The Killing Man mh-12

by Mickey Spillane

  "The police officer told me you checked the lady's room tonight."

  "That's right. I clean up, make sure nothing is left on the table, the lavatory is serviced . . ."

  I didn't let him finish. "There was another orderly in there tonight too."

  "Oh, him. That jerko was on the wrong floor. Imagine that. Those new people don't even know which button to push on the elevator."

  "You report him?"

  "For being on the wrong floor?"

  "Never mind. Had you seen the guy before?"

  He shrugged and spread his hands apart. "Well . . . I don't think so. But people come and go . . ."

  "With Vandyke beards and real doctor faces?"

  "I must admit, he did have a look about him . . . but no, I never saw him before."

  There are times you want to spit and your mouth goes dry and this was one of those times. I went back to the desk, picked up the phone and got security. I gave a description of the guy to the officer in charge downstairs and told him to cover all exits. If the Vandyke crap was a disguise, he'd be big enough to recognize by height and weight.

  One more call and a small argument got the operator to put a call in for Pat on the PA system. A minute later there was a click and he said, "Chambers here."

  "Mike, pal. Where are you?"

  "At the main desk downstairs waiting for you to come in. Where the hell have you been?"

  "Hang on. I'll tell you in a minute."

  The elevator took me down to the foyer and when I stepped out I saw Pat in a three-way conversation with Burke Reedey and Bennett Bradley.

  I waved to the group, then pointed at Pat and motioned for him to get over to me. Quickly, I told him what had happened and said to be easy, I had alerted hospital security and Velda was all right.

  "You sure?"

  "Positive. The sedation might have slowed her down, but she recognized the voice. She didn't identify the face, but by damn, if Velda laid an ID on the voice it's good enough for me."

  "But why go for her, Mike?"

  "We got a fast-thinking killer, that's why. He tried whacking her out the first time so there would be nobody to identify him, and even if he did get a good shot at her, there's a probability she could make an identification, and that probability he can't take a chance on."

  "That's what Bradley said," Pat told me. "He made an appointment to meet Burke here tonight and possibly talk to her, but your doctor buddy had already given her the sedative and didn't think it advisable."

  "Nobody told me about that."

  "Relax. Bradley spoke to me this evening and I told him to speak to Burke. Your girl's okay, pal. She never saw the show, she won't think the smartasses nailed you . . ."

  "Then get some of your guys to cover this place. Hospital security-"

  "Relax," Pat said again. "Most of the security here are retired NYPD guys." He went over to the phone, made two calls and came back. "Any more orders?"

  I shook my head.

  "What a pisser you are. With a time lapse like that, don't you think the guy would have been out of here ? What kind of pussy you think we're dealing with?"

  Burke and Bennett Bradley had been watching us curiously, so we cut it short and walked over to the desk. Burke said, "What's with you two?"

  I told them what had gone on upstairs and Bradley's face went tight, his eyes drawing almost closed, and he breathed out the word "Penta" like he was saying "shit" in a foreign language.

  All I could think of was that I had heard enough of Penta for a lifetime. It was a damned red-herring myth screwing up the works and nobody wanted to listen to me at all. I was the one it all started over, just me and Anthony DiCica, and now everything gets woven into a fairy-tale spider-web.

  I said, "Bradley, don't give me this Penta bullshit. You got no prints, no witnesses, no motive . . . you don't have a damn thing to bring this Penta into this except a fucking stupid note that was left on my desk beside a mutilated corpse."

  He let the hardness out of his face, grimaced gently and said, "Put it this way . . . we're all looking for a killer."

  "He almost did it again," I said. "Velda might possibly identify his voice, but that's not hard evidence. If we could nail him with a voiceprint on tape, that's another story."

  "You have a tape to match it?" Burke asked.

  "We're not sure," Pat said.

