Vengeance Is Mine mh-3

by Mickey Spillane

  “I was busy, Sugar. I had to explain all that to the cops.”

  “You didn’t shoot him, did you?”

  “Only a little bit. Not enough to kill him. Somebody else did that.”

  “Mike!”

  I rocked her head and laughed at her. “You got there early, didn’t you?” Connie nodded yes. “Did you see Clyde at all during that time?”

  “No . . . come to think of it, he didn’t show up until after midnight.”

  “How’d he look?”

  Connie frowned and bit her thumb. Her eyes looked up into mine after a while and she grimaced. “He seemed . . . strange. Nervous, sort of.”

  Yes, he would seem nervous. Killing people leaves you like that sometimes. “Did anyone else seem interested in the conversation? Like Clyde?”

  “I don’t think he heard about it. There was just those men.”

  “Who else was there, Connie? Anybody that looked important?”

  “Quit kidding. Everybody is important. You don’t just walk into the Bowery Inn. Either you’re pretty important or you’re with somebody who is.”

  I said, “I got in and I’m a misfit.”

  “Any beautiful model is better than the password,” she grinned.

  “Don’t tell me they have a password.”

  “Clyde used to . . . to the back rooms. A password for each room. It’s gotten so you don’t need it now. That’s what those little rooms are for between the larger rooms. They’re soundproof and they’re lined with sheet steel.”

  I tightened my fingers in her hair and pulled her head back so I could look into her face. “You found out a lot in a hurry. The first time you were there was with me.”

  “You told me I had brains too, Mike. Have you forgotten already? While I sat on my fanny at the bar while Ralph gambled the bartender and I had a very nice discussion. He told me all about the layout including the alarm and escape system. There are doors in the wall that go off with the alarm in case of a raid and the customers can beat it out the back. Isn’t that nice of Clyde?”

  “Very thoughtful.”

  I gave the hassock she was sitting on a push with my foot. “Gotta go, Sugar, gotta go.”

  “Oh, Mike, not yet, please.”

  “Look, I have things to do much as I’d like to sit here. Someplace in this wild, wild city, there’s a guy with a gun who’s going to use it again. I want to be around when he tries.”

  She tossed her hair like an angry cat and said, “You’re mean. I had something to show you, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you stay long enough to see it?”

  “I guess I can.”

  Connie stood up, kissed me lightly on the cheek and shoved me back in the chair. “We’re doing a series for a manufacturing house. Their newest number that they’re going to advertise arrived today and I’m modeling it for a full-page, four-color spread in the slick mags. When the job is done I get to keep it.”

  She walked out of the room with long-legged strides and into the bedroom. She fussed around in there long enough for me to finish a cigarette. I had just squashed it out when she called out, “Mike . . . come here.”

  I pushed open the door of the bedroom and stood there feeling my skin go hot and cold then hot again. She was wearing a floor-length nightgown of the sheerest, most transparent white fabric I had ever seen. It wasn’t the way the ad would be taken. Then the lights would be in front of her. The one in the room was behind her and she didn’t have anything on under it.

  When she turned the fabric floated out in a billowy cloud and she smiled into my eyes with a look that meant more than words.

  The front of it was wide open.

  “Like me, Mike?”

  My forefinger moved, telling her to come closer. She floated across the room and stood in front of me, challenging me with her body. I said, “Take it off.”

  All she did was shrug her shoulders. The gown dropped to the floor.

  I looked at her, storing up a picture in my mind that I could never forget. She could have been a statue standing there, a statue molded of creamy white flesh that breathed with an irregular rhythm. A statue with dark, blazing eyes and jaunty breasts that spoke of the passion that lay within. A statue that stood in a daring pose that made you want to reach out to touch and pull so close the fire would engulf you too.

  The statue had a voice that was low and desiring. “I could love you so easily, Mike.”

  “Don’t,” I said.

  Her lips parted, her tongue wet them. “Why?”

  My voice had a rough edge to it. “I can’t take the time.”

