Don't Look Behind You

by Mickey Spillane

  The girls weren’t screaming now, but they were talking, loud and upset, those who weren’t shocked into a stunned silence, anyway.

  Velda was at my side, helping me up. “You all right, Mike?”

  “Just wounded pride,” I said, on my feet. “And you know what? I’m starting to feel unpopular.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I called headquarters from the suite’s bedroom and Pat said he’d be over with a team straightaway. Then I phoned down to Merle Allison’s office. The line was busy and I had to try the front desk to have them send somebody over to the security office and tell Merle there had been a shooting in Suite 2757.

  When the well-dressed stocky house dick arrived, not quite five minutes later, he told me he’d missed my call because he was on the phone dealing with guests on the twenty-seventh floor asking about gunshots.

  “Velda has rounded up the guests and the hostess in the dining room,” I said. “The wait staff and the two cooks, too. Would you keep an eye on them till Captain Chambers gets here?”

  Merle was feeling territorial again. “Who put you in charge, Hammer?”

  “The guy who came here to shoot me.”

  “I thought it was a heist.”

  Maybe Merle was a detective—he’d put his finger on the crux of it, hadn’t he?

  “Would you rather stand guard over a corpse,” I asked him, “or ride herd on a bunch of young lookers?”

  The round face thought about that for about half a second, then spelled Velda in the dining room.

  She joined me where I was kneeling over the dead fake waiter.

  “He’s in his thirties, I’d say,” she said, crouching down in her cocktail dress, its full skirt making that easy. “Very average-looking. I don’t suppose he’s got a wallet on him.”

  “I checked. No, and of course that’s no surprise. The gun is a Browning nine millimeter. What do you make of that?”

  I pointed to a square of folded white cloth stuffed in his waistband, like a big hanky.

  “Laundry bag,” she said. “For the take.”

  I got to my feet. She did the same. We went over and took one of the coral couches in front of the marble fireplace. The murmur of the girls in the next room was like an engine purring.

  I said, “He figured to stuff all that sterling silver from the other room in a laundry bag?”

  “Maybe he was just after the jewels.”

  I grinned at her. “Is that what you really think, doll?”

  Her smile was more subtle. “Of course not. He was here to kill you. The robbery is just a cover. He may have gone ahead and carried it out… but taking you down was the idea.”

  I tossed an upraised palm. “But why bother? Did Woodcock bother with a cover when he invaded our office? Did the guy who killed that poor cabbie do anything but start blasting in broad daylight from a city park?”

  She was slowly shaking her head. “Doesn’t make a bit of sense to me, Mike.”

  But I was thinking. “It might to me, only it’ll take some digging.”

  “Well, that’s what we do.”

  “Right. Let me handle Pat.”

  She clutched my sleeve. “Mike… you didn’t kill that intruder. I did.”

  I patted her hand. “I know. So give him a brief statement and then say you’re way too upset over killing a guy to do any more talking.”

  The brown eyes narrowed. “And Pat will buy that?”

  “Sure. You’re his weakness. You are okay?”

  A smirk. “What do you think?”

  Pat arrived with a small army of plainclothes men and lab guys including a photographer. He never took off his fedora and trenchcoat the whole time he was there, maybe to remind everybody he was a cop. I gave him a quick rundown, and, skirting the corpse, showed him the hall door in the bedroom that the guy had come in. The bed was still piled with the coats of the female attendees, lots of dead minks trying to mate.

  Back in the living room, I kept my distance as he sat with Velda on the coral couch and got a preliminary statement out of her.

  Then she said, “Is that enough for now? I’m really beside myself about this.”

  Pat’s gray-blue eyes studied her like a forensics exhibit. Then, finally, he said, “Did Mike tell you to say that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Velda—you’ve killed guys before.”

  “Not as many as Mike.”

  “Who has?”

  But he just waved a hand, dismissing her, and she found a chair in a quiet corner of the living room, where she pretended to be freaked out while she kept an eye on what the team of technicians were up to, and what they were finding.

  Now I sat with Pat, only I took one couch and he took the other, facing each other over the low-slung coffee table.

  “So what do you make of this, Mike?”

  “Looks like a robbery. My client was afraid somebody might try something. That’s why Velda and I were here, you know.”

  He gave me half a smile. “I don’t want to tax your memory, chum, but this is the third time this week somebody tried to kill you.”

  “This prick didn’t try to kill me. He came in that door with a gun in his hand, with all that swag in mind, and I just happened to be in the room he entered into. I didn’t shoot him, remember.”

  “Velda shot him.” He sucked in breath. “It stinks.”

  “Why, what do you think this is?”

  “It’s the third damn time somebody’s targeted you. And this is getting out of hand. What I should do is take you into protective custody.”

  “Why? I’m not a witness.”

  His eyes blazed. “The hell you aren’t! You were right here when the guy came in!”

  “But he’s dead.” I kept it low-key. Nice and innocent. “Do you suspect an accomplice among those girls in the next room?”

  He was frowning. “It’s possible, isn’t it? And there’s wait staff. How many?”

  “Ten. Five of each sex, and two cooks.”

