Lady, go die (mike hammer)

by Mickey Spillane

That was all I needed to hear.

  With Velda inches behind me, I ran out and toward the hotel to get the heap out of the lot. Soon I was behind the wheel and swinging around in the middle of the street and racing through town, following the banshee wail.

  The park was a mile and a half outside town, a fifty-acre grove of trees and lawn built on reclaimed land to provide the town’s only public bathing beach. On the shore were the dressing houses, with closed buildings that became soda and hot dog concessions during the summer. In the midst of the tree-rimmed park itself, twin paths curved in from one end of the beach to the other, circling around the granite figure of a horse set directly on the ground, supposedly drinking from an artificial spring, now dry.

  I ran the car into the parking lot behind a dozen others. Evidently news traveled fast in this little town and, considering Sidon’s size, there were a lot of curiosity seekers.

  Velda and I wasted no time. We took the right-hand path and half-ran toward the horse. Clouds were protecting the sun from the unpleasantness and keeping the park cool and blue. Ahead of us a loud voice through a hand-speaker was ordering people to keep back and keep moving. Seemed the Sidon PD had at least six officers, because they were spread out keeping people away from the grim discovery. The crowd was a mix of ages and were clearly not tourists. Some kids were mixed in, too, getting some Saturday afternoon education.

  With Velda tagging after, I broke through the crowd and the skinny cop I’d elbowed in the nuts the night before blocked me, putting out his hand in “stop” fashion. I gave him one look and he dropped his hand reluctantly, and stepped aside.

  There on the well-trimmed grass a dozen feet from the base of the statue was Dekkert, crisply uniformed, his face criss-crossed with a fresh set of bandages. With him was Chief Beales. Both were speaking to a nondescript, pot-bellied little guy in a short-sleeve white shirt with a too-short necktie. I caught the name Holden once, and realized I was looking at the town boss. He certainly didn’t look like anything more than the manager of a grocery store.

  All three men stopped talking at one point, and shot sideways glances our way as we neared, but that was all. I could see them later.

  Right now I wanted a closer look at that horse and the naked rider it bore.

  She was there all right. Not sitting as the kid had described, but draped over the back of the statue. She was face down, her bright yellow hair hanging limply between her dangling arms. She was in a curious position, almost as if she had been thrown there. Stuck in the strands of hair was seaweed, not yet dry. The body was bloated, with little holes in the skin, her nice shape distorted in gruesome self-parody. She had been in the water a while before taking this ride.

  “Lady Godiva herself,” I said.

  “More like lady go die,” Velda said, in hushed horror.

  The chief came over. This time he was remarkably civil. “What do you make of it, Mr. Hammer?”

  I shrugged. “Mind if I have a better look?”

  Chiefie made a gracious “after you” gesture. “We’re fortunate to have a big city investigator like you here to give an opinion.”

  There was no sarcasm apparent in that, and you would think our earlier meeting had been filled with back slapping and laughter.

  “Glad to,” I said, and approached Godiva.

  With a stick I eased her hair aside. The chief was right beside me and I directed his attention to her neck. Imprinted there were the unmistakable marks of fingers, blotches that were bluish with deep ridges in the flesh where the fingernails had bitten into it.

  “Choked to death,” I commented. “Sure as hell.”

  “Obviously,” the chief said. “Then she was thrown into the water.”

  “Right. Where she stayed for a while. Question is-what’s she doing here?”

  The chief appeared puzzled. “I don’t know, Mr. Hammer. But we’ll get to the bottom of it, never fear.”

  I managed not to laugh. I keep a straight face when I said, “If I can be of help, don’t hesitate.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Hammer. Perhaps… perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.”

  This time I couldn’t stop the laugh. “Yeah, perhaps.”

  Somebody called, “Chief Beales! Come here, please.”

  Chiefie walked over to Mayor Holden and they conversed in low tones. Holden was damn worried, that much was apparent.

  Velda had my arm. “What could the motive be?”

  “Show me that,” I said, “and I show you the killer.”

