on what you want to know.”

There were fine white lines around Pat’s nostrils and his lips were tight and thin. “Who shot him. Ask him that.”

“What’s the connection?”

Now Pat’s eyes went half closed, hating my guts for beginning to think again. After a moment he said, “One bullet almost went through him. They took it out yesterday. A ballistics check showed it to be from the same gun that killed Senator Knapp. If this punk upstairs dies we can lose our lead to a murderer. Understand? You find out who shot him.”

“Okay,” I said. “Anything for a friend. Only first I want a drink.”

“No drink.”

“So drop dead.”

“Bring him a shot,” Larry told the intern.

The guy nodded, went out and came back a few seconds later with a big double in a water glass. I took it in a hand that had the shakes real bad, lifted it and said, “Cheers.”

The guy on the bed heard us come in and turned his head on the pillow. His face was drawn, pinched with pain and the early glaze of death was in his eyes.

I stepped forward and before I could talk he said, “Mike? You’re—Mike Hammer?”

“That’s right.”

He squinted at me, hesitating. “You’re not like—”

I knew what he was thinking. I said, “I’ve been sick.”

From someplace in back Pat sucked in his breath disgustedly.

The guy noticed them for the first time. “Out. Get them out.”

I waved my thumb over my shoulder without turning around. I knew Larry was pushing Pat out the door over his whispered protestations, but you don’t argue long with a medic in his own hospital.

When the door clicked shut I said, “Okay, buddy, you wanted to see me and since you’re on the way out it has to be important. Just let me get some facts straight. I never saw you before. Who are you?”

“Richie Cole.”

“Good. Now who shot you?”

“Guy they call . . . The Dragon. No name . . . I don’t know his name.”

“Look . . .”

Somehow he got one hand up and waved it feebly. “Let me talk.”

I nodded, pulled up a chair and sat on the arm. My guts were all knotted up again and beginning to hurt. They were crying out for some bottle love again and I had to rub the back of my hand across my mouth to take the thought away.

The guy made a wry face and shook his head. “You’ll . . . never do it.”

My tongue ran over my lips without moistening them. “Do what?”

“Get her in time.”

“Who?”

“The woman.” His eyes closed and for a moment his face relaxed. “The woman Velda.”

I sat there as if I were paralyzed; for a second totally immobilized, a suddenly frozen mind and body that had solidified into one great silent scream at the mention of a name I had long ago consigned to a grave somewhere. Then the terrible cold was drenched with an even more terrible wash of heat and I sat there with my hands bunched into fists to keep them from shaking.

Velda.

He was watching me closely, the glaze in his eyes momentarily gone. He saw what had happened to me when he said the name and there was a peculiar expression of approval in his face.

Finally I said, “You knew her?”

He barely nodded. “I know her.”

And again that feeling happened to me, worse this time because I knew he wasn’t lying and that she was alive someplace. Alive!

I kept a deliberate control over my voice. “Where is she?”

“Safe for . . . the moment. But she’ll be killed unless . . . you find her. The one called The Dragon . . . he’s looking for her too. You’ll have to find her first.”

I was damn near breathless. “Where?” I wanted to reach over and shake it out of him but he was too close to the edge of the big night to touch.

Cole managed a crooked smile. He was having a hard time to talk and it was almost over. “I gave . . . an envelope to Old Dewey. Newsy on Lexington by the Clover Bar . . . for you.”

“Damn it, where is she, Cole?”

“No . . . you find The Dragon . . . before he gets her.”

“Why me, Cole? Why that way? You had the cops?”

The smile still held on. “Need someone . . . ruthless. Someone very terrible.” His eyes fixed on mine, shiny bright, mirroring one last effort to stay alive. “She said . . . you could . . . if someone could find you. You had been missing . . . long time.” He was fighting hard now. He only had seconds. “No police . . . unless necessary. You’ll see . . . why.”

“Cole . . .”

His eyes closed, then opened and he said, “Hurry.” He never closed them again. The gray film came and his stare was a lifeless one, hiding things I would have given an arm to know.

I sat there beside the bed looking at the dead man, my thoughts groping for a hold in a brain still soggy from too many bouts in too many bars. I couldn’t think, so I simply looked and wondered where and when someone like him had found someone like her.

Cole had been a big man. His face, relaxed in death, had hard planes to it, a solid jawline blue with beard and a nose that had been broken high on the bridge. There was a scar beside one eye running into the hairline that could have been made by a knife. Cole had been a hard man, all right. In a way a good-looking hardcase whose business was trouble.

His hand lay outside the sheet, the fingers big and the wrist thick. The knuckles were scarred, but none of the scars was fresh. They were old scars from old fights. The incongruous part was the nails. They were thick and square, but well cared for. They reflected all the care a manicurist could give with a treatment once a week.

The door opened and Pat and Larry came in. Together they looked at the body and stood there waiting. Then they looked at me and whatever they saw made them both go expressionless at once.

Larry made a brief inspection of the body on the bed, picked up a phone and relayed the message to someone on the other end. Within seconds another doctor was there with a pair of nurses verifying the situation, recording it all on a clipboard.

When he turned around he stared at me with a peculiar expression and said, “You feel all right?”

“I’m all right,” I repeated. My voice seemed to come from someone else.

“Want another drink?”

“No.”

“You’d better have one,” Larry said.

“I don’t want it.”

Pat said, “The hell with him.” His fingers slid under my arm. “Outside, Mike. Let’s go outside and talk.”

I wanted to tell him what he could do with his talk, but the numbness was there still, a frozen feeling that restricted thought and movement, painless but effective. So I let him steer me to the small waiting room down the hall and took the seat he pointed out.

There is no way to describe the immediate aftermath of a sudden shock. If it had come at another time in another year it would have been different, but now the stalk of despondency was withered and brittle, refusing to bend before a wind of elation.

All I could do was sit there, bringing back his words, the tone of his voice, the way his face crinkled as he saw me. Somehow he had expected something different. He wasn’t looking for a guy who had the earmarks of the Bowery and every slop chute along the avenues etched into his skin.

I said, “Who was he, Pat?” in a voice soggy and hollow.

Pat didn’t bother to answer my question. I could feel his eyes crawl over me until he asked, “What did he tell you?”

I shook my head. Just once. My way could be final too.

With a calm, indifferent sincerity Pat said, “You’ll tell me. You’ll get worked on until talking won’t even be an effort. It will come out of you because there won’t be a nerve ending left to stop it. You know that.”

I heard Larry’s strained voice say, “Come off it, Pat. He can’t take much.”

“Who cares. He’s no good to anybody. He’s a louse, a stinking, drinking louse. Now he’s got something I have to have. You think I’m going to worry about him? Larry, buddy, you just don’t know me very well anymore.”

I said, “Who was he?”

The wall in front of me was a friendly pale green. It was blank from one end to the other. It was a vast, meadowlike area, totally unspoiled. There were no foreign markings, no distracting pictures. Unsympathetic. Antiseptic.

I felt Pat’s shrug and his fingers bit into my arm once more. “Okay, wise guy. Now we’ll do it my way.”

“I told you, Pat—”

“Damn it, Larry, you knock it off. This bum is a lead to a killer. He learned something from that guy and I’m going to get it out of him. Don’t hand me any pious crap or medical junk about what can happen. I know guys like this. I’ve been dealing with them all my life. They go on getting banged around from saloon to saloon, hit by cars, rolled by muggers and all they ever come up with are fresh scars. I can beat the hell out of him and maybe he’ll talk. Maybe he won’t, but man, let me tell you this—I’m going to have my crack at him and when I’m through the medics can pick up the pieces for their go. Only first me, understand?”

Larry didn’t answer him for a moment, then he said quietly. “Sure, I understand. Maybe you could use a little medical help yourself.”

I heard Pat’s breath hiss in softly. Like a snake. His hand relaxed on my arm and without looking I knew what his face was like. I had seen him go like that before and a second later he had shot a guy.

And this time it was me he listened to when I said, “He’s right, old buddy. You’re real sick.”

I knew it would come and there wouldn’t be any way of getting away from it. It was quick, it was hard, but it didn’t hurt a bit. It was like flying away to never-never land where all is quiet and peaceful and awakening is under protest because then it will really hurt and you don’t want that to happen.

Larry said, “How do you feel now?”

It was a silly question. I closed my eyes again.

“We kept you here in the hospital.”

“Don’t do me any more favors,” I told him.

“No trouble. You’re a public charge. You’re on the books as an acute alcoholic with a D and D to boot and if you’re real careful you might talk your way out on the street again. However, I have my doubts about it. Captain Chambers is pushing you hard.”

“The hell with him.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“So what’s new?” My voice was raspy, almost gone.

“The D.A., his assistant and some unidentified personnel from higher headquarters are interested in whatever statement you’d care to make.”

“The hell with them too.”

“It could be instrumental in getting you out of here.”

“Nuts. It’s the first time I’ve been to bed in a long time. I like it here.”

“Mike—” His voice had changed. There was something there now that wasn’t that of the professional medic at a bedside. It was worried and urgent and I let my eyes slit open and looked at him.

“I don’t like what’s happening to Pat.”

“Tough.”

“A good word, but don’t apply it to him. You’re the tough one. You’re not like him at all.”

“He’s tough.”

“In a sense. He’s a pro. He’s been trained and can perform certain skills most men can’t. He’s a policeman and most men aren’t that. Pat is a normal sensitive human. At least he was. I met him after you went to pot. I heard a lot about you, mister. I watched Pat change character day by day and what caused the change was you and what you did to Velda.”

The name again. In one second I lived every day the name was alive and with me. Big, Valkyrian and with hair as black as night.

“Why should he care?”

“He says she was his friend.”

Very slowly I squeezed my eyes open. “You know what she was to me?”

“I think so.”

“Okay.”

“But it could be he was in love with her too,” he said.

I couldn’t laugh like I wanted to. “She was in love with me, Doc.”

“Nevertheless, he was in love with her. Maybe you never realized it, but that’s the impression I got. He’s still a bachelor, you know.”

“Ah! He’s in love with his job. I know him.”

“Do you?”

I thought back to that night and couldn’t help the grin that tried to climb up my face. “Maybe not, Doc, maybe not. But it’s an interesting thought. It explains a lot of things.”

“He’s after you now. To him, you killed her. His whole personality, his entire character has changed. You’re the focal point. Until now he’s never had a way to get to you to make you pay for what happened. Now he has you in a nice tight bind and, believe me, you’re going to be racked back first class.”

“That’s G.I. talk, Doc.”

“I was in the same war, buddy.”

I looked at him again. His face was drawn, his eyes searching and serious. “What am I supposed to do?”

“He never told me and I never bothered to push the issue, but since I’m his friend rather than yours, I’m more interested in him personally than you.”

“Lousy bedside manner, Doc.”

“Maybe so, but he’s my friend.”

“He used to be mine.”

“No more.”

“So?”

“What happened?”

“What would you believe coming from an acute alcoholic and a D and D?”

For the first time he laughed and it was for real. “I hear you used to weigh in at two-o-five?”

“Thereabouts.”

“You’re down to one sixty-eight, dehydrated, undernourished. A bum, you know?”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“That isn’t the point. You missed it.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Oh?”

“Medics don’t talk seriously to D and D’s. I know what I was. Now there is a choice of words if you can figure it out.”

He laughed again. “Was. I caught it.”

“Then talk.”

“Okay. You’re a loused-up character. There’s nothing to you anymore. Physically, I mean. Something happened and you tried to drink yourself down the drain.”

“I’m a weak person.”

“Guilt complex. Something you couldn’t handle. It happens to the hardest nuts I’ve seen. They can take care of anything until the irrevocable happens and then they blow. Completely.”

“Like me?”

“Like you.”

“Keep talking.”

“You were a lush.”

“So are a lot of people. I even know some doctors who—”

“You came out of it pretty fast.”

“At ease, Doc.”

“I’m not prying,” he reminded me.

“Then talk right.”

“Sure,” he said. “Tell me about Velda.”

CHAPTER 3

“It was a long time ago,” I said.

And when I had said it I wished I hadn’t because it was something I never wanted to speak about. It was over. You can’t beat time. Let the dead stay dead. If they can. But was she dead? Maybe if I told it just once I could be sure.

“Tell me,” Larry asked.

“Pat ever say anything?”

“Nothing.”

So I told him.

“It was a routine job,” I said.

“Yes?”

“A Mr. Rudolph Civac contacted me. He was from Chicago, had plenty of rocks and married a widow named Marta Singleton who inherited some kind of machine-manufacturing fortune. Real social in Chicago. Anyway, they came to New York, where she wanted to be social too and introduce her new husband around.”

“Typical,” Larry said.

“Rich bitches.”

“Don’t hold it against them,” he told me.

“Not me, kid,” I said.

“Then go on.”

I said, “She was going to sport all the gems her dead husband gave her, which were considerable and a prime target for anybody in the field, and her husband wanted protection.”

Larry made a motion with his hand. “A natural thought.”

“Sure. So he brought me in. Big party. He wanted to cover the gems.”

“Any special reason?”

“Don’t be a jerk. They were worth a half a million. Most of my business is made of stuff like that.”

“Trivialities.”

“Sure, Doc, like unnecessary appendectomies.”

“Touché.”

“Think nothing of it.”

He stopped then. He waited seconds and seconds and watched and waited, then: “A peculiar attitude.”

“You’re the psychologist, Doc, not me.”

“Why?”

“You’re thinking that frivolity is peculiar for a D and D.”

“So go on with the story.”

“Doc,” I said, “later I’m going to paste you right in the mouth. You know this?”

“Sure.”

“That’s my word.”

“So sure.”

“Okay, Doc, ask for it. Anyway, it was a routine job. The target was a dame. At that time a lot of parties were being tapped by a fat squad who saw loot going to waste around the neck of a big broad who never needed it—but this was a classic. At least in our business.”

“How?”

“Never mind. At least she called us in. I figured it would be better if we changed our routine. That night I was on a homicide case. Strictly insurance, but the company was paying off and there would be another grand in the kitty. I figured it would be a better move to let Velda cover the affair since she’d be able to stay with the client at all times, even into the ladies’ room.”

Larry interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Mind a rough question?”

“No.”

“Was this angle important or were you thinking, rather, of the profit end—like splitting your team up between two cases.”