  “And if any one of them went off to use the john, she or he could have let that bogus waiter in through the bedroom door.”

  “Possible. As I see it, you’ve got sixty-two people to question, plus various staff members here at the Waldorf. You should probably get started.”

  He frowned. “My boys are already on that.”

  “Sure, and they’ll take names and numbers and addresses, and that’s all, for now. You’ll look into them individually and that’ll take weeks. Like I said, maybe you should get started.”

  Pat sighed. His hands were on his knees. “Mike—who’s trying to kill you?”

  “I don’t know, Pat. Really don’t. I haven’t even looked into it yet. I mean, you said you were investigating. I’ve just been waiting by the phone for you to call.”

  “Screw you, buddy.” He threw up his hands. “You’ve got Velda caught up in this now! Do the right thing. Cooperate.”

  My palms patted the air. “Okay, okay. Let’s, for the sake of argument, say you’re right. This is a robbery that was a sham, and it was really all about me. But why bother with this elaborate set-up? The first two attempts made no such pretense.”

  “Maybe not the second, outside of Borensen’s apartment house. But the first one, the guy might have intended to stage a burglary after he took you down. Hell, that’s how the newspapers handled it.”

  “Because your public affairs office handed out a bullshit story. Be fun to see how those flacks handle this one.”

  From behind Pat, one of the techs called out: “Captain! Come take a look.”

  He got up and went over. I lighted up a Lucky and put my feet on the coffee table. I blew smoke rings. He wasn’t gone long.

  Settling back down, he said, “Probably no accomplice. He had a hotel passkey in his pocket.”

  “So the girls are in the clear.”

  He nodded. “But maybe not the wait staff. They’re hotel employees, after all. And that passkey came from somewhere on site.”

>   “Right. They got about fifteen hundred employees here. You should talk to all of them. Better get going.”

  He suddenly looked very tired.

  “Mike,” he said, “I’m just trying to keep you alive.”

  “I appreciate that, buddy. I really do. But that’s my job.”

  He shook his head, slowly. “No, actually, it’s mine. And I want to know why anybody would go to the trouble of setting up a fake robbery so you could be a casualty. Any thoughts on that subject?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That sounds like you do have something cooking in that skull of yours.”

  “Cooking. Not done. Not ready for consumption.”

  He accepted that—not that he had much choice.

  I said, “Not to tell you your business, but you should start by talking to the hostess—my client’s bride-to-be, Gwen Foster. I’ll introduce you, if you like.”

  He nodded again, too distracted and tied up in mental knots to realize I was just trying to horn in on the interview. He got up and I put out the smoke and walked with him into the dining room where all the guests and staffers remained corralled, the former at their tables, the latter along the back wall, like a line-up at headquarters.

  I introduced Pat to Gwen and said he was a good guy and that she should be frank with him. (Since I wasn’t going to be, somebody ought to.) I suggested the little kitchen and Pat thought that was a good idea.

  We sat at a table for four. The tabletop was clear, all of the trays and food preparation items either on the counters or the stove. A coffee urn allowed me to provide cups for all three of us. And there was milk and sugar for me.

  Pat asked Gwen who knew about today’s bridal shower besides the invited guests. She didn’t really know offhand, but did say she’d made no secret of it. He requested a list of anybody who’d been invited but declined or just didn’t show, and she said she could put that together.

  She always looked young to me, but right now she was like a wounded baby bird. A wounded baby bird in a bright yellow dress. Her blonde hair was askew and the big blue eyes were dazed. But she did all right with the questions.

  “From where I stood,” she said, looking into nothing, not unlike the way the dead intruder had stared at the floor, “I saw everything. I saw the man come in with a gun, I saw him aim it toward Mr. Hammer’s back, I saw Miss Sterling react and heard her shout a warning and Mr. Hammer went down fast, and then… I saw the rest, too. Terrible. Horrible.”

  I thought she might cry, so I had a napkin ready for her to do that into. Which she did.

  But Pat was looking at me. “Miss Foster says the guy was pointing his gun at you. At your back. Velda just said he had a gun in his hand.”

  I shrugged. “He was pointing it toward those open French doors, where all the people and the loot was. I was just between him and it. Not unnatural for an armed robber to realize a security guy is in the way, and do something about it.”

  Somebody came in and it was Borensen, still in the sweater and slacks. Worry had lengthened his face into a woeful mask.

  He went to where Gwen sat and stood there with a hand on her shoulder. “Darling, are you…?”

  She flew to her feet and into his arms. He comforted her and I gave Pat a look and we both went out, giving them some privacy.

  “That’s your client,” Pat said. “Borensen.”

  “That’s my client. Borensen.”

  “How about him?”

  “How about him.”

  “I mean… does he have a reason to want you dead?”

  “I just met him, Pat. He’s been living in California for twenty years.”

  “But he used to be in New York. Maybe you had a run-in back then, something that’s slipped your mind—maybe back in your drinking days, and—”

  “Pat, I said I just met him. And he didn’t even come to me first—he went to the Smith-Torrence boys. This is a damn referral! Anyway, why the hell would he disrupt his fiancée’s bridal shower to stage a fake robbery and a real killing?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping maybe you would.”

