The Killing Man mh-12

by Mickey Spillane

  It was the photostat that laid it all out. Petey had finished his drink, so I pushed mine over to him. "Where did you get this?" I asked him.

  "Trade secret."

  What I had was an essay the Ice Lady had written. It was a statement of fact so direct, so concisely put together that I knew this was an exact timetable that Miss Amory was going to adhere to and fulfill. The young Candace was promising that she would be the district attorney of New York City, thence to the governorship of the state and from there to the presidency of the United States.

  If she hadn't already made it into the DA's office and already insinuated herself into a first-class, spectacular news story, I would have said it was just the drivel the young and inexperienced enjoy fantasizing about.

  But this was real.

  "Clue me, Petey. Things like this just don't lay around. Where did you dig it up?"

  "Buy me another drink."

  I bought him another drink.

  "You haven't figured it out yet?"

  "No. I'm a dumb detective."

  "Go to college, Mike?"

  "Sure I did, why?"

  "They make you do an essay on yourself as part of your admittance application?"

  "Damn," I said. "That was pretty sharp, buddy. And they just handed this over to you?"

  Across his fresh drink he said, "No, I stole it. You see, those are things I know how to do. Help any?"

  "It gives me an edge," I told him.

  "You'll need more than that if you tangle assholes with that lady."

  "Well, no guts, no glory," I said. I reached in my pocket and dug out some change. "I suppose you know her phone number?"

  He said sure and gave it to me, reminding me that it was unlisted. So much for privacy. "What're you calling her for?"

  "I'm going to ask her out to supper."

  "Hell, man, it's already supper time. Women don't buy that kind of action."

  "This one might," I said.

  I went out to a pay phone and called the Ice Lady. She said she had nothing better to do and would meet me at the Four Seasons. I told her she would meet me at the Pub on Fifty-seventh Street since I was buying. She knew better than to argue. I had a date.

  Petey said, "Well?"

  I glanced at my watch. "I'll see her in half an hour."

  His mouth dropped open. "How did you manage that?"

  "To paraphrase you, old buddy," I told him, "that is one of the things I know how to do."

  What I didn't tell him was that I knew she'd been sitting there waiting for me to call ever since she put on that show with her titties.

  The Irishman who ran the Pub gave me a big hello, reserved a table for me in back and set up a Miller Lite on the bar while I waited. I was early because I knew she'd be early. Anyone who wanted the presidency had to be early.

  She smiled coming in the door and I said, "Good evening, Miss Amory."

  "Hello, Mr. Hammer. Am I in time?"

  "Right on the button. Want a drink at the bar or shall we go back to the table?"

  "Oh, let's go to the table. It's been a long day. I'd rather sit down."

  I waved toward the rear and let her follow the waiter. The Pub had good Irish class, great corned beef and typical New York customers. It wasn't upper crust and the elite choose other places to see or be seen, and from her surreptitious motions I knew Candace Amory was putting it in a niche of its own, adding another check mark on my character sheet.

  When we sat down I said, "It's a good address."

  Puzzled, she looked at me, a cigarette halfway to her lips. "What?"

  "Nothing." I pointed to the butt between her fingers. "Why do you smoke?"

  "Habit I suppose." Again she seemed puzzled.

  "A mouth like yours doesn't need a cigarette in it."

  Her tongue flicked out and wet her lips. "Oh? What does it need, Mr. Hammer?"

  I gave her a little smile and her face got red. I got her off the hook nice and easy. "How about a hot corned beef sandwich?"

  For a minute there some of the frost had melted on the Ice Lady, but the confusion only lasted a few moments. At least the first points were mine. She put the cigarette down.

  A lot of things can get said across a dinner table. The mere fact of eating gives you time to think, to plan, to probe. We each had our own reasons for being there and all the weapons were out in the open.

