The Snake

"What was it you wanted to tell me, Miss, Lee? I asked her gently.

"Oh?" She thought a moment, then: "There was something. Your young lady and I talked about Sally and Sue. Yes, that was it. Dear Sally, she was so lovely. It was a pity she died."

"Miss Lee..."

"Yes?"

"The night she died... do you remember it well?"

"Oh yes. Oh yes indeed." Her rocking slowed momentarily so she could shift positions, then started again.

"Was she drunk, really drunk?"

"Dear me, yes. Sally drank all the time. From very early in the morning. There was nothing I could do so I tried to keep her company and talk to her. She didn't want to talk too much, you know. When she did it was drunk talk I couldn't always understand. Do you know what I mean?"

"I've heard it."

"There was that thing with the snakes you mentioned. It was rather an obsession with her."

"She was frightened of the snake?"

Annette Lee lifted her head and peered at me. "No, that was the strange thing. She wasn't afraid. It was... well, she hated it."

"Was the snake a person?"

"Excuse me?"

"Could she have been referring to a person as The Snake? Not snakes or a snake. The Snake."

The rocking stopped completely. She looked at me curiously in the semi-darkened room, her fingertip touching her lips. "So that was what she meant."

"Go on."

"No wonder I didn't understand. My goodness, I never understood in all this time. Yes, she said the snake. It was always the snake. She hated the snake, that was why she wanted to live so far away from the city. She never wanted to go back."

"Annette... who was Sue's father?"

The old girl made a face at me and raised-the thin line of her eyebrows. "Does it matter?"

"It might."

"But I'm afraid I couldn't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Simply because I don't know. Sue has Sally's maiden name, you know. She never got her father's name because she doesn't know who he is. I'm afraid Sally was... a bit promiscuous. She had many men and among them would be Sue's father. I doubt if Sally ever really knew either. A pity. Sue was such a lovely baby."

"Could it have been Blackie Conley?"

For the first time Annette Lee giggled. "Dear no. Not him. Never Blackie."

"Why?"

"Simply because he wasn't capable. I think that was one of the reasons Blackie was so... so frustrated. He did like the ladies, you know. He slept with one after the other. He even married two of them but it never worked out. He always wanted an heir but he wasn't capable. Why... the boys used to kid him about it."

Her feet pushed harder until she had to edge the chair away from the wall so that she faced me more directly. "Do you ever remember Bud Packer?"

"Just the name."

"Bud was... joshing him one day about his... impotence and Blackie shot him. You know where. I think Blackie did time for that but I don't rightly remember. No, Blackie was not Sue's father by any means. Besides, you're forgetting one big thing.

I let her say it.

"Blackie's been gone... for years. Long before Sue was born. Blackie is dead somewhere."

She put her head back and closed her eyes. I said, "Tired?"

"No, just thinking. Daydreaming."

"How about this angle... could Sim Torrence have been the father?"

Her giggle broke into a soft cackle only the old can make. "Sim Torrence? I'm afraid not. Sue was born before they were married."

"He could still be the father."

"You don't understand, Mr..."

"Hammer."

"Mr. Hammer. You see, I was with Sally always before. I knew the many faces she was with. I know who she slept with and none of them were Sim Torrence. It wasn't until after the baby was born that they were married when he took her in and provided for them." The flat laugh came out again. "Those two could never have a baby of their own though."

"Why not?"

"Because she and Sim never slept together. After the baby was born Sally never let a man near her. She underwent a change. All she thought of was the baby, making plans for her, hoping for her to grow up and be somebody. You know, I hate to give away women-secrets, but Sally deliberately cultivated Sim Torrence. They knew each other for some time earlier. Some court case. She managed to meet him somehow and I remember them going out for a couple of weeks before she brought him to our apartment and told me they were going to get married."

"Did Torrence take it well?"

"How does any man take it who is going to lose his bachelorhood?" She smiled knowingly. "He was rather shaken. Almost embarrassed. But he did provide well for Sally and Sue. They had a simple ceremony and moved into his town house."

"Were you with them?"

"Oh yes. Sally wouldn't leave me. Why, I was the only one who could take care of her and the baby. She wasn't very domestic, you know. She wasn't supposed to be. Yes, those were different women then. Showgirls. They had to be pampered."

"Why wouldn't she let Torrence near her in bed?"

"Does it sound strange that a woman who was a... a whore would be afraid of sex?"

I shook my head. "Most of them are frigid anyway," I said bluntly.

"So true, so true. Well, that was Sally. Frigid. Having the baby scared her. Even having a man scared her."

"Was she scared of Torrence?"

"Of every man, Mr... ," and this time she remembered my name and smiled, "... Hammer. Yes, Sim Torrence scared her but I think he understood. He let her stay at that place in the country. He came up on occasions and it was very strained but he was very understanding about it too. Of course, like all men, he could bury himself in his work. That was his real wife, his work."

"Miss Lee... the last time I was here we talked about Blackie Conley, remember?"

"I remember."

"You said you knew about the plans he made for that robbery he and Sonny Motley were involved in. What were they?"

She stopped rocking, her face curious again. "Are you looking for the money?"

"I'm a cop, Miss Lee. I'm looking for a killer, for the money... for anything that will help keep trouble from Sue."

"Sue? But that was before she was born."

"It can come back to hurt her. Now what did you hear?"

She nodded, pressing her lips together, her hands grasping the arms of the rockers. "Do you really think... ?"

"It might help."

"I see." She paused, thought a moment, then said, "You know that Sonny really didn't plan the robbery. It was his gang, but he didn't plan it. They were... acting for someone."

"I know about that."

"Blackie had instructions to find a place where they were going to hide out. He was told where to go and how to do it. I remember because I listened to the call." She chuckled at the thought. "I never did like Blackie. He was at Sally's place when he took the call. In fact, that was where they did all their planning, at Sally's apartment. Sonny was going with her then when she wasn't sneaking off with Blackie. "

"I see."

"Really," she told me, "I wasn't supposed to know about these things. I was always in the other room out of sight, but I was worried about Sally and tried to find out what was going on. I listened in and they didn't know it."

"None of this came out at the trial," I reminded her.

"Nor was it about to, young man. I didn't want to involve Sally any more than she was. She did appear in court, you know."

"Briefly. She wasn't implicated. She was treated as an innocent victim."

Those watery old eyes found mine and laughed in their depths. "No, Sally wasn't so innocent. She knew everything that went on. Sally's pose was very deliberate. Very deliberate. She was a better actress than anyone imagined."

Annette Lee leaned forward like some old conspirator. "Now that it can't hurt her, let me tell you something. It was through dear Sally that this robbery came about. All arrangements, all contacts were made through her. Sonny was quite a man in those days and ran a sizable operation. But it was through Sally Devon that another party interested Sonny in that robbery. No, Sally was hardly the innocent victim."

I didn't let her see me take it in. I passed it off quickly to get her back on the track again, but now the angles were starting to show. I said, "When Blackie Conley got this call... what happened?"

Jerked suddenly from one train of thought, she sat back frowning. "Oh... Blackie... well, I heard this voice..."

"A man?"

"Yes. He told Blackie to see a man in a certain real estate agency, one that could be trusted. He gave him the phone number."

I added, "And Blackie arranged to rent a house in the Catskills?"

"That's right. He made the call right then and said he'd be in the next day." She, opened her eyes again, now her fingers tapping a silent tune on the chair. "But then he made another call to Howie Green."

"Who?"

"Howie Green. He was a bootlegger, dearie, but he owned properties here in the city. He invested his money wisely, Howie did, and always had something to show for it. Howie was as crooked as they come, but smarter than most of them. One of Howie's enterprises was a real estate agency that used to be someplace on Broadway. Oh yes, Howie was a big man, but he owed Blackie Conley a favor. Blackie killed a man for Howie and held it over his head. He told Howie he wanted a place to hole up in somewhere away from the city and to pick it out."

"Where was it, Annette?"

"I don't know, young man. Howie merely said he'd do it for him. That was all. I suppose Blackie took care of it later. However, it's all over now. Howie Green's dead too. He died in an accident not long afterward."

"Before the robbery?"

"I really don't remember that."

I reached for my hat and stood up. "You've been a great help, Annette."

"Have I really?"

I nodded.

"Will Sue be... all right?"

"I'm sure she will."

"Someday," she asked me, "will you bring her to me? I would like to see her again."

"We'll make a point of it."

"Good-by then. It was nice of you to come over."

"My pleasure, Miss Lee."

At two o'clock I contacted Pat and made a date to meet him at his office. He didn't like the idea because he knew Grebb would want to sit in on the conversation but thought he could arrange it so we could be alone.

I took a cab downtown, found Pat alone at his desk buried in the usual paperwork, waited for him to finish, then said, "What officers were in on the Motley holdup? Any still around?"

"This your day for surprises?"

"Hit me."

"Inspector Grebb was one. He was a beat cop who was alerted for the action."

"Oh hell."

"Why?"

"Think he'd remember the details?"

"I don't remember Grebb ever forgetting anything."

"Then let's call him in."

"You sure about this?" Pat asked me.

"It's the easy way. So we give him a bite after all."

Pat nodded, lifted, the phone, and made a call. When he hung up he said, "The Inspector will be happy to see you."

"I bet."

It didn't take him long to get up there. He didn't have Charlie Force with him either. He came in with the patient attitude of the professional cop, always ready to wait, always ready to act when the time came. He might have been a tough, sour old apple, but he made it the hard way and you couldn't take it away from him.

Inwardly I laughed at myself because if I wasn't careful I could almost like him.

"Whose party is it this time?" he asked.

Pat said, "He's throwing it."