  The coals in her eyes jumped into flame that burned me. I grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her against my chest, bruising her lips against mine. Her tongue was a little spear that flicked out, stabbing me, trying to wound me enough so I wouldn’t be able to walk away.

  I didn’t let it stab me deep enough. I shoved her back, tried to talk and found that my voice wasn’t there anymore.

  So I walked away. I walked away and left her standing there in the doorway, standing on a white cloud stark naked, the imprints of my fingers still etched in red on her shoulders.

  “You’ll get the person you’re after, Mike. Nothing can stop you. Nothing.” Her voice was still husky, but there was a laugh behind it, and a little bit of pride, too. I was closing the door when I heard her whisper, “I love you, Mike. Really and truly, I do.”

  Outside, the snow had started again. There was no wind, so it drifted down lazily, sneaking up on the city to catch it by surprise. What few stragglers were left on the street stuck close to the curb and looked back over their shoulders for taxis.

  I got in the car and started the wipers going, watching them kick angrily through the snow that had piled up on the windshield. At least the snow made all cars look alike. If anybody with a gun was waiting for me he’d have a fine time picking out my head from the others.

  Thinking about it made me mad. One gun was in an exhibit folder at police headquarters and the other was probably hanging in a locker if it hadn’t been thrown away. It gave me an empty, uneasy feeling to be traveling without a rod slung under my arm. Sullivan Law? Hell, let me get picked up. It was all right for some harmless citizen to forget there were kill-crazy bastards loose, but one of them was looking for me.

  There was a .30-caliber Luger sitting home in the bottom drawer of my dresser with a full clip of shells. It was just about the same size as a .45 too, just the right size to fit in my holster.

  A plow was going by in front of my apartment house when I got there, so I figured it would be another hour at least before it would be around again and safe enough to park there.

  I took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator and didn’t bother to shuck my coat when I opened the door. I felt for the light switch, batted it up, but no light came on. I cursed the fuse system and groped for a lamp.

  What is it that makes you know you’re not alone? What vague radiation emanates from the human body just strongly enough to give you one brief, minute premonition of danger that makes you act with animal reflexes? I had my hand around the base of the lamp when I felt it and I couldn’t suppress the half-scream halfsnarl that came out of my throat.

  I threw that lamp as hard as I could across the wall, letting the cord rip loose from the socket as it smashed into a thousand pieces against the wall. There were two muffled snorts and a lance of flame bit into the darkness, bracketing me.

  I didn’t let it happen again. I dove toward the origin of the snorts and crashed into a pair of legs that buckled with a hoarse curse and the next moment a fist was smashing against my jaw driving my head against the floor. Somehow I got out of the way of that fist and slugged out with my forearm trying to drive him off me.

  My feet got tangled in the table and kicked it over. The two vases and the bar set splintered all over the room with a hellish racket and somebody in the next apartment shouted to somebody else. I got one arm under me then and grabbed a handful of coat. The guy was strong as a bull and I couldn’t hold it. That fist came back -and worked
on my face some more with maniacal fury I couldn’t beat off. I was tangled in my coat and there were lights in the room now that didn’t come from the lamps.

  All I knew was that I had to get up . . . had to get my feet under me and heave to get that thing off my back. Had to get up so I could use my hands on any part of him I could grab. I did it without knowing it and heard him ram into a chair and knock it on its side.

  My teeth must have been bared to the gums and I screamed when I went in for the kill because I had him cold.

  Then my legs got tangled in the lamp cord and I went flat on my face. My head hit something with a sharp crack that was all noise and no pain because there’s a point at which pain stops and unconsciousness takes over, and in that second between I knew the killer was deciding between killing me or making a break for it. Doors started to slam and he decided to run and I let my eyes close and drew in the darkness like a blanket around me and slept an unnatural sleep that was full of soft golden hair and billowy white nightgowns I could see through and Velda in a dress she was more out of than in.

  The man bending over me had a serious round face with an oval-shaped mouth that worked itself into funny shapes. I began to laugh and the serious face got more serious and the mouth worked more furiously than before. I laughed at that funny little mouth going through all those grotesque distortions for quite a while before I realized he was talking.

