The Mike Hammer Collection (12 page)

“Guess,” I said.

She smiled again. “I imagine it can even happen to you, too. All right, Mr.... er ... Sterling, would you like to go upstairs?”

“Yeah. Who's up there?”

“An assortment you'll find interesting. You'll see. But first, twenty-five dollars, please.” I fished out the dough and handed it over.

She led me as far as the stairs. There was a push button mounted on the side of the newel post and she pushed it. Upstairs a chime rang and a door opened, flooding the stairs with light. A dark-haired girl wrapped in a transparent robe stood in the doorway.

“Come on up,” she said.

I took the stairs two at a time. She wasn't pretty, I could see that, but the make-up enhanced what she had. A beautiful body, though. I walked in. Another sitting room, but this one was well occupied. The madam had meant what she said when she told me there was an assortment. The girls were sitting there reading or smoking; blondes, brunettes and a pair of redheads. None of them had much on.

Things like this were supposed to make your heart beat faster, only I didn't react that way. I thought of Velda and Jack. Something was here that I wanted and I didn't know how I was going to take it. Eileen Vickers was the one, but I never saw her. The alias—Mary Wright. It seemed feasible that she would not use her right name working here and not to evade income taxes either.

Nobody gave me a tumble, so I supposed I was to make the selection. The girl who led me in kept watching me expectantly. “Want someone special?” she asked.

“Mary Wright,” I told her.

“She's in her room. Wait here, I'll get her.” The girl disappeared through the door and was back a moment later. “Right down the hall, next to last door.”

I nodded and went through the door and found myself in a long hallway. On either side the wall was peppered with doors, newly built. Each one had a knob, but no keyhole. The next to last door was the same as the others. I knocked and a voice called out for me to come in. I turned the knob and pushed.

Mary Wright was seated in front of a dressing table, combing her hair. All she was wearing was a brassiere and a pair of step-ins. That and house slippers. She eyed me through the mirror.

She might have been pretty once, but she wasn't any longer. There were lines under her eyes that weren't put there by age. She had a faint twitch in her cheek that she tried to conceal, but it came through anyway. I guessed her age somewhat in the late twenties. She looked a lot older, but I accounted for that.

Here was a girl that had seen plenty of life, all raw. Her body was just a shade too thin, well fed, but emotionally starved. Empty, like a dead snail. Her profession and her past were etched into her eyes. She was a girl you could beat without getting a whimper out of her. Maybe her expression would change, but another beating more or less would mean nothing. Like the others, she wasn't too made-up. Far from being plain, but not at all gaudy.

Her hair was a chestnut brown like the irises of her eyes. She must have had some sun lately or spent time under a lamp, for there was a faint tinge of tan covering what I could see of her skin. There was nothing startling about her shape. Average. Not very heavy in the breasts, but her legs were nice. I felt sorry for the girl.

“Hello.” Her voice was pleasant enough. She sat there as though she was getting ready to go out and I was a husband casually looking for a cuff link. “Early, aren't you?”

“Sort of, but I was getting tired of hanging around a bar.” I got in a quick look around the room, then went to an end table and ran through a set of books. My fingers felt under the table edge before I inspected the walls. I was looking for wires. These places have been rigged for sound more than once and I didn't want to get snared in a trap. The bed was next. I got down on my hands and knees and looked under it. No wires.

Mary had been watching me curiously. “If it's a dictaphone you're searching for, we haven't any,” she said. “And the walls are soundproofed besides.” She stood up in front of me. “Want a drink first?”

“No.”

“Afterwards, then.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn't come here for that.”

“Well, for goodness' sake, what did you come for, to make small talk?”

“You hit it, Eileen.” I thought she'd pass out. At first she got deathly white, then her eyes hardened and her lips tightened. I could see that this wasn't going to be so easy.

“What's the gag, mister? Who are you?”

“The monicker is Mike Hammer, kid. I'm a private eye.

She knew who I was all right. She tightened up all over when she heard my name. A traceless fear crept into her body. “So you're a shamus. What does that have to do with me? If my father sent you ...”

I cut her short. “Your father didn't send me. Nobody did. A pal of mine got killed a short time ago. His name was Jack Williams.” Her hand flew to her mouth. For a second I thought she'd scream. But she didn't. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and a tear trickled down her cheek leaving a streak in the make-up.

“No. I—I didn't know.”

“Don't you read the papers?” She shook her head. “Among his things I found your name. He'd seen you just before, hadn't he?”

“Yes. Please, am I under arrest?”

“No. I don't want to arrest anybody. I just want to shoot somebody. The killer.” The tears were coming freely now. She tried to wipe them away but they came too fast.

It was hard to understand. Here was a dame I had tagged as being as hard as they come, yet she thought enough of Jack to cry when I told her he was dead. And she hated her father, apparently. Well, that was a woman. There was still that much left in her.

“Not Jack. He was so nice. I—I really tried to keep this from him, but he found out. He even got me a job before, but I couldn't keep it.” Mary rolled over on her face and buried her head in the pillow. She was sobbing hard now.

I sat down next to her. “Crying won't help. What I want are a few answers. Come on, sit up and listen.” I raised her by the shoulders. “Jack wanted to have this place raided tonight, but the message never reached the police. He was killed before he could do anything about it. What's going on tonight?”

Mary straightened up. Her tears were gone now and she was thinking. I had to let her take her time. “I don't know,” she said finally. “Jack had no cause to do anything. Places like this flourish in the city and they don't have to pay off to anyone.”

“Maybe there's more to it than you think,” I added. “Just who is expected tonight?”

She continued, “The show. Lots of people come to see it. You know the kind. Usually there's a convention in town and prospective buyers are brought here for a little fun. I never see any important people. The kind that are in the public eye, I mean. Just fairly prosperous people.”