"I never thought you'd ask, Hammer." He dragged a chair out with his foot, sat in it heavily and sighed, but it was all an act. He was no more tired or bored than I was. "Shoot," he said.

"Pat tells me you were in on the Motley thing thirty years ago."

"My second day on the beat, Hammer. That shows you how close to retirement I am. My present job is a gratuity. One last fling for the old dog in a department he always wanted to run."

"Better luck in your next one."

"We aren't talking about that. What's with the Motley job?"

"How did the cops get wise?"

"Why don't you read the transcript of the trial? It was mentioned."

"This is easier. Besides, I wanted to be sure."

Grebb pulled a cigar from his pocket, snapped off the end, and fired it up. "Like a lot of big ones that went bust," he said, "somebody pulled the cork. The department got a call. It went through the D.A.'s office."

"Torrence?"

"No, one of the others got it and passed it to him. Torrence handled it personally though."

"Where were you?"

"Staked out where the truck was hidden in case they got through somehow. They never made it. We got the truck and the driver. Second day on the beat too, I'll never forget it. Fresh out of school, still hardly shaving, and I get a hot one right off. Made me decide to stay in the department."

"How long did you have to get ready?"

"About an hour, if I remember right. It was plenty of time. We could have done it in fifteen minutes."

"They ever find out who made the call?"

"Nope."

"They look very hard?"

Grebb just shrugged noncommittally. Then he said, "Let's face it, we'd sooner have stoolies on the outside where they can call these things in than a live guy testifying in court who winds up a dead squealer a day later. We didn't break our backs running down anybody. Whoever it was played it the way we liked it. The job was a bust and we nailed the crew."

"It wasn't a bust, Inspector."

He stared at me until his face hurt.

"Nobody ever located the money."

"That's happened before. One of those things."

"Blackie Conley simply disappeared."

The cigar bobbed in his mouth. "And if he lived very long afterward he's a better man than I am. By now he'd be dead anyway." He took the cigar away from his mouth and flipped the ash off with his pinky. "But let's get back to the money... that's the interesting part."

"I have an idea it might show up."

"Maybe we better listen to your idea."

"Uh-uh. Facts I'll give you, ideas stay in my pocket until I can prove them out."

"Facts then."

"None you don't already have if you want to check the transcript like you suggested. I just make something different out of them, that's all."

Grebb put the cigar back between his teeth and pushed himself out of his chair. When he was on his feet he glanced at Pat meaningfully, said, "Don't let me wait too long, Captain," then went out.

"I wish you'd quit pushing him," Pat told me. "Now what's with this bit?"

I sat in the chair Grebb had vacated and propped my feet on Pat's desk. "I think Blackie Conley's alive."

"How'd he do it?"

"He was the planner behind the operation. He set it up, then phoned in a double-cross. Trouble was, he should have cut it shorter. He almost lost it himself. He laid out one escape plan, but took an alternate. He got away in that cab with the three million bucks and sat on it someplace."

Pat tapped a pencil on the desk as I gave him the information Annette Lee gave me. Every once in a while he'd make a note on a pad, study it, then make another.

"We'll have to locate whatever records are left of Howie Green's business. If he was dealing in real estate it will be a matter of public record."

"You don't think Blackie would use his own name, do you?"

"We can narrow it down. Look, check your file on Green."

Pat put in another call and for the twenty minutes it took to get the papers up we went over the angles of the case. I still wouldn't lay it out the way I saw it, but he had enough to reach the same conclusion if he thought the same way.

The uniformed officer handed Pat a yellowed folder and Pat opened it on his desk. Howie Green, deceased. Known bootlegger, six arrests, two minor convictions. Suspected of duplicity in a murder of one Francis Gorman, another bootlegger who moved into his territory. Charge dropped. Known to have large holdings that were legally acquired as far as the law could prove. His annual income made him a rich man for the times. He was killed by a hit-and-run driver not far from his own house and the date given was three days before the robbery of the three million bucks.

"Pretty angle, Pat."

"Spell it out."

"If Conley did get hideout property from Green, paid for it, made the transaction, and accepted the papers in a phony name and took possession, then killed him before Green knew what he wanted it for, who could say where he was? Chances were that nobody but Conley and Green ever saw each other and Green wasn't around to talk any more."

Pat closed the folder and shoved it in his desk. "We could check all the transactions Green made in the few weeks prior to his death."

"Time, buddy. We haven't got the time."

"But I have one thing you don't have."

I knew what he was going to say.

"Men. We can put enough troops on it to shorten the time."

"It'll still be a long job."

"You know a better way?"

The phone rang before I could answer and although I could hear the hurried chatter at the other end I couldn't make it out. When he cradled the phone Pat said, "One of my squad in Brooklyn on that Levitt rundown."

"Oh?"

"He was eating with one of the men from the precinct over there when a call came in about a body. He went along with his friend and apparently the dead guy is one of the ones he showed Basil Levitt's picture to."

"A starter," I said.

"Could be. Want to take a run over?"

"Why not?"

Pat got his car from the lot and we hopped in, cutting over the bridge into the Brooklyn section. The address was in the heart of Flatbush, one block off the Avenue, a neighborhood bar and grill that was squeezed in between a grocery and a dry-cleaning place.

A squad car was at the curb and a uniformed patrolman stood by the door. Two more, obviously detectives from the local precinct, were in the doorway talking. Pat knew the Lieutenant in charge, shook hands with him, introduced him to me as Joe Cavello, then went inside.

Squatting nervously on a stool, the bartender watched us, trying to be casual, about the whole thing. Lieutenant Cavello nodded toward him and said, "He found the body."

"When?"

"About an hour ago. He had to go down to hook into some fresh beer kegs and found the guy on the floor. He'd been shot once in the head with a small-caliber gun... I'd say about a .32."

"The M.E. set the time of death?" I asked him.

"About twelve to fifteen hours. He'll be more specific after an autopsy."

"Who was he?" Pat said.

"The owner of the place."

"You know him?"

"Somewhat," Cavello said. "We've had him down to the precinct a few times. Twice on wife beating and another when he was picked up in a raid on a card game. This is kind of a chintzy joint. Local bums hang out here because the drinks are cheap. But that's all they sell anyway, cheap booze. We've had a few complaints about some fights in here but nothing ever happened. You know, the usual garbage that goes with these slop chutes."

Pat said, "I had Nelson and Kiley over here doing a rundown on Basil Levitt. You hear about it?"

"Yeah, Lew Nelson checked in with me right after it happened. He saw the body. It was the guy he spoke to all right. I asked around but nobody here seemed to know Levitt."

"How about the bartender?" I said.

Cavello shook his head. "Nothing there. He does the day work and nothing more. When the boss came on, he went off. He doesn't know the night crowd at all."

"He live around here?"

"Red Hook. Not his neighborhood here and he couldn't care less."

While Pat went over the details of what the police picked up I wandered back to the end of the bar. There was a back room used as a storeroom and a place for the food locker with a doorway to one side that opened into the cellar. The lights were on downstairs and I went down to the spot behind the stairs where the chalk marks outlined the position of the body. They were half on the floor and half on the wall, so the guy was found in a sitting position.

Back upstairs Cavello had taken Pat to the end of the bar and I got back in on the conversation. Cavello said, "Near as we could figure it out, this guy Thomas Kline closed the bar earlier than usual, making the few customers he had leave. It was something he had never done before apparently. He'd stick it out if there was a dime in the joint left to be spent. This time he bitched about a headache, closed up, and shut off the lights. That was it. We spoke to the ones who were here then, but they all went off to another place and closed it down much later, then went home. Clean alibis. All working men for a change. No records.

"We think he met somebody here for some purpose. Come here." He led the way to a table in one corner and pointed to the floor. A small stain showed against the oiled wood. "Blood. It matched the victim's. Here's where he was shot. The killer took the body downstairs, dumped it behind the staircase where it couldn't be seen very easily, then left. The door locks by simply closing it so it was simple enough to do. One block down he's in traffic, and anyplace along the Avenue he could have picked up a cab if he didn't have his own car. We're checking all the cabbies' sheets now."

But I had stopped listening to him about then. I was looking at the back corner of the wall. I tapped Pat on the arm and pointed. "You remember the call you got from someone inquiring about Levitt?"

"Yeah," he said.

There was an open pay phone on the wall about four feet away from a jukebox.

Pat walked over to it, looked at the records on the juke, but who could tell rock-and-roll from the titles? He said to Cavello, "Many places got these open phones?"

"Sure," Cavello told him, "most of the spots that haven't got room for a booth. Mean anything?"

"I don't know. It could."

"Anything I could help with?"

Pat explained the situation and Cavello said he'd try to find anyone who, saw Kline making a phone call about that time. He didn't expect much luck though. People in that neighborhood didn't talk too freely to the police. It was more likely that they wouldn't remember anything rather than get themselves involved.

Another plainclothes officer came in then, said hello to Pat, and he introduced me to Lew Nelson. He didn't have anything to add to the story and so far that day hadn't found anybody who knew much about Levitt at all.

I tapped his shoulder and said, "How did Kline react when you showed him Levitt's photo?"

"Well, he jumped a little. He said he couldn't be sure and I figured he was lying. I got the same reaction from others beside him. That Levitt was a mean son and I don't think anybody wanted to mess around with him. He wanted to know what he was wanted for and I wouldn't say anything except that he was dead and he seemed pretty satisfied at that.

"Tell you one thing. That guy was thinking of something. He studied that photo until he was sure he knew him and then told me he never saw him before. Maybe he thought he had an angle somewhere."