  Despite a sad expression, Velda regarded the dead woman in a manner as business-like as mine. “Gone about a week, I’d say.”

  “Me, too, but we can’t be sure. If we’re right, though, she’d have been killed just about the time she disappeared. Come on, kitten.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get the jump on these dumb hicks.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We stopped first at the telegraph office. On a blank form, addressed to Pat at his home, I wrote: CASE HISTORY CLOSED ON SUBJECT OF OUR DISCUSSION. That was in the event the Western Union clerk was another of Holden’s snoopers. I didn’t want His Honor to know I had already contacted the city police about this.

  When I finished, I had to wait a while for Velda to come out of a pay booth outside the office. She was making call after call. What was she up to?

  I asked her who she’d been phoning, and she said, “The papers.”

  “The New York City papers?”

  She nodded and said, “Sharron Wesley maintained a New York residence, too, and after that trial of hers, ought to still make good copy. Besides, letting the newsboys in on it right away will only put us in solid with them.”

  I gave that the horse laugh. “Me in solid with those jackals? They’d pimp their Aunt Hattie for a headline. You know how they smear me whenever they can, and-”

  She touched my sleeve. “Mike, let’s use them for a change.”

  I thought about it, then shrugged. “What the hell, let them in on it. If nothing else, it’ll put a bug up the tail of the local PD.”

  “And Mayor Holden. When are you going to get around to giving him a little attention?”

  “That’ll come.”

  I guided Velda out to my heap just as dusk was turning to dark. We got in and headed for the hotel.

  “You stake out a stool in the bar and keep an eye out,” I told her. “It won’t take those reporters long to drive out from the city.”

  “Roger.”

  I checked my watch. “It’s ten after seven now. They’ll be here by ten.”

  “Or sooner, if any of them charter a private plane. There’s an airport about fifteen miles from here.”

  I nodded. “They’ll swarm over Beales and his boys, and when they come back with their stories, see if you can find out when that body was placed on the horse. From the dampness of the corpse, the stuff in her hair, I’d say she wasn’t there a full hour before we arrived.”

  “That would be my guess, too.”

  “Hey, maybe our friend the coroner could narrow it down for us. Call Doc Moody and see if you can wrangle a more approximate time of death out of him. It may be necessary to wait for an autopsy, but get what you can.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s possible that there was somebody hanging around the park. If anybody’s been taken into custody, find out who. That’s something the reporters would pick up on.”

  I pulled up in front of the hotel.

  “So,” she said, “that’s what I’m doing. What about you, big boy? Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Out. That mysterious place where all men go off to. Go on-leave me in the dark. That’s where I do some of my best work.”

  I wouldn’t mind getting some first-hand experience on that score.

  “All right, baby, all right. First I’m going to the Wesley place, then out to see Poochie. He’s had some recovery time and might be ripe for further questioning. I may need you in a hurry
, so be where I can reach you.”

  “Okay, Mike, I’ll behave. If I’m not in the bar, I’m in my room. And listen… watch yourself out there.”

  “Quit your worrying.”

  “I can’t help it. You’re strictly a city boy and this is the wilderness. If this case was in the tenement district, I’d feel a lot better, but when it comes to trees and grass, you’re strictly the proverbial fish out of water.”

  I leaned over and kissed her, quick but sweet.

  “You’re cute,” I said. “Now do what I told you. It’s not like I’m out hunting Indians.”

  She gave me a look, said, “Then try not to come back with an arrow between your ears,” and hipped it inside the hotel.

  I drove down the highway to the cutoff that led to the Wesley house. I found it after passing by twice, then had to unlatch an iron gate to drive in. I didn’t go the full length of the driveway, but stopped with the house in sight and slid the jalopy up against some bushes to one side. I hadn’t had my lights on, and the motor was practically silent, so if there was anyone here, they hadn’t heard me coming.