  "I wish somebody would be sure of something," Bradley told us. "I'd like the years I've spent following this Penta to come to something. A punctured career is no way to leave the service." He looked at the date on his watch, holding it up close so he could read the miniature letters. "I have one more week before my replacement takes over." He dropped his arm. "But it has been an exciting life, gentlemen."

  Burke said, "I'll be here at eight A.M., Mr. Bradley. She should be alert enough to talk to and maybe the both of us can get her to remember something. That all right with you, Captain?"

  Pat glanced at me for confirmation and I nodded. "Do what you want. I don't think you'll get anywhere, but it won't hurt trying."

  "We'll go easy on her," Burke told me.

  A tall, slim guy in a hospital security uniform turned the corner and walked up to Pat. Until he got close you wouldn't think he was over forty, but this one had all the markings of an old street cop and he sure knew Pat all right. He knew me too, but I couldn't place him. His men had covered the exits, checked out the premises and questioned people on every floor, but there was no sign of anybody to answer the description of the guy in Velda's room. Pat thanked him, gave me a resigned look and I put on my hat.

  Pat said, "You want a lift?"

  "No . . . I'm going to my office and get the directions to our old buddy's place. I'll see you when I get back."

  "When you going out?"

  "First thing in the morning."

  I said so long to everybody there and got a cab that was just pulling up to the door. The rain had let up, but the sky was rumbling away and at irregular intervals the overcast would brighten momentarily with a hidden lightning stroke inside the clouds.

  The cabbie bobbed his head when I gave him my office address and we went down the drive past the row of cars that were packed bumper-to-bumper again. I looked at the place where the black Mercedes with one taillight out had been parked. This time there was a white Thunderbird and it was jammed in too tightly to go anywhere.

  9

  For fifteen minutes I had been poking through my desk and the assorted boxes on the shelves looking for General Rudy Skubal's address. I found everything I didn't need, but not the single sheet of a loose-leaf notepad I remembered writing it down on. My filing habits were strictly garbage-style, and if I had given it to Velda in the beginning I would have had it by now. I kicked the bottom drawer shut with my foot and sat on the edge of my chair feeling like a damn idiot.

  Sometimes . . . sometimes without being asked, Velda would put things away she thought I might have use for. A piece of folded-over paper would be too much to ask for, but I gave it a try anyway.

  I went outside to her filing cabinet, pulled out the drawer marked S and thumbed through the bank of folders.

  And there it was, single folder, SKUBAL, RUDOLPH, GENERAL. Inside a single piece of unfolded paper from a loose-leaf notepad with directions to the old mansion on Long Island where the powerhouse from the old, wild days was kept like an aged lion, regal, but raggedy from conflict, scarred, worn and with too many years for head-to-head fieldwork. Here was where he was putting together a lifetime of notes, cryptic data now unclassified that would turn out to be the manual of manuals for covert espionage or the hairiest piece of fiction ever.

  It had been a long time since I had seen him.

  I was hoping he was still alive.

  When I went back to the outer office I stood there a minute. The cleaners had gone over the area, the rug had been replaced, but there was still that almost imperceptible smell of Velda there. For a single second my mind flashed to the crumpled, smashed heap the killer
had left her in and I knew the explosion was coming on unless I forgot about it.

  One by one, I let my fists unclench, the tautness go out of my shoulders and my breathing slow down. When I was okay I locked up the office and took the elevator down. It stopped two floors below mine, and Ed Hawkins, who likes to work all night, got on with his usual two briefcases, said hello and started complaining about business. This week was bad. He barely doubled his quota and that big million wasn't coming in fast enough.

  Together we walked through the foyer, signed out with the guard at the desk and pushed through the doors. We were heading in opposite directions, said so long when I saw a car break away from the curb with a wild swerve, straighten up and lay on speed. The driver's window was down, and there was a pro sitting there bringing up an Uzi automatic in his left hand to squeeze off an unimpeded burst of incredibly rapid fire.