  The lady was coolly conscious of the way her dress accentuated the curve of her bosom, showing you just so much, yet letting you know there was so much more to be seen. When she'd walked to the table, shrugging the coat off her shoulders, she knew that eyes were watching her, drinking up her catlike grace, taking in sharp breaths at the sensuous rhythm of her walk. Now I had all her weaponry concentrated on me and I was glad I had enough years on me to tell me not to get blindsided like an amateur.

  "Tell me, Mr. Hammer . . ."

  "Mike."

  "Then you may call me Candace."

  "Never Candy?"

  "No, never. And I am Candace only socially."

  "Wouldn't be proper at a board meeting?"

  She smiled. "Nor in a courtroom."

  "Now what did you want me to tell you?" I asked.

  "What your motives are in asking me for supper."

  I took another bite of the corned beef. "To get you to open up and let me in on what's happening. Our Penta guy is getting some pretty high-level attention."

  "Deservedly so."

  "Bradley never mentioned the name of the agent who was murdered."

  "Naturally."

  "Do you know?"

  She shook her head. "Nor do I want to. Dead men are . . . dead. The live ones can be made to talk and put on a witness stand. We are looking for a multiple killer now, a torture murderer who has to be stopped before he gets to somebody else."

  "And that's what you really wanted to know in the beginning, wasn't it, Candace?"

  This time her expression went through a variety of phases before it steadied into a defiant stare. "Tell me," she said deliberately.

  "How come I'm not scared to death to be out alone knowing Penta wanted me? If I was the one he wanted."

  "You amaze me, Mike. Why aren't you?"

  "All of a sudden I'm on my toes. I don't feel like being mugged again. I don't like being a target, either, so the first slob who goes to do a heavy on me is going to get a slug up his kiester. Or wherever."

  "Wherever sounds better." This time she got into her sandwich.

  "Tell me something, Candace, aren't you spooked about the way all this is being handled?" She kept eating, waiting for an explanation. "Everybody is talking to me, inviting me in for open conferences, ostensibly giving me classified information . . . everything that's in direct violation of law-enforcement practices."

  "Not necessarily. Witnesses can be treated . . . in a friendly fashion."

  "Again, pardon the language, bullshit. You damn well know that I'm not anything so far. I'm an innocent bystander in a murder, a victim in a mugging and a suspect of an indefinable sort at this point. But I'm something else too, lady. I'm a guy with a reputation that has to hold the line. I'm a damn headhunter and I get the feeling every one of you are standing by waiting to see who makes the first move and hoping I can simplify your case with a .45 in Penta's nose."

  She took a ladylike nibble at her sandwich. "Very forcefully said."

  "So why the heavy hitters from the agencies?"

  Once again she timed it nicely, finishing her coffee before she made her decision. "My friend Jerome Coleman was formerly with the FBI."

  I took a wild shot. "He was one of your instructors at the academy in Norfolk, wasn't he?" The guess was right and caught her completely off guard.

  "Why . . . yes." Her eyes were asking me a question.

  "Just something I picked up," I said. Her association with the FBI would be public information, but not her friendship with Coleman. "Go on."

  "He was in my office when we got news of the murder in your office.
The name Penta touched something in his memory and he called Frank Carmody. That's when the federal agencies came into the picture. Penta was wanted for the murder of their man overseas."

  "They must have a description of him," I suggested.

  "Not an iota. No prints, no photos, nothing."

  "Where did all this happen?"

  "England. Somewhere in England. Outside Manchester, I think."

  "Yet they know his name."

  "Yes. I don't know how."

  I was getting some ideas, but they would take time to look into. Now I had to let her have her turn. I said, "What can I do for you?"

  She looked down at the small diamond-studded watch on her wrist. "Take me home, for one thing. We can talk on the way."

  I paid the bill and walked her out of the place, enjoying the envious looks I got. This time her walk was more sedate, but she couldn't hide the contours of her body. A cab was at the curb and we got in and she gave the driver her address. We were almost there when I said to her, "You haven't answered my question yet, Candace."

