The Girl Hunters

by Mickey Spillane

  “You’re the psychologist, Doc, not me.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re thinking that frivolity is peculiar for a D and D.”

  “So go on with the story.”

  “Doc,” I said, “later I’m going to paste you right in the mouth. You know this?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s my word.”

  “So sure.”

  “Okay, Doc, ask for it. Anyway, it was a routine job. The target was a dame. At that time a lot of parties were being tapped by a fat squad who saw loot going to waste around the neck of a big broad who never needed it—but this was a classic. At least in our business.”

  “How?”

  “Never mind. At least she called us in. I figured it would be better if we changed our routine. That night I was on a homicide case. Strictly insurance, but the company was paying off and there would be another grand in the kitty. I figured it would be a better move to let Velda cover the affair since she’d be able to stay with the client at all times, even into the ladies’ room.”

  Larry interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Mind a rough question?”

  “No.”

  “Was this angle important or were you thinking, rather, of the profit end—like splitting your team up between two cases.”

  I knew I had started to shake and pressed my hands against my sides hard. After a few seconds the shakes went away and I could answer him without wanting to tear his head off. “It was an important angle,” I said. “I had two heists pulled under my nose when they happened in a powder room.”

  “And—the woman. How did she feel about it?”

  “Velda was a pro. She carried a gun and had her own P.I. ticket.”

  “And she could handle any situation?”

  I nodded. “Any we presumed could happen here.”

  “You were a little too presumptuous, weren’t you?”

  The words almost choked me when I said, “You know, Doc, you’re asking to get killed.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Not you, Mike. You aren’t like you used to be. I could take you just as easy as Pat did. Almost anybody could.”

  I tried to get up, but he laid a hand on my chest and shoved me back and I couldn’t fight against him. Every nerve in me started to jangle and my head turned into one big round blob of pain.

  Larry said, “You want a drink?”

  “No.”

  “You’d better have one.”

  “Stuff it.”

  “All right, suffer. You want to talk some more or shall I take off?”

  “I’ll finish the story. Then you can work on Pat. When I get out of here I’m going to make a project of rapping you and Pat right in the mouth.”

  “Good. You have something to look forward to. Now talk.”

  I waited a minute, thinking back years and putting the pieces in slots so familiar they were worn smooth at the edges. Finally I said, “At eleven o’clock Velda called me at a prearranged number. Everything was going smoothly. There was nothing unusual, the guests were all persons of character and money, there were no suspicious or unknown persons present including the household staff. At that time they were holding dinner awaiting the arrival of Mr. Rudolph Civac. That was my last connection with Velda.”

  “There was a police report?”

  “Sure. At 11:15 Mr. Civac came in and after saying hello to the guests, went upstairs with his wife for a minute to wash up. Velda went along. When they didn’t appear an hour and a half later a maid went up to see if anything was wrong and found the place empty. She didn’t call the police, thinking that they had argued or something, then went out the private entrance to the rear of the estate. She served dinner with a lame excuse for the host’s absence, sent the guests home and cleaned up with the others.

  “The next day Marta Civac was found in the river, shot in the head, her jewels gone and neither her husband nor Velda was ever seen again.”

  I had to stop there. I didn’t want to think on the next part anymore. I was hoping it would be enough for him, but when I looked up he was frowning with thought, digesting it a little at a time like he was diagnosing a disease, and I knew it wasn’t finished yet.

  He said, “They were abducted for the purpose of stealing those gems?”

  “It was the only logical way they could do it. There were too many people. One scream would bring them running. They probably threatened the three of them, told them to move on out quietly where the theft could be done without interruption and allow the thieves to get away.”

  “Would Velda have gone along with them?”

  “If they threatened the client that’s the best way. It’s better to give up insured gems than get killed. Even a rap on the head can kill if it isn’t done right and, generally speaking, jewel thieves aren’t killers unless they’re pushed.”

  I felt a shudder go through my shoulders. “No. The body—showed why.” I paused and he sat patiently, waiting. “Marta was a pudgy dame with thick fingers. She had crammed on three rings worth a hundred grand combined and they weren’t about to come off normally. To get the rings they had severed the fingers.”

  Softly, he remarked, “I see.”

  “It was lousy.”

  “What do you think happened, Mike?”

  I was going to hate to tell him, but it had been inside too long. I said, “Velda advised them to go along thinking it would be a heist without any physical complications. Probably when they started to take the rings off the hard way the woman started to scream and was shot. Then her husband and Velda tried to help her and that was it.”

  “Was what?”

  I stared at the ceiling. Before it had been so plain, so simple. Totally believable because it had been so totally terrible. For all those years I had conditioned myself to think only one way because in my job you got to know which answers were right.

  Now, suddenly, maybe they weren’t right anymore.

  Larry asked, “So they killed the man and Velda too and their bodies went out to sea and were never found?”

  My tired tone was convincing. I said, “That’s how the report read.”

  “So Pat took it all out on you.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Uh-huh. You let her go on a job you should have handled yourself.”