  Motion seemed to be slowed down. I was yelling, falling and grabbing at Ed's jacket all at once, then he was twisting in the air as the muzzle of the Uzi came alive with a string of unmuffled fire that sprayed bullets directly over our heads. My action had blown the gunman's rhythm and the speed of the car took him past us, and while the glass was still falling out of the doors behind us, it was all over. The car squealed around the corner and was gone.

  Ed was on his face, eyes staring in terror, papers from one briefcase spilled out around him. I said, "You all right?"

  He turned his head, still bug-eyed, and said, "I don't feel anything."

  "You hurt?"

  "No." He moved a little, his arms, then his legs. "I think I'm all right." He sat up and grinned foolishly, turned and saw the shattered doors in the office and said soberly, "Why would anybody want to kill me?"

  Before I could answer, the guard came out, his service revolver in his fist. He made sure we were both unhurt, then got back to the phone and called the police. I got Ed back inside, sat him down at the desk, gave him a glass of water and grabbed the phone as soon as the guard put it down.

  By now Pat would be on the way home and there was no use getting him in on this. I dialed Candace's home number, let it ring half a dozen times, then an obviously sleepy voice said, "Yes?"

  I didn't want to risk an irate cut-off, so I threw it at her fast. "This is Mike, kid. Somebody just tried to hit me here at my office. It was nicely set up, an Uzi from the car window and he almost got two of us."

  Suddenly the voice wasn't tired any more. "You are . . . uninjured?"

  "Only my vanity was hurt. Damn, everybody wants me dead."

  "Where are you?"

  I gave her the address.

  "Have you called the police?"

  "Squad cars are on the way."

  "You stay right there. I have to see you."

  "Hell, I'll give my statement to the cops when they get here. I just wanted you to know this thing is coming to a fucking head."

  "Stop swearing. And stay there."

  This was one night the cars were in the area. The cops from two cruisers came in, visually checking the area, then came directly to the desk. I went through the ID bit again, gave them the details that were confirmed by the guard and the shaken Hawkins. There would be a followup of detectives coming by at any second and I was hoping Candace Amory got there first to keep the pressure down.

  She did. She came in with a white trenchcoat thrown over a powder blue jogging suit and nobody had to tell the cops who she was. The detectives were right behind her wondering what the hell was going on, but the Icicle Lady got them all squared away in a hurry. I knew the plainclothes guys and they were giving me those strange looks that guys who have an in with girls get. She caught it too, and just let it pass.

  Somehow, most of the activity had bypassed Ed and when his nerves were back on straight, he finally stood up and looked at me like Jackie Gleason's Poor Soul character and said, "They didn't want to kill me at all."

  Nobody said anything.

  "They were trying to kill . . . you, Mike."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Nothing ever happens to me," he said dejectedly.

  "Enjoy your near miss," I told him.

  He packed the rest of his papers in his case, nodded good night and made his way to the door, stepping over the neat piles of glass the janitor was sweeping up.

  Candace had a magic way of clearing the aisles for us. There were no more questions and I knew the back way out to get around the reporters and the pair from the TV news broadcast. I wondered if that pair ever slept. Candace picked me up on the opposite street where the garage exit was and I climbed in.

  I asked her, "Where to now?"

  "It may sound silly, but your place or mine?"

  "Let's go to yours."

  "Why?"

  "Because I can get out of yours."

  Once again, I got that inquiring sideways look.

  "It's hard to be a nice guy and get a broad out of your apartment," I explained.

  "Talk about macho," she said.

  "Let's talk about now. They're coming down on my head like a ton of bricks. This being-a-target shit is for the birds."

  "Stop the nasty talk."

  "I've heard you cut loose. Just get yourself shot at and see what you say then."

  "All right. What about tonight? Who knew you'd be at your office?"

  "I said it loud enough at the hospital. I was talking to Pat, but ten other people would have heard me. But that doesn't matter . . . my place had been staked out. That car was waiting there. Hell, if the mob guys want my ass, they could keep a dozen guys placed for a hit."