There wasn't much left there for us. Pat left a few instructions, sent Nelson back on the streets again, and started outside. He stopped for a final word to Cavello so I went on alone and stood on the sidewalk beside the cop on guard there. It wasn't until he went to answer the radio in the squad car that I saw the thing his position had obscured.

In the window of the bar was a campaign poster and on it a full-face picture of a smiling Torrence who was running in the primaries for governor and under it was the slogan, WIN WITH SIM.

Chapter Nine

I made the call from the drugstore on the corner. I dialed the Torrence estate and waited while the phone rang a half-dozen times, each time feeling the cold go through me deeper and deeper.

Damn, it couldn't be too late!

Then a sleepy voice said, "Yes?" and there was no worry in it at all.

"Geraldine?"

"Mike, you thing you."

"Look..."

"Why did you leave me? How could you leave me?"

"I'll tell, you later. Has Torrence come home yet?"

My voice startled her into wakefulness. "But... no, he's due here in an hour though. He called this morning from Albany to tell me when he'd be home."

"Good, no listen. Is Sue all right?"

"Yes... she's still in bed. I gave her another sedative."

"Well, get her out of it. Both of you hop in a car and get out of there. Now... not later, now."

"But, Mike..."

"Damn it, shut up and do what I say. There's going to be trouble I can't explain."

"Where can we go? Mike, I don't..."

I gave her my new address and added, "Go right there and stay there. The super has the key and will let you in. Don't open that door for anybody until you're sure it's me, understand? I can't tell you any more except that your neck and Sue's neck are out a mile. We have another dead man on our hands and we don't need any more. You got that?"

She knew I wasn't kidding. There was too much stark urgency in my voice. She said she'd leave in a few minutes and when she did I could sense the fear that touched her.

I tapped the receiver cradle down, broke the connection, dropped in a dime, and dialed my own number. Velda came on after the first ring with a guarded hello.

I said, "It's breaking, baby. How do you feel?"

"Not too bad. I can get around."

"Swell. You go downstairs and tell the super that a Geraldine King and Sue Devon are to be admitted to my apartment. Nobody else. Let him keep the key. Then you get down to Sim Torrence's headquarters and check up on his movements all day yesterday. I want every minute of the day spelled out and make it as specific as you can. He got a phone call yesterday. See if it originated from there. I don't care if he took ten minutes out to go to the can... you find out about it. I'm chiefly interested in any time he took off last night."

"Got it, Mike. Where can I reach you?"

"At the apartment. When I get through I'll go right there. Shake it up."

"Chop chop. Love me?"

"What a time to ask."

"Well?"

"Certainly, you nut."

She laughed that deep, throaty laugh and hung up on me and I had a quick picture of her sliding out of bed, those beautiful long legs rippling into a body... oh hell.

I put the phone back and went back to Pat.

"Where'd you go?" he said.

"We got a killer, buddy."

He froze for a second. "You didn't find anything?"

"No? Then make sense out of this." I pointed to the picture of Sim Torrence in the window.

"Go ahead."

"Sim's on the way up. He's getting where he always wanted to be. He's got just one bug in his life and that's the kid, Sue Devon. All her life she's been on his back about something in their past and there was always that chance she might find it.

"One time he defended a hard case and when he needed one he called on the guy. Basil Levitt. He wanted Sue knocked off. Some instinct told Sue what he intended to do and she ran for it and wound up at Velda's. She didn't know it, but it was already too late. Levitt was on her tail all the while, followed her, set up in a place opposite the house, and waited for her to show.

"The trouble was, Velda was in hiding too. She respected the kid's fears and kept her under cover until she was out of trouble herself, then she would have left the place with her. Hell, Pat, Levitt didn't come in there for Velda... he was after the kid. When he saw me he must have figured Torrence sent somebody else because he was taking too long and he wasn't about to lose his contract money. That's why Levitt bust in like that.

"Anyway, when Torrence made the deal he must have met Levitt in this joint here thinking he'd never be recognized. But he forgot that his picture is plastered all over on posters throughout the city. Maybe Kline never gave it a thought if he recognized him then. Maybe Kline only got the full picture when he saw Levitt's photo. But he put the thing together. First he called your department for information and grew suspicious when nobody gave him anything concrete.

"Right here he saw Torrence over a barrel so yesterday he called him and told him to meet him. Sim must have jumped out of his skin. He dummied an excuse and probably even led into a trip to Albany for further cover... this we'll know about when I see Velda. But he got here all right. He saw Kline and that was the last Kline saw of anything."

"You think too much, Mike."

"The last guy that said that is dead." I grinned.

"We'd better get up there then."

New York, when the traffic is thick, is a maddening place. From high above the streets the cars look like a winding line of ants, but when you are in the convoy it becomes a raucous noise, a composite of horns and engines and voices cursing at other voices. It's a heavy smell of exhaust fumes and unburned hydrocarbons and in the desire to compress time and space the distance between cars is infinitesimal.

The running lights designed to keep traffic moving at a steady pace seem to break down then. They all become red. Always, there is a bus or truck ahead, or an out-of-town driver searching for street signs. There are pedestrians who take their time, sometimes deliberately blocking the lights in the never-ceasing battle against the enemy, those who are mounted.

In the city the average speed of a fire truck breaks down to eighteen miles an hour with all its warning devices going, so imagine what happens to time and distance when the end-of-day rush is on. Add to that the rain that fogged the windshields and made every sudden stop hazardous.

Ordinarily from Brooklyn the Torrence place would have been an hour away. But not this night. No, this was a special night of delay and frustration, and if Pat hadn't been able to swing around two barriers with his badge held out the window it would have been an hour longer still.

It was a quarter to eight when we turned in the street Sim Torrence lived on. Behind the wall and the shrubbery I could see lights on in the house and outside that there was no activity at all. From the end of the street, walking toward us, was, the patrolman assigned to the beat on special duty, and when we stopped his pace quickened so that he was there when we got out.

Pat held his badge out again, but the cop recognized me. Pat said, "Everything all right here?"

"Yes, sir. Miss King and the girl left some time ago and Torrence arrived, but there has been no trouble. Anything I can help with?"

"No, just routine. We have to see Torrence."

"Sure. He left the gate open."

We left the car on the street and walked in, staying on the grass. I had the .45 in my hand and Pat had his Police Positive out and ready. Sim Torrence's Cadillac was parked in front of the door and when I felt it the hood was still warm.

Both of us knew what to do. We checked the windows and the back, met again around the front, then I went up to the door while Pat stood by in the shadows.

I touched the buzzer and heard the chime from inside.

Nobody answered so I did it again.

I didn't bother for a third try. I reached out, leaned against the door latch, and it swung in quietly. I went in first, Pat right behind me covering the blind spots. First I motioned him to be quiet, then to follow me since I knew the layout.

There was a deathly stillness about the house that didn't belong there. With all the lights that were going there should have been some sort of sound. But there was nothing.

We checked through the downstairs room, opening closets and probing behind the furniture. Pat looked across the room at me, shook his head, and I pointed toward the stairs.

The master bedroom was the first door on the right. The door was partly open and there was a light on there too. We took that one first.

And that was where we found Sim Torrence. He wasn't winning any more.

He lay face down on the floor with a bullet through his head and a puddle of blood running away from him like juice from a stepped-on tomato. We didn't stop there. We went into every room in the house looking for a killer before we finally came back to Sim.

Pat wrapped the phone in a handkerchief, called the local department, and reported in. When he hung up he said, "You know we're in a sling, don't you?"

"Why?"

"We should have called in from Brooklyn and let them cover it from this end."

"My foot, buddy. Getting in a jam won't help anything. As far as anyone is concerned we came up here on a social call. I was here last night helping out during an emergency and I came back to check, that's all."

"And what about the women?"

"We'll get to them before anybody else will."

"You'd better be right."

"Quit worrying."

While we waited we checked the area around the body for anything that might tie in with the murder. There were no spent cartridges so we both assumed the killer used a revolver. I prowled around the house looking for a sign of entry, since Geraldine would have locked the door going out and Sim behind him, coming in. The killer must have already been here and made his own entry the easy way through the front door.

The sirens were screaming up the street outside when I found out where he got in. The window in Sue's room had been neatly jimmied from the trellis outside and was a perfect, quiet entry into the house. Anybody could have come over the walls without being seen by the lone cop on the beat. From there up that solid trellis was as easy as taking the steps.

Sue's bed was still rumpled. Geraldine must have literally dragged her out of it because the burned stuffed toy was still there crammed under the covers, almost like a body itself.

Then I could see that something new had been added. There was a bullet hole and powder burns on the sheet and when I flipped it back I saw the hole drilled into the huge toy.

Somebody had mistaken that charred ruin for Sue under the covers and tried to put a bullet through her!

Back to Lolita again. Damn, where would it end?

What kind of a person were we dealing with?

I went to put the covers back in their original position before calling Pat in when I saw the stuffed bear up close for the first time. It had been her mother's and the fire had burned it stiff. The straw sticking out was hard and crisp with age, the ends black from the heat. During the night Sue must have lain on it and her weight split open a seam.

An edge of a letter stuck out of it.

I tugged it loose, didn't bother to look at it then because they were coming in downstairs now, racing up the stairs. I stuck the letter in my pocket and called for Pat.

He got the import of it right away but didn't say anything. From all appearances this was a breakin and anybody could have done it. The implications were too big to let the thing out now and he wasn't going to do much explaining until we had time to go over it.

The reporters had already gathered and were yelling for admittance. Tomorrow this kill would make every headline in the country and the one in Brooklyn would be lucky if it got a squib in any sheet at all. There was going to be some high-level talk before this one broke straight and Pat knew it too.