I knew the kind. Fat greasy people from out of town. Slick city boys who played the angles and were willing to shell out the dough. Rich jokers of both sexes who liked smut and filth and didn't care where they got it. A pack of queers who enjoyed exotic, sadistic sex. Nasty people. Clerks who scraped their nickels to go and then bragged on the street corners.

I tried a different approach. “How did you get in this, Mary?”

“Nuts. It's a long story, but I wouldn't tell you.”

“Listen. I'm not trying to pry into your life. I want you to talk about this, the whole thing. Something you say may have no meaning to you, but may throw some light on the whole affair. I'm convinced that whatever you are connected with has a contributing factor to Jack's death. I could do it differently. I could slap it out of you. I could wreck this whole setup if I felt like it. But I'm not going to; it would take too long. It's up to you.”

“All right. If you think it would help. I wouldn't do it if it weren't for him. In all my life he was one of the very few square guys I ever met. He gave me plenty of breaks, trying to help me, but I failed him, every time. Generally I start bawling when I tell this, but too much water has gone under the bridge to make it upset me any more.”

I sat back and dragged out a cigarette and offered her one. She took it and we lit up. I leaned back on the bed and waited.

“It started in college. I went to the Midwest to become a teacher. It was a co-ed school, and in due time I met a fellow. His name was John Hanson. Tall and good-looking. We intended to get married. One night we parked after a football game and you know what happened. Three months later I had to leave school. John didn't want to get married yet, so he took me to a doctor. When the operation was over I was shaky and nervous. We set up an apartment, John and I, and for a while lived as man and wife without benefit of clergy.

“How my folks got wind of it, I don't know. Those things happen. I got a letter from my father completely disowning me. That same night John didn't come home. I waited and waited, then called the school. He had dropped from the curriculum. Disappeared. My month was nearly up in the apartment and I didn't know what to do.

“Now the unpleasant part. I started to receive visitors. Male visitors. What they offered was the only way I could make any money. That kept on for a few weeks before the landlord found out and kicked me out of the place. No, I didn't walk the streets. A car came and got me and I was driven to a rooming house.

“It wasn't like this. It was dirty and dingy. The madam was an old hag with a mean temper and liked to throw things at us. The first thing she did was to tell me that she had a record of my activities that she would hand over to the police if I didn't cooperate. What could I do?

“Then one night I had a talk with my roommate. She was a character. Tough as an apple and she knew how to sell herself. I told her all that had happened to me and she laughed like a fiend. The same damned thing had happened to her. But here's the hitch. I described John. He was the guy that put her in the spot, too. She flew off the handle when she heard that. Both of us looked all over for him, but that was the last time I saw him.

“I was part of a big outfit. We were shipped around wherever we were needed. I wound up here quite awhile ago and that's that. Any questions?”

The same old story. I felt sorry for her even if she didn't feel sorry for herself. “How long ago were you in college?” I asked.

“That was twelve years ago.”

“Umm.” As far as I could see there wasn't a thing to be gained. I reached in my wallet and pulled out a five spot and a card. “Here's where you can locate me if you dig up anything else. And here's a fin for yourself. I have some heavy thinking to do so I'm going to blow.”

She looked at me amazed. “You mean ... you don't want anything else?”

“No. But thanks anyway. Keep your eyes open.”

“I will.”

I found a different way out and hit the downstairs hall from a rickety flight of steps that was half hidden behind a flowered set of drapes. The woman in charge was sitting in the waiting room reading. She put down the book long enough to say, “Leaving already? I thought you wanted to spend the night.”

As I picked up my hat, I said, “I did, but I guess I'm not as young as I used to be.” She didn't bother to get up to let me out.

Back in the car I started up and ran it closer to the house. I wanted to see who might be coming. Jack had a good reason for wanting that place raided or he wouldn't have mentioned it in his book. A show. A show with convenient chambers for the indiscreet later on. A place that quack doctors like to see well packed so they could work their own racket on suckers that got caught up with V.D. Inwardly, I said a silent thanks to Uncle Sam for showing me those posters and films.

I sat back against the cushions and waited for something to happen. Just what, I couldn't say. So far there was no rhyme or reason to anything. It was too jumpy. Jack's death. The people he was connected with. His book of notes and this. The only thing there was in common was an undertone. The deep tone that spelled hate and violence, a current of fear that seemed to fit in whenever I looked. I could feel it, yet see nothing.

Take Eileen: A prostitute. Taking a quick trip to the grave because she got messed up with a rat who knocked her up, played with her awhile, then took off. That kind of guy ought to be hunted down and strung up by the thumbs. I'd like to do it personally. And her roommate. Another dame in the same profession who got there the same way. It must have made Eileen feel pretty low when she found out the same guy put her in the fix, too. John Hanson, never heard of him. She might have been a decent kid, too. Those guys get it in the neck in the long run. But that was over twelve years ago. That would make Eileen about ... let's see, entered college around eighteen ... maybe she met him when she was nineteen, and twelve would put her at thirty-one. Hell, she looked a lot older. If her father had been the least bit sensible he could have prevented all this. A kind word when kindness was important, a home to go to, and she never would have been trapped. Just the same, it seemed pretty damned funny that the old man could get wind of what went on in a Midwest college when he was living a thousand miles away in Poughkeepsie, New York. That kind of news travels fast anywhere, though. Probably a jealous schoolgirl with a dirty mind and a poison pen. Maybe another of Hanson's babes. I'll bet he had plenty of them. Going from bad to worse. Not financially—Eileen was making plenty of cash even if she only got a ten-percent cut. The joint she worked in had money written all over it. A syndicated outfit with lots of the long green. For instance, this show tonight. It meant a rake-off in the thousands. And ...