  I got an extra. 45 clip from the glove compartment for my left-hand suit coat pocket, and also a flashlight. When I hopped out, I checked my rod, then started up the path, staying on the grass to muffle my footsteps. The path curved out into a wide semi-circle that swept in front of an oversized veranda. For a long moment I just stood there. The moon came out and lit the place up in a pale greenish light, accentuating its lines with long shadowy fingers.

  On my left was a newer section, obviously built on in recent years. I chose that first and clung to the shadows as I made my way toward it. The new part turned out to be a free-standing garage. But what a garage.

  When I lifted the roll-type door, I guided the beam of the flash around inside like I was bringing in small aircraft. The place was big enough for a fleet of taxis. The concrete floor was well-splotched with oil and grease stains, with the skid marks of countless wheels in the dust.

  A nifty ’45 convertible Caddy stood light-blue and lonely in a far corner. I stepped over oil puddles to the big beautiful buggy and worked the flash over her chassis. On the driver’s door were the cursive initials, “S.W.”

  Sharron’s personal ride.

  Well, she wouldn’t be using it now.

  I looked inside. The interior was showroom clean, and the glove compartment was filled with the usual road maps, plus one item of interest-a set of car keys. Wasn’t that an invitation to dine. Too bad Velda’s boss was an honest sort, or she might have been driven back to Manhattan in style…

  Only the trunk key didn’t work. I tried the ignition to see if these keys were to another vehicle, but the motor purred to life. I shut it quickly off and returned to the trunk. Its lock yielded to the fourth pair of picks I tried. That trick came in handy-the technique and the picks were given to me by a little shrimp of a second-story man for whom I had gotten a real job and set straight.

  A spare tire lay under the sheet of flooring with the handle of a bumper jack sticking out alongside it. Above it was a tool kit and a cardboard box about the size of a portable record player. With a screwdriver from the kit, I pried through the corrugated top and pulled the newspaper wrapping off.

  Chips.

  A whole damn box swimming with poker chips, white, blue, red. Was this the precious cargo that made changing that lock worth doing?

  I slapped the cover back on, wiped any prints off it, and closed the trunk. Let the local cops open it themselves. They’d probably use a fire ax, knowing their finesse.

  Back out in the cool, breezy evening, with the rush of tide as a soundtrack, I took the long way around the garage and found a rear door up three cement steps.

  This time I didn’t need the picks. It was unlocked, but I pushed it open an inch and felt for wires. There were alarm devices that depended on a door being opened six or eight inches before they went off, a neat trap for doors that could be easily forced, and I didn’t feel like getting caught with my pants down. Beales and Dekkert would just love to have an actual charge to slap against me.

  Nothing.

  I let it open another inch and ran my fingers inside between the hinges. No wires here, either. Just as I was about to throw the door open all the way, I stopped and felt under the lower hinge. A spring attachment caught under my fingernail.

  Using my left hand to shield the beam of the flash, I let a stream of light shoot through the crack of the door and pried the spring away with the largest of the picks. Needed to use a pick after all, but it only took a second. The thing jumped out of place and I killed the flash and shoved the door open.

  I stood still as death but heard no sound from anywhere-even the night noises had stayed outside. I quieted my own breathing and felt in front of me. A few minutes more and my eyes became accustomed to the darkness and I could see the outline of things pretty well. The moonlight, coming in the windows, helped.

  I was in the kitchen, a big one, white and clean with enough cabinets and counters and stove tops to feed a small army. I played statue for a good, long minute. A house this size could easily have some live-in servants and I didn’t want them breaking up my party.

  There was nothing of interest in the kitchen, as far as I could see. Nothing I was looking for, but what was I looking for? I didn’t know. Sharron Wesley was dead, and she had left behind a corpse on a stone horse, and this mansion. But she was murdered and that hadn’t been without purpose. Whatever the reason, there might possibly be a tie-in with something within these walls. Something, anything at all. Just one thing out of the ordinary.

  The room off the kitchen was a pantry. I didn’t waste time there either, but stepped through the open door to what should have been a dining room. It probably had been, at one time, but not now.