I knew I had started to shake and pressed my hands against my sides hard. After a few seconds the shakes went away and I could answer him without wanting to tear his head off. “It was an important angle,” I said. “I had two heists pulled under my nose when they happened in a powder room.”

“And—the woman. How did she feel about it?”

“Velda was a pro. She carried a gun and had her own P.I. ticket.”

“And she could handle any situation?”

I nodded. “Any we presumed could happen here.”

“You were a little too presumptuous, weren’t you?”

The words almost choked me when I said, “You know, Doc, you’re asking to get killed.”

He shook his head and grinned. “Not you, Mike. You aren’t like you used to be. I could take you just as easy as Pat did. Almost anybody could.”

I tried to get up, but he laid a hand on my chest and shoved me back and I couldn’t fight against him. Every nerve in me started to jangle and my head turned into one big round blob of pain.

Larry said, “You want a drink?”

“No.”

“You’d better have one.”

“Stuff it.”

“All right, suffer. You want to talk some more or shall I take off?”

“I’ll finish the story. Then you can work on Pat. When I get out of here I’m going to make a project of rapping you and Pat right in the mouth.”

“Good. You have something to look forward to. Now talk.”

I waited a minute, thinking back years and putting the pieces in slots so familiar they were worn smooth at the edges. Finally I said, “At eleven o’clock Velda called me at a prearranged number. Everything was going smoothly. There was nothing unusual, the guests were all persons of character and money, there were no suspicious or unknown persons present including the household staff. At that time they were holding dinner awaiting the arrival of Mr. Rudolph Civac. That was my last connection with Velda.”

“There was a police report?”

“Sure. At 11:15 Mr. Civac came in and after saying hello to the guests, went upstairs with his wife for a minute to wash up. Velda went along. When they didn’t appear an hour and a half later a maid went up to see if anything was wrong and found the place empty. She didn’t call the police, thinking that they had argued or something, then went out the private entrance to the rear of the estate. She served dinner with a lame excuse for the host’s absence, sent the guests home and cleaned up with the others.

“The next day Marta Civac was found in the river, shot in the head, her jewels gone and neither her husband nor Velda was ever seen again.”

I had to stop there. I didn’t want to think on the next part anymore. I was hoping it would be enough for him, but when I looked up he was frowning with thought, digesting it a little at a time like he was diagnosing a disease, and I knew it wasn’t finished yet.

He said, “They were abducted for the purpose of stealing those gems?”

“It was the only logical way they could do it. There were too many people. One scream would bring them running. They probably threatened the three of them, told them to move on out quietly where the theft could be done without interruption and allow the thieves to get away.”

“Would Velda have gone along with them?”

“If they threatened the client that’s the best way. It’s better to give up insured gems than get killed. Even a rap on the head can kill if it isn’t done right and, generally speaking, jewel thieves aren’t killers unless they’re pushed.”

I felt a shudder go through my shoulders. “No. The body—showed why.” I paused and he sat patiently, waiting. “Marta was a pudgy dame with thick fingers. She had crammed on three rings worth a hundred grand combined and they weren’t about to come off normally. To get the rings they had severed the fingers.”

Softly, he remarked, “I see.”

“It was lousy.”

“What do you think happened, Mike?”

I was going to hate to tell him, but it had been inside too long. I said, “Velda advised them to go along thinking it would be a heist without any physical complications. Probably when they started to take the rings off the hard way the woman started to scream and was shot. Then her husband and Velda tried to help her and that was it.”

“Was what?”

I stared at the ceiling. Before it had been so plain, so simple. Totally believable because it had been so totally terrible. For all those years I had conditioned myself to think only one way because in my job you got to know which answers were right.

Now, suddenly, maybe they weren’t right anymore.

Larry asked, “So they killed the man and Velda too and their bodies went out to sea and were never found?”

My tired tone was convincing. I said, “That’s how the report read.”

“So Pat took it all out on you.”

“Looks that way.”

“Uh-huh. You let her go on a job you should have handled yourself.”

“It didn’t seem that way at first.”

“Perhaps, but you’ve been taking it out on yourself too. It just took that one thing to make you a bum.”

“Hard words, friend.”

“You realize what happened to Pat?”

I glanced at him briefly and nodded. “I found out.”

“The hard way.”

“So I didn’t think he cared.”

“You probably never would have known if that didn’t happen.”

“Kismet, buddy. Like your getting punched in the mouth.”

“But there’s a subtle difference now, Mikey boy, isn’t there?”

“Like how?” I turned my head and watched him. He was the type who could hide his thoughts almost completely, even to a busted-up pro like me, but it didn’t quite come off. I knew what he was getting to.

“Something new has been added, Mike.”

“Oh?”

“You were a sick man not many hours ago.”

“I’m hurting right now.”

“You know what I’m talking about. You were a drunk just a little while back.”

“So I kicked the habit.”

“Why?”

“Seeing old friends helped.”

He smiled at me, leaned forward and crossed his arms. “What did that guy tell you?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

“I think I know. I think I know the only reason that would turn you from an acute alcoholic to a deadly sober man in a matter of minutes.”

I had to be sure. I had to see what he knew. I said, “Tell me, Doc.”

Larry stared at me a moment, smiled smugly and sat back, enjoying every second of the scene. When he thought my reaction would be just right he told me, “That guy mentioned the name of the killer.”

So he couldn’t see my face I turned my head. When I looked at him again he was still smiling, so I looked at the ceiling without answering and let him think what he pleased.

Larry said, “Now you’re going out on your own, just like in the old days Pat used to tell me about.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Want some advice?”

“No.”

“Nevertheless, you’d better spill it to Pat. He wants the same one.”

“Pat can go drop.”

“Maybe.”

This time there was a peculiar intonation in his voice. I half turned and looked up at him. “Now what’s bugging you?”

“Don’t you think Pat knows you have something?”

“Like the man said, frankly, buddy, I don’t give a damn.”

“You won’t tell me about it then?”

“You can believe it.”

“Pat’s going to lay charges on you.”

“Good for him. When you clear out I’m going to have a lawyer ready who’ll tear Pat apart. So maybe you’d better tell him.”

“I will. But for your own sake, reconsider. It might be good for both of you.”

Larry stood up and fingered the edge of his hat. A change came over his face and he grinned a little bit.

“Tell you something, Mike. I’ve heard so much about you it’s like we’re old friends. Just understand something. I’m really trying to help. Sometimes it’s hard to be a doctor and a friend.”

I held out my hand and grinned back. “Sure, I know. Forget that business about a paste in the mouth. You’d probably tear my head off.”

He laughed and nodded, squeezed my hand and walked out. Before he reached the end of the corridor I was asleep again.

They make them patient in the government agencies. There was no telling how long he had been there. A small man, quiet, plainlooking—no indication of toughness unless you knew how to read it in his eyes. He just sat there as if he had all the time in the world and nothing to do except study me.

At least he had manners. He waited until I was completely awake before he reached for the little leather folder, opened it and said, “Art Rickerby, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“No,” I said sarcastically.

“You’ve been sleeping quite a while.”

“What time is it?”

Without consulting his watch he said, “Five after four.”

“It’s pretty late.”

Rickerby shrugged noncommittally without taking his eyes from my face. “Not for people like us,” he told me. “It’s never too late, is it?” He was smiling a small smile, but behind his glasses his eyes weren’t smiling at all.

“Make your point, friend,” I said.

He nodded thoughtfully, never losing his small smile. “Are you—let’s say, capable of coherent discussion?”

“You’ve been reading my chart?”

“That’s right. I spoke to your doctor friend too.”

“Okay,” I said, “forget the AA tag. I’ve had it, you know?”

“I know.”

“Then what do we need the Feds in for? I’ve been out of action for how many years?”

“Seven.”

“Long time, Art, long time, feller. I got no ticket, no rod. I haven’t even crossed the state line in all that time. For seven years I cool myself off the way I want to and then all of a sudden I have a Fed on my neck.” I squinted at him, trying to find the reason in his face. “Why?”

“Cole, Richie Cole.”

“What about him?”

“Suppose you tell me, Mr. Hammer. He asked for you, you came and he spoke to you. I want to know what he said.”

I reached way back and found a grin I thought I had forgotten how to make. “Everybody wants to know that, Rickeyback.”

“Rickerby.”

“So sorry.” A laugh got in behind the grin. “Why all the curiosity?”

“Never mind why, just tell me what he said.”

“Nuts, buddy.”

He didn’t react at all. He sat there with all the inbred patience of years of this sort of thing and simply looked at me tolerantly because I was in a bed in the funny ward and it might possibly be an excuse for anything I had to say or do.

Finally he said, “You can discuss this, can’t you?”

I nodded. “But I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like anxious people. I’ve been kicked around, dragged into places I didn’t especially want to go, kicked on my can by a cop who used to be a friend and suddenly faced with the prospects of formal charges because I object to the police version of the hard sell.”

“Supposing I can offer you a certain amount of immunity?”

After a few moments I said, “This is beginning to get interesting.”

Rickerby reached for words, feeling them out one at a time. “A long while ago you killed a woman, Mike. She shot a friend of yours and you said no matter who it was, no matter where, that killer would die. You shot her.”

“Shut up, man,” I said.

He was right. It was a very long time ago. But it could have been yesterday. I could see her face, the golden tan of her skin, the incredible whiteness of her hair and eyes that could taste and devour you with one glance. Yet, Charlotte was there still. But dead now.

“Hurt, Mike?”

There was no sense trying to fool him. I nodded abruptly. “I try not to think of it.” Then I felt that funny sensation in my back and saw what he was getting at. His face was tight and the little lines around his eyes had deepened so that they stood out in relief, etched into his face.

I said, “You knew Cole?”

It was hard to tell what color his eyes were now. “He was one of us,” he said.

I couldn’t answer him. He had been waiting patiently a long time to say what he had to say and now it was going to come out. “We were close, Hammer. I trained him. I never had a son and he was as close as I was ever going to get to having one. Maybe now you know exactly why I brought up your past. It’s mine who’s dead now and it’s me who has to find who did it. This should make sense to you. It should also tell you something else. Like you, I’ll go to any extremes to catch the one who did it. I’ve made promises of my own, Mr. Hammer, and I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. Nothing is going to stop me and you are my starting point.” He paused, took his glasses off, wiped them, put them back on and said, “You understand this?”

“I get the point.”

“Are you sure?” And now his tone had changed. Very subtly, but changed nevertheless. “Because as I said, there are no extremes to which I won’t go.”

When he stopped I watched him, and the way he sat, the way he looked, the studied casualness became the poised kill-crouch of a cat, all cleverly disguised by clothes and the innocent aspect of rimless bifocals.

Now he was deadly. All too often people have the preconceived notion that a deadly person is a big one, wide in the shoulders with a face full of hard angles and thickset teeth and a jawline that would be a challenge too great for anyone to dare. They’d be wrong. Deadly people aren’t all like that. Deadly people are determined people who will stop at nothing at all, and those who are practiced in the arts of the kill are the most deadly of all. Art Rickerby was one of those.

“That’s not a very official attitude,” I said.

“I’m just trying to impress you,” he suggested.

I nodded. “Okay, kid, I’m impressed.”

“Then what about Cole?”

“There’s another angle.”

“Not with me there isn’t.”

“Easy, Art, I’m not that impressed. I’m a big one too.”

“No more, Hammer.”

“Then you drop dead, too.”

Like a large gray cat, he stood up, still pleasant, still deadly, and said, “I suppose we leave it here?”

“You pushed me, friend.”

“It’s a device you should be familiar with.”

I was getting tired again, but I grinned a little at him. “Cops. Damn cops.”

“You were one once.”

After a while I said, “I never stopped being one.”

“Then cooperate.”

This time I turned my head and looked at him. “The facts are all bollixed up. I need one day and one other little thing you might be able to supply.”

“Go ahead.”

“Get me the hell out of here and get me that day.”

“Then what?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you something, maybe I won’t. Just don’t do me any outsized favors because if you don’t bust me out of here I’ll go out on my own. You can just make it easier. One way or another, I don’t care. Take your pick.”

Rickerby smiled. “I’ll get you out,” he said. “It won’t be hard. And you can have your day.”

“Thanks.”

“Then come to me so I won’t have to start looking for you.”

“Sure, buddy,” I said. “Leave your number at the desk.”

He said something I didn’t quite catch because I was falling asleep again, and when the welcome darkness came in I reached for it eagerly and wrapped it around me like a soft, dark suit of armor.

CHAPTER 4

He let me stay there three days before he moved. He let me have the endless bowls of soup and the bed rest and shot series before the tall thin man showed up with my clothes and a worried nurse whose orders had been countermanded somehow by an authority she neither understood nor could refuse.

When I was dressed he led me downstairs and outside to an unmarked black Ford and I got in without talking. He asked, “Where to?” and I told him anyplace midtown and in fifteen minutes he dropped me in front of the Taft. As I was getting out his hand closed on my arm and very quietly he said, “You have one day. No more.”

I nodded. “Tell Rickerby thanks.”

He handed me a card then, a simple business thing giving the address and phone of Peerage Brokers located on Broadway only two blocks off. “You tell him,” he said, then pulled away from the curb into traffic.

For a few minutes I waited there, looking at the city in a strange sort of light I hadn’t seen for too long. It was morning, and quiet because it was Sunday. Overhead, the sun forced its way through a haze that had rain behind it, making the day sulky, like a woman in a pout.

The first cabby in line glanced up once, ran his eyes up and down me, then went back to his paper. Great picture, I thought. I sure must cut a figure. I grinned, even though nothing was funny, and shoved my hands in my jacket pockets. In the right-hand one somebody had stuck five tens, neatly folded, and I said, “Thanks, Art Rickerby, old buddy,” silently, and waved for the cab first in line to come over.

He didn’t like it, but he came, asked me where to in a surly voice and when I let him simmer a little bit I told him Lex and Forty-ninth. When he dropped me there I let him change the ten, gave him two bits and waited some more to see if anyone had been behind me.

No one had. If Pat or anyone else had been notified I had been released, he wasn’t bothering to stick with me. I gave it another five minutes then turned and walked north.

