Mickey Spillane - Lady, go die

“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.