  "I've been told you're very aggressive," she started.

  "Sure, I'm in a tough business."

  "Then tell me . . . what do you plan on doing about this . . . matter?"

  The lady asked some dramatic questions, all right. The cab pulled up outside her apartment, a uniformed doorman ran up, opened the door and we got out. He said good evening to Candace, barely nodded to me, then seemed to recognize me and nodded again, annoyed because he didn't remember my name.

  "Would you care to come up for a drink?"

  No way I'd spoil her plan of attack. I said yes, went inside, took the elevator up to the twelfth floor and did the bit of opening the door for her with her own keys.

  Miss Candace Amory lived like the princess she was. The place was magazine-picture perfect, a miniature New York castle that unlimited money could buy. The damned place even looked comfortable. I think the music started automatically when we walked in, something low and sultry and classical. It was nearly nine thirty and I wondered when Ravel's Bolero would come on.

  "What are you smiling about?"

  "Appreciating your house."

  "Is it suitably seductive?"

  "Fits you well," I said.

  She laughed, said, "I suppose now I should go in and put on something more comfortable. Is that my line?"

  "Doesn't matter. I can handle buttons and snaps."

  "Touche. Make us a drink while I call my office."

  I went to the bar and built a pair of highballs. I put them on the coffee table and took a seat in the overstuffed chair across from the matching sofa. I wondered how she would handle this one.

  She listened to her messages, wrote down some notes, then dialed again. The person she spoke to was the district attorney. She told him she'd be home all night, then came over, picked up her drink and eased herself down on the sofa. "Afraid of me?"

  "Nope." I lifted my glass in a toast. "Cheers."

  "Cheers," she said. "Once more. What are your plans?"

  "Legally," I told her, "I have no position at all. I can contribute knowledge and information to the police department and associated agencies, but I stay hands-off on the case itself."

  "I didn't ask you about legalities."

  My drink tasted good. Smooth. I gave her a little shrug. "I'm a victim seeking redress."

  "Bullshit to you too," she said.

  A grin started slowly, tugging at my mouth. "Not too long ago you were about to take my license away." I took another taste of the drink. "This place bugged?"

  "No."

  "Doesn't really matter. I'm glad to tell you. I intend to tumble this Penta guy. I may just take him down or I may take him out altogether. The son of a bitch tried to kill somebody I care a lot about and he laid a load of shit on me with that kill in my office and I don't let something like that go by."

  "How can you find him?"

  "What did you learn at Norfolk, kid?"

  "Legwork, informants, psychological profiles, and on and on."

  "Good for you. Only you forgot the biggest one."

  "Which?"

  "Experience."

  "And what is experience?"

  "A lot of time being aggressive, stubborn, a target and a damn fool."

  "You have all that?"

  "More. I'm smart."

  She couldn't hide the smile. "How smart is that?"

  "Enough to tell you what you want to be when you grow up."

  I knew she was going to say it. "Want to bet?"

  "Sure. What do you want to put up?"

  She walked right into it. "Oh, you name the terms."

  I took my time and put away half the drink. "If I lose," I said, "I'll tell you who Penta is."

  Her eyes narrowed. "You said you didn't know . . ."

  "That was then."

  She was on edge now. This was something she had to know and she wasn't concerned about losing. Even if I was lying, it still didn't matter. "And if you win?"

  I shrugged casually. "You take off your clothes. Here."

  All of the Ice Lady's emotions were exposed in a flash, the crudity of the suggestion, the daring of the act, the shame of exposure, the desire to do the unthinkable. It was one beautiful expression.

  But she couldn't lose. She said, "You're on."

  I finished the drink and put the glass down. "How many guesses do I get?"

  "Just one."

  "Fair enough." I leaned back in the chair and looked at her. The music playing was Brahms's Hungarian Dance No. 5. "You plan to be . . . no, you intend to be, without a shadow of doubt you know you have to be and will be . . ." She wasn't breathing. She was sitting there with a strange, stark look on her face. ". . . the president of the United States."

