Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer]

by The Killing Man [lit]

  6 Every building seems to have a forgotten corner to it that isnÒt good for anything at all. They are places that just sit there, empty offices with no natural light, their walls always vibrating from the elevator next to them. They smell musty and look dismal so nobody wants to occupy them. Then somebody comes along and sees that spot and to that person it becomes prime territory because it means quiet solitude where the work is intensely mental and a domain is established. I knocked on the door, opened it and said hello to Ray Wilson. ÓDo you know that nobody knows where you work in this building? They kept telling me it was downstairs somewhere.Ô He waved for me to come in. ÓMy own personal dungeon.Ô He kicked a chair over to me. ÓHave a seat. Be right with you.Ô I sat down, taking in the rows of filing cabinets around me. There was an odd hum in the room, then muted voices spoke and I saw the scanner on a table in the rear. Ray was monitoring the calls to the prowl cars. Next to his desk was a new-model computer, the viewer lined with figures. There were other machines farther down, not new, but evidently competent for the work load they handled. Ray slammed a cabinet drawer shut and walked to his desk. He perched on the corner and fired up a cigarette. ÓIÒve been wondering when youÒd show up. Pat said youÒd be in sooner or later.Ô ÓNow why would he do that?Ô ÓBecause I have fairly immediate access to material it would take you a month to uncover.Ô ÓLike what?Ô He had me interested now. ÓLike the finger mutilation in your office. What does it mean?Ô he asked. ÓItÒs twice as many as he took off the US agent in England.Ô The cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth. ÓHow the hell did you find out about that?Ô ÓIntelligence,Ô I said. ÓWho else lost their fingers?Ô He slid off the desk, walked around and sat in the old wooden swivel chair. ÓYouÒre treading on dangerous ground, Mike.Ô ÓRay ... you got curious too. You have all the machines going for you, all the authority you need and most likely a few good connections thrown in to make things go smoothly. You could get into Interpol, Scotland Yard or the French Surete and as long as itÒs criminal activity youÒre after and not political, you can tap their sources. So who else lost their fingers, Ray?Ô This time he took a deep drag on the butt and held the smoke down while he thought about what I said. He breathed out a thin cloud and looked at me. ÓI located three before it became political.Ô ÓDamn.Ô ÓA French narcotics dealer, low level, but he was skimming from the organization. The fingers were lopped off an hour before a knife stroke killed him. The second was a strange one ... a ten-year-old kid was kidnapped from his home near Rome. The parents were immensely wealthy. The police were ineffectual and they knew they were dealing with a well-organized group of crim-inals. The ransom was over a million bucks in US currency. Apparently the parents took matters into their own hands, although they never admitted it. But the child was returned to them unharmed, along with a note describing where to find the kidnapper. He was tied to a chair in a barn, five fingers cut off his hand and the pointed end of a pickax slammed through his chest. The rest of the band were located and died in a police shootout.Ô ÓThis guy is a wild man,Ô I said. ÓNot really.Ô He lit another butt from the end of the old one and gulped the smoke down again. ÓThis is no nut case. Not so far. Six months after the kidnapping a major art theft took place in Belgium. Two paintings of one of the great masters were stolen from a gallery. They were like the Mona Lisa, no way you can put an accurate cash value on their worth. At any rate, a reward was offered for their return.Ô ÓNo one demanded a ransom price?Ô ÓApparently this theft was arranged for a private owner. It never went through. Three weeks after the robbery one painting was delivered to the gallery with a letter telling how the money was to be transferred, then the other painting would be returned. No police were involved, the gallery accepted the terms and delivered the money. The painting was subsequently returned. This time a box accompanied the picture. There were five severed fingers in it. A couple weeks later the stench of a decaying body brought the police to where the corpse was, one hand finger-less, and all the direct evidence to point to him as the thief. Whether they got his sponsor, I donÒt know.Ô ÓAnd now heÒs here,Ô I said. ÓBut this time he went for ten.Ô ÓThis time he thought it was your hand he was trimming.Ô I shook my head. ÓThat, Ray, is the sticker. There is no way I have any connection with this guy. That note had to be a phony. He was after DiCica to start with and I got snarled in it by accident.Ô ÓPat gave me the hypothesis your funny friends figured out. Given DiCicaÒs background there could be a probability ...Ô ÓHell, thereÒs logic there too, Ray.Ô This time Ray said no. ÓI donÒt buy it. Here this Penta character pulls a kill-crazy murder in your office. What were those other kills like?Ô ÓPretty well oiled,Ô I said. ÓHe knew what he was doing.