The Girl Hunters

by Mickey Spillane

  “What about the house?”

  She wrinkled her forehead as she looked over at me. “The safe was open and empty. The police believe Leo either surprised the burglar after he opened the safe or the burglar made him open the safe and when Leo went for him, killed him. There were no marks on the safe at all. It had been opened by using the combination.”

  “How many people knew the combination?”

  “Just Leo, as far as I know.”

  I said, “The papers stated that nothing of importance was in the safe.”

  “That’s right. There couldn’t have been over a few hundred dollars in cash, a couple of account books, Leo’s insurance policies, some legal papers and some jewelry of mine. The books and legal papers were on the floor intact so—

  “What jewelry?” I interrupted.

  “It was junk.”

  “The papers quoted you as saying about a thousand dollars’ worth.”

  She didn’t hesitate and there was no evasion in her manner. “That’s right, a thousand dollars’ worth of paste. They were replicas of the genuine pieces I keep in a vault. That value is almost a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “A false premise is as good a reason for robbery as any.”

  Her eyes said she didn’t agree with me. “Nobody knew I kept that paste jewelry in there.”

  “Two people did.”

  “Oh?”

  I said, “Your husband and his killer.”

  The implication of it finally came to her. “He wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone. No, you’re wrong there. It wasn’t that important to him at all.”

  “Then why put it in the safe?”

  “It’s a natural place for it. Besides, as you mentioned, it could be a strong come-on to one who didn’t know any better.”

  “Why didn’t you have the combination?”

  “I didn’t need it. It was the only safe in the house, in Leo’s private study—and, concerning his affairs, I stayed out completely.”

  “Servants?”

  “At that time we had two. Both were very old and both have since died. I don’t think they ever suspected that there were two sets of jewels anyway.”

  “Were they trustworthy?”

  “They had been with Leo all his life. Yes, they were trustworthy.”

  I leaned back in the chair, reaching hard for any possibility now. “Could anything else have been in that safe? Something you didn’t know about?”

  “Certainly.”

  I edged forward now, waiting.

  “Leo could have kept anything there, but I doubt that he did. I believe you’re thinking of what could be termed state secrets?”

  “It’s happened before. The Senator was a man pretty high in the machinery of government.”

  “And a smart one,” she countered. “His papers that had governmental importance were all intact in his safe-deposit box and were recovered immediately after his death by the FBI, according to a memo he left with his office.” She waited a moment then, watching me try to fasten on some obscure piece of information. Then she asked, “May I know what you’re trying to get at?”

  This time there was no answer. Very simply the whole thing broke down to a not unusual coincidence. One gun had been used for two kills. It happens often enough. These kills had been years apart, and from all the facts, totally unrelated.

  I said, “It was a try, that’s all. Nothing seems to match.”

  Quietly, she stated, “I’m sorry.”

  “Couldn’t be helped.” I stood up, not quite wanting to terminate our discussion. “It might have been the jewels, but a real pro would have made sure of what he was going after, and this isn’t exactly the kind of place an amateur would hit.”

  Laura held out her hand and I took it, pulling her to her feet. It was like an unwinding, like a large fireside cat coming erect, yet so naturally that you were never aware of any artifice, but only the similarity. “Are you sure there’s nothing further… ?”

  “Maybe one thing,” I said. “Can I see the den?”

  She nodded, reaching out to touch my arm. “Whatever you want.”

  While she changed she left me alone in the room. It was a man’s place, where only a man could be comfortable, a place designed and used by a man used to living. The desk was an oversized piece of deep-colored wood, almost antique in style, offset by dark leather chairs and original oil seascapes. The walnut paneling was hand carved, years old and well polished, matching the worn oriental rug that must have come over on a Yankee clipper ship.

  The wall safe was a small circular affair that nestled behind a two-by-three-foot picture, the single modern touch in the room. Laura had opened the desk drawer, extracted a card containing the combination and handed it to me. Alone, I dialed the seven numbers and swung the safe out. It was empty.

  That I had expected. What I hadn’t expected was the safe itself. It was a Grissom 914A and was not the type you installed to keep junk jewelry or inconsequential papers in. This safe was more than a fireproof receptacle and simple safeguard for trivia. This job had been designed to be burglar-proof and had a built-in safety factor on the third number that would have been hooked into the local police PBX at the very least. I closed it, dialed it once again using the secondary number, opened it and waited.

  Before Laura came down the cops were there, two excited young fellows in a battered Ford who came to the door with Police Specials out and ready, holding them at my gut when I let them in and looking able to use them.

  The taller of the pair went around me while the other looked at me carefully and said, “Who’re you?”

  “I’m the one who tuned you in.”

  “Don’t get smart.”

  “I was testing the wall safe out.”

  His grin had a wicked edge to it. “You don’t test it like that, buddy.”

  “Sorry. I should have called first.”

  He went to answer, but his partner called in from the front room and he waved me ahead with the nose of the .38. Laura and the cop were there, both looking puzzled.

