The Mike Hammer Collection (16 page)

Charlotte was listening intently, her eyes wide. She was making a typical study of me as though she were hearing the story of a confessed murderer and trying to analyze the workings of the mind. I cut in short and gave her a friendly push. “Now you think I'm off my nut, I bet.”

“No, Mike, not at all. Have you been like that just since the war? So hard, I mean.”

“I've always been like that,” I said, “as long as I could remember. I hate rats that kill for the fun of it. The war only taught me a few tricks I hadn't learned before. Maybe that's why I lived through it.”

I checked my watch; it was getting late. “If you want to keep your appointment, you'd better hurry.”

Charlotte nodded. “Drive me back to the office?”

“Sure. Get your coat.”

We drove back slowly, timing it so that we'd have as much time together as possible. We made small talk, mentioning neither the case nor the near affair in the apartment. When we reached Park Avenue, and turned off to stop, Charlotte said, “When will I see you again, Mike?”

“Soon,” I answered. “If the joker that called today to see where I went tries it again, have your secretary tell him that I'm meeting you on this corner. Then try to get hold of me and maybe we can ambush the lug. It was Kalecki, all right; your secretary will probably recognize his voice when she hears it again.”

“Okay, Mike. What if Mr. Chambers calls on me?”

“In that case, verify the story of the shooting, but forget about the phone call. If we can trap him, I want it to be my own party”

She leaned in and kissed me again before she left. As she walked away I watched the flashing sleekness of her legs disappear around the corner. She was a wonderful woman. And all mine. I felt like I should let out a loud whoop and do a jig.

A car honked behind me, so I threw the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. I was stopped for a red light two blocks away when I heard my name yelled from across the street. The cars alongside me obscured the person, but I could see a brown-suited figure dancing between them trying to get to my jalopy. I opened the door and he got in. “Hello, Bobo,” I said. “What are you doing up this way?”

Bobo was all excited over meeting me. “Golly, Mike. Sure is nice seeing you. I work up here. No place special, just all the places.” Words bubbled out of him like out of a water faucet. “Where are you going?”

“Well, I was going downtown, but maybe I can drive you someplace. Where are you going?”

Bobo scratched his head. “Lessee. Guess I can go downtown first. Gotta deliver a letter around Canal Street.”

“Swell, I'll drop you off there.”

The light turned and I swung on to Broadway and turned left. Bobo would wave at the girls on the street, but I knew how he felt. “Hear anything more about Kalecki?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Naw. Something's happened to him. I saw one of the guys today and he ain't working for him no more.”

“How about Big Sam's place? No news from there?”

“Nope. Anyway, since you beat up the two jigs nobody will talk to me. They're scared I might get you after 'em.” Bobo let out a gleeful chuckle. “They think I'm a tough guy, too. My landlady heard about it and told me to stay away from you. Isn't that funny, Mike?”

I had about as many friends as a porcupine up that way. “Yeah,” I said. “How's the bee situation?”

“Oh, good, good, good. Got me a queen bee. Hey. That wasn't true what you said. A queen bee don't need a king bee. It said so in the book.”

“Then how are you going to get more bees?” That puzzled him.

“Guess they lay eggs, or something,” he muttered.

Canal Street lay straight ahead, so I let Bobo out when I stopped for the red light. He gave me a breezy so long and took off down the street at a half trot. He was a good kid. Another harmless character. Nice, though.

CHAPTER 10

P
at was waiting for me on the firing range. A uniformed patrolman took me to the basement and pointed him out. Pat was cursing over a bad score when I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Having trouble, bub?” I grinned at him.

“Nuts. I think I need a new barrel in this gun.” He took another shot at the moving target, a figure of a man, and got it high up on the shoulder.

“What's the matter with that, Pat?”

“Hell, that would just knock him over.” Pat was a perfectionist. He caught me laughing at him and handed me the gun. “Here, you try it.”

“Not with that.” I pulled the .45 out and kicked the slide back. The target popped up and moved across the range. The gun bucked in my hand. I let three go one after the other. Pat stopped the target and looked at the three holes in the figure's head.

“Not bad.” I felt like pasting him.

“Why don't you tell me I'm an expert?” I said. “That's shooting where it counts.”

“Phooey. You've just been working at it.” I shoved the rod under my coat and Pat pocketed his. He pointed toward the elevator.

“Let's go up. I want to check that slug. Got it with you?” I took the .45 out and unwrapped it, then handed it over. Pat studied it in the elevator, but markings weren't defined clearly enough to be certain of anything. A bullet hitting a stone wall has a lot less shape left than one that has passed through a body.

The ballistics room was empty save for ourselves. Pat mounted the slug inside a complicated slide gadget and I turned the lights out. There was a screen in front of us, and on it was focused an image of two bullets. One was from the killer's gun, the other was the slug Kalecki fired at me. My souvenir still had some lines from the bore of the gun that came out under magnification.

Pat turned the bullet around on its mount, trying to find markings that would match with the other. He thought he did once, but when he transposed the images one on top of the other there was quite a difference. After he had revolved the slug several times he flicked the machine off and turned on the lights. “No good, Mike. It isn't the same gun. If Kalecki did the other shooting, he used another gun.”

“That isn't likely. If he kept it after the first killing he'd hang on to it.”

Pat agreed and rang for one of his men. He handed the bullet over to him and told him to photograph it and place it in the files. We sat down together and I gave him the full details of the shooting and my views on the Kines kill. He didn't say much. Pat is one of those cops who keep facts in their heads. He stores them away without forgetting an item, letting them fume until they come to the surface by themselves.

