The Mike Hammer Collection (27 page)

Pat was playing cop with his notebook again. “Where did you meet her?” he asked me.

“A joint under the el on Third Avenue. I came off the bridge and ran down Third and stopped at this joint along the way. I don't remember the street because I was too tired to look, but I'll go back and check up again and find it. There's probably a thousand places like it, but I'll find it.”

“This isn't a stall, is it?”

“Yeah, it's a stall. Lock me up for interfering with the processes of the law. I should have remembered every detail that happened that night.”

“Can it, Mike.”

“I told you I'd find it again, didn't I?”

“Good enough. Meanwhile, we'll pull an autopsy on her and try to locate the old clothes. Remember, when you find the place, let me know. I'll probably find it without you anyway, but you can make it quicker ... if you want to.”

“Sure,” I said. I was grinning, but nothing was funny. It was a way I could hold my mouth and be polite without letting him know that I felt as if ants were crawling all over me. We shook hands and said civilized so longs when I wanted to curse and swing at something instead.

I don't like to get mad like that. But I couldn't help it. Murder is an ugly word.

When I got downstairs I asked the desk sergeant where I could get in touch with Jake Larue. He gave me his home number and I went into a pay station just off the main corridor and dialed the number. Jake's wife answered and she had to wake him up to put him on, and his voice wasn't too friendly when he said hello.

I said, “This is Mike Hammer, Jake. What happened to that punk I gave you the other night?”

Jake said something indecent. Then, “That was some deal you handed us, Mike.”

“Why?”

“He had a license for that gun, that's why. You trying to get me in a jam or something?”

“What are they doing, giving licenses away in New York State, now?”

“Nuts. His name is Feeney Last and he's a combination chauffeur and bodyguard for that Berin-Grotin guy out on the Island.”

I whistled through my teeth and hung up. Now they were giving out licenses to guys who wanted to kill people. Oh, great. Just fine.

CHAPTER 2

I
t was a little after four when I got back to the office. Velda was licking envelopes in an unladylike manner and glad of an excuse to stop. She said, “Pat called me a little while ago.”

“And told you to tell me to behave myself like a good boy, I suppose.”

“Or words to that effect. Who was she, Mike?”

“I didn't find out. I will though.”

“Mike, being as how you're the boss, I hate to say this, but there are a few prosperous clients knocking on the door and you're fooling around where there isn't any cash in sight.”

I threw my hat on the desk. “Wherever there's murder there's money, chick.”

“Murder?”

“I have that idea in mind.”

It was nice sitting there in the easy chair, stretched out in comfort. Velda let me yawn, then: “But what are you after, Mike?”

“A name,” I said. “Just a name for a kid who died without one. Morbid curiosity, isn't it? But I can't send flowers with just ‘Red' on them.

“What do you know about a guy called Berin-Grotin, Velda?” I watched a fly run across the ceiling upside down, making it sound casual.

After a moment she told me: “That must be Arthur Berin-Grotin. He's an old society gent about eighty, supposedly one of the original 400. At one time he was the biggest sport on the Stem, but he got tangled with old age and became almighty pious trying to make up for all his youthful escapades.”

I remembered him then, mostly from stories the old-timers like to pass out when they corner you in a bar for a hatful of free drinks. “Why would a guy like that need a bodyguard?” I asked her.

Velda dug back into her memory. “If I remember correctly, his estate out on the Island was robbed several times. An old man would be inclined to be squeamish, and I can't say that I blame him. I'd hire a bodyguard, too. The funny part is that the burglar could have had what he wanted for the asking by simply knocking on the door. Arthur Berin-Grotin is a sucker for hard-luck stories ... besides being one of the city's biggest philanthropists.”

“Lots of money, hey?”

“Umm.”

“Where did you get the dope on him?”

