The Mike Hammer Collection (32 page)

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

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

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

“No, Mike. Should it?”

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

“Mike ... did you love Nancy?”

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

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

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

The redhead had been right.

 

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

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

“I was here. Sleeping.”

“What were
you
doing last night?”

“Working. What did ya want?”

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

“Okay, kid, I'll be there. Was his stooge with him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The redhead. Her name was Nancy Sanford.”

His eyebrows went up. “You discovered that already?”

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

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

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

“That is exactly what I come to see you about, Mr. Hammer.”

“Mike ... I hate formalities.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you any idea how long it may take?”

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

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

“I'm stealing your money, Mr. Berin.”

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

“I care.”

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

“Certainly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like him too, kid. You don't have many around like him any more.”

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

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

“Just curious, Mike. He was such an interesting guy,” she smiled.

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

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

“An hour ago.”

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

“What kind of things?”

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

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

“Fine,” I said, then hung up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

“How did the coroner call them?”

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

“And you?”

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