  “It didn’t seem that way at first.”

  “Perhaps, but you’ve been taking it out on yourself too. It just took that one thing to make you a bum.”

  “Hard words, friend.”

  “You realize what happened to Pat?”

  I glanced at him briefly and nodded. “I found out.”

  “The hard way.”

  “So I didn’t think he cared.”

  “You probably never would have known if that didn’t happen.”

  “Kismet, buddy. Like your getting punched in the mouth.”

  “But there’s a subtle difference now, Mikey boy, isn’t there?”

  “Like how?” I turned my head and watched him. He was the type who could hide his thoughts almost completely, even to a busted-up pro like me, but it didn’t quite come off. I knew what he was getting to.

  “Something new has been added, Mike.”

  “Oh?”

  “You were a sick man not many hours ago.”

  “I’m hurting right now.”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You were a drunk just a little while back.”

  “So I kicked the habit.”

  “Why?”

  “Seeing old friends helped.”

  He smiled at me, leaned forward and crossed his arms. “What did that guy tell you?”

  “Nothing,” I lied.

  “I think I know. I think I know the only reason that would turn you from an acute alcoholic to a deadly sober man in a matter of minutes.”

  I had to be sure. I had to see what he knew. I said, “Tell me, Doc.”

  Larry stared at me a moment, smiled smugly and sat back, enjoying every second of the scene. When he thought my re
action would be just right he told me, “That guy mentioned the name of the killer.”

  So he couldn’t see my face I turned my head. When I looked at him again he was still smiling, so I looked at the ceiling without answering and let him think what he pleased.

  Larry said, “Now you’re going out on your own, just like in the old days Pat used to tell me about.”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Want some advice?”

  “No.”

  “Nevertheless, you’d better spill it to Pat. He wants the same one.”

  “Pat can go drop.”

  “Maybe.”

  This time there was a peculiar intonation in his voice. I half turned and looked up at him. “Now what’s bugging you?”

  “Don’t you think Pat knows you have something?”

  “Like the man said, frankly, buddy, I don’t give a damn.”

  “You won’t tell me about it then?”

  “You can believe it.”

  “Pat’s going to lay charges on you.”

  “Good for him. When you clear out I’m going to have a lawyer ready who’ll tear Pat apart. So maybe you’d better tell him.”

  “I will. But for your own sake, reconsider. It might be good for both of you.”

  Larry stood up and fingered the edge of his hat. A change came over his face and he grinned a little bit.

  “Tell you something, Mike. I’ve heard so much about you it’s like we’re old friends. Just understand something. I’m really trying to help. Sometimes it’s hard to be a doctor and a friend.”

  I held out my hand and grinned back. “Sure, I know. Forget that business about a paste in the mouth. You’d probably tear my head off.”

  He laughed and nodded, squeezed my hand and walked out. Before he reached the end of the corridor I was asleep again.

  They make them patient in the government agencies. There was no telling how long he had been there. A small man, quiet, plain-looking—no indication of toughness unless you knew how to read it in his eyes. He just sat there as if he had all the time in the world and nothing to do except study me.

  At least he had manners. He waited until I was completely awake before he reached for the little leather folder, opened it and said, “Art Rickerby, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “No,” I said sarcastically.

  “You’ve been sleeping quite a while.”

  “What time is it?”

  Without consulting his watch he said, “Five after four.”

  “It’s pretty late.”

  Rickerby shrugged noncommittally without taking his eyes from my face. “Not for people like us,” he told me. “It’s never too late, is it?” He was smiling a small smile, but behind his glasses his eyes weren’t smiling at all.

  “Make your point, friend,” I said.

  He nodded thoughtfully, never losing his small smile. “Are you—let’s say, capable of coherent discussion?”

  “You’ve been reading my chart?”

  “That’s right. I spoke to your doctor friend too.”

  “Okay,” I said, “forget the AA tag. I’ve had it, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Then what do we need the Feds in for? I’ve been out of action for how many years?”

  “Seven.”

  “Long time, Art, long time, feller. I got no ticket, no rod. I haven’t even crossed the state line in all that time. For seven years I cool myself off the way I want to and then all of a sudden I have a Fed on my neck.” I squinted at him, trying to find the reason in his face. “Why?”

  “Cole, Richie Cole.”

  “What about him?”

  “Suppose you tell me, Mr. Hammer. He asked for you, you came and he spoke to you. I want to know what he said.”

  I reached way back and found a grin I thought I had forgotten how to make. “Everybody wants to know that, Rickeyback.”

  “Rickerby.”

  “So sorry.” A laugh got in behind the grin. “Why all the curiosity?”

  “Never mind why, just tell me what he said.”

  “Nuts, buddy.”

  He didn’t react at all. He sat there with all the inbred patience of years of this sort of thing and simply looked at me tolerantly because I was in a bed in the funny ward and it might possibly be an excuse for anything I had to say or do.

  Finally he said, “You can discuss this, can’t you?”