Old Dewey had held the same corner down for twenty years. During the war, servicemen got their paper free, which was about as much as he could do for the war effort, but there were those of us who never forgot and Old Dewey was a friend we saw often so that we were friends rather than customers. He was in his eighties now and he had to squint through his glasses to make out a face. But the faces of friends, their voices and their few minutes’ conversation were things he treasured and looked forward to. Me? Hell, we were old friends from long ago, and back in the big days I never missed a night picking up my pink editions of the News and Mirror from Old Dewey, even when I had to go out of my way to do it. And there were times when I was in business that he made a good intermediary. He was always there, always dependable, never took a day off, never was on the take for a buck.

But he wasn’t there now.

Duck-Duck Jones, who was an occasional swamper in the Clover Bar, sat inside the booth picking his teeth while he read the latest Cavalier magazine and it was only after I stood there a half minute that he looked up, scowled, then half recognized me and said, “Oh, hello, Mike.”

I said, “Hello, Duck-Duck. What are you doing here?”

He made a big shrug under his sweater and pulled his eyebrows up. “I help Old Dewey out alla time. Like when he eats. You know?”

“Where’s he now?”

Once again, he went into an eloquent shrug. “So he don’t show up yesterday. I take the key and open up for him. Today the same thing.”

“Since when does Old Dewey miss a day?”

“Look, Mike, the guy’s gettin’ old. I take over maybe one day every week when he gets checked. Doc says he got something inside him, like. All this year he’s been hurtin’.”

“You keep the key?”

“Sure. We been friends a long time. He pays good. Better’n swabbing out the bar every night. This ain’t so bad. Plenty of books with pictures. Even got a battery radio.”

“He ever miss two days running?”

Duck-Duck made a face, thought a second and shook his head. “Like this is the first time. You know Old Dewey. He don’t wanna miss nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

“You check his flop?”

“Nah. You think I should? Like he could be sick or somethin’?”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“Sure, Mike. He lives right off Second by the diner, third place down in the basement. You got to—”

I nodded curtly. “I’ve been there.”

“Look, Mike, if he don’t feel good and wants me to stay on a bit I’ll do it. I won’t clip nothin’. You can tell him that.”

“Okay, Duck.”

I started to walk away and his voice caught me. “Hey, Mike.”

“What?”

He was grinning through broken teeth, but his eyes were frankly puzzled. “You look funny, man. Like different from when I seen you last down at the Chink’s. You off the hop?”

I grinned back at him. “Like for good,” I said.

“Man, here we go again,” he laughed.

“Like for sure,” I told him.

Old Dewey owned the building. It wasn’t much, but that and the newsstand were his insurance against the terrible thought of public support, a sure bulwark against the despised welfare plans of city and state. A second-rate beauty shop was on the ground floor and the top two were occupied by families who had businesses in the neighborhood. Old Dewey lived in humble quarters in the basement, needing only a single room in which to cook and sleep.

I tried his door, but the lock was secure. The only windows were those facing the street, the protective iron bars imbedded in the brickwork since the building had been erected. I knocked again, louder this time, and called out, but nobody answered.

Then again I had that funny feeling I had learned not to ignore, but it had been so long since I had felt it that it was almost new and once more I realized just how long it had been since I was in a dark place with a kill on my hands.

Back then it had been different. I had the gun. I was big.

Now was—how many years later? There was no gun. I wasn’t big anymore.

I was what was left over from being a damn drunken bum, and if there were anything left at all it was sheer reflex and nothing else.

So I called on the reflex and opened the door with the card the tall thin man gave me because it was an old lock with a wide gap in the doorframe. I shoved it back until it hit the door, standing there where anybody inside could target me easily, but knowing that it was safe because I had been close to death too many times not to recognize the immediate sound of silence it makes.

He was on the floor face down, arms outstretched, legs spread, his head turned to one side so that he stared at one wall with the universal expression of the dead. He lay there in a pool of soup made from his own blood that had gouted forth from the great slash in his throat. The blood had long ago congealed and seeped into the cracks in the flooring, the coloring changed from scarlet to brown and already starting to smell.

Somebody had already searched the room. It hadn’t taken long, but the job had been thorough. The signs of the expert were there, the one who had time and experience, who knew every possible hiding place and who had overlooked none. The search had gone around the room and come back to the body on the floor. The seams of the coat were carefully torn open, the pockets turned inside out, the shoes ripped apart.

But the door had been locked and this was not the sign of someone who had found what he wanted. Instead, it was the sign of he who hadn’t and wanted time to think on it—or wait it out—or possibly study who else was looking for the same thing.

I said, “Don’t worry, Dewey, I’ll find him,” and my voice was strangely hushed like it came from years ago. I wiped off the light switch, the knob, then closed the door and left it like I found it and felt my way to the back through the labyrinth of alleys that is New York over on that side and pretty soon I came out on the street again and it had started to rain.

His name was Nat Drutman. He owned the Hackard Building where I used to have my office and now, seven years later, he was just the same—only a little grayer and a little wiser around the eyes and when he glanced up at me from his desk it was as if he had seen me only yesterday.

“Hello, Mike.”

“Nat.”

“Good to see you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

This time his eyes stayed on me and he smiled, a gentle smile that had hope in it. “It has been a long time.”

“Much too long.”

“I know.” He watched me expectantly.

I said, “You sell the junk from my office?”

“No.”

“Store it?”

He shook his head, just once. “No.”

“No games, kid,” I said.

He made the Lower East Side gesture with his shoulders and let his smile stay pat. “It’s still there, Mike.”

“Not after seven years, kid,” I told him.

“That’s so long?”

“For somebody who wants their loot it is.”

“So who needs loot?”

“Nat—”

“Yes, Mike?”

His smile was hard to understand.

“No games.”

“You still got a key?” he asked.

“No. I left to stay. No key. No nothing anymore.”

He held out his hand, offering me a shiny piece of brass. I took it automatically and looked at the number stamped into it, a fat 808. “I had it made special,” he said.

As best I could, I tried to be nasty. “Come off it, Nat.”

He wouldn’t accept the act. “Don’t thank me. I knew you’d be back.”

I said, “Shit.”

There was a hurt look on his face. It barely touched his eyes and the corners of his mouth, but I knew I had hurt him.

“Seven years, Nat. That’s a lot of rent.”

He wouldn’t argue. I got that shrug again and the funny look that went with it. “So for you I dropped the rent to a dollar a year while you were gone.”

I looked at the key, feeling my shoulders tighten. “Nat—”

“Please—don’t talk. Just take. Remember when you gave? Remember Bernie and those men? Remember—”

“Okay, Nat.”

The sudden tension left his face and he smiled again. I said, “Thanks, kid. You’ll never know.”

A small laugh left his lips and he said, “Oh I’ll know, all right. That’ll be seven dollars. Seven years, seven dollars.”

I took out another ten and laid it on his desk. With complete seriousness he gave me back three ones, a receipt, then said, “You got a phone too, Mike. Same number. No ‘thank yous,’ Mike. Augie Strickland came in with the six hundred he owed you and left it with me so I paid the phone bill from it. You still got maybe a couple bucks coming back if we figure close.”

“Save it for service charges,” I said.

“Good to see you, Mike.”

“Good to see you, Nat.”

“You look pretty bad. Is everything going to be like before, Mike?”

“It can never be like before. Let’s hope it’s better.”

“Sure, Mike.”

“And thanks anyway, kid.”

“My pleasure, Mike.”

I looked at the key, folded it in my fist and started out. When I reached the door Nat said, “Mike—”

I turned around.

“Velda . . .?”

He watched my eyes closely.

“That’s why you’re back?”

“Why?”

“I hear many stories, Mike. Twice I even saw you. Things I know that nobody else knows. I know why you left. I know why you came back. I even waited because I knew someday you’d come. So you’re back. You don’t look like you did except for your eyes. They never change. Now you’re all beat up and skinny and far behind. Except for your eyes, and that’s the worst part.”

“Is it?”

He nodded. “For somebody,” he said.

I put the key in the lock and turned the knob. It was like coming back to the place where you had been born, remembering, yet without a full recollection of all the details. It was a drawing, wanting power that made me swing the door open because I wanted to see how it used to be and how it might have been.

Her desk was there in the anteroom, the typewriter still covered, letters from years ago stacked in a neat pile waiting to be answered, the last note she had left for me still there beside the phone some itinerant spider had draped in a nightgown of cobwebs.

The wastebasket was where I had kicked it, dented almost double from my foot; the two captain’s chairs and antique bench we used for clients were still overturned against the wall where I had thrown them. The door to my office swung open, tendrils of webbing seeming to tie it to the frame. Behind it I could see my desk and chair outlined in the gray shaft of light that was all that was left of the day.

I walked in, waving the cobwebs apart, and sat down in the chair. There was dust, and silence, and I was back to seven years ago, all of a sudden. Outside the window was another New York—not the one I had left, because the old one had been torn down and rebuilt since I had looked out that window last. But below on the street the sounds hadn’t changed a bit, nor had the people. Death and destruction were still there, the grand overseers of life toward the great abyss, some slowly, some quickly, but always along the same road.

For a few minutes I just sat there swinging in the chair, recalling the feel and the sound of it. I made a casual inspection of the desk drawers, not remembering what was there, yet enjoying a sense of familiarity with old things. It was an old desk, almost antique, a relic from some solid, conservative corporation that supplied its executives with the best.

When you pulled the top drawer all the way out there was a niche built into the massive framework, and when I felt in the shallow recess the other relic was still there.

Calibre .45, Colt Automatic, U.S. Army model, vintage of 1914. Inside the plastic wrapper it was still oiled, and when I checked the action it was like a thing alive, a deadly thing that had but a single fundamental purpose.

I put it back where it was beside the box of shells, inserted the drawer and slid it shut. The day of the guns was back there seven years ago. Not now.

Now I was one of the nothing people. One mistake and Pat had me, and where I was going, one mistake and they would have me.

Pat. The slob really took off after me. I wondered if Larry had been right when he said Pat had been in love with Velda too.

I nodded absently, because he had changed. And there was more to it, besides. In seven years Pat should have moved up the ladder. By now he should have been an Inspector. Maybe whatever it was he had crawling around in his guts got out of hand and he never made the big try for promotion, or, if he did, he loused up.

The hell with him, I thought. Now he was going wide open to nail a killer and a big one. Whoever killed Richie Cole had killed Senator Knapp in all probability, and in all probability, too, had killed Old Dewey. Well, I was one up on Pat. He’d have another kill in his lap, all right, but only I could connect Dewey and the others.

Which put me in the middle all around.

So okay, Hammer, I said. You’ve been a patsy before. See what you’ll do with this one and do it right. Someplace she’s alive. Alive! But for how long? And where? There are killers loose and she must be on the list.

Absently, I reached for the phone, grinned when I heard the dial tone, then fingered the card the thin man gave me from my pocket and called Peerage Brokers.

He was there waiting and when I asked, “Rickerby?” a switch clicked.

Art answered, “You still have a little more time.”

“I don’t need time. I need now. I think we should talk.”

“Where are you?”

“My own office through courtesy of a friend. The Hackard Building.”

“Stay there. I’ll be up in ten minutes.”

“Sure. Bring me a sandwich.”

“A drink too?”

“None of that. Maybe a couple of Blue Ribbons, but nothing else.”

Without answering, he hung up. I glanced at my wrist, but there was no watch there anymore. Somehow, I vaguely remembered hocking it somewhere and called myself a nut because it was a good Rolex and I probably drank up the loot in half a day. Or got rolled for it.

Damn!

From the window I could see the clock on the Paramount Building and it was twenty past six. The street was slick from the drizzle that had finally started to fall and the crosstown traffic was like a giant worm trying to eat into the belly of the city. I opened the window and got supper smells in ten languages from the restaurants below and for the first time in a long time it smelled good. Then I switched on the desk lamp and sat back again.

Rickerby came in, put a wrapped sandwich and two cans of Blue Ribbon in front of me and sat down with a weary smile. It was a very peculiar smile, not of friendliness, but of anticipation. It was one you didn’t smile back at, but rather waited out.

And I made him wait until I had finished the sandwich and a can of beer, then I said, “Thanks for everything.”

Once again, he smiled. “Was it worth it?”

His eyes had that flat calm that was nearly impenetrable. I said, “Possibly. I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Suppose we discuss it.”

I smiled some too. The way his face changed I wondered what I looked like. “It’s all right with me, Rickety.”

“Rickerby.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But let’s do it question-and-answer style. Only I want to go first.”

“You’re not exactly in a position to dictate terms.”

“I think I am. I’ve been put upon. You know?”

He shrugged, and looked at me again, still patient. “It really doesn’t matter. Ask me what you want to.”

“Are you officially on this case?”

Rickerby didn’t take too long putting it in its proper category. It would be easy enough to plot out if you knew how, so he simply made a vague motion with his shoulders. “No. Richie’s death is at this moment a local police matter.”

“Do they know who he was?”

“By now, I assume so.”

“And your department won’t press the matter?”

He smiled, nothing more.

I said, “Suppose I put it this way—if his death resulted in the line of duty he was pursuing—because of the case he was on, then your department would be interested.”

Rickerby looked at me, his silence acknowledging my statement.

“However,” I continued, “if he was the victim of circumstances that could hit anybody, it would remain a local police matter and his other identity would remain concealed from everyone possible. True?”

“You seem familiar enough with the machinations of our department, so draw your own conclusions,” Rickerby told me.

“I will. I’d say that presently it’s up in the air. You’re on detached duty because of a personal interest in this thing. You couldn’t be ordered off it, otherwise you’d resign and pursue it yourself.”

“You know, Mike, for someone who was an alcoholic such a short time ago, your mind is awfully lucid.” He took his glasses off and wiped them carefully before putting them back on. “I’m beginning to be very interested in this aspect of your personality.”

“Let me clue you, buddy. It was shock. I was brought back to my own house fast, and suddenly meeting death in a sober condition really rocked me.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” he said. “Nevertheless, get on with your questions.”

“What was Richie Cole’s job?”

After a moment’s pause he said, “Don’t be silly. I certainly don’t know. If I did I wouldn’t reveal it.”

“Okay, what was his cover?”

All he did was shake his head and smile.

I said, “You told me you’d do anything to get the one who killed him.”