“If you read anything but the funnies, you'd know. He's in the news as often as a movie star. Apparently he has a fierce sense of pride, and if he isn't suing somebody for libel, he's disinheriting some distant relative for besmirching the fair name of Berin-Grotin. A month ago he financed a million-dollar cat and dog hospital or something. Oh, wait a minute....”

She got up and began riffling through a heap of newspapers on top of the file. After a brief search she pulled out a rotogravure section a few weeks old and folded it back. “Here's something about him.”

It was a picture taken in a cemetery. Amid a background of tomb-stones and monuments was the half-built form of a mausoleum. There were two workers on the scaffolding laying marble slabs in place, and from the looks of it money was being poured into the job. Next to it was the artist's conception of the finished job, a classic Greek temple arrangement. Arthur Berin-Grotin was playing it safe. He was making sure he'd have a roof over his head after he died.

Velda put the paper back on the pile. “Is he a client, Mike?”

“Nope. I happened to run across his name and was interested.”

“You're lying.”

“And you're getting fresh with the boss,” I grinned at her. She stuck out her tongue and went back to her desk. I got up and told her to knock off early, then jammed on my hat. There were a few things that I had in mind, but I needed a little time to pass before I could get started.

Downstairs I found a bar and called for a beer. I was on my third when the paper boy came in with the evening edition. I flipped him a dime and spread it on the bar. Pat had done a good job. Her picture was on the front page. Under it was the question, “Do you know this girl?” Sure, I knew her. Red. I couldn't forget her. I was wondering if anybody else was having trouble forgetting her, too.

I tucked the paper in my pocket and walked down to my car. The taxis and commuters were jamming traffic all the way downtown, and by the time I had crossed over to Third Avenue, it was nearly six o'clock. I didn't have a bit of trouble finding that hash house again. There was even a place to park right outside it. I went in and climbed on a stool and laid the paper down in front of me with the picture up. Down at the end Shorty was pushing crackers and soup over to another bum. He hadn't seen me yet.

When he did he went a little white around the nostrils and he couldn't seem to take his eyes off my face. He said, “Whatta ya want?”

“Eggs. Bacon and eggs ... over light. And coffee.”

He sort of sidled down the counter and fished in a basket for the eggs. One dropped and splattered all over the floor. Shorty didn't even seem to notice it. The bum was making a slobbering noise with his soup and the bacon on the griddle started to drown him out. Behind the grill was a stainless steel reflector, and twice I caught Shorty looking in it at me. The spatula was big enough to handle a cake, yet he couldn't balance an egg on it. He made each on the third try.

Shorty was suffering badly from the shakes. It didn't help any when he had to push the paper away to set the plate down and saw Red's picture staring at him.

I said, “One thing about eggs; you can't spoil them with bum cooking. No matter what you do they still taste like eggs.” Shorty just stared at me. “Yeah, eggs are eggs. Once in a while you get a bad one, though. Makes me mad as hell to get hold of one. Did you ever smash a bad egg wide open? They make a noisy pop and stink like hell. Bad eggs can be poison, too.”

I was halfway done before Shorty said, “What are you after, mister?”

“You tell me.”

Both of us looked down at the paper at the same time.

“You're a copper, ain'tcha?”

“I carry a badge ... and a rod.”

“A private snooper, eh?” He was going tough on me.

I laid my fork down and looked at him. I can make pretty nasty faces when I have to. “Shorty, maybe just for the hell of it I'll take you apart. You may be a rough apple, but I can make your face look like it's been run through a grinder, and the more I think of the idea the more I like it. The name is Mike Hammer, chum ... you ought to know it down here. I like to play games with wise guys.”

He was white around the nostrils again.

I tapped the picture, then let my finger stay on the question underneath. Shorty knew damn well I wasn't fooling around any more. I was getting mad and he knew it, and he was scared. But just the same he shrugged. “Hell, I don't know who she is.”

“It wasn't the first time she had been in here. Quit holding out.”

