One Lonely Night (24 page)

He nodded too.

I said, “Hello, George. I need a favor done.”

“Sure, Mike. That is, if I can do it.”

“You keep a record of incoming calls, don’t you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Look one up for me. A few days ago a New York prowl car crossed the George Washington bridge.” I gave him the date and the approximate time. “See, if it was on a call.”

He went back to a stall where he rummaged around in a filing cabinet. When he returned he carried a sheet, reading from it. He looked up and raised his eyeshade farther on his forehead. “Here it is. Unidentified girl called and asked to have a police car meet her. I think I remember this one. She was in a hurry and instead of giving her address she said on the walk of the bridge. A car was dispatched to see what went on and called in that it was a wild-goose chase.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah. Anything to it?”

“I don’t know yet. Thanks a lot, George.”

“Sure, Mike, any time. So long.”

I went out and sat in the car with a cigarette drooping from my lips. Unidentified girl. That car on the bridge wasn’t there by chance. I had just missed things. Too bad, too damn bad in one way that the boys in the car had gotten there late. The weather, no doubt. Then again it was lucky they didn’t make it.

The engine came to life under my feet and I drove away from the curb. I took the notebook from my pocket and thumbed the pages while I was stalled in traffic, picking up Paula Riis’s address from the jumble of notes. I hoped I had it right, because I had jotted it down after coming from Pat’s the time he had thrown her identity at me.

It was a number in the upper Forties just off Eighth Avenue, a four-story affair with three apartments above a shoddy beauty parlor that took up the first floor. A sedan with United States Post Office Department inscribed in the door was double parked outside it. I found a place to leave my heap and got back just as two men came down the stairs and got into the car. I had seen the taller guy before; he was a postal inspector.

A dark, swarthy woman stood in the door with her hands on chunky hips muttering to herself. I took the steps two at a time and said hello to her.

She looked me up and down first. “Now what you want? You not from Post Office.”

I looked past her shoulder into the vestibule and knew why those men had been here. A good-sized rectangle had been torn out of the wall. The mailbox that had been there had been ripped out by the roots and the marks of the crowbar that did it still showed in the shattered lath and plaster.

I got that cold feeling again, of being just a little bit too late. I palmed my buzzer and held it out where she could see it.

“Oh, you the police. You come about the room. Whassa matter with other police? He see everything. These crooks! When that girl comes back she be one mad cookie, you bet!”

“That’s right, I came about the room. Where is it?”

“Upstairs, what’s left of it. Now there’s nothing but junk. Thassall, just junk. Go look.”

I went and looked. I saw the same thing that had happened to Charlie Moffit’s room. This was a little worse because there was more to it. I cursed softly and backed out of the room. I cursed because I was pleased that the room was like Charlie Moffit’s room, a room ripped apart by a search that didn’t have an end. They were still looking. They tore the room up then stole the mailbox because they thought that Charlie had mailed his girl friend the stuff.

Then I stopped cursing because I knew then that they did have it after all. Charlie mailed the stuff and it lay in the mailbox because she was dead. They couldn’t get it out so they took the whole works. This time I cursed because I was mad, mad as hell.

I made a circuit of the room, kicking at the pieces with a frenzied futility. Clothes that had been ripped apart at the seams were everywhere. The furniture was broken, disemboweled and scattered across the floor. The bottom had been taken out of the phone and lay beneath the stand by the window. I picked it up, turned it over then chucked it away.

They had come in through the window and gouged hunks out of the sill when they pried up the sash. I threw it up and looked around, saying damn to myself because it had been so easy. There was an overturned ashcan on the ground below. They had stepped on that, then on to the roof of the extension below and right into the room.

Too bad Mr. MVD couldn’t have tripped over the phone line and broken his lousy neck. I picked up the strand of wire that ran out the window to the pole and switched it out of the way. It was slack, too damn slack. I saw why in a minute. The insulator that had held it to the wall had been pulled out. I climbed out on the roof and ran my hand along the wire and the answer was in the slit that was in the insulation.