This time a full minute passed before he glanced down at his hands, then back to me again. In that time he had done some rapid mental calculations. “I—don’t see how it could matter now,” he said. When he paused a sadness creased his mouth momentarily, then he went on. “Richie worked as a seaman.”

“Union man?”

“That’s right. He held a full card.”

CHAPTER 5

The elevator operator in the Trib Building looked at me kind of funny like when I told him I wanted to find Hy. But maybe Hy had all kinds of hooples looking for him at odd hours. At one time the guy would never have asked questions, but now was now. The old Mike wasn’t quite there anymore.

In gold, the letters said, HY GARDNER. I knocked, opened the door and there he was, staring until recognition came, and with a subtle restraint he said, “Mike—” It was almost a question.

“A long time, Hy.”

But always the nice guy, this one. Never picking, never choosing. He said, “Been too long. I’ve been wondering.”

“So have a lot of people.”

“But not for the same reasons.”

We shook hands, a couple of old friends saying hello from a long while back; we had both been big, but while he had gone ahead and I had faded, we were still friends, and good ones.

He tried to cover the grand hiatus of so many years with a cigar stuck in the middle of a smile and made it all the way, without words telling me that nothing had really changed at all since the first time we had played bullets in a bar and he had made a column out of it the next day.

Hell, you’ve read his stuff. You know us.

I sat down, waved the crazy blond bouffant he used as a secretary now out of the room and leaned back enjoying myself. After seven years it was a long time to enjoy anything. Friends.

I still had them.

“You look lousy,” Hy said.

“So I’ve been told.”

“True what I hear about you and Pat?”

“Word gets around fast.”

“You know this business, Mike.”

“Sure, so don’t bother being kind.”

“You’re a nut,” he laughed.

“Aren’t we all. One kind or another.”

“Sure, but you’re on top. You know the word that’s out right now?”

“I can imagine.”

“The hell you can. You don’t even know. What comes in this office you couldn’t imagine. When they picked you up I heard about it. When you were in Pat’s house I knew where you were. If you really want to know, whenever you were in the drunk tank, unidentified, I knew about it.”

“Cripes, why didn’t you get me out?”

“Mike,” he laughed around the stogie, “I got problems of my own. When you can’t solve yours, who can solve anything? Besides, I thought it would be a good experience for you.”

“Thanks.”

“No bother.” He shifted the cigar from one side to the other. “But I was worried.”

“Well, that’s nice anyway,” I said.

“Now it’s worse.”

Hy took the cigar away, studied me intently, snuffed the smoke out in a tray and pulled his eyes up to mine.

“Mike—”

“Say it, Hy.”

He was honest. He pulled no punches. It was like time had never been at all and we were squaring away for the first time. “You’re poison, Mike. The word’s out.”

“To you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “They don’t touch the Fourth Estate, you know that. They tried it with Joe Ungermach and Victor Reisel and look what happened to them. So don’t worry about me.”

“You worried about me?”

Hy grunted, lit another cigar and grinned at me. He had his glasses up on his head and you’d never think he could be anything but an innocuous slob, but then you’d be wrong. When he had it lit, he said, “I gave up worrying about you a long time ago. Now what did you want from me? It has to be big after seven years.”

“Senator Knapp,” I said.

Sure, he was thinking, after seven years who the hell would think you’d come back with a little one? Mike Hammer chasing ambulances? Mike Hammer suddenly a reformer or coming up with a civic problem? Hell, anybody would have guessed. The Mike doesn’t come back without a big one going. This a kill, Mike? What’s the scoop? Story there, isn’t there? You have a killer lined up just like in the old days and don’t lie to me because I’ve seen those tiger eyes before. If they were blue or brown like anybody else’s maybe I couldn’t tell, but you got tiger eyes, friend, and they glint. So tell me. Tell me hard. Tell me now.

He didn’t have to say it. Every word was there in his face, like when he had read it out to me before. I didn’t have to hear it now. Just looking at him was enough.

I said, “Senator Knapp. He died when I was—away.”

Quietly, Hy reminded me, “He didn’t die. He was killed.”

“Okay. The libraries were closed and besides, I forgot my card.”

“He’s been dead three years.”

“More.”

“First why?”

“Because.”

“You come on strong, man.”

“You know another way?”

“Not for you.”

“So how about the Senator?”

“Are we square?” he asked me. “It can be my story?”

“All yours, Hy. I don’t make a buck telling columns.”

“Got a few minutes?”

“All right,” I said.

He didn’t even have to consult the files. All he had to do was light that damn cigar again and sit back in his chair, then he sucked his mouth full of smoke and said, “Leo Knapp was another McCarthy. He was a Commie-hunter but he had more prestige and more power. He was on the right committee and, to top it off, he was this country’s missile man.

“That’s what they called him, the Missile Man. Mr. America. He pulled hard against the crap we put up with like the Cape Canaveral strikes when the entire program was held up by stupid jerks who went all that way for unionism and—hell, read True or the factual accounts and see what happened. The Reds are running us blind. Anyway, Knapp was the missile pusher.”

“Big,” I said.

Hy nodded. “Then some louse shoots him. A simple burglary and he gets killed in the process.”

“You sure?”

Hy looked at me, the cigar hard in his teeth. “You know me, Mike, I’m a reporter. I’m a Commie-hater. You think I didn’t take this one right into the ground?”

“I can imagine what you did.”

“Now fill me in.”

“Can you keep your mouth shut?”

He took the cigar away and frowned, like I had hurt him. “Mike—”

“Look,” I said, “I know, I know. But I may feed you a hot one and I have to be sure. Until it’s ended, it can’t come out. There’s something here too big to mess with and I won’t even take a little chance on it.”

“So tell me. I know what you’re angling for. Your old contacts are gone or poisoned and you want me to shill for you.”

“Natch.”

“So I’ll shill. Hell, we’ve done it before. It won’t be like it’s a new experience.”

“And keep Marilyn out of it. To her you’re a new husband and a father and she doesn’t want you going down bullet alley anymore.”

“Aw, shut up and tell me what’s on your mind.”

I did.

I sat back and told it all out and let somebody else help carry the big lid. I gave it to him in detail from seven years ago and left out nothing. I watched his face go through all the changes, watched him let the cigar burn itself out against the lip of the ashtray, watched him come alive with the crazy possibilities that were inherent in this one impossibility and when I finished I watched him sit back, light another cigar and regain his usual composure.

When he had it back again he said, “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know. It could be anything.”

Like always, Hy nodded. “Okay, Mike. When it’s ready to blow let me light the fuse. Hell, maybe we can do an interview with the about-to-be-deceased on the TV show ahead of time.”

“No jokes, kid.”

“Ah, cheer up. Things could be worse.”

“I know,” I quoted, “ ‘So I cheered up and sure enough things got worse.’ ”

Hy grinned and knocked the ash off the stogie. “Right now—anything you need?”

“Senator Knapp—”

“Right now his widow is at her summer place upstate in Phoenicia. That’s where the Senator was shot.”

“You’d think she’d move out.”

Hy shrugged gently. “That’s foolishness, in a way. It was the Senator’s favorite home and she keeps it up. The rest of the year she stays at the residence in Washington. In fact, Laura is still one of the capital’s favorite hostesses. Quite a doll.”

“Oh?”

He nodded sagely, the cigar at an authoritative tilt. “The Senator was all man and what he picked was all woman. They were a great combination. It’ll be a long time before you see one like that again.”

“Tough.”

“That’s the way it goes. Look, if you want the details, I’ll have a package run out from the morgue.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Two minutes after he made his call a boy came through with a thick manila envelope and laid it on the desk. Hy hefted it, handed it over and said: “This’ll give you all the background on the murder. It made quite a story.”

“Later there will be more.”

“Sure,” he agreed, “I know how you work.”

I got up and put on my hat. “Thanks.”

“No trouble, Mike.” He leaned back in his chair and pulled his glasses down. “Be careful, Mike. You look lousy.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Just the same, don’t stick your neck out. Things can change in a few years. You’re not like you were. A lot of people would like to catch up with you right now.”

I grinned back at him. “I think most already have.”

You drive up the New York Thruway, get off at Kingston and take the mountain route through some of the most beautiful country in the world. At Phoenicia you turn off to the north for five or six miles until you come to The Willows and there is the chalet nestling in the upcurve of the mountain, tended by blue spruces forty feet high and nursed by a living stream that dances its way in front of it.

It was huge and white and very senatorial, yet there was a lived-in look that took away any pretentiousness. It was a money house and it should have been because the Senator had been a money man. He had made it himself and had spent it the way he liked and this had been a pet project.

I went up through the gentle curve of the drive and shut off the motor in front of the house. When I touched the bell I could hear it chime inside, and after a minute of standing there, I touched it again. Still no one answered.

Just to be sure, I came down off the open porch, skirted the house on a flagstone walk that led to the rear and followed the S turns through the shrubbery arrangement that effectively blocked off all view of the back until you were almost on top of it.

There was a pool on one side and a tennis court on the other. Nestling between them was a green-roofed cottage with outside shower stalls that was obviously a dressing house.

At first I thought it was deserted here too, then very faintly I heard the distance-muffled sound of music. A hedgerow screened the southeast corner of the pool and in the corner of it the multicolor top of a table umbrella showed through the interlocking branches.

I stood there a few seconds, just looking down at her. Her hands were cradled behind her head, her eyes were closed and she was stretched out to the sun in taut repose. The top of the two-piece bathing suit was filled to overflowing with a matured ripeness that was breathtaking; the bottom half turned down well below her dimpled navel in a bikini effect, exposing the startling whiteness of untanned flesh against that which had been sun-kissed. Her breathing shallowed her stomach, then swelled it gently, and she turned slightly, stretching, pointing her toes so that a sinuous ripple of muscles played along her thighs.

I said, “Hello.”

Her eyes came open, focused sleepily and she smiled at me. “Oh.” Her smile broadened and it was like throwing a handful of beauty in her face. “Oh, hello.”

Without being asked I handed her the terry-cloth robe that was thrown across the tabletop. She took it, smiled again and threw it around her shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Isn’t it a little cold for that sort of thing?”

“Not in the sun.” She waved to the deck chair beside her. “Please?” When I sat down she rearranged her lounge into a chair and settled back in it. “Now, Mr.—”

“Hammer. Michael Hammer.” I tried on a smile for her too. “And you are Laura Knapp?”

“Yes. Do I know you from somewhere, Mr. Hammer?”

“We’ve never met.”

“But there’s something familiar about you.”

“I used to get in the papers a lot.”

“Oh?” It was a full-sized question.

“I was a private investigator at one time.”

She frowned, studying me, her teeth white against the lushness of her lip as she nibbled at it. “There was an affair with a Washington agency at one time—”

I nodded.

“I remember it well. My husband was on a committee that was affected by it.” She paused. “So you’re Mike Hammer.” Her frown deepened.

“You expected something more?”

Her smile was mischievous. “I don’t quite know. Perhaps.”

“I’ve been sick,” I said, grinning.

“Yes,” she told me, “I can believe that. Now, the question is, what are you doing here? Is this part of your work?”

There was no sense lying to her. I said, “No, but there’s a possibility you can help me.”

“How?”

“Do you mind going over the details of your husband’s murder, or is it too touchy a subject?”

This time her smile took on a wry note. “You’re very blunt, Mr. Hammer. However, it’s something in the past and I’m not afraid to discuss it. You could have examined the records of the incident if you wanted to. Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

I let my eyes travel over her and let out a laugh. “I’m glad I came now.”

Laura Knapp laughed back. “Well, thank you.”

“But in case you’re wondering, I did go over the clips on the case.”

“And that wasn’t enough?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d rather hear it firsthand.”

“May I ask why?”

“Sure,” I said. “Something has come up that might tie in your husband’s killer with another murder.”

Laura shook her head slowly. “I don’t understand—”

“It’s a wild supposition, that’s all, a probability I’m trying to chase down. Another man was killed with the same gun that shot your husband. Details that seemed unimportant then might have some bearing now.”

“I see.” She came away from the chair, leaning toward me with her hands hugging her knees, a new light of interest in her eyes. “But why aren’t the police here instead of you?”

“They will be. Right now it’s a matter of jurisdiction. Very shortly you’ll be seeing a New York City officer, probably accompanied by the locals, who will go over the same ground. I don’t have any legal paperwork to go through so I got here first.”

Once again she started a slow smile and let it play around her mouth a moment before she spoke. “And if I don’t talk—will you belt me one?”

“Hell,” I said, “I never hit dames.”

Her eyebrows went up in mock surprise.

“I always kick ’em.”

The laugh she let out was pleasant and throaty and it was easy to see why she was still queen of the crazy social whirl at the capital. Age never seemed to have touched her, though she was in the loveliest early forties. Her hair shimmered with easy blond highlights, a perfect shade to go with the velvety sheen of her skin.

“I’ll talk,” she laughed, “but do I get a reward if I do?”

“Sure, I won’t kick you.”

“Sounds enticing. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me what happened.”

She reflected a moment. It was evident that the details were there, stark as ever in her mind, though the thought didn’t bring the pain back any longer. She finally said, “It was a little after two in the morning. I heard Leo get up but didn’t pay any attention to it since he often went down for nighttime snacks. The next thing I heard was his voice shouting at someone, then a single shot. I got up, ran downstairs and there he was on the floor, dying.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No—he called out my name twice, then he died.” She looked down at her feet, then glanced up. “I called the police. Not immediately. I was—stunned.”

“It happens.”

She chewed at her lip again. “The police were inclined to—well, they were annoyed. They figured the person had time to get away.” Her eyes clouded, then drifted back in time. “But it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. No more. In fact, there could have been no time at all before I called. It’s just that I don’t remember those first few moments.”

“Forget it anyway,” I said. “That part doesn’t count anymore.”

Laura paused, then nodded in agreement. “You’re right, of course. Well, then the police came, but there was nothing they could do. Whoever it was had gone through the French windows in the den, then had run across the yard, gone through the gate and driven away. There were no tire tracks and the footprints he left were of no consequence.”

“What about the house?”

She wrinkled her forehead as she looked over at me. “The safe was open and empty. The police believe Leo either surprised the burglar after he opened the safe or the burglar made him open the safe and when Leo went for him, killed him. There were no marks on the safe at all. It had been opened by using the combination.”