“Ah, she came in for about a week. Sometimes she tried to make pickups in here and I threw her out. She was Red to me and everybody else. That's all I knew about her.”

“You got a record, haven't you, Shorty?”

His lips drew back over his teeth. “You bastard.”

I reached out and grabbed his shirt and held him against the counter. “When a guy gets out of stir he goes straight sometimes. Sometimes he don't. I'm betting that if the cops decided to look around a little bit they could find you had a finger in some crooked pie, and it wouldn't take them a week to put you back up the river.”

“H-honest, Mac, I don't know nothing about the dame. Look, I'd tell you if I did. I ain't no troublemaker and I don't want no trouble around here! Why don'tcha lemme alone?”

“There was a greaseball in here that night. His name is Feeney Last. How often has he been in?”

Shorty licked his thick lips nervously. “Hell, maybe twice. I dunno. He went for the redhead, that's all. He never even ate in here. Lay off, will ya?”

I dropped the handful of shirt. “Sure, pal, I'll lay off.” I threw a half buck on the counter and he was glad to grab it and get over to the register away from me. I swung off the stool and stood up. “If I find out you know any more than you told me, there's going to be a visitor in here looking for you. A guy in a pretty blue uniform. Only when he finds you he's going to have a tough time making any sense out of what you tell him. It's not easy to talk when you've just choked on your own teeth.”

Just before I reached the door he called, “Hey, Mac.”

I turned around.

“I ... I think she had a room someplace around the corner. Next block north.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He got real busy swabbing the broken egg off the floor.

Outside I started for the car, changed my mind, then walked up Third to the street corner. It would have taken a week to comb the dingy apartments that sprawled along the sidewalks and I wasn't in the mood for any legwork.

On one corner was a run-down candy store whose interior was obscured by flyspecked signs, but for all its dirt it served as a neighborhood hangout. In front of the paper stand were three young punks in sharp two-tone sports outfits making dirty cracks at the girls passing by. A husky blonde turned and slapped one across the jaw and got a boot in the tail for her trouble. This time she kept on going.

I angled across the street and walked up to the kid holding his jaw, trying to rub out the red blotch. I opened the button on my jacket and reached back for a handkerchief, just enough so the sling on the shoulder holster was visible across my shirt for a second. They knew I was carrying a rod and looked at me as if I were a tin god. The kid even forgot to rub his face any more. Nice place to live.

“There's a cute little redhead who has a room around here, Buster. Know where I can find her?”

The kid got real important with the man-to-man line I was handing him and gave me a wink. “Yeah, she had a place upstairs in old lady Porter's joint.” He jerked his head down the street. “Won't do ya no good to go there. That little bitch got herself killed last night. All the papers got her pitcher on the front page.”

“You don't say. Too bad.”

He edged me with his elbow and slipped me a knowing look. “She wasn't no good anyway buddy. Now, if you want a real woman, you go up to Twenty-third Street and....”

“Some other day, feller. While I'm here I'll look around this end of town.” I slipped him a fin. “Go buy a beer for the boys.”

I walked away hoping they'd choke on it.

Martha Porter was an oversize female in her late fifties. She wore a size dress that matched her age and still she peeked out in places. What hair wasn't yanked back in a knot straggled across her face and down the nape of her neck, and she was holding the broom ready to use it as a utensil or a club.

“You looking for a room or a girl?” she said.

I let a ten-spot talk for me. “I saw the girl. Now I want to see the room.”

She grabbed the bill first. “What for?”

“Because she copped a wad of dough and some important papers from the last place she worked and I have to find it.”

She gave me an indifferent sneer. “Oh, one of them skip-tracers. Well, maybe the papers is there, but you won't find no dough. She came here with the clothes on her back and two bucks in her pocketbook. I took the two bucks for room rent. Never got no more from her neither.”

“Where'd she come from?”

“I don't know and I didn't ask. She had the two bucks and that's what the room cost. In advance, when you don't have no bags.”