  "They told me about the attempted mugging."

  "Sure, that was for getting wise with one of the big boys. They don't like that attitude. I guess they didn't like what I did to their goons any better. By now they think it's time to go all the way."

  I sat back in the seat, mulling it over again. She reached her building, let the doorman park the car for her, and we went up to her apartment. She flipped on four locks and a chain, threw her trenchcoat over a chair and went to the bar and made a pair of drinks. All the activity seemed to have run up some static electricity and the power blue jogging suit clung to her like Saran Wrap. Now she looked like a blue nude.

  When she handed me the drink she motioned for me to come over to the desk. There was a sheet of paper there with the city letterhead. It was full of numbers, ending in a nine-digit figure. She put her finger under the $905 million total and said, "That's what they want to kill you for, Mike."

  I put the drink down without tasting it.

  "You were right. It all went back to DiCica, straight back to when he shot those two gang leaders and picked up that envelope."

  "And you know what's in it?"

  "Yes. Directions."

  "To what?" I picked up my drink and finished half of it. I was beginning to feel that I was going to need a boost.

  Unconsciously, she flicked on the record player and the opening movement of Franz Liszt's Dante Symphony flowed out of the speakers. If she wanted suitable background music, she was going to get it.

  "When does a rumor become fact, Mike?" Her voice was thoughtful.

  I could have answered, but it was her show and I let her play it out.

  "The officers your friend had assist me knew what they were doing. They didn't even bother assembling data or gathering evidence. All they did was have me talk to a half dozen people. Strange people. Workmen in the underworld. Everyone had the same thing to say, more or less. Do you know what the cocaine consumption in the US is?"

  "I can give you the latest estimate," I told her, "and that's probably five thousand percent too low."

  "Why?"

  "Because interception accounts for only five percent of the narcotics trade. The suppliers have an insatiable demand to fill. Hell, they'll put up twenty percent of volume to keep the narcs away from their main shipments. Our guys used to throw a party when they grabbed a few kilos of H, and now that's real low-volume stuff. The coke coming in now runs in tons. Can yo
u imagine that? Tons of pure shit . . . and translated to street money, it can pay off our national debt."

  Liszt was getting heavy now, gently thunderous.

  She turned, faced me, her eyes watching me. "Twenty years ago we never thought of deliveries in tonnage. It seemed almost impossible. There wasn't the manpower to enforce action against anything that large. The street dealers at that time weren't even set up to handle a quantity like that. Money wasn't available, the farmers, the initial producers weren't organized to grow a crop that size. Right?"

  I nodded.

  "Wrong," she said. "That cartel was way ahead of us. The farmers were producing, the laboratories were set up and while nobody thought it possible, those cocaine exporters were ready to unload on us and they made the contacts with the East Coast families to get in on the deal at a beautiful price."

  Now I remembered hearing about that years ago. It was a rumor then and it was a rumor now.

  She went on: "Remember, this is street talk. It's been around a long time and could have escalated with the telling."

  "I know," I said.

  "The cartel made the proposition through Juan Torres. The families got together, checked it out, pooled their money and bought a tractor-trailer solidly loaded with the purest cocaine you could find."

  Just the thought of that much stuff hitting the street made me want to vomit. "You realize the money involved here?"

  "Certainly, but imagine what it would be on the retail end when it's cut down."

  "Someplace a lot of hundred-dollar bills changed hands," I said.

  "They store it in temperature- and humidity-controlled bins now," she told me. "Their banking systems equal anything in Geneva, Switzerland. The cartel was given the key to the money and they gave the directions to the trailerload of coke to the organization's representatives. When DiCica killed them and picked up that envelope he turned the whole deal upside down. He held nearly a billion-dollar shipment in his hands. No way the cartel would deliver a duplicate set. Their end of the deal was over. From here on in the organization handled it themselves."