  Now? Now the room was a giant gambling den-taking up more space than just the dining room had once, with walls clearly torn out to make it more expansive. I’ve seen plenty such layouts in my time, but this one took the cake. I let my flash try for the walls, but it had to cover sixty feet before it did. That was the width. The room ran along the whole waterfront section of the house, a full hundred and fifty feet.

  Overall, it had any gambling joint in the city shaded. I took my hand off the light and let the unshielded beam play over the tables. Sharron Wesley had sunk a fortune into this operation. The tables had Chicago trademarks, the best money could buy. Craps tables stood along the west wall, flanked by numerous roulette wheels and cages.

  There were six faro layouts and assorted poker tables with automatic card-shuffling machines built in. I threaded my way through to where six rows of slot machines were huddled in the corner, all two-bit jobs, the jackpots still full.

  On each end, and in the middle, were the banks. They were built like movie cashier booths, with one exception: the glass partitions were an inch thick. Behind the opening where the money and chips changed hands, a piece of heavy steel was inlaid into the counter. Any dough that went out had to be passed around it. The thing was practically foolproof. The Wesley dame had taken no chances on being stuck up. The cashier could stay behind there without a worry-no bullet would get through that glass, and neither could the door be opened. A time lock arrangement took care of that.

  The dial of the lock registered “open.” I pulled on the steel door and it swung out. Inside was a telephone, a stool, a huge money drawer, a container for chips and, on the floor, a handkerchief. The drawer was empty. I picked up the tiny frilly hanky and took a close look at it. In one corner was the initial “G,” and the thing still held the faint, musky aroma of expensive perfume.

  With the handkerchief, I picked up the phone to see if it was alive. A buzz came from the receiver so I cradled it. I backed out of the booth and stuck the handkerchief in my side pocket. I couldn’t see what good the thing would do me, but you never can tell.

  A dusty smell was in the air, not the smell of disuse, but that of a place not recently cleaned. The prot
ective covers of the tables were covered with a fine coating of dust and sand particles. Not much, but just about as much as would settle in a week.

  This place was certainly no amateur joint, nor was it the indulgence of a rich man’s whim, or rich woman, either. This nifty little casino had every hallmark of the real thing. Those wild parties in Sidon I had heard rumors about were juicy orgies of gambling.

  This house was run for one reason-to make money. But why, I couldn’t figure. Sharron Wesley had supposedly inherited a cool million or more from her late husband.

  A hard-living dame like that ex-chorine could go through money fast enough, that was a cinch, but a million is a lot to spend and she hadn’t had that much time yet. Still, I guessed there was no reason why she shouldn’t go into business for herself, to keep afloat among the money set.

  Oh, hell, that idea was out the window-that bimbo didn’t have enough brains in her yellow-haired head to put together a sophisticated gambling operation like this one on her own steam.

  Somebody had been backing her.

  The darkened opening of a foyer led from the casino area. I looked in, then-through the archway on one side-spying the bar, a big horseshoe-shaped affair. Damn! This lodge-type area alone could accommodate a few hundred at a sitting. Sharron Wesley had been no piker when she built this indoor amusement park.

  Stools were arranged in orderly fashion around the bar with tables-for-two set against the wall. The whole place had been swept and put in order after the last party, which hadn’t been so long ago, either. You’d think a place like this would be put in for the summer crowd, but that didn’t seem to be the case. This was a year-round operation that must have catered strictly to the city slicks who came out to throw their dough around, and away.

  Under the bar, I found a bottle of Scotch, removed the cork and took a short pull. Good stuff. I put the cork and the bottle back. The walls in this place had been finished in knotty pine, giving the room a healthy outdoor odor. I made my way completely around the bar, then took the foyer to the side door.

  A cloakroom was built into the wall with enough hangers for the Stork Club and then some. Next to the cloakroom was a second-floor staircase. I shone the light on the steps-they, too, were dust-covered. So much for servants. If anyone was up there, they must be hibernating. No one had used the staircase in a week, at least.