The Mike Hammer Collection (67 page)

 

Connie met me at the door with a highball in her hand and shoved it at me before I could take off my hat. “My hero,” she said, “my big, brave hero coming through the raging blizzard to rescue poor me.”

It was a wonderful highball. I gave her back the empty and kissed her cheek. Her laugh was little bells that tinkled in my ear. She closed the door and took my coat while I went inside and sat down. When she joined me she sat on the sofa with her legs crossed under her and reached for a smoke. “About tonight ... we are going where?”

“Looking for a killer.”

The flame of the match she held trembled just a little. “You ... know?”

I shook my head. “I suspect.”

There was real interest in her face. Her voice was soft. “Who?”

“I suspect a half-dozen people. Only one of them is a killer. The rest contributed to the crime somehow.” I played with the cord on the floor lamp and watched the assorted expressions that flickered across her face.

Finally she said, “Mike ... is there some way I can help? I mean, is it possible that something I know might have a meaning?”

“Possibly.”

“Is that ... the only reason you came here tonight?”

I turned the light off and on a few times. Connie was staring at me hard, her eyes questioning. “You don't have much faith in yourself, kid,” I grinned. “Why don't you look in the mirror sometime? You got a face that belongs in the movies and a body that should be a crime to cover. You have an agile mind too. I'm only another guy. I go for all that.

“The answer is yes, that's all I came here for tonight. If you were anybody else I still would have come, but because you're you it makes it all the nicer and I look forward to coming. Can you understand that?”

Her legs swung down and she came over and kissed my nose, then went back to the couch. “I understand, Mike. Now I'm happy. Tell me what you want.”

“I don't know, Connie. I'm up a tree. I don't know what to ask for.”

“Just ask anything you want.”

I shrugged. “Okay, do you like your work?”

“Wonderful.”

“Make a lot of jack?”

“Oodles.”

“Like your boss?”

“Which one?”

“Juno.”

Connie spread her hands out in a noncommittal gesture. “Juno never interferes with me. She had seen my work and was impressed with it. When I had a call from her I was thrilled to the bones because I hit the top. Now all she does is select those ads that fit me best and Anton takes care of the rest.”

“Juno must make a pile,” I said observingly.

“I guess she does! Besides drawing a big salary she's forever on the receiving end of gifts from overgenerous clients. I'd almost feel sorry for Anton if he had the sense to care.”

“What about him?”

“Oh, he's the arty type. Doesn't give a hoot for money as long as he has his work. He won't let a subordinate handle the photography, either. Maybe that's why the agency is so successful.”

“He married? A wife would cure that.”

“Anton married? That's a laugh. After all the women he handles, and I do mean handles, what mere woman would attract that guy. He's positively frigid. For a Frenchman that's disgraceful.”

“French?”

Connie nodded and dragged on her smoke. “I overheard a little secret being discussed between Anton and Juno. It seems that Juno met him in France and brought him over here, just in time for him to escape some nasty business with the French court. During the war he was supposed to have been a collaborator of a sort ... taking propaganda photos of all the bigwig Nazis and their families. As I said, Anton doesn't give a hoot about money or politics as long as he has his work.”

“That's interesting but not very helpful. Tell me something about Clyde.”

“I don't know anything about Clyde except that looking like a movie gangster he is a powerful attraction for a lot of jerks from both sexes.”

“Do the girls from the studio ever give him a play?”

She shrugged again. “I've heard rumors. You know the kind. He hands out expensive presents to everybody during the holidays and is forever treating someone to a lavish birthday party under the guise of friendship when it's really nothing but good business practice. I know for a fact that the crowd has stuck to the Bowery longer than they ever have to another fad. I'm wondering what's going to happen when Clyde gets ordinary people.”

“So am I,” I said. “Look, do something for me. Start inquiring around and see who forms his clientele. Important people. The kind of people who have a voice in the city. It'll mean getting yourself invited to the Inn but that ought to be fun.”

“Why don't you take me?”

“I'm afraid that Clyde wouldn't like that. You shouldn't have any trouble getting an escort. How about one of those ten other guys?”

“It can be managed. It would be more fun with you though.”

“Maybe some other time. Has one of those ten guys got dough?”

“They all have.”

“Then take the one with the most. Let him spend it. Be a little discreet if you start to ask questions and don't get too pointed with them. I don't want Clyde to get sore at you too. He can think of some nasty games to play.” I had the group of photos behind my back and I pulled them out. Connie came over to look at them. “Know all these girls?”

She nodded as she went through them. “Clotheshorses, every one. Why?”

I picked out the one of Marion Lester and held it out. “Know her well?”

She made a nasty sound with her mouth. “One of Juno's pets,” she said. “Came over from the Stanton Studio last year when Juno offered her more money. She's one of the best, but she's a pain.”

“Why
^?
”

“Oh, she thinks she's pretty hot stuff. She's been playing around a lot besides. One of these days Juno will can her. She's got a tramp complex that will lose the agency some clients one of these days.” She riffled through some of the others and took out two, one a shot of a debutante-type in a formal evening gown that was almost transparent. “This is Rita Loring. You wouldn't think it, but she saw thirty-five plenty of years ago. One of the men at the show that night hired her at a fabulous sum to model exclusively for him.”

The other photo was a girl in a sports outfit of slacks, vest and blouse, touched with fancy gimcracks that women like. She was photographed against a background that was supposed to represent a girls' dormitory. “Little Jean Trotter, our choice teen-age type. She eloped the day before yesterday. She sent Juno a letter and we all chipped in to buy her a television set. Anton was quite perturbed since she left in the middle of a series. Juno had to pat his hand to calm him down. I never saw him get so mad.”