It constantly amazed me that there were men like him on the force. But then, when you get past the uniforms and into the inner workings of the organization you find the real thinkers. They have all the equipment in the world to work with and plenty of inside contacts. The papers rag the cops too much, I thought, but in the pinch they called the game. Not much went on that they didn't know about. There was vice. As much as in any outfit, but there were still men like Pat that no money could buy. I would have been one myself if there weren't so damn many rules and regulations to tie a guy down.

When I finished, Pat stretched and said, “Nothing I can add to it for you. Wish I could. You've been a great help, Mike. Now tell me one thing. You gave me facts, this time give me an opinion. Who do you think did it?”

“That, chum, is the sixty-four-dollar question,” I countered. “If I had any definite idea, you'd have a justified homicide on your hands. I'm beginning to think of someone outside of those we know. Hell, man, look at the corpses we have floating around. And Kalecki on the loose with a rod. Maybe he did it. He has reason to. Maybe it's the guy behind him again. It could fit in with this syndicate that runs the houses of prostitution. Or the numbers racket George worked. Jack could have found out about that, too. Maybe it was a revenge kill. Hal fouled up enough women in his life. Suppose one of them found out how he did it and made a play for him. When she saw that Jack was going to arrest him she killed Jack, then killed Hal, shooting Eileen to keep her from spouting off what she had seen.

“Maybe it wasn't a girl like that. Could be the brother or father of one. Or a boy friend for that matter. There's lots of angles.”

“I thought of that, Mike. For my money, it's the most plausible idea I've had.” Pat stood up. “I want you to come upstairs with me. We have a friend of yours there that you might like to see.”

A friend? I couldn't begin to guess whom he was talking about. When I queried him about it he smiled and told me to be patient. He led me into a small room. Two detectives were there with a woman. Both of them fired questions at her, but received no answers. She sat with her back to the door and I didn't recognize her until I stood in front of her.

Friend, hell. She was the madam that ran out the night Hal and Eileen were killed.

“Where did you pick her up, Pat?”

“Not far from here. She was wandering on the streets at four A.M. and the patrolman picked her up on suspicion.”

I turned to the madam. Her eyes were vacant from the long hours of questioning. She held her arms across her ample breasts in a defiant attitude, though I could see that she was near the breaking point. “Remember me?” I asked her.

She stared at me through sleep-filled eyes a moment, then said dejectedly, “Yes, I remember.”

“How did you get out of that house when it was raided?”

“Go to hell.”

Pat drew up a chair in front of her and sat backwards on it. He saw what I was driving at right away. “If you refuse to tell us,” Pat said quietly, “you're liable to find yourself facing a charge for murder. And we can make it stick.”

She dropped her arms at that one and licked her lips. This time she was scared. Then her fear passed and she sneered. “You go to hell, too. I didn't kill them.”

“Perhaps not,” Pat answered, “but the real killer left the same way you did. How do we know you didn't show him the way? That makes you an accessory and you might just as well have pulled the trigger.”

“You're crazy!” Gone was the composure she had the first time I met her. She didn't look respectable any more. By now her hair had a scraggly appearance and the texture of her skin showed through in the light. White, porous skin. She bared her teeth and swallowed. “I—I was alone.”

“The charge will still stick.”

Her hands fell into her lap and shook noticeably. “No. I was alone. I was at the door when the police came up. I knew what it was. I ran for the exit and left.”

“Where is the exit?” I cut in.

“Under the stairs. A button that works the panel is built into the woodwork.”

I thought back fast. “All right, so you saw the cops coming. If you ran for the stairs the killer would have been coming down as you ran out. Who was it?”

“I didn't see anybody, I tell you! Oh, why don't you let me alone!” Her nerve broke and she sank into the chair with her face buried in her hands.

“Take her out,” Pat directed the two detectives. He looked at me. “What do you make of it?”

“Reasonable enough,” I told him. “She saw us coming and beat it. But the killer had a little luck. We broke in about two minutes after the shooting. The rooms are soundproofed and no one heard the shots. The killer probably figured on mixing with the crowd and leaving when the show was over or before, if there was nobody at the door. He was coming down the stairs and heard us.

“However, when the madam made a run for it those plans had to be tossed overboard. He ducked back long enough so the old hag didn't see him and followed her through the secret panel. When we examine it I'll bet we find that it doesn't close very fast. We ran upstairs, you remember, and the others took care of the guests. The way we set the road block, the killer had time to get away before the policemen could take their places. We were in a hurry and didn't have a chance to plan this thing.”

I proved to be right. We went back to the house and looked for the panel. It was right where she said it was. The thing wasn't too cleverly contrived. The button was built into the heart of a carved flower. It activated a one sixteenth horsepower motor connected to the electric circuit with a cutoff and a reverse. Pat and I entered the passage. Light seeping through the cracks in the wall was all we needed. When the place was redecorated this was built in. It ran back ten feet, took a sharp left turn and steps led down to the basement. There we were between walls. A door led into the basement of the house next door. When it was closed it looked like a part of the wall.

It was a safe bet that the people in the house didn't know that it was there themselves. The rest was easy. Out the basement door to an open yard that led to the street. The time consumed was less than a minute. We went through the passageway with a searchlight, not skipping an inch, but there wasn't a clue to be found. Generally when someone was in haste he could be counted on to lose something or mark a trail. But no such luck. We went back to the waiting room and pulled out a smoke.

“Well?”

“Well what, Pat?”

“Well, I guess you were right about the timing,” he laughed.

“Looks that way. What did you get on Kines' past, if anything?”

“Reports from twenty-seven schools so far. He never spent more than a semester anywhere except at this last place. More often a month was enough. When he left there were several girls who'd dropped from the school too. Add it up and you get a nice tally. We've had a dozen men on the phone all day and they're not half finished yet.”

I thought that over and cursed Hal before I said, “What did he have in his pockets when the boys went over him?”