Ô ÓBut he didnÒt instigate the crimes, did he? Somebody sent him out looking for the perps. With the paintings it was the reward that motivated him. The killing was his signature.Ô ÓThen this guyÒs a hit man?Ô ÓHeÒs a fucking marvel, thatÒs what. Someplace along the line my inquiries got shut down like a slammed window. IÒve been waiting to see if there are any repercussions upstairs, but so far this thing just sits. ItÒs going to take a lot more weight than I got to climb a political wall.Ô ÓYou sure itÒs gone that far?Ô ÓMike, IÒm almost due for forced retirement. This private little police enterprise IÒve built into the department is going to go absolutely flat when I leave unless it captures a little glory from the money people in city government. They donÒt even know what they got here. The age of computers has tied this place in with every country and industry in the world like a pair of naked lovers in bed.Ô ÓCrazy, man.Ô ÓI got a feeling about this.Ô ÓSo have I, Ray, so have I. But where do we pick it up from?Ô He had another drag on the cigarette and coughed for half a minute. When he stopped he said, ÓYou killed Penta, Mike. He said so himself.Ô ÓEnough, Ray. You know how long itÒs been since I blew somebody away. IÒm sick of that stupid note.Ô ÓYou I believe. ItÒs this Penta whoÒs hard to follow.Ô He sucked on the cigarette again and coughed again. ÓYouÒre still the target,Ô he said. ÓShow me a motive, then IÒll believe it.Ô ÓYou realize that somewhere there is a motive. It may be crazy and it may be out in left field somewheres, but the motive is there. These kills donÒt come from somebody whoÒs blown his top and is walking down the street with a knife in his hand.Ô ÓSo what comes next?Ô ÓThe killer is a real stalker. Something motivates him and he gets the job done. HeÒs efficient, silent and completely ruthless.Ô ÓYou realize what youÒre profiling here, donÒt you?Ô ÓSure,Ô Ray said, Óa terrorist.Ô ÓHow long ago were those three murders he pulled off?Ô Ray finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray. ÓI wondered if youÒd figure that one out. The last one was twelve years ago.Ô ÓAnd you think there have been more since, right?Ô ÓA killer like that who enjoys his work doesnÒt stop. You know what I think?Ô I nodded. ÓSomebody realized his potential and utilized him for their own ends.Ô ÓSmart bastard,Ô he laughed. ÓWhen we get into the political situation the shades get drawn. Communication gets cut off. I get the feeling that sooner or later somebody is going to be asking me in for a quiet talk.Ô ÓYou still going to keep at it?Ô He reached for his pack and shook out another butt. ÓIn three weeks I turn in the badge and start on my pension. No way I can leave with a situation like this wide open.Ô He chuckled and struck a match. ÓFunny, in a way. I got promoted down to the bottom of the line where I like it best and I want to see the expression on some faces if this opens out to the big glory bust.Ô He held the match to the butt and sucked on the smoke again, then rattled out a cough. ÓWho else gets this research?Ô ÓThis is departmental business. Pat gets it. How he disseminates it is up to him. With you itÒs off the record. I guess you know that.Ô ÓNo sweat. What I heard here I leave here. Thanks for the information.Ô ÓYou know somethinÒ? For a private cop you got the damnedest connections IÒve ever seen. You go in and outa the department like you really belonged there. You rub asses with the hot-shots, walk through the shitpiles without stepping in it and come up smelling like a guy fresh outa the barber shop.Ô ÓYou jealous?Ô ÓNope, just curious as hell.Ô He started to cough aga
in and stuck the cigarette pack in his pocket. ÓThose things are going to kill you,Ô I said. He gave me a cold-blooded grin. ÓRight now IÒd say my chances are Ñbout the same as yours.Ô ÓSure they are,Ô I said sourly, shaking my head. He waved the smoke away with his hand as I headed to the door. ÓStay alive, Mike,Ô he said to my back. There was no way I could have avoided the three reporters on the main floor. They were waiting for anyone involved in the investigation of SmileyÒs killing, hoping to get Pat, and I walked right into them. They would have had the official version as far as it went, but they were all old-timers and smelled a story brewing that hadnÒt erupted into the news yet. Two of them remembered me from a couple other wild sorties and a major court case three years ago. I had always made good copy, and now with the kill in my office and me on the scene of another one, they were trying to make a chain out of something that was only a pile of loose links so far. I didnÒt lie to them. They were too good at putting things together. I didnÒt tell them everything either, and they knew it. What they got, the cops already had, so I didnÒt leave myself open. The one reporter who had just been jotting things down when the others put the questions to me finally said, ÓThat guy really messed up your girl, didnÒt he?Ô My hands locked up again and I could feel the muscles in my neck go tight. ÓIÒd like to kill that fucker,Ô I said. My voice was suddenly harsh and I spat on the floor. ÓShe your girl?Ô he asked quietly. I caught myself just in time. He was watching me carefully, mentally recording my reaction. ÓVelda works for me,Ô I said. ÓWeÒre old friends.