It was an hour before we got out of there and back in the car. Some of the bigwigs of the political party had arrived and were being pressed by the reporters, but they had nothing to say. They got in on VIP status and were immediately sent into the den to be quizzed by the officers in charge and as long as there was plenty to do we could ride for a while.

Pat didn't speak until we were halfway back to the city, then all he said was, "One of your theories went out the window today."

"Which one?"

"If Sim planned to kill Sue, how would he excuse it?"

"I fell into that one with no trouble, Pat," I said. "You know how many times he has been threatened?"

"I know."

"So somebody was trying to get even. Revenge motive. They hit the kid."

"But Sue is still alive."

"Somebody thought he got her tonight. I'll tell you this... I bet the first shot fired was into that bed. The killer turned on the light to make sure and saw what happened. He didn't dare let it stand like that so he waited around. Then in came Sim. Now it could be passed off as a burglary attempt while the real motive gets lost in the rush."

I tapped his arm. "There's one other thing too. The night of the first try there were two groups. Levitt and Kid Hand. They weren't working together and they were both after the same thing... the kid."

"All right, sharpie, what's the answer?"

"I think it's going to be three million bucks," I said.

"You have more than that to sell."

"Where's Blackie Conley."

"And you think he's got the money?"

"Want to bet?"

"Name it."

"A night on the town. A foursome. We'll find you a broad. Loser picks up all the tabs."

Pat nodded. "You got it, but forget finding me a broad. I'll get my own."

"You'll probably bring a policewoman."

"With you around it wouldn't be a bad idea," he said.

He let me out in front of my apartment and I promised to call him as soon as I heard from Velda. He was going to run the Torrence thing through higher channels and let them handle this hotcake.

I went upstairs, called through the door, and let Geraldine open it. Velda still hadn't gotten back. Sue was inside on the couch, awake, but still drowsy from the sedatives she had taken. I made Geraldine sit down next to her, then broke the news.

At first Sue didn't react. Finally she said, "He's really dead?"

"Really, sugar."

Somehow a few years seemed to drape themselves around her. She looked at the floor, made a wry face, and shrugged. "I'm sorry, Mike. I don't feel anything. Just free. I feel free."

Geraldine looked like she was about to break, but she came through it. There was a stricken expression in her eyes and her mouth hung slackly. She kept repeating, "Oh, no!" over and over again and that was all. When she finally accepted it she asked, "Who, Mike, who did it?"

"We don't know."

"This is terrible. The whole political..."

"It's more terrible than that, kid. Politicians can always be replaced. I suggest you contact your office when you feel up to it. There's going to be hell to pay and if your outfit gets into power this time it'll be by a miracle... and those days, believe me, are over."

She started asking me something else, but the phone rang and I jumped to answer it. Velda said, "Mike... I just heard. Is it true?"

"He's had it. What did you come up with?"

"About the time you mentioned... nobody could account for Torrence's whereabouts for almost two hours. Nobody really looked for him and they all supposed he was with somebody else, but nobody could clear him for that time."

"That does it then. Come on back."

"Twenty minutes."

"Shake it."

In a little while I was going to be tied in with this mess and would be getting plenty of visitors and I didn't want either Geraldine or Sue around. Their time would come, but not right now. I called a hotel, made reservations for them both, dialed for a cab, and told them to get ready. Neither wanted to leave until I told them there was no choice. I wanted them completely out of sight and told Geraldine to stay put again, having her meals sent up until I called for her.

Events had moved too quickly and she couldn't think for herself any longer. She agreed dumbly, the girls got into their coats, and I walked them out to the cab.

Upstairs I sat at the desk and took the letter out of my pocket. Like the straw, it was crisp with age, but still sealed, and after all these years smelled faintly of some feminine perfume. I slid my finger under the flap and opened it.

The handwriting was the scrawl of a drunk trying hard for sobriety. The lines were uneven and ran to the edge of the page, but it was legible enough.

It read:

Darling Sue:

My husband Sim is the one we called The Snake. Hate him, darling, because he wants us dead. Be careful of him. Someday he will try to kill us both. Sim Torrence could prove I helped deliver narcotics at one time. He could have sent me to prison. We made a deal that I was to be the go-between for him and Sonny Motley and he was going to arrange the robbery. He could do it because he knew every detail of the money exchange. What he really wanted was for Sonny and the rest to be caught so he could boost his career. That happened, didn't it, darling? He never should have left me out in the cold. After I had you I wanted security for you and knew how to get it. I didn't love Sim Torrence. He hated me like he hates anybody in his way. I made him do it for you, dearest. I will hide this letter where he won't find it but you will someday. He searches everything I have to be sure this can't happen. Be careful my darling. He is The Snake and he will try to kill you if he can. Be careful of accidents. He will have to make it look like one.

All My Love,

Mother

The Snake... the one thing they all feared... and now he was dead. Dedicated old Win with Sim, an engineer of robberies, hirer of murderers, a killer himself... what a candidate for governor. The people would never know how lucky they were.

The Snake. A good name for him. I was right... it worked the way I figured it. The votes weren't all counted yet, but the deck was stacked against Sim Torrence. In death he was going to take a fall bigger than the one he would have taken in life.

Torrence never got the three million. He never gave a damn about it in the first place. All breaking up that robbery did was earn him prestige and some political titles. It was his first step into the big-time and he made it himself. He put everybody's life on the block including his own and swung it. I wondered what plans he had made for Sally if she hadn't nipped into him first. In fact, marrying her was even a good deal for him. It gave him a chance to keep her under wraps and lay the groundwork for a murder.

Hell, if I could check back that far with accuracy I knew what I would find. Sim paid the house upstate a visit, found Annette Lee asleep and Sally in a dead drunk. He simply dragged her out into the winter night and the weather did the rest. He couldn't have done anything with the kid right then without starting an investigation. Sally would have been a tragic accident; the kid too meant trouble.

So he waited. Like a good father, which added to his political image, he adopted her into his house. When it was not expedient for him to have her around any longer he arranged for her execution through Levitt. He sure was a lousy planner there. Levitt talked too much. Enough to die before he could do the job.

In one way Sue forced her own near-death with her crazy behavior. Whatever she couldn't get out of her mind were the things her mother told her repeatedly in her drunken moods. It had an effect all right. She made it clear to Sim that he was going to have to kill her if he didn't want her shooting her mouth off.

Sim would have known who The Snake was. Sally had referred to him by that often enough. No wonder he ducked it at the trial. No wonder it scared him silly when Sue kept insisting her mother left something for her to read. No wonder he searched her things. That last time in Sue's little house was one of desperation. He knew that sooner or later something would come to light and if it happened he was politically dead, which to him was death in toto.

But somebody made a mistake. There was a bigger snake loose than Torrence ever was. There was a snake with three million bucks buried in its hole and that could be the worst kind of snake of all. Hell, Sim wasn't a snake at all. He was a goddamn worm.

I folded the letter and put it back in my pocket when the bell rang. When I opened the door Velda folded into my arms like a big cat, kicked it shut with her heel, and buried her face against my neck.

"You big slob," she said.

While she made coffee I told her about it, taking her right through from the beginning. She read the letter twice, getting the full implication of it all.

"Does Pat know all this?"

"Not yet. He'd better take first things first."

"What are you going to do?"

"Call Art Rickerby."

I picked the unlisted number out of memory and got Art on the phone. It took a full thirty minutes to rehash the entire situation, but he listened patiently, letting me get it across. It was the political side of it he was more concerned with at the moment, realizing what propaganda ammunition the other side could use against us.

One thing about truth... let it shine and you were all right. It was the lies that could hurt you. But there were ways of letting the truth come out so as to nullify the awkward side of it and this was what the striped-pants boys were for.

Art said he'd get into it right away, but only because of my standing as a representative of the agency he was part of.

I said, "Where do I go from here, Art?"

"Now who's going to tell you, big man?"

"It isn't over yet."

"It's never over, Mike. When this is over there will be something else."

"There will be some big heat coming my way. I'd hate to lose my pretty little ticket. It's all I have."

He was silent for a moment, then he said, "I'll let you in on a confidence. There are people here who like you. We can't all operate the same way. Put a football player on the diamond and he'd never get around the bases. A baseball player in the middle of a pileup would never get up. You've never been a total unknown and now that you're back, stay back. When we need you, we'll yell. Meanwhile nobody's going to pick up your ticket as long as you stay clean enough. I didn't say legal... I said clean. One day we'll talk some more about this, but not now. You do what you have to do. Just remember that everybody's watching so make it good."

"Great, all I have to do is stay alive."

"Well, if you do get knocked off, let me repeat a favorite old saying of yours, 'Kismet, buddy.'"

He hung up and left me staring at the phone. I grinned, then put it down and started to laugh. Velda said, "What's so funny?"

"I don't know," I told her. "It's just funny. Grebb and Charlie Force are going to come at me like tigers when this is over to get my official status changed and if I can make it work they don't have a chance."

That big, beautiful thing walked over next to me and slid her arms around my waist and said, "They never did have a chance. You're the tiger, man."

I turned around slowly and ran my hands under her sweater, up the warm flesh of her back. She pulled herself closer to me so that every curve of hers matched my own and her breasts became rigid against my chest.

There was a tenderness to her mouth that was only at the beginning, then her lips parted with a gentle searching motion and her tongue flicked at mine with the wordless gestures of love. Somehow the couch was behind us and we sank down on it together. There was no restraint at all, simply the knowledge that it was going to happen here and now at our own time and choosing.