Somebody had a tap on that wire and when they pulled it off they yanked too hard and it came right off the wall. Damn! Damn it all to hell and back again! I climbed back in the room and slammed the window shut, still swearing to myself.

The woman still stood in the doorway. “You see, you see?” Her voice went higher on each word. “These damn crooks. Nobody is safe. What for are the police? What that girl going to say, eh? You know! She give me hell, you betcha. She was all paid up, too. Now whatcha think?”

“Don’t get excited. Whoever searched her room took the mailbox too. They were looking for a letter.”

She made a sour mouth. “Huh. They don’t get it, I tell you that, for sure. She’s a lose her key a month ago and I always get her mail personal. The postman he’s give it to me every day and I take it inside.”

My heart hammered against my ribs and I heard it send the blood driving into my head. I licked my lips to get the words out. “Maybe I better take it all along then. She can call for it when she returns.”

She squinted, then bobbed her head. “That is good. I don’t have to worry no more about it. From now on till I get a new mailbox I have to take everybody’s mail anyhow. Come inside, I give it to you.”

We went into the beauty parlor on the first floor and I waited with my hat in my hand. She came back with a handful of envelopes and one of them was a heavy job stuffed so full the flap had torn a little. I thanked her and left.

Just like that.

How simple could it get?

The murder and the wreckage that had been caused by this one fat envelope, and she drops it in my hand just like that. No trouble. No sneaking around with a gun in your hand. No tight spots that left you shaken and trembling. She hands it to me and I take it and leave.

Isn’t that the way life is? You fight and struggle to get something and suddenly you’re there at the end and there’s nothing left to fight for any longer.

I threw the works in the glove compartment and drove back to my office. From force of habit I locked the door before I sat down to see what it was all about. There were nine letters and the big one. Of the nine three were bills, four were from female friends and had nothing to say, one was an answer to a letter she sent an employment agency and the other enclosed a Communist Party pamphlet. I threw it in the wastebasket and opened the main one.

They were photostats, ten in all, both negatives and positives, on extra thin paper. They were photos of a maze of symbols, diagrams and meaningless words, but there was something about them that practically cried out their extreme importance. They weren’t for a mind like mine and I knew it.

I folded them up into a compact square and took them to the lamp on the wall. It was a tricky little job that came apart in the middle and had been given to me by a friend who dabbled in magic. At one time a bird flew out of the hidden compartment when you snapped the light on and scared the hell out of you. I stuck the photostats in there and shut it again.

There was an inch of sherry left on the bottom of the bottle in my desk and I put the mouth to my lips.

It was almost over. I had come to the pause before the end. There was little left to do but sort the parts and make sure I had them straight. I sat down again, pulling the phone over in front of me. I dialed headquarters and asked for Pat.

He had left for the weekend.

The next time I dialed Lee Deamer’s office. The blonde at the switchboard was still chewing gum and threw the connection over to his secretary. She said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Deamer has left for Washington.”

“This is Mike Hammer. I was there once before. I’d like to get a call in to him.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Hammer. He’s registered at the Lafayette. You can call him there. However, you had better call before six because he’s speaking at a dinner meeting tonight.”

“I’ll call him now, and thanks.”

I got long distance, gave the number and she told me the lines were all busy and I would have to wait. I hung up and went to the filing cabinet where I had the remains of another bottle of sherry stashed away. There was a box of paper cups with it and I put the makings on my desk and settled back to enjoy the wait.

After the third half-cup of sherry I snapped the radio on and caught the broadcast. The boy with the golden voice was snapping out the patter in a tone so excited that he must have been holding on to the mike to stay on his feet. It was all about the stolen documents. Suspicions were many and clues were nil. The FBI had every available man on the case and the police of every community had pledged to help in every way.