  I nodded. “But I won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like anxious people. I’ve been kicked around, dragged into places I didn’t especially want to go, kicked on my can by a cop who used to be a friend and suddenly faced with the prospects of formal charges because I object to the police version of the hard sell.”

  “Supposing I can offer you a certain amount of immunity?”

  After a few moments I said, “This is beginning to get interesting.”

  Rickerby reached for words, feeling them out one at a time. “A long while ago you killed a woman, Mike. She shot a friend of yours and you said no matter who it was, no matter where, that killer would die. You shot her.”

  “Shut up, man,” I said.

  He was right. It was a very long time ago. But it could have been yesterday. I could see her face, the golden tan of her skin, the incredible whiteness of her hair and eyes that could taste and devour you with one glance. Yet, Charlotte was there still. But dead now.

  “Hurt, Mike?”

  There was no sense trying to fool him. I nodded abruptly. “I try not to think of it.” Then I felt that funny sensation in my back and saw what he was getting at. His face was tight and the little lines around his eyes had deepened so that they stood out in relief, etched into his face.

  I said, “You knew Cole?”

  It was hard to tell what color his eyes were now. “He was one of us,” he said.

  I couldn’t answer him. He had been waiting patiently a long time to say what he had to say and now it was going to come out. “We were close, Hammer. I trained him. I never had a son and he was as close as I was ever going to get to having one. Maybe now you know exactly why I brought up your past. It’s mine who’s dead now and it’s me who has to find who did it. This should make sense to you. It should also tell you something else. Like you, I’ll go to any extremes to catch the one who did it. I’ve made promises of my own, Mr. Hammer, and I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. Nothing is going to stop me and you are my starting point.” He paused, took his glasses off, wiped them, put them back on and said, “You understand this?”

  “I get the point.”

  “Are you sure?” And now his tone had changed. Very subtly, but changed nevertheless. “Because as I said, there are no extremes to which I won’t go.”

  When he stopped I watched him and in the way he sat, the way he looked, the studied casualness became the poised kill-crouch of a cat, all cleverly disguised by clothes and the innocent aspect of rimless bifocals.

  Now he was deadly. All too often people have the preconceived notion that a deadly person is a big one, wide in the shoulders with a face full of hard angles and thickset teeth and a jawline that would be a challenge too great for anyone to dare. They’d be wrong. Deadly people aren’t all like that. Deadly people are determined people who will stop at nothing at all, and those who are practiced in the arts of the kill are the most deadly of all. Art Rickerby was one of those.

  “That’s not a very official attitude,” I said.

  “I’m just trying to impress you,” he suggested.

  I nodded. “Okay, kid, I’m impressed.”

  “Then what about Cole?”

  “There’s another angle.”

  “Not with me there isn’t.”

  “Easy, Art, I’m not that impressed. I’m a big one too.”

  “No more, Hammer.”

  “Then you drop dead, too.”

  Like a large gray cat, he stood up, still pleasant, still deadly, and said, “I suppose we leave it here?”


  “You pushed me, friend.”

  “It’s a device you should be familiar with.”

  I was getting tired again, but I grinned a little at him. “Cops. Damn cops.”

  “You were one once.”

  After a while I said, “I never stopped being one.”

  “Then cooperate.”

  This time I turned my head and looked at him. “The facts are all bollixed up. I need one day and one other little thing you might be able to supply.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Get me the hell out of here and get me that day.”

  “Then what?”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you something, maybe I won’t. Just don’t do me any outsized favors because if you don’t bust me out of here I’ll go out on my own. You can just make it easier. One way or another, I don’t care. Take your pick.”

  Rickerby smiled. “I’ll get you out,” he said. “It won’t be hard. And you can have your day.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Then come to me so I won’t have to start looking for you.”

  “Sure, buddy,” I said. “Leave your number at the desk.”

  He said something I didn’t quite catch because I was falling asleep again, and when the welcome darkness came in I reached for it eagerly and wrapped it around me like a soft, dark suit of armor.

  CHAPTER 4

  He let me stay there three days before he moved. He let me have the endless bowls of soup and the bed rest and shot series before the tall thin man showed up with my clothes and a worried nurse whose orders had been countermanded somehow by an authority she neither understood nor could refuse.

  When I was dressed he led me downstairs and outside to an unmarked black Ford and I got in without talking. He asked, “Where to?” and I told him anyplace midtown and in fifteen minutes he dropped me in front of the Taft. As I was getting out his hand closed on my arm and very quietly he said, “You have one day. No more.”

  I nodded. “Tell Rickerby thanks.”

  He handed me a card then, a simple business thing giving the address and phone of Peerage Brokers located on Broadway only two blocks off. “You tell him,” he said, then pulled away from the curb into traffic.

  For a few minutes I waited there, looking at the city in a strange sort of light I hadn’t seen for too long. It was morning, and quiet because it was Sunday. Overhead, the sun forced its way through a haze that had rain behind it, making the day sulky, like a woman in a pout.