No fumbling motions. Each move was deliberate, inviting, provoking the thing we both wanted so badly. Very slowly there was a release from the clothes that covered us, each in his own way doing what he wanted to do. I kissed her neck, uncovered her shoulders, and ran my mouth along them. When my hands cradled her breasts and caressed them they quivered at my touch, nuzzling my palms for more like a hungry animal.

Her stomach swelled gently against my fingers as I explored her, making her breath come in short, hard gasps. But even then there was no passiveness in her. She was as alive as I was, as demanding and as anxious. Her eyes told me of all the love she had for so long and the dreams she had had of its fulfillment.

The fiery contact of living flesh against living flesh was almost too much to stand and we had gone too far to refuse the demand any longer. She was mine and I was hers and we had to belong to each other.

But it didn't happen that way.

The doorbell rang like some damn screaming banshee and the suddenness of it wiped the big now right out of existence. I swore under my breath, then grinned at Velda, who swore back the same words and grinned too.

"When will it be, Mike?"

"Someday, kitten."

Before I could leave she grabbed my hand. "Make it happen."

"I will. Go get your clothes on."

The bell rang again, longer this time, and I heard Pat's voice calling out in the hall.

I yelled, "All right, damn it, hold on a minute."

He didn't take his finger off the bell until I had opened the door.

"I was on the phone," I explained. "Come on in."

There were four others with him, all men I had seen around the precinct. Two I knew from the old days and nodded to them. The others went through a handshake. "Velda here?"

"Inside, why?"

"She was down asking questions around the party headquarters. They want an explanation. Charlie Force is pushing everybody around on this."

"So sit down and I'll explain."

Velda came out as they were pulling up chairs, met the officers and perched on the arm of the couch next to me. I laid it out for Pat to save him the time of digging himself, supplied him with Velda's notes and the names of the persons she spoke to, and wrapped it up with Art's little speech to me.

When Pat put his book away he said, "That's one reason why I'm here. We're going to see what we can get on Howie Green. These officers have been working on it already and have come up with something that might get us started."

"Like what?"

"The real estate agency Howie Green operated went into the hands of his partner after his death. The guy's name was Quincy Malek. About a year later he contracted T.B. and died in six months. Now from a nephew we gather that Malek was damn near broke when he kicked off. He had sold out everything and his family picked over what was left. The original records left over from his partnership with Green went into storage somewhere, either private or commercial.

"Right now I have one bunch checking all the warehouses to see what they can dig up. The nephew does remember Malek asking that the records be kept so it's likely that they were. It wouldn't take up much room and a few hundred bucks would cover a storage bill on a small package for a long, long time.

"Now that's a supposition, the commercial angle. Malek and Green had a few other properties still in existence and we'll go through them too. Until everything is checked out you can't tell what we'll find. Meanwhile, we're taking another angle. We're checking all property transactions carried out by Green within a certain time of his death. If you're right something will show up. We'll check every damn one of them if we have to."

"You know how long it will take, Pat?"

"That's what I want to know. You got a better idea in that screwy mind of yours?"

"I don't know," I told him. "I'll have to think about it.

"Oh no, not you, boy. If you got anything you have it now. You just aren't the prolonged-thinking type. You got something going this minute and I want to know what it is."

"Stow it."

"Like that?"

"Like that. If it proves out I'll get it to you right away. The only reason I'm slamming it to you like this is because you're in deep enough as it is. Let me try my way. If there's trouble I'll take it alone."

"Mike... I don't like it. We have a killer running loose."

"Then let me be the target."

His eyes drifted to Velda beside me.

I said, "She'll stay safe. I went through that once before."

"Watch her," Pat said softly, and I knew he was never going to change about the way he felt for her.

"How many men you going to put through the files?"

"As many as I can spare."

"Suppose you get to it first?" I queried.

He smiled crookedly. "Well, with your official status I imagine I can pass on a tip to you. Just make sure it works both ways."

"Deal. How will we make contact?"

"Keep in touch with my office. If anything looks promising I'll leave word."

He got up to go and I reached for my coat. I picked the letter out and handed it to him. "It was in Sue's teddy bear. It puts a lock on Sim all the way. I don't advise showing it to the kid though."

Pat read it through once, shook his head, and put it in his inside coat pocket. "You're a card, man, a real card. What kind of luck have you got?"

"The best kind."

"Don't pull that kind of stunt on Grebb, buddy."

"You know me."

"Sure I know you."

I let them out and went back and stretched out on the couch. Velda made me some coffee and had one with me. I drank mine staring at the ceiling while I tried to visualize the picture from front to back. It was all there except the face. Blackie Conley's face. I knew I was going to see it soon. It was a feeling I had.

"Mike... where are we going?"

"You're thinking ahead of me, kiddo."

"Sometimes I have to."

"You're not going anyway."

"Don't cut me out, Mike." Her hand touched the side of my jaw, then traced a tingling line down my chin.

"Okay, doll."

"Want to tell me what you have in your mind?"

"A thought. The only thing that's wrong with the picture."

"Oh? What?"

"Why Blackie Conley would want to kill Sim."

"Mike..." She was looking past me, deep in thought.

"Since it was Torrence who engineered that robbery and not Conley as you first thought, perhaps Conley suspected what was going to come off. Supposing he out guessed Torrence. In that case, he would have had the whole bundle to himself. He would have made his own getaway plans and broken out at the right time. Don't forget, Conley was older than Sonny and he was no patsy. There was no love between the pair either. In fact, Conley might even have guessed who the brain was behind the whole thing and had reasons for revenge."

"You might have something there, kitten."

"The first try was for Sue," she went on. "That really was an indirect blow at Sim. The next try was for them both."

"There's a possible flaw in your picture too, but I can supply an answer."

She waited. I said, "It's hard to picture a guy in his eighties going up that trellis. He'd have to hire it done... but that's why the hoods are in town."

"I don't know, Mike. Remember Bernarr Macfadden making his first parachute jump into the river when he was about the same age?"

"Uh-huh. It could be done."

"Then the answer is still to find Blackie Conley."

"That's right."

"How?"

"If we can restore another old man's memory we might get the answer."

"Sonny Motley?"

Yup.

"Tonight?"

"Right now, sugar."

Chapter Ten

Finding Sonny Motley's apartment wasn't easy. Nobody in the gin mills knew where he lived; the cop on the beat around his store knew him but not his address. I checked a the few newsstands that were open and they gave me a negative. It was at the last one that a hackie standing by heard me mention the name and said, "You mean that old con?"

"Yeah, the one who has the shoe shop."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. We need some information about a missing person and he might be able to help us."

"Ha, I'd like to see those old cons talk. They won't give nobody the right time."

"You know where he lives?"

"Sure. Took him home plenty of times. Hop in."

We climbed in the cab, went angling up to a shoddy section that bordered on the edge of Harlem, and the cabbie pointed out the place. "He's downstairs there on this side. Probably in bed by now."

"I'll get him up." I gave him a buck tip for his trouble and led the way down the sandstone steps to the iron gate at the bottom. I pushed the bell four or five times before a light came on inside.

A voice said, "Yeah, whatta ya want?"

"Sonny?"

"Who're you?"

"Mike Hammer."

"Oh, fer..." He came to the door, opened it, and reached for the grilled gate that held us out. He had a faded old robe wrapped around his body and a scowl on his face as black as night. Then he saw Velda and the sky lightened. "Hey... how about that."

"This is Velda, my secretary. Sonny Motley."

"Hello, Sonny."

"Well, don't just stand there. Come on in. Hot damn, I ain't had a broad in my joint since before I went to stir. Hot damn, this is great!" He slammed the gate, locked the door, and led the way down the hall. He pushed his door open and said, "Don't mind the place, huh? So it's a crummy place and who comes here? I'm a crummy old man anyway. Sure feel good to have a broad in the joint. Want a drink?"

"I'll pass," I said.

"Not me." He grinned. "A sexy broad comes in like her and I'm gonna have me a drink."

"I thought you were all over the sex angle, Sonny."

"Maybe inside I am, but my eyes don't know it. No, sir. You sit down and let me get dressed. Be right back."

Sit down? We had a choice of box seats. Egg boxes or apple boxes. There was one old sofa that didn't look safe and a chair to match that had no cushion in it. The best bet was the arms of the chair so Velda took one side and I took the other.

A choice between living here or a nice comfortable prison would be easy to make. But like the man said, at least he was free. Sonny was back in a minute, hitching suspenders over bony shoulders, a bottle of cheap booze in his hand.

"You sure you don't want nothing?"

"No, thanks."

"No need to break out glasses then." He took a long pull from the bottle, ambled over to the couch, and sat down facing us. "Hot damn," he said, "those are the prettiest legs I ever saw."

Velda shifted uncomfortably, but I said, "That's what I keep telling her."

"You keep telling her, boy. They love to hear that kind of talk. Right, lady?"

She laughed at the impish look on his face. "I guess we can stand it."

"Damn right you can. Used to be a real killer with the ladies myself. All gone now though." He pulled at the bottle again. "'Cept for looking. Guess a man never tires of looking" He set the bottle down on the floor between his feet and leaned back, his eyes glowing. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"I'm still asking questions, Sonny."

He waved his hands expansively. "Go ahead. If I can answer 'em it's all free."

"I can't get rid of the idea your old partner's still alive."

His shoulders jerked with a silent laugh. "Can't, eh? Well, you better, because that no-good is gone. Dead. I don't know where or how, but he's dead."

"Let's make like he isn't."

"I got lots of time."

"And I got news for you."

"How's that?"

"Sim Torrence is dead."

Briefly, his eyes widened. "True?"

"True."

Then he started to cackle again. "Good. Had it coming, the bugger. He put the screws on enough guys. I hope it wasn't easy."

"He was shot."