“How many people knew the combination?”

“Just Leo, as far as I know.”

I said, “The papers stated that nothing of importance was in the safe.”

“That’s right. There couldn’t have been over a few hundred dollars in cash, a couple of account books, Leo’s insurance policies, some legal papers and some jewelry of mine. The books and legal papers were on the floor intact so—”

“What jewelry?” I interrupted.

“It was junk.”

“The papers quoted you as saying about a thousand dollars’ worth.”

She didn’t hesitate and there was no evasion in her manner. “That’s right, a thousand dollars’ worth of paste. They were replicas of the genuine pieces I keep in a vault. That value is almost a hundred thousand dollars.”

“A false premise is as good a reason for robbery as any.”

Her eyes said she didn’t agree with me. “Nobody knew I kept that paste jewelry in there.”

“Two people did.”

“Oh?”

I said, “Your husband and his killer.”

The implication of it finally came to her. “He wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone. No, you’re wrong there. It wasn’t that important to him at all.”

“Then why put it in the safe?”

“It’s a natural place for it. Besides, as you mentioned, it could be a strong come-on to one who didn’t know any better.”

“Why didn’t you have the combination?”

“I didn’t need it. It was the only safe in the house, in Leo’s private study—and, concerning his affairs, I stayed out completely.”

“Servants?”

“At that time we had two. Both were very old and both have since died. I don’t think they ever suspected that there were two sets of jewels anyway.”

“Were they trustworthy?”

“They had been with Leo all his life. Yes, they were trustworthy.”

I leaned back in the chair, reaching hard for any possibility now. “Could anything else have been in that safe? Something you didn’t know about?”

“Certainty.”

I edged forward now, waiting.

“Leo could have kept anything there, but I doubt that he did. I believe you’re thinking of what could be termed state secrets?”

“It’s happened before. The Senator was a man pretty high in the machinery of government.”

“And a smart one,” she countered. “His papers that had governmental importance were all intact in his safe-deposit box and were recovered immediately after his death by the FBI, according to a memo he left with his office.” She waited a moment then, watching me try to fasten on some obscure piece of information. Then she asked, “May I know what you’re trying to get at?”

This time there was no answer. Very simply the whole thing broke down to a not unusual coincidence. One gun had been used for two kills. It happens often enough. These kills had been years apart, and from all the facts, totally unrelated.

I said, “It was a try, that’s all. Nothing seems to match.”

Quietly, she stated, “I’m sorry.”

“Couldn’t be helped.” I stood up, not quite wanting to terminate our discussion. “It might have been the jewels, but a real pro would have made sure of what he was going after, and this isn’t exactly the kind of place an amateur would hit.”

Laura held out her hand and I took it, pulling her to her feet. It was like an unwinding, like a large fireside cat coming erect, yet so naturally that you were never aware of any artifice, but only the similarity. “Are you sure there’s nothing further . . .?”

“Maybe one thing,” I said. “Can I see the den?”

She nodded, reaching out to touch my arm. “Whatever you want.”

While she changed she left me alone in the room. It was a man’s place, where only a man could be comfortable, a place designed and used by a man used to living. The desk was an oversized piece of deep-colored wood, almost antique in style, offset by dark leather chairs and original oil seascapes. The walnut paneling was hand carved, years old and well polished, matching the worn Oriental rug that must have come over on a Yankee clipper ship.

The wall safe was a small circular affair that nestled behind a two-by-three-foot picture, the single modern touch in the room. Laura had opened the desk drawer, extracted a card containing the combination and handed it to me. Alone, I dialed the seven numbers and swung the safe out. It was empty.

That I had expected. What I hadn’t expected was the safe itself. It was a Grissom 914A and was not the type you installed to keep junk jewelry or inconsequential papers in. This safe was more than a fireproof receptacle and simple safeguard for trivia. This job had been designed to be burglar-proof and had a built-in safety factor on the third number that would have been hooked into the local police PBX at the very least. I closed it, dialed it once again using the secondary number, opened it and waited.

Before Laura came down the cops were there, two excited young fellows in a battered Ford who came to the door with Police Specials out and ready, holding them at my gut when I let them in and looking able to use them.

The taller of the pair went around me while the other looked at me carefully and said, “Who’re you?”

“I’m the one who tuned you in.”

“Don’t get smart.”

“I was testing the wall safe out.”

His grin had a wicked edge to it. “You don’t test it like that, buddy.”

“Sorry. I should have called first.”

He went to answer, but his partner called in from the front room and he waved me ahead with the nose of the .38. Laura and the cop were there, both looking puzzled.

Laura had changed into a belted black dress that accented the sweeping curves of her body and when she stepped across the room toward me it was with the lithe grace of an athlete. “Mike—do you know what—”

“Your safe had an alarm number built into it. I checked it to see if it worked. Apparently it did.”

“That right, Mrs. Knapp?” the tall cop asked.

“Well, yes. I let Mr. Hammer inspect the safe. I didn’t realize it had an alarm on it.”

“It’s the only house around here that has that system, Mrs. Knapp. It’s more or less on a commercial setup.”

Beside me the cop holstered his gun with a shrug. “That’s that,” he said. “It was a good try.”

The other one nodded, adjusted his cap and looked across at me. “We’d appreciate your calling first if it happens again.”

“Sure thing. Mind a question?”

“Nope.”

“Were you on the force when the Senator was killed?”

“We both were.”

“Did the alarm go off then?”

The cop gave me a long, deliberate look, his face wary, then, “No, it didn’t.”

“Then if the killer opened the safe he knew the right combination.”

“Or else,” the cop reminded me, “he forced the Senator to open it, and knowing there was nothing of real value in there, and not willing to jeopardize his own or his wife’s life by sudden interference, the Senator didn’t use the alarm number.”

“But he was killed anyway,” I reminded him.

“If you had known the Senator you could see why.”

“Okay, why?” I asked him.

Softly, the cop said: “If he was under a gun he’d stay there, but given one chance to jump the guy and he’d have jumped. Apparently he thought he saw the chance and went for the guy after the safe was open and just wasn’t fast enough.”

“Or else surprised the guy when the safe was already opened.”

“That’s the way it still reads.” He smiled indulgently. “We had those angles figured out too, you know. Now do you mind telling me where you fit in the picture?”

“Obscurely. A friend of mine was killed by a bullet from the same gun.”

The two cops exchanged glances. The one beside me said, “We didn’t hear about that part yet.”

“Then you will shortly. You’ll be speaking to a Captain Chambers from New York sometime soon.”

“That doesn’t explain you.”

I shrugged. “The guy was a friend.”

“Do you represent a legal investigation agency?”

“No longer,” I told him. “There was a time when I did.”

“Then maybe you ought to leave the investigation up to authorized personnel.”

His meaning was obvious. If I hadn’t been cleared by Laura Knapp and tentatively accepted as her friend, we’d be doing our talking in the local precinct house. It was a large Keep Off sign he was pointing out and he wasn’t kidding about it. I made a motion with my hand to let him know I got the message, watched them tip their caps to Laura and walk out.

When they had pulled away Laura said, “Now what was that all about?” She stood balanced on one foot, her hands on her hips in an easy, yet provocative manner, frowning slightly as she tried to sift through the situation.

I said, “Didn’t you know there was an alarm system built into that box?”

She thought for a moment, then threw a glance toward the wall. “Yes, now that you mention it, but that safe hasn’t been opened since—then, and I simply remember the police discussing an alarm system. I didn’t know how it worked at all.”

“Did your husband always keep that combination card in his desk?”

“No, the lawyer found it in his effects. I kept it in the desk just in case I ever wanted to use the safe again. However, that never happened.” She paused, took a step toward me and laid a hand on my arm. “Is there some significance to all this?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. It was a thought and not a very new one. Like I told you, this was only a wild supposition at best. All I can say is that it might have established an M.O.”

“What?”

“A technique of operation,” I explained. “Your husband’s killer really could have gone after those jewels. The other man he killed was operating—well, was a small-time jewel smuggler. There’s a common point here.”

For a moment I was far away in thought. I was back in the hospital with a dying man, remembering the reason why I wanted to find that link so badly. I could feel claws pulling at my insides and a fierce tension ready to burst apart like an overwound spring.

It was the steady insistence of her voice that dragged me back to the present, her “Mike—Mike—please, Mike.”

When I looked down I saw my fingers biting into her forearm and the quiet pain in her eyes. I let her go and sucked air deep into my lungs. “Sorry,” I said.

She rubbed her arm and smiled gently. “That’s all right. You left me there for a minute, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“Can I help?”

“No. I don’t think there’s anything more here for me.”

Once again, her hand touched me. “I don’t like finalities like that, Mike.”

It was my turn to grin my thanks. “I’m not all that sick. But I appreciate the thought.”

“You’re lonely, Mike. That’s a sickness.”

“Is it?”

“I’ve had it so long I can recognize it in others.”

“You loved him very much, didn’t you?”

Her eyes changed momentarily, seeming to shine a little brighter, then she replied, “As much as you loved her, Mike, whoever she was.” Her fingers tightened slightly. “It’s a big hurt. I eased mine by all the social activity I could crowd in a day.”

“I used a bottle. It was a hell of a seven years.”

“And now it’s over. I can still see the signs, but I can tell it’s over.”

“It’s over. A few days ago I was a drunken bum. I’m still a bum but at least I’m sober.” I reached for my hat, feeling her hand fall away from my arm. She walked me to the door and held it open. When I stuck out my hand she took it, her fingers firm and cool inside mine. “Thanks for letting me take up your time, Mrs. Knapp.”

“Please—make it Laura.”

“Sure.”

“And can you return the favor?”

“My pleasure.”

“I told you I didn’t like finalities. Will you come back one day? ”

“I’m nothing to want back, Laura.”

“Maybe not to some. You’re big. You have a strange face. You’re very hard to define. Still, I hope you’ll come back, if only to tell me how you’re making out.”

I pulled her toward me gently. She didn’t resist. Her head tilted up, she watched me, she kissed me as I kissed her, easily and warm in a manner that said hello rather than good-bye, and that one touch awakened things I thought had died long ago.

She stood there watching me as I drove away. She was still there when I turned out of sight at the roadway.

CHAPTER 6

The quiet voice at Peerage Brokers told me I would be able to meet with Mr. Rickerby in twenty minutes at the Automat on Sixth and Forty-fifth. When I walked in he was off to the side, coffee in front of him, a patient little gray man who seemingly had all the time in the world.

I put down my own coffee, sat opposite him and said, “You have wild office hours.”

He smiled meaninglessly, a studied, yet unconscious gesture that was for anyone watching. But there was no patience in his eyes. They seemed to live by themselves, being held in check by some obscure force. The late edition of the News was folded back to the center spread where a small photo gave an angular view of Old Dewey dead on the floor. The cops had blamed it on terrorists in the neighborhood.

Rickerby waited me out until I said, “I saw Laura Knapp today,” then he nodded.

“We covered that angle pretty thoroughly.”

“Did you know about the safe? It had an alarm system.”

Once again, he nodded. “For your information, I’ll tell you this. No connection has been made by any department between Senator Knapp’s death and that of Richie. If you’re assuming any state papers were in that safe you’re wrong. Knapp had duplicate listings of every paper he had in his possession and we recovered everything.”

“There were those paste jewels,” I said.

“I know. I doubt if they establish anything, even in view of Richie’s cover. It seems pretty definite that the gun was simply used in different jobs. As a matter of fact, Los Angeles has since come up with another murder in which the same gun was used. This was a year ago and the victim was a used-car dealer.”

“So it wasn’t a great idea.”

“Nor original.” He put down his coffee and stared at me across the table. “Nor am I interested in others besides Richie.” He paused, let a few seconds pass, then added, “Have you decided to tell me what Richie really told you?”

“No.”

“At least I won’t have to call you a liar again.”

“Knock it off.”

Rickerby’s little smile faded slowly and he shrugged. “Make your point then.”

“Cole. I want to know about him.”

“I told you once—”

“Okay, so it’s secret. But now he’s dead. You want a killer, I want a killer and if we don’t get together someplace nobody gets nothing. You know?”

His fingers tightened on the cup, the nails showing the strain. He let a full minute pass before he came to a decision. He said, “Can you imagine how many persons are looking for this—killer?”

“I’ve been in the business too, friend.”

“All right. I’ll tell you this. I know nothing of Richie’s last mission and I doubt if I’ll find out. But this much I do know—he wasn’t supposed to be back here at all. He disobeyed orders and would have been on the carpet had he not been killed.”

I said, “Cole wasn’t a novice.”

And for the first time Rickerby lost his composure. His eyes looked puzzled, bewildered at this sudden failure of something he had built himself. “That’s the strange part about it.”

“Oh?”

“Richie was forty-five years old. He had been with one department or another since ’41 and his record was perfect. He was a book man through and through and wouldn’t bust a reg for any reason. He could adapt if the situation necessitated it, but it would conform to certain regulations.” He stopped, looked across his cup at me and shook his head slowly. “I—just can’t figure it.”

“Something put him here.”

This time his eyes went back to their bland expression. He had allowed himself those few moments and that was all. Now he was on the job again, the essence of many years of self-discipline, nearly emotionless to the casual observer. “I know,” he said.

And he waited and watched for me to give him the one word that might send him out on a kill chase. I used my own coffee cup to cover what I thought, ran through the possibilities until I knew what I wanted and leaned back in my chair. “I need more time,” I told him.

“Time isn’t too important to me. Richie’s dead. Time would be important only if it meant keeping him alive.”

“It’s important to me.”

“How long do you need before telling me?”

“Telling what?”

“What Richie thought important enough to tell you.”

I grinned at him. “A week, maybe.”

His eyes were deadly now. Cold behind the glasses, each one a deliberate ultimatum. “One week, then. No more. Try to go past it and I’ll show you tricks you never thought of when it comes to making a man miserable.”

“I could turn up the killer in that time.”

“You won’t.”

“There were times when I didn’t do so bad.”

“Long ago, Hammer. Now you’re nothing. Just don’t mess anything up. The only reason I’m not pushing you hard is because you couldn’t take the gaff. If I thought you could, my approach would be different.”

I stood up and pushed my chair back. “Thanks for the consideration. I appreciate it.”

“No trouble at all.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Sure. I’ll be waiting.”