  He kept asking me my name and what day it was. At last I had sense enough to stop laughing and tell him my name and what day it was. The face lost its seriousness and smiled a little bit. “You’ll be all right,” it said. “Had me a bit worried for a minute.” The head turned and spoke to somebody else. “A slight concussion, that’s all.”

  The other voice said it was too bad it wasn’t a fracture. I recognized the voice. In another minute or two the face came into focus. It was the D.A. He had his hands in his coat pockets trying to look superior like a D.A. should look because there were people around.

  I wormed into a sitting position that sent knives darting through my brain. The crowd was leaving now. The little man with the funny mouth carrying his black bag, the two women with their hair in curlers, the super, the man and woman who seemed to be slightly sick. The others stayed. One had a navy blue uniform with bright buttons, two wore cigars as part of their disguise. The D.A., of course. Then Pat. My pal. He was there too almost out of sight in the only, chair still standing on its own legs.

  The D.A. held out his palm and let me look at the two smashed pellets he was holding. Bullets. “They were in the wall, Mr. Hammer. I want an explanation. Now.”

  One of the cigars helped me up on my feet and I could see better. They all had faces with noses now. Before they had been just a blur. I didn’t know I was grinning until the D.A. said, “What’s so funny? I don’t see anything funny.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  It was too much for the bright boy. He reached out and grabbed me by the lapels of my coat and pushed his face into mine. Any other time I would have kicked his pants off for that. Right now I couldn’t lift my hands.

  “What’s so funny, Hammer? How’d you like . . .”

  I turned my head and spit. “You got bad breath. Go ‘way.”

  He half threw me against the wall. I was still grinning. There was white around his nostrils and his mouth was a fine red line of hate. “Talk!”

  “Where’s your warrant?” I demanded easily. “Show me your warrant to come in my house and do that, then I’ll talk, you yellow-bellied little bastard. I’m going to meet you in the street not long from now and carve that sissified pasty face of yours into ribbons. Get out of here and kiss yourself some fat behinds like you’re used to doing. I’ll be all right in a few minutes and you better be gone by then and your stooges with you. They’re not cops. They’re like you . . . political behind-kissers with the guts of a bug and that’s not a lot of guts. Go on, get out, you crummy turd.”

  The two detectives had to stop him from kicking me in the face. His legs, his knees, his whole body shook with coarse tremors. I’d never seen a guy as mad as he was. I hoped it’d be permanent. They took him out of there and with their rush they never noticed that Pat stayed on, still comfortably sunk in the chair.

  “I guess that’s telling him,” I said. “A man’s home is his castle.”

  “You’ll never learn,” Pat said sadly.

  I fumbled for a butt and pushed it between my lips. The smoke bit into my lungs and didn’t want to let go. I got a chair upright and eased into it so my head wouldn’t spin. Pat let me finish the butt. He sat back with his hands folded in his lap and waited until I was completely relaxed. “Will you talk to me, Mike?”

  I looked at my hands. The knuckles were skinned all to hell and one nail was torn loose. A piece of fabric was caught in it. “He was here when I came in. He took two shots at me and missed. We made such a racket he ran for it after I fell. If I hadn’t fallen the D.A. would have had me on a murder. I would have killed the son-of-a-bitch. Who called him in?”

  “The neighbors called the precinct station,” Pat told me. “Your name was up and when it was mentioned the desk man called the D.A. He rushed right over.”

  I grunted and kneaded my knuckles into my palm. “Did you see the slugs he had?”

  “Uh-huh. I dug ‘em out myself.” Pat stood up and stretched. “They were the same as the ones in the windows on Broadway. That’s twice you’ve been missed. They say the third time you aren’t so lucky.”

  “They’ll be matching the bullets from one of those rods.”

  “Yeah, I expect they will. According to your theory, if they match the one from the Broadway window, the guy who attacked

  you was Rainey. If they fit the one from the Thirty-third Street incident it’s Clyde.”