"Good. Bring the guy in and I'll fix his shoes free every time. I mean that. Free shine too."

"I thought you didn't care any more."

"Hell, I said I didn't hate him, not that I didn't care. So he's dead. I'm glad. Tomorrow I'll forget he was even alive. So what else is new?"

"Sim Torrence was the big brain who engineered your last job."

He was reaching for the bottle and stopped bent over.

He looked up, not believing me. "Who says?"

"You'll read about it in the papers."

He straightened, the bottle entirely forgotten. "You mean..."

"Not only that, he engineered it right into a deliberate frame-up. That case made him the D.A. After that coup he was a landslide candidate."

"This is square, what you're telling me?"

"On the level, Sonny."

"The dirty son of a bitch. Sorry, lady."

"Here's an added note I want you to think about. If Blackie Conley got wise in time he could have worked the double-cross to his own advantage, taking the loot and dumping you guys."

Sonny sounded almost out of breath. "I'll be damned," he said. Some of the old fire was in his voice. "A real switcheroo. How do you like that? Sure, now I get what the score is. Blackie laid out the getaway route. Hell, he never followed through with the plan. He had something else schemed up and got away." Abruptly he dropped his head and laughed at the floor. "Boy, he was smarter than I figured. How do you like that?" he repeated.

"Sonny..."

He looked up, a silly grin on his face. Egg. He couldn't get over it. I said, "Blackie rented the property you were supposed to hole up in from Howie Green."

"That's right."

"He must have bought another place at the same time for his own purpose using another name."

"Just like that bastard Green to fall in with him. He'd do anything for a buck. I'm glad Blackie knocked him off!"

"He did?"

"Sure he did. Before the heist. You think we wanted somebody knowing where we was headed?"

I looked at him, puzzled.

He caught the look and said, "Yeah, I know. There ain't no statute of limitations on murder. So they could still take me for being in it. Hell, you think I really care? Look around here. What do I have? Nothing. That's what. I already served life. What could they do that's worse? Maybe at the best I can live ten years, but what can I do with ten years? Live in a crummy rat hole? Beat on shoes all day? No friends? Man, it was better doin' time. You just don't know."

I waved him down. "Look, I don't care about Green. He asked for it, so he got it. I want Blackie Conley."

"How you gonna find him?"

"Did you know Green?"

"You kiddin'? Him and me grew up together on the same block. I took more raps for that punk when I was a kid... aw, forget it."

"Okay, now Green was a stickler for detail. He kept records somewhere. He passed on his business to his partner, Quincy Malek."

"I knew him too."

"Now Quincy kept the records. Wherever they are, they'll have a notation of the transactions carried out by the business. It will show the property locations and we can run them down one by one until we get the place Blackie bought from him.

"You think Blackie'll still be there?"

"He hasn't showed up any place else, has he?"

"That just ain't like Blackie." He rubbed his hands', together and stared at them. "Maybe I didn't know Blackie so good after all. Now what?"

"Did you know Quincy Malek?"

"Sure. From kids yet. Him too. He was another punk."

"Where would he put something for safekeeping?"

"Quincy? Man, who knows?" He chuckled and leaned back against the cushions. "He had places all over. You know he operated a couple of houses without paying off? The boys closed him on that one."

"The records, Sonny. Right now we're checking up on all of Quincy's former properties and every commercial warehouse in the city, but if you remember anything about what he had you can cut the time right down."

"Mister, you're dragging me back thirty years."

"What did you have to think about all the time you were in prison, Sonny? Whatever it was belonged back there too because in prison there was nothing to think about."

"Broads," he grinned. "Until I was sixty all I thought about was broads. Not the used ones I had before, but ones that didn't even exist. Maybe after sixty I went back, but it took some time."

"Now you got something to think about."

Sonny sat there a long moment, then his mouth twisted into a sour grimace. "Tell me, mister. What would it get me? You it would get something. Me? Nothing. Trouble, that's all it would bring. Right now I ain't got nothin' but I ain't got trouble either. Nope. Don't think I can help you. I've had my belly full of trouble and now it's over. I don't want no more."

"There won't be trouble, Sonny."

"No? You think with all the papers down my throat I'd get any peace? You think I'd keep the lease on the shoe shop? It's bad enough I'm a con and a few people know it, but let everybody know it and I get booted right out of the neighborhood. No business, nothin'. Sorry, mister."

"There might be a reward in it."

"No dice. I'd have everybody in the racket chiseling it outa me. I'd wind up a drunk or dead. Somebody'd try to take me for the poke and I'd be out. Not me, Mister Hammer. I'm too old to even worry about it."

Damn, he was tying me up tight and he was right. There had to be a way. I said, "If I wanted to I could put the heat on you for the Howie Green kill. The way things stand I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we got some quick and total cooperation from the police."

Sonny stared a second, then grunted. "What a guest you are. You sure want me to fall bad."

"Not that bad. If you want to push it I'd probably lay back. I'm just trying you, Sonny."

Once again his eyes caught Velda's legs. She had swung them out deliberately and the dress had pulled up over her knee. It was enough to make Sonny giggle again. "Oh, hell, why not? So maybe I can feed you something. What's it they call it? Public duty or some kind of crap like that."

"Quincy Malek, Sonny."

He sat back and squinted his eyes shut. "Now let's see. What would that punk do? He up and died but he never expected to, I bet. He was the kind who'd keep everything for himself if he could. Even if he left something to his family I bet they'd have to dig for it.

"Quincy owned property around town. Tenements, stuff like that. He'd buy cheap and hold. Got plenty in rentals and he seemed to know what was coming down and what was going up. Always had a hot iron in the fire."

"Would he keep any records there?"

"Nope, don't think so. Something might happen to 'em. My guess is he'd leave 'em with somebody."

"Who?"

"Something about old Quincy nobody knew. He kept a pair of sisters in an apartment building he owned. Tricky pair that. Real queer for anything different. I got the word once that he had a double deal with them. They owned the apartment with some papers signed so that he could take it back any time he wanted. He couldn't get screwed that way. Me, I'd look for those sisters. That building would be the only income they had and they couldn't dump it so they were stuck with it, but since it was a good deal all around, why not, eh?"

"Who were they, Sonny?"

"Now you got me, mister. I think if you poke around you'll find out who. I remember the deal, but not the dames. That any help?"

"It's a lead."

"Maybe I'll think of it later. You want me to call if I do?"

I picked a scrap of paper off the table, wrote down the office and home numbers, and gave them to him. "Keep calling these numbers until you get me or Velda here."

"Sure." He tucked the paper in his pants pocket. Then he got an idea. "Hey," he said, "if you find that crumb Blackie, you let me know. Hell, I'd even like a feel of that money. Just a feel. I think I'm entitled. It cost me thirty years."

"Okay, a feel," I said kiddingly.

Then Velda swung her leg out again and he grinned. "You know what I'd really like to feel, don't you?"

With a laugh Velda said, "You're a dirty old man."

"You bet, lady. But I'd sure like to see you with your clothes off just once."

"If you did you'd drop dead," I told him.

"What a way to go," he said.

Pat wasn't bothering to get any sleep either. I reached him at the office and gave him the dope Sonny passed on to me. He thought it had merit enough to start working on and was going to put two men on it right away. Nothing else had paid off yet, although they had come up with a few former properties Malek had owned. They had made a search of the premises, but nothing showed. A team of experts were on a twenty-four-hour detail in the records section digging up old titles, checking possibles, and having no luck at all so far.

Offhand I asked for Quincy's old address and Pat gave me the location of his home and the building the real estate agency was housed in. He had checked them both personally and they were clean.

I hung up the phone and asked Velda if she wanted something to eat. The Automat was right down the street so she settled for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. We waited for the light, cut over, and ducked inside.

Right at the front table Jersey Toby was having coffee and when he saw me he simply got up and left with his coffee practically untouched.

We fed nickels into the slots, got what we wanted, and picked a table.

Outside the damn rain had started again.

Velda said, "What's on your mind?"

"How can you tell?"

"Your poker face slipped. You're trying to think of something."

I slammed the coffee cup down. "One lousy thing. I can feel it. One simple goddamn thing I can't put my finger on and it's right there in front of me. I keep for getting things."

"It'll come back."

"Now is when I need it."

"Will talking about it help?"

"No."

"You're close, aren't you?"

"We're sitting right on top of it, baby. We're riding three million bucks into the ground and have a killer right in front of us someplace. The damn guy is laughing all the way too."

"Suppose the money isn't there?"

"Honey... you don't just lose that kind of capital. You don't misplace it. You put it someplace for a purpose. Somebody is ready to move in this town and that money is going to buy that person a big piece of action. If that one is as smart as all this, the action is going to be rough and expensive."

"Why don't you call Pat again? They might have something."

"I don't want to bug him to death."

"He won't mind."

We pushed away from the table and found a phone booth. Pat was still at his desk and it was three A.M. He hadn't found anything yet. He did have one piece of news for me and I asked what it was.

"We picked up one of the out-of-town boys who came in from Detroit. He was getting ready to mainline one when he got grabbed and lost his fix. He sweated plenty before he talked; now he's flipping because he's in trouble.

The people who sent him here won't have anything to do with a junkie and if they know he's on H he's dead. Now he's yelling for protection."

"Something hot?"

"We know the prime factor behind the move into town. Somebody has spent a lot of time collecting choice items about key men in the Syndicate operation. He's holding it over their heads and won't let go. The payoff is for them to send in the best enforcers who are to be the nucleus of something new and for this they're paying and keeping still about it. None of them wants to be caught in a bind by the Syndicate itself so they go with the demand."

"Funny he'd know that angle."