The same soft rain had come in again, laying a blanket over the city. It was gentle and cool, not heavy enough yet to send the sidewalk crowd into the bars or running for cabs. It was a good rain to walk in if you weren’t in a hurry, a good rain to think in.

So I walked to Forty-fourth and turned west toward Broadway, following a pattern from seven years ago I had forgotten, yet still existed. At the Blue Ribbon I went into the bar, had a stein of Prior’s dark beer, said hello to a few familiar faces, then went back toward the glow of lights that marked the Great White Way.

The night man in the Hackard Building was new to me, a sleepy-looking old guy who seemed to just be waiting time out so he could leave life behind and get comfortably dead. He watched me sign the night book, hobbled after me into the elevator and let me out where I wanted without a comment, anxious for nothing more than to get back to his chair on the ground floor.

I found my key, turned the lock and opened the door.

I was thinking of how funny it was that some things could transcend all others, how from the far reaches of your mind something would come, an immediate reaction to an immediate stimulus. I was thinking it and falling, knowing that I had been hit, but not hard, realizing that the cigarette smoke I smelled meant but one thing, that it wasn’t mine, and if somebody was still there he had heard the elevator stop, had time to cut the lights and wait—and act. But time had not changed habit and my reaction was quicker than his act.

Metal jarred off the back of my head and bit into my neck. Even as I fell I could sense him turn the gun around in his hand and heard the click of a hammer going back. I hit face down, totally limp, feeling the warm spill of blood seeping into my collar. The light went on and a toe touched me gently. Hands felt my pockets, but it was a professional touch and the gun was always there and I couldn’t move without being suddenly dead, and I had been dead too long already to invite it again.

The blood saved me. The cut was just big and messy enough to make him decide it was useless to push things any further. The feet stepped back, the door opened, closed, and I heard the feet walk away.

I got to the desk as fast as I could, fumbled out the .45, loaded it and wrenched the door open. The guy was gone. I knew he would be. He was long gone. Maybe I was lucky, because he was a real pro. He could have been standing there waiting, just in case, and his first shot would have gone right where he wanted it to. I looked at my hand and it was shaking too hard to put a bullet anywhere near a target. Besides, I had forgotten to jack a shell into the chamber. So some things did age with time, after all.

Except luck. I still had some of that left.

I walked around the office slowly, looking at the places that had been ravaged in a fine search for something. The shakedown had been fast, but again, in thoroughness, the marks of the complete professional were apparent. There had been no time or motion lost in the wrong direction and had I hidden anything of value that could have been tucked into an envelope, it would have been found. Two places I once considered original with me were torn open expertly, the second, and apparently last, showing a touch of annoyance.

Even Velda’s desk had been torn open and the last thing she had written to me lay discarded on the floor, ground into a twisted sheet by a turning foot and all that was left was the heading.

It read, Mike Darling—and that was all I could see.

I grinned pointlessly, and this time I jacked a shell into the chamber and let the hammer ease down, then shoved the .45 into my belt on the left side. There was a sudden familiarity with the weight and the knowledge that here was life and death under my hand, a means of extermination, of quick vengeance, and of remembrance of the others who had gone down under that same gun.

Mike Darling—

Where was conscience when you saw those words?

Who really were the dead: those killing, or those already killed?

Then suddenly I felt like myself again and knew that the road back was going to be a long one alive or a short one dead and there wasn’t even time enough to count the seconds.

Downstairs an old man would be dead in his chair because he alone could identify the person who came up here. The name in the night book would be fictitious and cleverly disguised if it had even been written there, and unless a motive were proffered, the old man’s killing would be another one of those unexplainable things that happen to lonely people or alone people who stay too close to a terroristic world and are subject to the things that can happen by night.

I cleaned up the office so that no one could tell what had happened, washed my head and mopped up the blood spots on the floor, then went down the stairwell to the lobby.

The old man was lying dead in his seat, his neck broken neatly by a single blow. The night book was untouched, so his deadly visitor had only faked a signing. I tore the last page out, made sure I was unobserved and walked out the door. Someplace near Eighth Avenue I ripped up the page and fed the pieces into the gutter, the filthy trickle of rainwater swirling them into the sewer at the corner.

I waited until a cab came along showing its top light, whistled it over and told the driver where to take me. He hit the flag, pulled away from the curb and loafed his way down to the docks until he found the right place. He took his buck with another silent nod and left me there in front of Benny Joe Grissi’s bar where you could get a program for all the trouble shows if you wanted one or a kill arranged or a broad made or anything at all you wanted just so long as you could get in the place.

But best of all, if there was anything you wanted to know about the stretch from the Battery to Grant’s Tomb that constitutes New York’s harbor facilities on either side of the river, or the associated unions from the NMU to the Teamsters, or wanted a name passed around the world, you could do it here. There was a place like it in London and Paris and Casablanca and Mexico City and Hong Kong and, if you looked hard enough, a smaller, more modified version would be in every city in the world. You just had to know where to look. And this was my town.

At the table near the door the two guys scrutinizing the customers made their polite sign which meant stay out. Then the little one got up rather tiredly and came over and said, “We’re closing, buddy. No more customers.”

When I didn’t say anything he looked at my face and threw a finger toward his partner. The other guy was real big, his face suddenly ugly for having been disturbed. We got eye to eye and for a second he followed the plan and said, “No trouble, pal. We don’t want trouble.”

“Me either, kid.”

“So blow.”

I grinned at him, teeth all the way. “Scram.”

My hand hit his chest as he swung and he went on his can swinging like an idiot. The little guy came in low, thinking he was pulling a good one, and I kicked his face all out of shape with one swipe and left him whimpering against the wall.

The whole bar had turned around by then, all talk ended. You could see the excitement in their faces, the way they all thought it was funny because somebody had nearly jumped the moat—but not quite. They were waiting to see the rest, like when the big guy got up off the floor and earned his keep and the big guy was looking forward to it too.

Out of the sudden quiet somebody said, “Ten to one on Sugar Boy,” and, just as quietly, another one said, “You’re on for five.”

Again it was slow motion, the bar looking down at the funny little man at the end, wizened and dirty, but liking the odds, regardless of the company. Somebody laughed and said, “Pepper knows something.”

“That I do,” the funny little man said.

But by then the guy had eased up to his feet, his face showing how much he liked the whole deal, and just for the hell of it he let me have the first swing.

I didn’t hurt him. He let me know it and came in like I knew he would and I was back in that old world since seven years ago, tasting floor dirt and gagging on it, feeling my guts fly apart and the wild wrenching of bones sagging under even greater bones and while they laughed and yelled at the bar, the guy slowly killed me until the little bit of light was there like I knew that would be too and I gave him the foot in the crotch and, as if the world had collapsed on his shoulders, he crumpled into a vomiting heap, eyes bulging, hating, waiting for the moment of incredible belly pain to pass, and when it did, reached for his belt and pulled out a foot-long knife and it was all over, all over for everybody because I reached too and no blade argues with that great big bastard of a .45 that makes the big boom so many times, and when he took one look at my face his eyes bulged again, said he was sorry, Mac, and to deal him out, I was the wrong guy, he knew it and don’t let the boom go off. He was close for a second and knew it, then I put the gun back without letting the hammer down, stepped on the blade and broke it and told him to get up.

The funny little guy at the bar said, “That’s fifty I got coming.”

The one who made the bet said, “I told you Pepper knew something.”

The big guy got up and said, “No offense, Mac, it’s my job.”

The owner came over and said, “Like in the old days, hey Mike?”

I said, “You ought to clue your help, Benny Joe.”

“They need training.”

“Not from me.”

“You did lousy tonight. I thought Sugar Boy had you.”

“Not when I got a rod.”

“So who knew? All this time you go clean? I hear even Gary Moss cleaned you one night. You, even. Old, Mike.”

Around the bar the eyes were staring at me curiously, wondering. “They don’t know me, Benny Joe.”

The little fat man shrugged. “Who would? You got skinny. Now how about taking off.”

“Not you, Benny Joe,” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re pushing too.”

“Sure. Tough guys I got all the time. Old tough guys I don’t want. They always got to prove something. So with you I call the cops and you go down. So blow, okay?”

I hadn’t even been looking at him while he talked, but now I took the time to turn around and see the little fat man, a guy I had known for fifteen years, a guy who should have known better, a guy who was on the make since he began breathing but a guy who had to learn the hard way.

So I looked at him, slow, easy, and in his face I could see my own face and I said, “How would you like to get deballed, Benny Joe? You got nobody to stop me. You want to sing tenor for that crib you have keeping house for you?”

Benny Joe almost did what he started out to do. The game was supposed to have ended in the Old West, the making of a reputation by one man taking down a big man. He almost took the .25 out, then he went back to being Benny Joe again and he was caught up in something too big for him. I picked the .25 out of his fingers, emptied it, handed it back and told him, “Don’t die without cause, Benny Joe.”

The funny little guy at the bar with the new fifty said, “You don’t remember me, do you, Mike?”

I shook my head.

“Ten, fifteen years ago—the fire at Carrigan’s?”

Again, I shook my head.

“I was a newspaperman then. Bayliss Henry of the Telegram. Pepper, they call me now. You had that gunfight with Cortez Johnson and his crazy bunch from Red Hook.”

“That was long ago, feller.”

“Papers said it was your first case. You had an assignment from Aliet Insurance.”

“Yeah,” I told him, “I remember the fire. Now I remember you too. I never did get to say thanks. I go through the whole damn war without a scratch and get hit in a lousy heist and almost burn to death. So thanks!”

“My pleasure, Mike. You got me a scoop bonus.”

“Now what’s new?”

“Hell, after what guys like us saw, what else could be new?”

I drank my beer and didn’t say anything.

Bayliss Henry grinned and asked, “What’s with you?”

“What?” I tried to sound pretty bored.

It didn’t take with him at all. “Come on, Big Mike. You’ve always been my favorite news story. Even when I don’t write, I follow the columns. Now you just don’t come busting in this place anymore without a reason. How long were you a bum, Mike?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years ago you never would have put a gun on Sugar Boy.”

“I didn’t need it then.”

“Now you need it?”

“Now I need it,” I repeated.

Bayliss took a quick glance around. “You got no ticket for that rod, Mike.”

I laughed, and my face froze him. “Neither had Capone. Was he worried?”

The others had left us. The two guys were back at their table by the door watching the rain through the windows, the music from the overlighted juke strangely soft for a change, the conversation a subdued hum above it.

A rainy night can do things like that. It can change the entire course of events. It seems to rearrange time.

I said, “What?”

“Jeez, Mike, why don’t you listen once? I’ve been talking for ten minutes.”

“Sorry, kid.”

“Okay, I know how it is. Just one thing.”

“What?”

“When you gonna ask it?”

I looked at him and took a pull of the beer.

“The big question. The one you came here to ask somebody.”

“You think too much, Bayliss, boy.”

He made a wry face. “I can think more. You got a big one on your mind. This is a funny place, like a thieves’ market. Just anybody doesn’t come here. It’s a special place for special purposes. You want something, don’t you?”

I thought a moment, then nodded. “What can you supply?”

His wrinkled face turned up to mine with a big smile. “Hell, man, for you just about anything.”

“Know a man named Richie Cole?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, casually, “he had a room under mine. He was a good friend. A damn smuggler who was supposed to be small-time, but he was better than that because he had loot small smugglers never get to keep. Nice guy, though.”

And that is how a leech line can start in New York if you know where to begin. The interweaving of events and personalities can lead you to a crossroad eventually where someone stands who, with one wave of a hand, can put you on the right trail—if he chooses to. But the interweaving is not a simple thing. It comes from years of mingling and mixing and kneading, and although the answer seems to be an almost casual thing, it really isn’t at all.

I said, “He still live there?”

“Naw. He got another place. But he’s no seaman.”

“How do you know?”

Bayliss grunted and finished his beer. “Now what seaman will keep a furnished room while he’s away?”

“How do you know this?”

The little guy shrugged and waved the bartender over. “Mike— I’ve been there. We spilled plenty of beer together.” He handed me a fresh brew and picked up his own. “Richie Cole was a guy who made plenty of bucks, friend, and don’t you forget it. You’d like him.”

“Where’s his place?”

Bayliss smiled broadly, “Come on, Mike. I said he was a friend. If he’s in trouble I’m not going to make it worse.”

“You can’t,” I told him. “Cole’s dead.”

Slowly, he put the beer down on the bar, turned and looked at me with his forehead wrinkling in a frown. “How?”

“Shot.”

“You know something, Mike? I thought something like that would happen to him. It was in the cards.”

“Like how?”

“I saw his guns. He had three of them in a trunk. Besides, he used me for a few things.”

When I didn’t answer, he grinned and shrugged.

“I’m an old-timer, Mike. Remember? Stuff I know hasn’t been taught some of the fancy boys on the papers yet. I still got connections that get me a few bucks here and there. No trouble, either. I did so many favors that now it pays off and, believe me, this retirement pay business isn’t what it looks like. So I pick up a few bucks with some well chosen directions or clever ideas. Now, Cole, I never did figure just what he was after, but he sure wanted some peculiar information.”

“How peculiar?”

“Well, to a thinking man like me, it was peculiar because no smuggler the size he was supposed to be would want to know what he wanted.”

“Smart,” I told him. “Did you mention it to Cole?”

“Sure,” Bayliss grinned, “but we’re both old at what we were doing and could read eyes. I wouldn’t pop on him.”

“Suppose we go see his place.”

“Suppose you tell me what he really was first.”

Right then he was real roostery, a Bayliss Henry from years ago before retirement and top dog on the news beat, a wizened little guy, but one who wasn’t going to budge an inch. I wasn’t giving a damn for national security as the book describes it, at all, so I said, “Richie Cole was a Federal agent and he stayed alive long enough to ask me in on this.”

He waited, watched me, then made a decisive shrug with his shoulders and pulled a cap down over his eyes. “You know what you could be getting into?” he asked me.

“I’ve been shot before,” I told him.

“Yeah, but you haven’t been dead before,” he said.

The place was a brownstone building in Brooklyn that stood soldier-fashion shoulder to shoulder in place with fifty others, a row of face-like oblongs whose windows made dull, expressionless eyes of the throttled dead, the bloated tongue of a stone stoop hanging out of its gaping mouth.