  Laura had changed into a belted black dress that accented the sweeping curves of her body and when she stepped across the room toward me it was with the lithe grace of an athlete. “Mike—do you know what—”

  “Your safe had an alarm number built into it. I checked it to see if it worked. Apparently it did.”

  “That right, Mrs. Knapp?” the tall cop asked.

  “Well, yes. I let Mr. Hammer inspect the safe. I didn’t realize it had an alarm on it.”

  “It’s the only house around here that has that system, Mrs. Knapp. It’s more or less on a commercial setup.”

  Beside me the cop holstered his gun with a shrug. “That’s that,” he said. “It was a good try.”

  The other one nodded, adjusted his cap and looked across at me. “We’d appreciate your calling first if it happens again.”

  “Sure thing. Mind a question?”

  “Nope.”

  “Were you on the force when the Senator was killed?”

  “We both were.”

  “Did the alarm go off then?”

  The cop gave me a long, deliberate look, his face wary, then, “No, it didn’t.”

  “Then if the killer opened the safe he knew the right combination.”

  “Or else,” the cop reminded me, “he forced the Senator to open it, and knowing there was nothing of real value in there, and not willing to jeopardize his own or his wife’s life by sudden interference, the Senator didn’t use the alarm number.”

  “But he was killed anyway,” I reminded him.

  “If you had known the Senator you could see why.”

  “Okay, why?” I asked him.

  Softly, the cop said: “If he was under a gun he’d stay there, but given one chance to jump the guy and he’d have jumped. Apparently he thought he saw the chance and went for the guy after the safe was open and just wasn’t fast enough.”

  “Or else surprised the guy when the safe was already
opened.”

  “That’s the way it still reads.” He smiled indulgently. “We had those angles figured out too, you know. Now do you mind telling me where you fit in the picture?”

  “Obscurely. A friend of mine was killed by a bullet from the same gun.”

  The two cops exchanged glances. The one beside me said, “We didn’t hear about that part yet.”

  “Then you will shortly. You’ll be speaking to a Captain Chambers from New York sometime soon.”

  “That doesn’t explain you.”

  I shrugged. “The guy was a friend.”

  “Do you represent a legal investigation agency?”

  “No longer,” I told him. “There was a time when I did.”

  “Then maybe you ought to leave the investigation up to authorized personnel.”

  His meaning was obvious. If I hadn’t been cleared by Laura Knapp and tentatively accepted as her friend, we’d be doing our talking in the local precinct house. It was a large Keep Off sign he was pointing out and he wasn’t kidding about it. I made a motion with my hand to let him know I got the message, watched them tip their caps to Laura and walk out.

  When they had pulled away Laura said, “Now what was that all about?” She stood balanced on one foot, her hands on her hips in an easy, yet provocative manner, frowning slightly as she tried to sift through the situation.

  I said, “Didn’t you know there was an alarm system built into that box?”

  She thought for a moment, then threw a glance toward the wall. “Yes, now that you mention it, but that safe hasn’t been opened since—then, and I simply remember the police discussing an alarm system. I didn’t know how it worked at all.”

  “Did your husband always keep that combination card in his desk?”

  “No, the lawyer found it in his effects. I kept it in the desk just in case I ever wanted to use the safe again. However, that never happened.” She paused, took a step toward me and laid a hand on my arm. “Is there some significance to all this?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. It was a thought and not a very new one. Like I told you, this was only a wild supposition at best. All I can say is that it might have established an M.O.”

  “What?”

  “A technique of operation,” I explained. “Your husband’s killer really could have gone after those jewels. The other man he killed was operating—well, was a small-time jewel smuggler. There’s a common point here.”

  For a moment I was far away in thought. I was back in the hospital with a dying man, remembering the reason why I wanted to find that link so badly. I could feel claws pulling at my insides and a fierce tension ready to burst apart like an overwound spring.

  It was the steady insistence of her voice that dragged me back to the present, her “Mike—Mike—please, Mike.”

  When I looked down I saw my fingers biting into her forearm and the quiet pain in her eyes. I let her go and sucked air deep into my lungs. “Sorry,” I said.

  She rubbed her arm and smiled gently. “That’s all right. You left me there for a minute, didn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Can I help?”

  “No. I don’t think there’s anything more here for me.”

  Once again, her hand touched me. “I don’t like finalities like that, Mike.”

  It was my turn to grin my thanks. “I’m not all that sick. But I appreciate the thought.”

  “You’re lonely, Mike. That’s a sickness.”

  “Is it?”

  “I’ve had it so long I can recognize it in others.”

  “You loved him very much, didn’t you?”

  Her eyes changed momentarily, seeming to shine a little brighter, then she replied, “As much as you loved her, Mike, whoever she was.” Her fingers tightened slightly. “It’s a big hurt. I eased mine by all the social activity I could crowd in a day.”

  “I used a bottle. It was a hell of a seven years.”