"Not so funny. Their security isn't that good. Word travels fast in those circles. I bet we'll get the same story if we can put enough pressure on any of the others."

"You said they were clean."

"Maybe we can dirty them up a little. In the interest of justice, that is."

"Sometimes it's the only way. But tell me this, Pat... who could pull a play like that? You'd need to know the in of the whole operation. That takes some big smarts. You'd have to pinpoint your sucker and concentrate on him. This isn't a keyhole game."

"It's been done."

"Blackie Conley could have done it," I suggested. "He could have used a bite of the loot for expenses and he would have had the time and the know-how."

"That's what I think too."

"Anything on Malek's women?"

"Hold it a minute." I heard him put the phone down, speak to somebody, then he picked it up again. "Got a note here from a retired officer who was contacted. He remembers the girls Malek used to run with but can't recall the building. His second wife put in a complaint to have it raided for being a disorderly house at one time and he was on the call. Turned out to be a nuisance complaint and nothing more. He can't place the building any more though."

"Hell," I said.

"We'll keep trying. Where will you be?"

"Home. I've had it."

"See you tomorrow," Pat said.

I hung up and looked at Velda. "Malek," I said. "Nobody can find where he spent his time."

"Why don't you try the yellow pages?" Velda kidded.

I paused and nodded. "You just might be right at that, kid."

"It was a joke, Mike."

I shook my head. "Pat just told me he had a second wife. That meant he had a first. Let's look it up."

There were sixteen Maleks in the directory and I got sixteen dimes to make the calls. Thirteen of them told me everything from drop dead to come on up for a party, but it was the squeaky old voice of the fourteenth that said yes, she was Mrs. Malek who used to be married to Quincy Malek. No, she never used the Quincy or the initial because she never cared for the name. She didn't think it was the proper time to call, but yes, if it was as important as I said it was, I could come right over.

"We hit something, baby," I said.

"Pat?"

"Not yet. Let's check this one out ourselves first."

The cab let us out on the corner of Eighth and Forty-ninth. Somewhere along the line over one of the store fronts was the home of Mrs. Quincy Malek the first. Velda spotted the number over the darkened hallway and we went in, found the right button, and pushed it. Seconds later a buzzer clicked and I opened the door.

It was only one flight up. The stairs creaked and the place reeked of fish, but the end could be up there.

She was waiting at the top of the landing, a garishly rouged old lady in a feathered wrapper that smelled of the twenties and looked it. Her hair was twisted into cloth curlers with a scarf hurriedly thrown over it and she had that querulous look of all little old ladies suddenly yanked out of bed at a strange hour.

She forced a smile, asked us in after we introduced ourselves, and had us sit at the kitchen table while she made tea. Neither Velda nor I wanted it, but if she were going to put up with us we'd have to go along with her.

Only when the tea was served properly did she ask us what we wanted.

I said, "Mrs. Malek... it's about your husband."

"Oh, he died a long time ago."

"I know. We're looking for something he left behind."

"He left very little, very little. What he left me ran out years ago. I'm on my pension now."

"We're looking for some records he might have kept."

"My goodness, isn't that funny?"

"What is?"

"That you should want them too."

"Who else wanted them, Mrs. Malek?"

She poured another cup of tea for me and put the pot down daintily. "Dear me, I don't know. I had a call... oh, some months ago. They wanted to know if Quincy left any of his business records with me. Seems that they needed something to clear up a title."

"Did he, Mrs. Malek?"

"Certainly, sir. I was the only one he could ever trust. He left a large box with me years ago and I kept it for him as I said I would in case it was ever needed."

"This party who called..."

"I told him what I'm telling you."

"Him?"

"Well... I really couldn't say. It was neither a man's nor a woman's voice. They offered me one hundred dollars if they could inspect the box and another hundred if I were instrumental in proving their claim."

"You take it?"

Her pale blue eyes studied me intently. "Mr. Hammer, I am no longer a woman able to fend for herself. At my age two hundred dollars could be quite an asset. And since those records had been sitting there for years untouched, I saw no reason why I shouldn't let them have them."

It was like having a tub of ice water dumped over you. Velda sat there, the knuckles of her hand white around the teacup.

"Who did you give it to, Mrs. Malek?"

"A delivery boy. He left me an envelope with one hundred dollars in it."

"You know the boy?"

"Oh dear no. He was just... a boy. Spanish, I think. His English was very bad."

"Damn," I said.

"Another cup of tea, Mr. Hammer?"

"No, thanks." Another cup of tea would just make me sick. I looked at Velda, and shook my head.

"The box was returned, of course," she said suddenly.

"What!"

"With another, hundred dollars. Another boy brought it to me."

"Look, Mrs. Malek... if we can take a look at that box and find what we're looking for, I'll make a cash grant of five hundred bucks. How does that sound to you?"

"Lovely. More tea?"

I took another cup of tea. This one didn't make me sick. But she almost did. She sat there until I finished the cup, then excused herself and disappeared a few minutes. When she came back she was carrying a large cardboard carton with the top folded down and wrapped in coarse twine.

"Here you are, Mr. Hammer."

Velda and I opened the carton carefully, flipped open the top, and looked down at the stacked sheafs of notations that filled the entire thing. Each one was an independent sales record that listed prices, names, and descriptions and there were hundreds of them. I checked the dates and they were spread through the months I wanted.

"Are you satisfied, sir?"

I reached for my wallet and took out five bills. There were three singles left. I laid them on the table but she didn't touch them.

She said, "One of those pieces of paper is missing, I must tell you."

All of a sudden I had that sick feeling again. I looked at the five hundred bucks lying on the table and so did Mrs. Malek.

"How do you know?" I asked her.

"Because I counted them. Gracious, when Quincy trusted me with them I wanted to be sure they were always there. Twice a year I used to go through them to make sure the tally was identical with the original one. Then when I got them back I counted them again and one was missing." She looked at me and nodded firmly. "I'm positive. I counted twice."

"That was the one we wanted, Mrs. Malek.

"I may still be of help." She was smiling at some private secret. "Some years back I was sick. Quite sick. I was here in bed for some months and for lack of something to do I decided to make my own record of Quincy's papers. I listed each and every piece much as he, did."

She reached into the folds of her wrapper and brought out a thick, cheap note pad and laid it down on the table. "You'll have to go through them all one by one and find the piece that's missing, but it's here, Mr. Hammer."

I picked up the pad, hefted it, and stuck it in my pocket. "One question, Mrs. Malek. Why are you going so far with us?"

"Because I don't like to be stolen from. That other party deliberately stole something of value from me. That person was dishonest. Therefore I assume you are honest. Am I wrong?"

"You aren't wrong, Mrs. Malek. You may get more out of this than you think."

"This is sufficient for my needs, sir."

I picked up the box and put on my hat. "You'll get them all back this time. The police may want to hold them for a while, but eventually they'll be returned."

"I'm sure they will. And I thank you, sir."

I grinned at her. "I could kiss you."

"That would be a pleasure." She glanced at Velda. "Do you mind?"

"Be my guest," Velda said.

So I kissed her.

Damn if the blush didn't make the rouge spots fade right out.

The last three bucks bought a cab ride back to the apartment and two hamburgers apiece. We dumped the contents of the box on the floor, spread them out into piles, opened the notebook, and started to go through them.

At dawn I called Pat without telling him what I had. So far he had nothing. Then we went back to the scoreboard. It could have taken a few days but we got lucky. At three in the afternoon Velda instituted a quick system of cross-checking and we found the missing item.

It was a deed made out to one Carl Sullivan for a piece of property in Ulster County, New York, and the location was accurately described. Beneath it, apparently copied from the original notation, were the initials, B.C. Blackie Conley!

Chapter Eleven

I had to borrow fifty bucks from George over at the Blue Ribbon to get on my way, but he came up with the dough and no questions. Down the street I rented a Ford and Velda got in it for the drive upstate. Instead of taking the Thruway I got on old Route 17 and stopped at Central Valley to see a real estate dealer I knew. It wasn't easy to keep the glad-handing and old-times talk to a minimum, but we managed. I gave him my property location and he pulled down a wall map and started locating it on the grid.

He found it quickly enough. Then he looked at me strangely and said, "You own this?"

"No, but I'm interested in it."

"Well, if you're thinking of buying it, forget it. This is in the area they located those gas wells on and several big companies have been going nuts trying to find the owner. It's practically jungle up there and they want to take exploration teams in and can't do it without permission. The taxes have been paid in advance so there's no squawk from the state and nobody can move an inch until the owner shows up."

"Tough."

His face got a little bit hungry. "Mike... do you know the owner?"

"I know him."

"Think we can swing a deal?"

"I doubt it."

His face fell at the thought of the money he was losing. "Well, if he wants to sell, put in a word for me, okay?"

"I'll mention it to him."

That seemed to satisfy him. We shook hands back at the car and took off. An hour and ten minutes later we were at the turnoff that led to the property. The first road was a shale and dirt one that we took for a mile, looking for a stream. We found that too, and the barely visible indentation that showed where another road had been a long time back.

I drove down the road and backed the Ford into the bushes, hiding it from casual observation, then came back to Velda and looked at the jungle we were going into.

The trees were thick and high, pines intermingled with oaks and maples, almost hopelessly tangled at their bases with heavy brush and thorny creepers. Towering overhead was the uneven roll of the mountain range.

It was getting late and we wouldn't have too much sun left.

"It's someplace in there," I said. "I don't know how he did it, but it was done. He's in there."

Animals had made their way in ahead of us. The trail was barely visible and some of the brush was fuzzed with the hair of deer, the earth, where it was soft in spots, showing the print of their hoofs. We made it crawling sometimes, fighting the undergrowth constantly. But little by little we got inside.