The rest wasn’t too hard, not when you’re city-born and have nothing to lose anyway. Bayliss said the room was ground-floor rear so we simply got into the back through a cellarway three houses down, crossed the slatted fences that divided one pile of garbage from another until we reached the right window, then went in. Nobody saw us. If they did, they stayed quiet about it. That’s the kind of place it was.

In a finger-thick beam of the pencil flash I picked out the sofa bed, an inexpensive contour chair, a dresser and a desk. For a furnished room it had a personal touch that fitted in with what Bayliss suggested. There were times when Richie Cole had desired a few more of the creature comforts than he could normally expect in a neighborhood like this.

There were a few clothes in the closet: a military raincoat, heavy dungaree jacket and rough-textured shirts. An old pair of hip boots and worn high shoes were in one corner. The dresser held changes of underwear and a few sports shirts, but nothing that would suggest that Cole was anything he didn’t claim to be.

It was in the desk that I found the answer. To anyone else it would have meant nothing, but to me it was an answer. A terribly cold kind of answer that seemed to come at me like a cloud that could squeeze and tear until I thought I was going to burst wide open.

Cole had kept a simple, inexpensive photo album. There were the usual pictures of everything from the Focking Distillery to the San Francisco Bridge with Cole and girls and other guys and girls and just girls alone the way a thousand other seamen try to maintain a visual semblance of life.

But it was in the first few pages of the album that the fist hit me in the gut because there was Cole a long time ago sitting at a table in a bar with some RAF types in the background and a couple of American GI’s from the 8th Air Force on one side and with Richie Cole was Velda.

Beautiful, raven hair in a long pageboy, her breasts swelling tautly against the sleeveless gown, threatening to free themselves. Her lips were wet with an almost deliberate gesture and her smile was purposely designing. One of the GIs was looking at her with obvious admiration.

Bayliss whispered, “What’d you say, Mike?”

I shook my head and flipped a page over. “Nothing.”

She was there again, and a few pages further on. Once they were standing outside a pub, posing with a soldier and a WREN, and in another they stood beside the bombed-out ruins of a building with the same soldier, but a different girl.

There was nothing contrived about the album. Those pictures had been there a long time. So had the letters. Six of them dated in 1944, addressed to Cole at a P.O. box in New York, and although they were innocuous enough in content, showed a long-standing familiarity between the two of them. And there was Velda’s name, the funny “V” she made, the green ink she always used and, although I hadn’t even known her then, I was hating Cole so hard it hurt. I was glad he was dead but wished I could have killed him, then I took a fat breath, held it once and let it out slowly and it wasn’t so bad anymore.

I felt Bayliss touch my arm and he said, “You okay, Mike?”

“Sure.”

“You find anything?”

“Nothing important.”

He grunted under his breath. “You’re full of crap.”

“A speciality of mine,” I agreed. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about those guns? He had a trunk some place.”

“We don’t need them. Let’s go.”

“So you found something. You could satisfy my curiosity.”

“Okay,” I told him, “Cole and I had a mutual friend.”

“It means something?”

“It might. Now move.”

He went out first, then me, and I let the window down. We took the same route back, going over the fences where we had crossed earlier, me boosting Bayliss up then following him. I was on top of the last one when I felt the sudden jar of wood beside my hand, then a tug at my coat between my arm and rib cage and the instinct and reaction grabbed me again and I fell on top of Bayliss while I hauled the .45 out and, without even knowing where the silenced shots were coming from, I let loose with a tremendous blast of that fat musket that tore the night wide open with a rolling thunder that let the world know the pigeon was alive and had teeth.

From a distance came a clattering of cans, of feet, then windows slammed open and voices started yelling and the two of us got out fast. We were following the same path of the one who had followed us, but his start was too great. Taillights were already diminishing down the street and in another few minutes a prowl car would be turning the corner.

We didn’t wait for it.

Six blocks over we picked up a cab, drove to Ed Dailey’s bar and got out. I didn’t have to explain a thing to Bayliss. He had been through it all too often before. He was shaking all over and couldn’t seem to stop swallowing. He had two double ryes before he looked at me with a peculiar expression and said softly, “Jeez, I’ll never learn to keep my mouth shut.”

Peerage Brokers could have been anything. The desks and chairs and filing cabinets and typewriters represented nothing, yet represented everything. Only the gray man in the glasses sitting alone in the corner drinking coffee represented something.

Art Rickerby said, “Now?” and I knew what he meant.

I shook my head. He looked at me silently a moment, then sipped at the coffee container again. He knew how to wait, this one. He wasn’t in a hurry now, not rushing to prevent something. He was simply waiting for a moment of vengeance because the thing was done and sooner or later time would be on his side.

I said, “Did you know Richie pretty well?”

“I think so.”

“Did he have a social life?”

For a moment his face clouded over, then inquisitiveness replaced anger and he put the coffee container down for a reason, to turn his head away. “You’d better explain.”

“Like girls,” I said.

When he turned back he was expressionless again. “Richie had been married,” he told me. “In 1949 his wife died of cancer.”

“Oh? How long did he know her?”

“They grew up together.”

“Children?”

“No. Both Richie and Ann knew about the cancer. They married after the war anyway but didn’t want to leave any children a difficult burden.”

“How about before that?”

“I understood they were both pretty true to each other.”

“Even during the war?”

Again there was silent questioning in his eyes. “What are you getting at, Mike?”

“What was Richie during the war?”

The thought went through many channels before it was properly classified. Art said, “A minor O.S.I. agent. He was a Captain then based in England. With mutual understanding, I never asked, nor did he offer, the kind of work he did.”

“Let’s get back to the girls.”

“He was no virgin, if that’s what you mean.”

He knew he reached me with that one but didn’t know why. I could feel myself tighten up and had to relax deliberately before I could speak to him again.

“Who did he go with when he was here? When he wasn’t on a job.”

Rickerby frowned and touched his glasses with an impatient gesture. “There were—several girls. I really never inquired. After Ann’s death—well, it was none of my business, really.”

“But you knew them?”

He nodded, watching me closely. Once more he thought quickly, then decided. “There was Greta King, a stewardess with American Airlines that he would see occasionally. And there was Pat Bender over at the Craig House. She’s a manicurist there and they had been friends for years. Her brother, Lester, served with Richie but was killed just before the war ended.”

“It doesn’t sound like he had much fun.”

“He didn’t look for fun. Ann’s dying took that out of him. All he wanted was an assignment that would keep him busy. In fact, he rarely ever got to see Alex Bird, and if—”

“Who’s he?” I interrupted.

“Alex, Lester and Richie were part of a team throughout the war. They were great friends in addition to being experts in their work. Lester got killed, Alex bought a chicken farm in Marlboro, New York, and Richie stayed in the service. When Alex went civilian he and Richie sort of lost communication. You know the code in this work—no friends, no relatives—it’s a lonely life.”

When he paused I said, “That’s all?”

Once again, he fiddled with his glasses, a small flicker of annoyance showing in his eyes. “No. There was someone else he used to see on occasions. Not often, but he used to look forward to the visit.”

My voice didn’t sound right when I asked, “Serious?”

“I—don’t think so. It didn’t happen often enough and generally it was just a supper engagement. It was an old friend, I think.”

“You couldn’t recall the name?”

“It was never mentioned. I never pried into his business.”

“Maybe it’s about time.”

Rickerby nodded sagely. “It’s about time for you to tell me a few things too.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“True.” He looked at me sharply and waited.

“If the information isn’t classified, find out what he really did during the war, who he worked with and who he knew.”

For several seconds he ran the thought through his mental file, then: “You think it goes back that far?”

“Maybe.” I wrote my number down on a memo pad, ripped off the page and handed it to him. “My office. I’ll be using it from now on.”

He looked at it, memorized it and threw it down. I grinned, told him so-long and left.

Over in the west Forties I got a room in a small hotel, got a box, paper and heavy cord from the desk clerk, wrapped my .45 up, addressed it to myself at the office with a buck’s worth of stamps and dropped it in the outgoing mail, then sacked out until it was almost noon in a big new tomorrow.

Maybe I still had that look because they thought I was another cop. Nobody wanted to talk, and if they had, there would have been little they could have said. One garrulous old broad said she saw a couple of men in the back court and later a third. No, she didn’t know what they were up to and didn’t care as long as they weren’t in her yard. She heard the shot and would show me the place, only she didn’t know why I couldn’t work with the rest of the cops instead of bothering everybody all over again.

I agreed with her, thanked her and let her take me to where I almost had it going over the fence. When she left, wheezing and muttering, I found where the bullet had torn through the slats and jumped the fence, and dug it out of the two-by-four frame in the section on the other side of the yard. There was still enough of it to show the rifling marks, so I dropped it in my pocket and went back to the street.

Two blocks away I waved down a cab and got in. Then I felt the seven years, and the first time back I had to play it hard and almost stupid enough to get killed. There was a time when I never would have missed with the .45, but now I was happy to make a noise with it big enough to start somebody running. For a minute I felt skinny and shrunken inside the suit and cursed silently to myself.

If she was alive, I was going to have to do better than I was doing now. Time, damn it. There wasn’t any. It was like when the guy in the porkpie hat had her strung from the rafters and the whip in his hand had stripped her naked flesh with bright red welts, the force of each lash stroke making her spin so that the lush beauty of her body and the deep-space blackness of her hair and the wide sweep of her breasts made an obscene kaleidoscope and then I shot his arm off with the tommy gun and it dropped with a wet thud in the puddle of clothes around her feet like a pagan sacrifice and while he was dying I killed the rest of them, all of them, twenty of them, wasn’t it? And they called me those terrible names, the judge and the jury did. And they called me those terrible names, the judge and the jury did.

Damn. Enough.

CHAPTER 7

The body was gone, but the police weren’t. The two detectives interrogating Nat beside the elevators were patiently listening to everything he said, scanning the night book one held open. I walked over, nodded and said, “Morning, Nat.”

Nat’s eyes gave me a half-scared, half-surprised look followed by a shrug that meant it was all out of his hands.

“Hello, Mike.” He turned to the cop with the night book. “This is Mr. Hammer. In 808.”

“Oh?” The cop made me in two seconds. “Mike Hammer. Didn’t think you were still around.”

“I just got back.”

His eyes went up and down, then steadied on my face. He could read all the signs, every one of them. “Yeah,” he said sarcastically. “Were you here last night?”

“Not me, buddy. I was out on the town with a friend.”

The pencil came into his hand automatically. “Would you like to—”

“No trouble. Bayliss Henry, an old reporter. I think he lives—”He put the pencil away with a bored air. “I know where Bayliss lives.”

“Good,” I said. “What’s the kick here?”

Before the pair could tell him to shut up, Nat blurted, “Mike—it was old Morris Fleming. He got killed.”

I played it square as I could. “Morris Fleming?”

“Night man, Mike. He started working here after—you left.”

The cop waved him down. “Somebody broke his neck.”

“What for?”

He held up the book. Ordinarily he never would have answered, but I had been around too long in the same business. “He could have been identified. He wanted in the easy way so he signed the book, killed the old man later and ripped the page out when he left.” He let me think it over and added, “Got it figured yet?”

“You don’t kill for fun. Who’s dead upstairs?”

Both of them threw a look back and forth and stared at me again. “Clever boy.”

“Well?”

“No bodies. No reported robberies. No signs of forcible entry. You’re one of the last ones in. Maybe you’d better check your office.”

“I’ll do that,” I told him.

But I didn’t have to bother. My office had already been checked. Again. The door was open, the furniture pushed around, and in my chair behind the desk was Pat, his face cold and demanding, his hands playing with the box of .45 shells he had found in the niche in the desk.

Facing him with her back to me, the light from the window making a silvery halo around the yellow of her hair, was Laura Knapp.

I said, “Having fun?”

Laura turned quickly, saw me and a smile made her mouth beautiful. “Mike!”

“Now how did you get here?”

She took my hand, held it tightly a moment with a grin of pleasure and let me perch on the end of the desk. “Captain Chambers asked me to.” She turned and smiled at Pat, but the smile was lost on him. “He came to see me not long after you did.”

“I told you that would happen.”

“It seems that since you showed some interest in me he did too, so we just reviewed all—the details of what happened—to Leo.” Her smile faded then, her eyes seeming to reflect the hurt she felt.

“What’s the matter, Pat, don’t you keep files anymore?”

“Shut up.”

“The manual says to be nice to the public.” I reached over and picked up the box of .45’s. “Good thing you didn’t find the gun.”

“You’re damn right. You’d be up on a Sullivan charge right now.”

“How’d you get in, Pat?”

“It wasn’t too hard. I know the same tricks you do. And don’t get snotty.” He flipped a paper out of his pocket and tossed it on the desk. “A warrant, mister. When I heard there was a kill in this particular building I took this out first thing.”

I laughed at the rage in his face and rubbed it in a little. “Find what you were looking for?”

Slowly, he got up and walked around the desk, and though he stood there watching me it was to Laura that he spoke. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Knapp, wait out in the other room. And close the door.”

She looked at him, puzzled, so I nodded to her and she stood up with a worried frown creasing her eyes and walked out. The door made a tiny snick as it closed and we had the place all to ourselves. Pat’s face was still streaked with anger, but there were other things in his eyes this time. “I’m fed up, Mike. You’d just better talk.”

“And if I don’t?”

The coldness took all the anger away from his face now. “All right, I’ll tell you the alternative. You’re trying to do something. Time is running against you. Don’t give me any crap because I know you better than you know yourself. This isn’t the first time something like this cropped up. You pull your connections on me, you try to play it smart—okay—I’ll make time run out on you. I’ll use every damn regulation I know to harass you to death. I’ll keep a tail on you all day, and every time you spit I’ll have your ass hauled into the office. I’ll hold you on every pretext possible and if it comes to doing a little high-class framing I can do that too.”

Pat wasn’t lying. Like he knew me, I knew him. He was real ready to do everything he said and time was one thing I didn’t have enough of. I got up and walked around the desk to my chair and sat down again. I pulled out the desk drawer, stowed the .45’s back in the niche without trying to be smug about what I did with the gun. Then I sat there groping back into seven years, knowing that instinct went only so far, realizing that there was no time to relearn and that every line had to be straight across the corners.