  Borensen came out of the kitchen, alone. He worked up a brave smile. “She’s doing all right. She’s doing better. You’re Captain Chambers?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sure you have some questions.”

  Pat nodded and walked him out through the dining room where his plainclothes guys were going from table to table, writing down information, taking their time. Some of these guys would never get closer to a beautiful woman.

  I followed the homicide captain and my client into the living room, where Pat turned to me, with a mild frown. Over by the door, lab boys were still working on the dead guy, who was currently posing for pictures.

  “Mike, do you mind?” Pat said. “I’ll just have a private word or two with Mr. Borensen.”

  “Sure.”

  I found my way to Velda’s quiet corner. I knelt by her chair. “Anything interesting?”

  “That was a laundry bag in his waistband, all right. Also, he had a spare nine mil magazine in his vest pocket.”

  “Was he expecting a gun fight?”

  “If he was taking on Mike Hammer, would that be so crazy?”

  She had me there.

  When Pat was done with him, Borensen came over to me, shaking his head glumly.

  “Nobody is more shocked than I am, Mr. Hammer, that I was right about this. That there was a genuine possibility of a robbery attempt.”

  I shrugged. “With over two hundred grand in jewels and gifts on dock, you were right to hire security. You’d have been negligent not to. And in a public place, like a hotel, well.…”

  His handsome features clenched with concern. “Could this have anything to do with the attempts on your life? Could this be another such attempt, and not really a robbery try at all?”

  “It’s possible, Mr. Borensen. And I’m going to find out. And if that’s what this is—an attempt on my life, using the bridal shower as a cover—I will promise you one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re getting a refund.”

  * * *

  After a quiet dinner at a neighborhood Italian joint, Velda and I wound up on her couch in front of a crackling fire. The evening was just cold enough to provide an excuse. I was in slacks and my undershirt and she was in a blue terry-cloth robe, cuddled up to me.

  Though Velda and I were not living together, our apartments were in the same building—strictly for business convenience, of course, if you’re naive enough to buy that.

  “Kitten,” I said, “you are all right, right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Not everybody has my mental make-up.”

  “Really?”

  “I mean, if killing some bastard bothers you, I understand.”

  “Who says you aren’t a sensitive man?”

  “Honey, I just mean…”

  “I know what you mean.”

  She looked lovely in the cradle of my arm, washed with lightly flickering orange and blue from the fireplace glow, eyes shut, but only half-asleep. Maybe she really was bothered, troubled by today’s violence. That was only human. Or so I’ve been told.

  She hugged me and buried her face in my chest and when my T-shirt got wet, I realized she was quietly crying.

  “Cry your eyes out, baby,” I said. “Make it go away. Just know that guy is no great loss to mankind, just another asshole with a rod who needed killing.”

  She started laughing, but she was still crying, too. She looked up at me with a wide smile and her eyes pearled with tears. “You big dumb lug of an Irish son of a bitch.”

  I smiled back at her. “Is that what I am?”

  “I’m not crying for that creep. I’m crying because… I don’t want to lose you. And everybody in this town but me and Pat wants you dead.”

  “I’m not sure about Pat.”

  That made her laugh, and then we were hugging, and what happened next on that couch is n
obody’s business but ours.

  Around ten I was climbing in bed in my shorts when the phone rang on Velda’s nightstand. She frowned over at me. Ten was a little late for anybody to be calling.

  “Answer it,” I said.

  She did, sitting up; she was in a black sheer thing that could still get her in trouble, no matter what had happened on that couch. My recuperative powers were surprising for a man my age.

  “Yes?… Hello, Pat. Uh, yes, he is here. We were just having a late dinner.” She looked at me wide-eyed and shrugged, as if to say, Is he dumb enough to buy that?

  She and I swapped sides of the bed and I took the call.

  I said, “Don’t tell me you’re still working, chum.”

  “I am. You keep me busy.”

  “I’m guessing you wouldn’t be tracking me down if you didn’t have something.”

  “I have something, all right. Like a rundown on today’s would-be shooter? I mean, we better keep up with this or we might fall behind.”

  “How did you get something on him so fast?”

  “He had car keys on him, and we located the car in the Waldorf’s parking garage. His name on the license led us to his apartment and we found material that indicates he was, until four months ago, a resident of Detroit. His ex-wife’s contact material was on hand, and we called her. She was not sad to learn of her ex’s demise, since he was an alimony cheat. She told us the police had been interested in him, and to make a long story shorter, I called a friend on the Detroit PD who told us a very familiar tale.”

  “Not another insurance agent.”

  “Travel agent. Robert Hastings, thirty-six. Suspected in several homicides thought to be killings for hire. Ex-military, no strings except the ex, no kids.”

  “Okay, so it wasn’t a robbery.”

  “You never thought it was.”

  “No, I didn’t. But if people think that’s what it was, it’ll make investigating these kill attempts easier.”

  “Don’t be a chump, Mike. This is the third try on you in a week, in case you didn’t hear me the other times, and the third hired gun you took down.”