  “And now it’s over. I can still see the signs, but I can tell it’s over.”

  “It’s over. A few days ago I was a drunken bum. I’m still a bum but at least I’m sober.” I reached for my hat, feeling her hand fall away from my arm. She walked me to the door and held it open. When I stuck out my hand she took it, her fingers firm and cool inside mine. “Thanks for letting me take up your time, Mrs. Knapp.”

  “Please—make it Laura.”

  “Sure.”

  “And can you return the favor?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I told you I didn’t like finalities. Will you come back one day?”

  “I’m nothing to want back, Laura.”

  “Maybe not to some. You’re big. You have a strange face. You’re very hard to define. Still, I hope you’ll come back, if only to tell me how you’re making out.”

  I pulled her toward me gently. She didn’t resist. Her head tilted up, she watched me, she kissed me as I kissed her, easily and warm in a manner that said hello rather than goodbye, and that one touch awakened things I thought had died long ago.

  She stood there watching me as I drove away. She was still there when I turned out of sight at the roadway.

  CHAPTER 6

  The quiet voice at Peerage Brokers told me I would be able to meet with Mr. Rickerby in twenty minutes at the Automat on Sixth and Forty-fifth. When I walked in he was off to the side, coffee in front of him, a patient little gray man who seemingly had all the time in the world.

  I put down my own coffee, sat opposite him and said, “You have wild office hours.”

  He smiled meaninglessly, a studied, yet unconscious gesture that was for anyone watching. But there was no patience in his eyes. They seemed to live by themselves, being held in check by some obscure force. The late edition of the News was folded back to the center spread where a small photo gave an angular view of Old Dewey dead on the floor. The cops had blamed it on terrorists in the neighborhood.

  Rickerby waited me out until I said, “I saw Laura Knapp today,” then he nodded.

  “We covered that angle pretty thoroughly.”

  “Did you know about the safe? It had an alarm system.”

  Once again, he nodded. “For your information, I’ll tell you this. No connection has been made by any department between Senator Knapp’s death and that of Richie. If you’re assuming any state papers were in that safe you’re wrong. Knapp had duplicate listings of every paper he had in his possession and we recovered everything.”

  “There were those paste jewels,” I said.

  “I know. I doubt if they establish anything, even in view of Richie’s cover. It seems pretty definite that the gun was simply used in different jobs. As a matter of fact, Los Angeles has since come up with another murder in which the same gun was used. This was a year ago and the victim was a used-car dealer.”

  “So it wasn’t a great idea.”

  “Nor original.” He put down his coffee and stared at me across the table. “Nor am I interested in others besides Richie.” He paused, let a few seconds pass, then added, “Have you decided to tell me what Richie really told you?”

  “No.”

  “At least I won’t have to call you a liar again.”

  “Knock it off.”

  Rickerby’s little smile faded slowly and he shrugged. “Make your point then.”

  “Cole. I want to know about him.”

  “I told you once—”

  “Okay, so it’s secret. But now he’s dead. You want a killer, I want a killer and if we don’t get together someplace nobody gets nothing. You know?”

  His ringers tightened on the cup, the nails showing the strain. He let a full minute pass before he came to a decision. He said, “Can you imagine how many persons are looking for this—killer?”

  “I’ve been in the business too, friend.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you this. I know nothing of Richie’s last mission and I doubt if I’ll find out. But this much I do know—he wasn’t supposed to be back here at all. He disobeyed or
ders and would have been on the carpet had he not been killed.”

  I said, “Cole wasn’t a novice.”

  And for the first time Rickerby lost his composure. His eyes looked puzzled, bewildered at this sudden failure of something he had built himself. “That’s the strange part about it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Richie was forty-five years old. He had been with one department or another since ’41 and his record was perfect. He was a book man through and through and wouldn’t bust a reg for any reason. He could adapt if the situation necessitated it, but it would conform to certain regulations.” He stopped, looked across his cup at me and shook his head slowly. “I—just can’t figure it.”

  “Something put him here.”

  This time his eyes went back to their bland expression. He had allowed himself those few moments and that was all. Now he was on the job again, the essence of many years of self-discipline, nearly emotionless to the casual observer. “I know,” he said.

  And he waited and watched for me to give him the one word that might send him out on a kill chase. I used my own coffee cup to cover what I thought, ran through the possibilities until I knew what I wanted and leaned back in my chair. “I need more time,” I told him.

  “Time isn’t too important to me. Richie’s dead. Time would be important only if it meant keeping him alive.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  “How long do you need before telling me?”

  “Telling what?”

  “What Richie thought important enough to tell you.”

  I grinned at him. “A week, maybe.”

  His eyes were deadly now. Cold behind the glasses, each one a deliberate ultimatum. “One week, then. No more. Try to go past it and I’ll show you tricks you never thought of when it comes to making a man miserable.”

  “I could turn up the killer in that time.”

  “You won’t.”

  “There were times when I didn’t do so bad.”