He went off and a serious-voiced commentator took his place. He told the nation of the calamity that had befallen it. The secret of our newest, most powerful weapon was now, most likely, in the hands of agents of an unfriendly power. He told of the destruction that could be wrought, hinted at the continuance of the cold war with an aftermath of a hotter one. He spoke and his voice trembled with the rage and fear he tried so hard to control.

Fifteen minutes later another commentator came on with a special bulletin that told of all ports being watched, the roundup of suspected aliens. The thing that caused the roundup was still as big a mystery as ever, but the search had turned up a lot of minor things that never would have been noticed. A government clerk was being held incommunicado. A big shot labor leader had hanged himself. A group of Communists had staged a demonstration in Brooklyn with the usual scream of persecution and had broken some windows. Twenty of them were in the clink.

I sat back and laughed and laughed. The world was in an uproar when the stuff was safe as hell not five feet away from me. The guardians of our government were jumping through hoops because the people demanded to know why the most heavily guarded secret we ever had could be swiped so easily. There were shakeups from the top to bottom and the rats were scurrying for cover, pleading for mercy. Investigations were turning up reds in the damnedest spots imaginable and the senators and congressmen who recommended them for the posts were on the hot spots in their bailiwicks. Two had already sent in resignations.

Oh, it was great. Something was getting done that should have been done years ago. The heat was on and the fire was burning a lot of pants. The music I had on the radio was interrupted every five minutes now with special newscasts that said the people were getting control of the situation at last.

Of the people, for the people, by the people. We weren’t so soft after all. We got pushed too far once too often and the backs were up and teeth bared.

What were the Commies doing! They must be going around in circles. The thing that would have tipped the balance back to them again had been in their hands and they’d dropped it. Was the MVD out taking care of those who had been negligent? Probably. Very probably. Pork-Pie Hat would have himself a field day. They were the only ones who knew where those documents
weren’t.
Our own government knew where they started to go and still thought they were in their hands. I was the only one who knew where they were.

Not five feet away. Safe as pie, I thought.

The phone rang and I picked it up. The operator said, “I have your party, sir.”

I said thanks, waited for the connection and heard Lee saying, “Hello, hello ...”

“Mike Hammer. Lee.”

“Yes, Mike, how are you?”

“Fine. I hear Washington is in an uproar.”

“Quite. You can’t imagine what it’s like. They tell me the hall is filled to the rafters already, waiting to hear the speeches. I’ve never seen so many reporters in my life.”

“Going to give ’em hell tonight?”

“I’ll do my best. I have an important topic to discuss. Was there something special you wanted, Mike?”

“Yeah, sort of. I just wanted to tell you that I found it.”

“It?”

“What Oscar left behind. I found it.”

His voice held a bitter ring. “I knew it, I knew it! I knew he’d do something like that. Mike ... is it bad?”

“Oh no. In fact it’s pretty good. Yeah, pretty good.”

He paused, and when he spoke again he sounded tired. “Remember what I told you, Mike. It’s in your hands. Authenticate what you found, and if you believe that it would be better to publish the facts, then make them public.”

I laughed lightly. “Not this, Lee. It isn’t something you can print in a paper. It isn’t anything that you nor Pat nor I expected to find. It doesn’t tie you into a damn thing so you can blast ’em tonight and make it good because what I have can push you right up there where you can do a good housecleaning job.”

The surprise and pleasure showed in his voice. “That is fine news, Mike. When can I see it?”

“When will you be back in New York?”

“Not before Monday night.”

“It’ll keep. I’ll see you then.”

I pushed the phone back across the desk and started working on the remainder of the sherry. I finished it in a half-hour and closed up the office. It was Saturday night and time to play. I had to wait until Velda came back before I made my decision. I ambled up Broadway and turned into a bar for a drink. The place was packed and noisy, except when the news bulletin came on. At seven o’clock they turned on the TV and all heads angled to watch it. They were relaying in the pics of the dinner in Washington that was to be followed by the speeches. The screen was blurred, but the sound was loud and clear.