Ô I didnÒt go any further and before he could press it, Pat came in the front doors with Candace Amory and two of the reporters half-ran to intercept them. The other took his time, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. I was glad when he joined the others. Pat and Candace dealt with them in a fast and friendly manner, then turned them over to the PR cop who was standing by. Pat had spotted me the minute he came in and waved his thumb at the elevator. The door closed and we started up. ÓWhatÒre you doing here?Ô Pat said. ÓI thought you wanted a statement.Ô Candace gave us both a sharp look. ÓDidnÒt you give one to the officer at the scene?Ô Her tone was like a reprimand. I kept my face flat. ÓNot in superfine detail, lady.Ô ÓWeÒve done this before,Ô Pat told her brusquely. The door opened at his floor and we got off and went into his office. Pat went behind his desk, I eased into the comfortable chair by the window and Candace walked. It was an animal walk. It was a cat walk, an annoyed pissed-off strut that only a woman with a hair up her ass can do. When she stopped she stared straight at Pat and half hissed, ÓWhatÒs with you two?Ô ÓAsk him.Ô Pat didnÒt bother to look at her. Her eyes reached for me next. ÓI donÒt believe this Å this comfortable arrangement. YouÒd think you were ranking officer in the department ...Ô ÓIÒm licensed.Ô ÓWhere did you ever learn×Ó ÓIÒve been through the FBI school, sat through all the sessions at the New York Police Academy, went through the fire marshalÒs school here in the city ... want more?Ô Pat was really grinning now. ÓAsk him how he managed it. Sure makes a good story.Ô ÓAnd Pat and I were in the army together,Ô I added. ÓBut donÒt think I get extra privileges.Ô ÓHorseshit,Ô she said, and started to smile. When she walked to a chair and sat down it was still a cat walk, but now it was loose and easy. There were two eight-by-ten glossies on PatÒs desk and he handed them to me. ÓThis thing is starting to pull in tight. Take a look.Ô One photo showed four barely discernible shoe-prints and the other was an enlargement of one of them. ÓWhat do you think?Ô ÓThey look like moccasins. The sole and heel are all one.Ô ÓRight, and theyÒre different sizes ... two people.Ô He had me puzzled. ÓSo?Ô ÓSee the enlargement?Ô This time I looked at it carefully. There were odd geometric patterns from the sole in the print. I took a minute before it hit me. ÓThose are boating shoes ... nonskid soles. They come in all styles, from canvas to classics.Ô ÓThatÒs right,Ô Pat agreed. ÓSuggest anything?Ô It was all going over CandaceÒs head and the expression she wore was sheer bewilderment. I nodded. ÓThey were pros, all right. They would be dress uppers and working lowers.Ô ÓThatÒs not all.Ô He picked up the phone, punched a number and told the listener to come to the office. In two minutes the cop who did the photography came in and handed Pat two more blowups, turned and left. He studied them for a few seconds, then let me see them. There were those soles again. ÓWhoever wore those shoes killed Smiley,Ô he said. ÓThis oneÒs the same size as the one on the other shot, and you know where they came from, donÒt you?Ô I handed the photos to Candace to look at. ÓThose were the ones who worked me over, werenÒt they?Ô Pat was looking smug. ÓDamn good police work, pal.Ô He appreciated the compliment. ÓWeÒre pretty good pros too. The manufacturer of those shoes has been identified and is sending a list of outlets that sell them, though that may not be much help. But shoes are things people keep, so we have something else to look for.Ô ÓWhat leads do you have, Captain?Ô He didnÒt mention the tape I had given him. Pat could work closely with the DA, but he didnÒt have to get in bed with him. ÓThere are things we are processing right now,Ô he told her. ÓWe should have some results shortly.Ô I felt like I was in the middle of a dream. Pat was talking to her and I could hear but I wasnÒt listening. Their voices were a far-off drone and I was sitting in the darkened garage tied to a chair, my mind stupefied from an injected drug. I was being induced to remember someone called Penta, but there was no way I could remember anything except a dream of someone behind me gagging and muttering a curse then forcefully spitting out something ugly. Pat said, ÓYou with us, Mike?Ô I jolted alert. ÓSorry about that. I was trying to remember something.Ô ÓDid you?Ô ÓNot quite.Ô Apparently Candace had finished her conversation with Pat during my dream sequence and she was putting on touches of lipstick. My stomach was growling, telling me I hadnÒt eaten all day. ÓAnybody for an early supper?Ô ÓAnother time,Ô Pat told me. I held out an offering hand to Candace. She shook her head. ÓThank you, no. IÒm meeting with Bennett Bradley and Mr. Coleman in a little while.Ô Her eyes caught mine over the top of her mirror. ÓBut IÒll join you for a drink when weÒre finished.Ô ÓGreat. IÒll pick you up where?Ô ÓAt my office. Sevenish sound all right?Ô ÓPerfect,Ô I said. ÓWhatÒll we talk about?Ô She ran her tongue over her mouth to wet the lipstick. She didnÒt look up. ÓIÒm sure youÒll think of something.Ô Pat didnÒt have to say a word. I knew what he was thinking.