  The back of her hand went to her mouth very slowly. Her eyes were wide, shocked, her lovely mouth opened slightly with astonishment tinged with fear because I was completely inside her mind.

  "No!" I could hardly hear her. "It's impossible. No one knows. I . . . I've never mentioned it to anyone. Never. You can't possibly know this." She got to her feet slowly, putting her glass down before she dropped it. For a moment she almost lost her composure. "How did . . . you know?"

  "Doesn't matter."

  "Yes, it does."

  "Experience. I won, didn't I?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm waiting," I said.

  "You will never mention this to anyone, never."

  "Why should I?"

  Her lower lip went between her teeth and she stared at me. She was wondering how she'd lost all control of the situation. Her initial plan had gotten out of hand and now she had to put her integrity on the line.

  The dress was a simple but dramatic arrangement. Her hand went to her chest and found the concealed zipper. She pulled it down quickly, not for effect, but because had she not she wouldn't be able to pay her debt at all.

  My Ice Lady was hurting, but determined. She took a deep breath and I knew what she was going to do next.

  I said, "Don't."

  Her hands held the dress she was about to pull open locked to her breasts. "It's a debt I owe," she forced out.

  "Wrong. It was a dirty trick I pulled."

  "Mike . . . don't lie. What you said was true and no way outside of reading my mind you could have known."

  "Zip up, Candace. If I really wanted you naked, I would have gotten you that way myself."

  "Then why did you . . . ?"

  "I wanted to see if you'd stick to your word."

  Her fingers reached for the zipper and drew it up, slowly this time. A tiny feeling of anger showed in the tightness of her mouth, but there was hurt in her eyes. That was something I didn't expect to see.

  "You really don't want me, do you?"

  "Don't fool yourself, honey. I thought about it the first time I saw you and have ever since. You don't have to tell me you haven't been in the sack with anybody yet . . . no woman aching for the presidency in these days had better take t
hat chance. That much I know. But now I like what I see better than I did before." I reached for my hat and pushed out of the chair.

  "Mike . . . if you had lost . . . would you have told me about Penta?"

  I didn't have to lie my way out of that. I said, "The point is moot, kid. I didn't lose." I winked at her and stuck my hat on. "Thanks for the drink."

  She smiled when I walked past her toward the door and just as I was reaching for the knob, she said, "Mike . . ."

  I looked back and suddenly had one of those feelings that I had been here before in another time.

  The Ice Lady had let her dress crumple at her feet in soft folds and she had been wearing nothing beneath it. She was nude rather than naked, not icy at all, but warm and beautiful and so alive I could see the gentle movements of her breathing. Very alive. The nipples of her breasts were proudly erect.

  She smiled at me. I smiled back and opened the door.

  The desk nurse at the hospital was glad to have somebody to talk to, even at midnight. Velda was still under sedation, but definitely improving.

  The doctors had been in twice that day and were pleased with her progress. Yes, a police officer was still at the door and no, they never wandered off. Officers would relieve each other at regular intervals. I thanked her, hung up and dialed Petey Benson at his apartment.

  As I expected, he was having a beer in front of the TV and when he recognized my voice, asked, "How'd you make out?"

  "Like brother and sister," I told him.

  "Yeah, I bet. What's up this time?"

  "You have any connections in England?"

  "Hey, England's a big place."

  "Manchester, England."

  "Well, there's a sportswriter on the Manchester Guardian I met in London at a football game. Not like our football, but like soccer . . ."

  "I know what you mean," I snapped impatiently. Don't steer him and Petey would go off into every odd angle. "How can I reach him?"

  "Got a pencil?"

  "Sure."

  "Then I'll give you his number." He rustled some pages in his phone book, then read the number off to me. "I think we're five hours behind them over there. Call him a little later and you might get him in."