The ground slope ranged upward, leveled off, then slanted down again. We saw the remains of a shack and headed toward it, but that was all it was, a vermin-infested building that had long ago fallen into ruin. At one side there was a carton of rusted tins that had spilled over and rotted out, and another wooden crate of cooking utensils, still nested inside each other. The remains of a mattress had been scattered over the floor making permanent nests for thousands of mice.

It didn't make sense.

We started down the slope and burst through the brush into a clearing that was shaped like a bowl. Nature had somehow started something growing there, a peculiar soft grass that refused to allow anything else to intrude on its domain.

Velda said, "Mike..."

I stopped and looked back.

"I'm tired, Mike. Can't we rest a minute?"

"Sure, honey. This is a good place."

She sank to the ground with a long sigh and stretched out languidly looking at the sky. The clouds were tinged with a deep red and the shadows were beginning to creep down the mountainside. "This is lovely, Mike."

"Not much like the city, is it?"

She laughed, said, "No," and lifted her legs to strip off the ruins of her nylons. She stopped with one leg pointed toward the mountain. "You do it."

What a broad.

I held her foot against my stomach, unhooked the snaps that held the stockings, and peeled one down, then the other. She said, "Ummm," and patted the ground beside her. I crossed my legs and sat down, but she grabbed for me, tipped me over toward her, and held my face in her hands. "It's going to be dark soon, Mike. We can't go back through that again. Not until morning." Her smile was impish.

"Any time, any place. You're crazy."

"I want you, Mike. Now."

"It's going to get cold."

"Then we'll suffer."

I kissed her then, her mouth slippery against mine.

"It's awfully warm now," she murmured. She raised her legs and the dress slid down her thighs.

"Stop that."

Her hand took mine and held it against the roundness of one thigh, keeping it there until she could take hers away and knew mine would stay. Ever so slowly my hand began a movement of its own, sensing the way to love, unable to stop the motion.

With an age-old feminine motion she made it easier for me, her entire being trying to bring me into its vortex and I tried to fill the void. There was something I was fighting against, but it wasn't a fight I knew I could win. There was a bulk between us and Velda's hand reached inside my coat and pulled out the .45 and laid it on the ground in back of her.

The sun was low now, the rays angling into the trees. One of them picked up a strange color in the brush at the foot of the hill, an odd color that never should have been there. I stared at it, trying to make out what it was.

Then I knew.

The fingers of my hand squeezed involuntarily and Velda let out a little cry, the pain of it shocking her. I said, "Stay here," and snapped to my feet.

"Mike..."

I didn't take the time to answer her. I ran down the hill toward the color and with each step it took shape and form until it was what I knew it had to be.

A thirty-year-old taxi cab. A yellow and black taxi that had been stolen off the streets back in the thirties.

The tires were rotted shreds now, but the rest of it was intact. Only a few spots of rust showed through the heavy layers of paint that the cab had been coated with to protect it against the destruction of the wind-driven grit in the city.

I looked it over carefully and almost wanted to say that they sure didn't make them like this any more. The windows were still rolled shut hard against their rubber cushions so that the stuff fused them right into the body of the car with age. The car had been new when it was stolen, and they made that model to last for years. It was an airtight vault now, a bright yellow, wheeled mausoleum for two people.

At least they had been two people.

Now they were two mummies. The one in the front was slumped across the wheel, hat perched jauntily on a skeletal head covered with drawn, leathery flesh. There wasn't much to the back of the head. That had been blown away.

The guy who did it was the other mummy in the back seat. He leaned against the other side of the car, his mouth gaping open so that every tooth showed, his clothes hanging from withered limbs. Where his eyes were I could see two little dried bits of things that still had the appearance of watching me.

He still, held the rifle across his lap aimed at the door in front of me, fingers clutched around its stock and his right forefinger still on the trigger. There was a black stain of blood on the shirt that could still give it a startlingly white background.

Between his feet were three canvas sacks.

A million dollars in each.

I had finally found Blackie Conley.

She came up on bare feet and I didn't hear her until her breath hissed with the horror of what she saw. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stop the scream that started to come, her eyes wide open for long moments.

"Mike... who... ?"

"Our killer, Velda. The Target. The one we were after. That's Blackie Conley in the back seat there. He almost made it. How close can a guy come?"

"Pretty close, Mr. Hammer. Some of us come all the way."

I didn't hear him either! He had come up the side of the hill on sneakered feet and stood there with a gun on us and I felt like the biggest fool in the world! My .45 was back there in the love nest and now we were about to be as dead as the others. It was like being right back at the beginning again.

I said, "Hello, Sonny."

The Snake. The real snake, as deadly as they come. The only one that had real fangs and knew how to use them. His face had lost the tired look and his eyes were bright with the desirous things he saw in his future. There was nothing stooped about him now, nothing of the old man there. Old, yes, but he wasn't the type who grew old easily. It had all been a pose, a cute game, and he was the winner.

"You scared me, Mr. Hammer. When you got as far as Malek you really scared me. I was taking my time about coming here because I wasn't ready yet and then I knew it was time to move. You damn near ruined everything." What I used to call a cackle was a pose too. He did have a laugh. He thought it was funny.

Velda reached for my arm and I knew she was scared. It was too much too fast all over again and she could only take so much.

"Smart," he said to me. "You're a clever bastard. If all I had was the cops to worry about it would have been no trouble, but I had to draw you." His mouth pulled into a semblance of a grin. "Those nice talks we had. You kept me right up to date. Tell me, did you think I had a nice face?"

"I thought you had more sense, Sonny."

He dropped the grin then. "Get off it, guy. More sense? For what? You think I was going to spend all my life in the cooler without getting some satisfaction? Mister, that's where you made your mistake. You should have gone a little further into my case history. I always was a mean one because it paid off. If I had to play pretty-face to make it pay off I could do that too."

"You won't make it, Sonny."

"No? Well, just lose that idea. For thirty years I pull him into his hidey hole and shot him in the head. But he never lived through my shot. No chance of that. Man, this is my big day... the biggest damn day in my life! Now I got everything!"

He drew himself erect at the thought, a funny expression changing his face. He said, "Only one thing I ain't got any more," and this time he was looking at Velda.

"Take those clothes off, lady."

Her fingers that were so tight on my arm seemed to relax and I knew she was thinking the same thing as I was. It could be a diversion. "If she could step aside and do it so we were split up I might get the chance to jump him.

I didn't watch her. I couldn't. I had to watch him. But I could tell from his eyes just what she was doing. I knew when she took the skirt off, then the bra. I watched his eyes follow her hands as she slid the skirt down over her ankles and I knew by the quick intake of his breath and the sudden brightness of his eyes when she had stepped out of the last thing she wore.

She made the slightest motion to one side then, but he was with it. He said, "Just stay there, lady. Stay there close where I can get to you both."

Not much time was left now. The fire in his eyes was still burning, but it wouldn't last.

"Real nice, lady," he said. "I like brunettes. Always have. Now you can die like that, right together."

No time at all now.

"Too bad you didn't get the money, Sonny."

He shook his head at me, surprised that I'd make such a bad attempt. "It's right on the floor there."

"You'd better be sure, Sonny. We got here ahead of you."

If he had trouble opening the door I might be able to make the move. All he had to do was falter once and if I could get past the first shot I could take him even if he caught me with it. Velda would hit the ground the second he pulled the trigger and together we'd have him.

"No good, Hammer. It's right there and Old Blackie is still guarding it with his rifle. You saw it."

"You didn't."

"Okay, so you get one last look." He reached for the door handle and gave it a tentative tug. It didn't budge. He laughed again, knowing what I was waiting for but not playing it my way at all. The gun never wavered and I knew I'd never get the chance. From where he stood he could kill us both with ease and we all knew it.

The next time he gave the door a sharp jerk and it swung open, the hinges groaning as the rust ground into them. He was watching us with the damndest grin I ever saw and never bothered to see what was happening in the cab. The pull on the door was enough to rock the car and ever so steadily the corpse of Blackie Conley seemed to come to life, sitting up in the seat momentarily. I could see the eyes and the mouth open in a soundless scream with the teeth bared in a grimace of wild hatred.

Sonny knew something was happening and barely turned his head to look... just enough to see the man he had killed collapse into dust fragments, and as it did the bony finger touched the trigger that had been filed to react to the smallest of pressures and the rifle squirted a blossom of roaring flame that took Sonny Motley square in the chest and dropped him lifeless four feet away.

While the echo still rumbled across the mountainside, the leather-covered skull of Blackie Conley bounced out of the cab and rolled to a stop face to face with Sonny and lay there grinning at him idiotically.

You can only sustain emotion so long. You can only stay scared so long. It stops and suddenly it's like nothing happened at all. You don't shake, you don't break up. You're just glad it's over. You're a little surprised that your hands aren't trembling and wonder why it is you feel almost perfectly normal.

Velda said quietly, "It's finished now, isn't it?"

Her clothes were in a heap beside her and in the dying rays of the sun she looked like a statuesque wood nymph, a lovely naked wood nymph with beautiful black hair as dark as a raven against a sheen of molded flesh that rose and dipped in curves that were unbelievable.

Up there on the hill the grass was soft where we had lain in the nest. It smelled flowery and green and the night was going to be a warm night. I looked at her, then toward the spot on the hill. Tomorrow it would be something else, but this was now.

I said, "You ready?"

She smiled at me, savoring what was to come. "I'm ready."

I took her hand, stepped over the bodies, new and old, on the ground, and we started up the slope.

"Then let's go," I said.