  I rubbed my jaw, wincing at the lump and the scraped flesh. “It couldn’t be Rainey.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “See hell! What are you waiting for? Let’s go down and grab that louse right now!”

  Pat smiled sorrowfully. “Talk sense, Mike. Remember that word proof Where is it? Do you think the D.A. will support your pet theory . . . now? I told you Clyde could pull strings. Even if it was Clyde he didn’t leave any traces around. No more traces than the guy who shot Rainey and the other punk at the arena. He wore gloves too.”

  “I guess you’re right, kiddo. He could even work himself up a few good alibis if he had to.”

  “That’s still not the answer,” Pat said. “If we were working on a murder case unhampered it would be different. On the books Wheeler is still a suicide and we’d be bucking a lot of opposition to make it look different.”

  I was looking at my hand where my thumb and forefinger pinched together. I was still holding a tiny piece of fabric. I held it out to him. “Whoever he was left a hunk of his coat on my fingernail. You’re a specialist. Let the scientists of your lab work that over.”

  Pat took it from my fingers and examined it closely. When he finished he pulled an envelope from his pocket and dropped it in. I said, “He was a strong guy if ever I met one. He had a coat on and I couldn’t tell if he was just wiry-strong or muscle-strong, but one thing for sure, he was a powerhouse.

  “Remember what you said, Pat . . . about Wheeler having been in a scuffle before he died? I’ve been thinking about it. Suppose this guy was tailing Wheeler and walked into the room. He figured Wheeler would be in bed but instead he was up going to the bathroom or something. He figured to kill Wheeler with his hands and let it look like we had a drunken brawl. Because Wheeler was up it changed his plans. Wheeler saw what was going to happen and made a grab for my gun that was hanging on the chair.”

  “Picture it, Pat. Wheeler with the gun . . . the guy knocks it aside as he fires and the slug hits the bed. Then the guy forces the gun against Wheeler’s head and it goes off. A scrap like that would make the same kind of marks on his body, wouldn’t it?”

  Pat didn’t say anything. His head was slanted a little and he was going back again, putting all the pieces in their places. When they set just right he nodded. “Yes, it wou
ld at that.” His eyes narrowed. “Then the killer picked up one empty shell and dug the slug out of the mattress. A hole as small as it left wouldn’t have been noticed anyway. It would have been clean as a whistle if you didn’t know how many slugs were left in the rod. It would have been so pretty that even you would have been convinced.”

  “Verily,” I said.

  “It’s smooth, Mike. Lord, but it’s smooth. It put you on the spot because you were the only one looking for a murderer. Everyone else was satisfied with a suicide verdict.” He paused and frowned, staring at the window. “If only that damn hotel had some system about it . . . even a chambermaid with sense enough to keep on her toes, but no. The killer walks out in the hall and drops his slug and shell that we find hours later.”

  “He was wearing an old suit.”

  “What?”

  “It must have been old if it had a hole in the pockets.”

  Pat looked at me and the frown deepened. His hand fished for his notebook and he pulled out several slips of paper stapled together. He looked through them, glanced up at me, then read the last page again. He put the book back in his pocket very slowly. “The day before Wheeler died there were only two registered guests,” he said. “One was a very old man. The other was a comparatively young fellow in a shabby suit who paid in advance. He left the day after Wheeler was shot before we were looking for anyone in the hotel, and long enough afterward to dispel any suspicions on the part of the staff.”

  The pain in my head disappeared. I felt my shoulders tightening up. “Did they get a description? Was it . . .”

  “No. No description. He was of medium build. He was in town to see a specialist to have some work done on a tooth. Most of his face was covered by a bandage.”

  I said another four-letter word.

  “It was a good enough reason for his being without baggage. Besides, he had the money to pay in advance.”

  “It could have been Clyde,” I breathed. My throat was on fire.

  “It could have been almost anybody. If you think Clyde is the one behind all this, let me ask you one thing. Do you honestly think he’d handle the murder end by himself?”