She handed the pictures back to me and I put them away. The evening was early so I told her to get busy on the phone and arrange herself a date. She didn't like it, but she did it so I'd get jealous. She did the damndest job of seduction over a telephone I'd ever heard. I sat there and grinned until she got mad and took it out on the guy on the other end. She said she'd meet him in a hotel lobby downtown to save time and hung up.

“You're a stinker, Mike,” she said.

I agreed with her. She threw my coat at me and climbed into her own. When we reached the street entrance I did like I said and carried her out to the car. She didn't get her feet wet, but the snow blew up her dress and that was just as bad. We had supper in a sea-food place, took time for a drink and some small talk, then I dumped her in front of the hotel where she was to meet her date. I kissed her so long and she stopped being mad.

Now I had to keep me a couple of promises. One was a promise to outdo a character named Rainey. I followed a plow up Broadway for a few blocks, dragging along at a walk. To give it time to get ahead of me I pulled to the curb on a side street and walked back to a corner bar. This time I went right to the phone and shoved in a nickel.

I had to wait through that nickel and another one before Joe Gill finally pulled himself out of the tub and came to the phone. He barked a sharp hello and I told him it was me.

“Mike,” he started, “if you don't mind, I'd rather not ...”

“What kind of a pal are you, chum? Look, you're not getting into anything. All I want is another little favor.”

I heard him sigh. “All right. What is it now?”

“Information. The guy is Emil Perry, a manufacturer. He has a residence in the Bronx. I want to know all about him, socially and financially.”

“Now you're asking a toughie. I can put some men on his social life, but I can't go into his financial status too deeply. There're laws, you know.”

“Sure, and there're ways to get around them. I want to know about his bank accounts even if you have to break into his house to get them.”

“Now, Mike.”

“You don't have to do it, you know.”

“What the hell's the use of arguing with you. I'll do what I can, but this time we're even on all past favors, understand? And don't do me any more I'll have to repay.”

I laughed at him. “Quit being a worrier. If you get in trouble I'll see my pal the D.A. and everything will be okeydoke.”

“That's what I'm afraid of. Keep in touch with me and I'll see what I can do.”

“Roger, 'Night, Joe.”

He grunted a good-by and the phone clicked in my ear. I laughed again and opened the door of the booth. Soon I ought to know what Rainey had on the ball to scare the hell out of a big shot like Perry. Meanwhile I'd find out if I could be scared a little myself.

 

The Globe presses were grinding out a late edition with a racket that vibrated throughout the entire building. I went in through the employees' entrance and took the elevator up to the rewrite room where the stutter of typewriters sounded like machine guns. I asked one of the copy boys where I could find Ed Cooper and he pointed to a glass-enclosed room that was making a little racket all its own.

Ed was the sports editor on the Globe with a particular passion for exposing the crumbs that made money the easy way, and what he didn't know about his business wasn't worth knowing. I opened the door and walked into a full-scale barrage that he was pouring out of a mill as old as he was.

He looked up without stopping, said, “Be right with you, Mike.”

I sat down until he finished his paragraph and played with the .25 in my jacket pocket.

My boy must have liked what he wrote because he had a satisfied leer on his face that was going to burn somebody up. “Spill it, Mike. Tickets or information?”

“Information. A former hood named Rainey is a fight promoter. Where and who does he promote?”

Ed took it right in stride. “Know where the Glenwood Housing project is out on the Island?”

I said I did. It was one of those cities-within-a-city affairs that catered to ex-G.I.'s within an hour's drive from New York.

“Rainey's in with a few other guys and they built this arena to get the trade from Glenwood. They put on fights and wrestling bouts, all of it stinko. Just the same, they pack 'em in. Lately there's been some talk of the fight boys going in the tank so's a local betting ring can clean up. I got that place on my list if it's any news to you.”

“Fine, Ed. There's a good chance that Rainey will be making the news soon. If I'm around when it happens I'll give you a buzz.”

“You going out there tonight?”

“That's right.”

Ed looked at his watch. “They got a show on. If you step on it you might catch the first bout.”

“Yeah,” I said, “It oughta be real interesting. I'll tell you about it when I get back to the city.” I put on my hat and opened the door. Ed stopped me before I got out.

“Those guys I was telling you about—Rainey's partners—they're supposed to be plenty tough. Be careful.”

“I'll be very careful, Ed. Thanks for the warning.”

I went out through the clatter and pounding beat of the presses and found my car. Already the snow had piled up on the hood, pulling a white blind over the windows. I wiped it off and climbed in.

One thing about the city; it was mechanized to the point of perfection. The snow had been coming down for hours now, yet the roads were passable and getting better every minute. What the plows hadn't packed down the cars did, with big black eyes of manhole covers steaming malevolently on every block.

By the time I reached the arena outside the Glenwood area I could hear the howling and screaming of the mob. The parking space was jammed and overflowed out onto the street. I found an open spot a few hundred yards down the street that was partially protected by a huge oak and rolled in.

I had missed the first bout, but judging from the stumble-bums that were in there now I didn't miss much. It cost me a buck for a wall seat so far back I could hardly see through the smoke to the ring. Moisture dripped from the cinder-block walls and the seats were nothing more than benches roughed out of used lumber. But the business they did there was terrific.

It was a usual crowd of plain people hungry for entertainment and willing to pay for it. They could do better watching television if they stayed home. I sat near the door and let my eyes become accustomed to the semidarkness. The last few rows were comparatively empty, giving me a fairly full view of what went on in the aisles.

There was a shout from the crowd and one of the pugs in the ring was counted out. A few minutes later he was carted up the aisle and out into the dressing room. Some other gladiators took their places.