I said, “Okay, Pat. Anything you want. But first a favor.”

“No favors.”

“It’s not exactly a favor. It’s an or else.” I felt my face go as cold as his was. “Whether you like it or not I’m ready to take my chances.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was ready to throw his fist at my face again and would have, only he was too far away. Little by little he relaxed until he could speak, then all those years of being a cop took over and he shrugged, but he wasn’t fooling me any. “What is it?”

“Nothing I couldn’t do if I had the time. It’s all a matter of public record.”

He glanced at me shrewdly and waited.

“Look up Velda’s P.I. license.”

His jaw dropped open stupidly for a brief second, then snapped shut and his eyes followed suit. He stood there, knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the desk and he gradually leaned forward so that when he swung he wouldn’t be out of reach this time.

“What kind of crazy stunt are you pulling?” His voice was almost hoarse.

I shook my head. “The New York State law says that you must have served three or more years in an accredited police agency, city, state, or federal in a rating of sergeant or higher to get a Private Investigator’s license. It isn’t easy to get and takes a lot of background work.”

Quietly, Pat said, “She worked for you. Why didn’t you ask?”

“One of the funny things in life. Her ticket was good enough for me at first. Later it never occurred to me to ask. I was always a guy concerned with the present anyway and you damn well know it.”

“You bastard. What are you trying to pull?”

“Yes or no, Pat.”

His grin had no humor in it. Little cords in his neck stood out against his collar and the pale blue of his eyes was deadly. “No,” he said. “You’re a wise guy, punk. Don’t pull your tangents on me. You got this big feeling inside you that you’re coming back at me for slapping you around. You’re using her now as a pretty little oblique switch—but, mister, you’re pulling your crap on the wrong soldier. You’ve just about had it, boy.”

Before he could swing I leaned back in my chair with as much insolence as I could and reached in my pocket for the slug I had dug out of the fence. It was a first-class gamble, but not quite a bluff. I had the odds going for me and if I came up short, I’d still have a few hours ahead of him.

I reached out and laid the splashed-out bit of metal on the desk. “Don’t punk me, man. Tell ballistics to go after that and tell me what I want and I’ll tell you where that came from.”

Pat picked it up, his mind putting ideas together, trying to make one thing fit another. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but one thing took precedence over all others. He was a cop. First-rate. He wanted a killer. He had to play his own odds too.

“All right,” he told me, “I can’t take any chances. I don’t get your point, but if it’s a phony, you’ve had it.”

I shrugged. “When will you know about the license?”

“It won’t take long.”

“I’ll call you,” I said.

He straightened up and stared out the window over my head, still half in thought. Absently, he rubbed the back of his neck. “You do that,” he told me. He turned away, putting his hat on, then reached for the door.

I stopped him. “Pat—”

“What?”

“Tell me something.”

His eyes squinted at my tone. I think he knew what I was going to ask.

“Did you love Velda too?”

Only his eyes gave the answer, then he opened the door and left.

“May I come in?”

“Oh, Laura—please.”

“Was there—trouble?”

“Nothing special.” She came back to the desk and sat down in the client’s chair, her face curious. “Why?”

With a graceful motion, she crossed her legs and brushed her skirt down over her knees. “Well, when Captain Chambers was with me—well, he spoke constantly of you. It was as if you were right in the middle of everything.” She paused, turning her head toward me. “He hates you, doesn’t he?”

I nodded. “But we were friends once.”

Very slowly, her eyebrows arched. “Aren’t most friendships only temporary at best?”

“That’s being pretty cynical.”

“No—only realistic. There are childhood friendships. Later those friends from school, even to the point of nearly blood brotherhood fraternities, but how long do they last? Are your Army or Navy friends still your friends or have you forgotten their names?”

I made a motion with my shoulders.

“Then your friends are only those you have at the moment. Either you outgrow them or something turns friendship into hatred.”

“It’s a lousy system,” I said.

“But there it is, nevertheless. In 1945 Germany and Japan were our enemies and Russia and the rest our allies. Now our former enemies are our best friends and the former allies the direct enemies.”

She was so suddenly serious I had to laugh at her. “Beautiful blondes aren’t generally philosophers.”

But her eyes didn’t laugh back. “Mike—it really isn’t that funny. When Leo was—alive, I attended to all his affairs in Washington. I still carry on, more or less. It’s something he would have wanted me to do. I know how people who run the world think. I served cocktails to people making decisions that rocked the earth. I saw wars start over a drink and the friendship of generations between nations wiped out because one stupid, pompous political appointee wanted to do things his way. Oh, don’t worry, I know about friendships.”

“So this one went sour.”

“It hurts you, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so. It never should have happened that way.”

“Oh?” For a few moments she studied me, then she knew. “The woman—we talked about—you both loved her?”

“I thought only I did.” She sat there quietly then, letting me finish. “We both thought she was dead. He still thinks so and blames me for what happened.”

“Is she, Mike?”

“I don’t know. It’s all very strange, but if there is even the most remote possibility that some peculiar thing happened seven years ago and that she is still alive somewhere, I want to know about it.”

“And Captain Chambers?”

“He could never have loved her as I did. She was mine.”

“If—you are wrong—and she is dead, maybe it would be better not to know.”

My face was grinning again. Not me, just the face part. I stared at the wall and grinned idiotically. “If she is alive, I’ll find her. If she is dead, I’ll find who killed her. Then slowly, real slowly, I’ll take him apart, inch by inch, joint by joint, until dying will be the best thing left for him.”

I didn’t realize that I was almost out of the chair, every muscle twisted into a monstrous spasm of murder. Then I felt her hands pulling me back and I let go and sat still until the hate seeped out of me.

“Thanks.”

“I know what you feel like, Mike.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Her hand ran down the side of my face, the fingers tracing a warm path along my jaw. “It’s the way I felt about Leo. He was a great man, then suddenly for no reason at all he was dead.”

“I’m sorry, Laura.”

“But it’s not over for me anymore, either.”

I swung around in the chair and looked up at her. She was magnificent then, a study in symmetry, each curve of her wonderful body coursing into another, her face showing the full beauty of maturity, her eyes and mouth rich with color.

She reached out her hand and I stood up, tilted her chin up with my fingers and held her that way. “You’re thinking, kitten.”

“With you I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because somehow you know Leo’s death is part of her, and I feel the same way you do. Whoever killed Leo is going to die too.”

I let go of her face, put my hands on her shoulders and pulled her close to me. “If he’s the one I want I’ll kill him for you, kid.”

“No, Mike. I’ll do it myself.” And her voice was as cold and as full of purpose as my own when she said it. Then she added, “You just find that one for me.”

“You’re asking a lot, girl.”

“Am I? After you left I found out all about you. It didn’t take long. It was very fascinating information, but nothing I didn’t know the first minute I saw you.”

“That was me of a long time ago. I’ve been seven years drunk and I’m just over the bum stage now. Maybe I could drop back real easy. I don’t know.”

“I know.”

“Nobody knows. Besides, I’m not authorized to pursue investigations.”

“That doesn’t seem to stop you.”

A grin started to etch my face again. “You’re getting to a point, kid.”

She laughed gently, a full, quiet laugh. Once again her hand came up to my face. “Then I’ll help you find your woman, Mike, if you’ll find who killed Leo.”

“Laura—”

“When Leo died the investigation was simply routine. They were more concerned about the political repercussions than in locating his killer. They forgot about that one, but I haven’t. I thought I had, but I really hadn’t. Nobody would look for me—they all promised and turned in reports, but they never really cared about finding that one. But you do, Mike, and somehow I know you will. Oh, you have no license and no authority, but I have money and it will put many things at your disposal. You take it. You find your woman, and while you’re doing it, or before, or after, whatever you like, you find the one I want. Tomorrow I’ll send you five thousand dollars in cash. No questions. No paperwork. No reports. Even if nothing comes of it there is no obligation on you.”

Under my hands she was trembling. It didn’t show on her face, but her shoulders quivered with tension. “You loved him very much,” I stated.

She nodded. “As you loved her.”

We were too close then, both of us feeling the jarring impact of new and sudden emotions. My hands were things of their own, leaving her shoulders to slide down to her waist, then reaching behind her to bring her body close to mine until it was touching, then pressing until a fusion was almost reached.

She had to gasp to breathe, and fingers that were light on my face were suddenly as fierce and demanding as my own as she brought me down to meet her mouth and the scalding touch of her tongue that worked serpentlike in a passionate orgy that screamed of release after so long a time.

She pulled away, her breasts moving spasmodically against my chest. Her eyes were wet and shimmering with a glow of disbelief that it could ever happen again and she said softly: “You, Mike—I want a man. It could never be anybody but—a man.” She turned her eyes on mine, pleading. “Please, Mike.”

“You never have to say please,” I told her, then I kissed her again and we found our place in time and in distance, lost people who didn’t have to hurry or be cautious and who could enjoy the sensual discomfort of a cold leather couch on naked skin and take pleasure in the whispering of clothing and relish the tiny sounds of a bursting seam; two whose appetites had been stifled for much too long, yet who loved the food of flesh enough not to rush through the first offering, but to taste and become filled course by course until in an explosion of delight, the grand finale of the whole table, was served and partaken.

We were gourmets, the body satisfied, but the mind knowing that it was only a momentary filling and that there would be other meals, each different, each more succulent than the last in a never-ending progression of enjoyment. The banquet was over so we kissed and smiled at each other, neither having been the guest, but rather, one the host, the other the hostess, both having the same startling thought of Where was the past now? Could the present possibly be more important?

When she was ready I said, “Let’s get you home now, Laura.”

“Must I?”

“You must.”

“I could stay in town.”

“If you did it would be a distraction I can’t afford.”

“But I live a hundred and ten miles from your city.”

“That’s only two hours up the Thruway and over the hills.”

She grinned at me. “Will you come?”

I grinned back. “Naturally.”

I picked up my hat and guided her to the outer office. For a single, terrible moment I felt a wash of shame drench me with guilt. There on the floor where it had been squashed underfoot by the one who killed old Morris Fleming and who had taken a shot at me was the letter from Velda that began, “Mike Darling—”

We sat at the corner of the bar in P. J. Moriarty’s steak and chop house on Sixth and Fifty-second and across the angle his eyes were terrible little beads, magnified by the lenses of his glasses. John, the Irish bartender, brought us each a cold Blue Ribbon, leaving without a word because he could feel the thing that existed there.

Art Rickerby said, “How far do you think you can go?”

“All the way,” I said.

“Not with me.”

“Then alone.”

He poured the beer and drank it as if it were water and he was thirsty, yet in a perfunctory manner that made you realize he wasn’t a drinker at all, but simply doing a job, something he had to do.

When he finished he put the glass down and stared at me blandly. “You don’t realize just how alone you really are.”

“I know. Now do we talk?”

“Do you?”

“You gave me a week, buddy.”

“Uh-huh.” He poured the rest of the bottle into the glass and made a pattern with the wet bottom on the bar. When he looked up he said, “I may take it back.”

I shrugged. “So you found something out.”

“I did. About you too.”

“Go ahead.”

From overhead, the light bounced from his glasses so I couldn’t see what was happening to his eyes. He said, “Richie was a little bigger than I thought during the war. He was quite important. Quite.”

“At his age?”

“He was your age, Mike. And during the war age can be as much of a disguise as a deciding factor.”

“Get to it.”

“My pleasure.” He paused, looked at me and threw the rest of the beer down. “He commanded the Seventeen Group.” When I didn’t give him the reaction he looked for he asked me, “Did you ever hear of Butterfly Two?”

I covered the frown that pulled at my forehead by finishing my own beer and waving to John for another. “I heard of it. I don’t know the details. Something to do with the German system of total espionage. They had people working for them ever since the First World War.”

There was something like respect in his eyes now. “It’s amazing that you even heard of it.”

“I have friends in amazing places.”

“Yes, you had.”

As slowly as I could I put the glass down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And then his eyes came up, fastened on my face so as not to lose sight of even the slightest expression and he said, “It was your girl, the one called Velda, that he saw on the few occasions he was home. She was something left over from the war.”

The glass broke in my hand and I felt a warm surge of blood spill into my hand. I took the towel John offered me and held it until the bleeding stopped. I said, “Go on.”

Art smiled. It was the wrong kind of smile, with a gruesome quality that didn’t match his face. “He last saw her in Paris just before the war ended and at that time he was working on Butterfly Two.”

I gave the towel back to John and pressed on the Band-Aid he gave me.

“Gerald Erlich was the target then. At the time his name wasn’t known except to Richie—and the enemy. Does it make sense now?”

“No.” My guts were starting to turn upside down. I reached for the beer again, but it was too much. I couldn’t do anything except listen.

“Erlich was the head of an espionage ring that had been instituted in 1920. Those agents went into every land in the world to get ready for the next war and even raised their children to be agents. Do you think World War II was simply the result of a political turnover? ”

“Politics are not my speciality.”

“Well, it wasn’t. There was another group. It wasn’t part of the German General Staff’s machinations either. They utilized this group and so did Hitler—or better still, let’s say vice versa.”

I shook my head, not getting it at all.

“It was a world conquest scheme. It incorporated some of the greatest military and corrupt minds this world has ever known and is using global wars and brushfire wars to its own advantage until one day when everything is ready they can take over the world for their own.”

“You’re nuts!”

“I am?” he said softly. “How many powers were involved in 1918?”

“All but a few.”

“That’s right. And in 1945?”

“All of them were—”

“Not quite. I mean, who were the major powers?”

“We were. England, Germany, Russia, Japan—”

“That narrows it down a bit, doesn’t it? And now, right now, how many major powers are there really?”

What he was getting at was almost inconceivable. “Two. Ourselves and the Reds.”

“Ah—now we’re getting to the point. And they hold most of the world’s land and inhabitants in their hands. They’re the antagonists. They’re the ones pushing and we’re the ones holding.”

“Damn it, Rickerby—”

“Easy, friend. Just think a little bit.”

“Ah, think my ass. What the hell are you getting to? Velda’s part of that deal? You have visions, man, you got the big bug! Damn, I can get better than that from them at a jag dance in the Village. Even the bearded idiots make more sense.”

His mouth didn’t smile. It twisted. “Your tense is unusual. You spoke as if she were alive.”