Mickey Spillane - The Body Lovers

"I notified her brother. That was all I could do. He wanted to be sure she was safe, that's all."

"Well, it sure caused a flurry around here. Do you know the police have been here inquiring about Teddy Gates?"

"What about him?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows where he is. He isn't at home and he hasn't shown up at work. I wish you'd tell me what's going on."

"He may be caught in the middle of a big one," I said. "If he's found he'll supply a lot of answers."

For a second she didn't say anything, but I could hear her steady breathing. "Mike...can this hurt the Proctor Group? You know, will there be any publicity?"

"I don't see how. If he was engaged in something outside the office it shouldn't touch you."

"Please, Mike. Be sure. If they find out...well, even though I helped you...the Board certainly won't like it. I can't afford to be involved in anything sensational and neither can the magazine."

"We can keep a lid on it. Look...can I see you again?"

"I'd love to, Mike. When?"

"As soon as possible. I want you to exert a little of your influence for me."

"Oh?"

"I want to meet Belar Ris."

Her laughter was a clear tinkle. "Social climber," she told me. "I should think you could do better. Now there are several young ladies of respectable and wealthy parents who..."

"I'm not kidding, Dulcie. Can it be arranged?"

She caught the imperativeness in my voice and got serious again. "Do you have a black tie?"

"I'll get one."

"Tonight there's a reception at the Flamingo Room for one of the delegations. Mr. Ris will be there. I'm invited and I'll be happy to have you escort me. Suppose you meet me at seven-thirty in the lobby. Now, can you tell me why?"

"Later."

"Mike..."

"What?"

"If you hear anything about Teddy Gates..."

"Don't worry, he'll turn up. I'll make sure we keep a lid on it."

"Thank you, Mike."

"See you tonight."

When I hung up I waited a few seconds, then tried the number in Bradbury that Velda had given me. There was no answer in her room and no messages for me either.

I tried Pat and got him in. He told me he had to go uptown and to meet him at the Blue Ribbon in an hour.

New York was still under its blanket of gray. There was a damp, clammy chill in the air and the streets were devoid of their usual crowds. I had forty-five minutes to waste, so I headed west, taking it easy, and got to the Blue Ribbon in time to have coffee with George before Pat got there. He came in exactly on schedule, tossed his hat on the rack and pulled out a chair opposite me. He looked tired, tiny lines pulling at the corner of his eyes and mouth.

He waited until his own coffee came before he said, "The Corning deal washed out."

"What happened?"

"We picked up the guy in the neighborhood he was spotted in. It was one of those damn look-alike situations and I couldn't blame the guy who fingered him. He was pretty indignant, but played the good citizen bit and even let us print him for a positive I.D. The guy was clean...service record in Washington, executive job in Wall Street for fifteen years. A real bust."

"Scratch one sex fiend."

"There's something else." Pat reached into his pocket and pulled out two folded white sheets and handed them to me. There was a peculiar look in his eyes and he edged forward in his chair. "Our M.E. ferreted this out. Remember me telling you about chemical substitutes that induce the same symptoms he found in the Poston girl?"

I nodded.

"There's the formula. The stuff isn't even produced in this country at all. It's made in limited quantities by a French firm and distributed to selected outlets that use the stuff for chemical analysis tests in locating certain rare elements in earth samples. One of those buyers is Pericon Chemicals."

I looked up from the report and felt my eyes start to narrow. "Ronald Miller, Mitch Temple's friend. He's with them."

"Yeah, his army buddy, the book writer."

"We got hold of him this morning," Pat told me. "He confirmed the use of this product...called it C-130...and even knew of its side effects. In fact, its properties are clearly stated on the containers. Before they handled it properly, the stuff killed a lot of people by being induced through skin abrasions. It's been manufactured since 1949 and a record is kept of its sales and use.

"Now here comes the kicker. A year ago part of an order going to Pericon Chemicals was stolen in shipment. None of it has ever been recovered, although the manufacturers conducted an exhaustive search and even issued notices as to its deadly effects. A check with the company showed that two previous inquires had been made to them requesting a sale of the product, but were turned down because they only sell to specific companies for specific purposes. Both inquiries were by phone. And now here it is--that C-130 was being shipped on board the Pinella on a trip from Marseilles to Tangiers."

"Ali Duval," I hissed.

"He was a steward on the ship then too."

"There's a weak point there, Pat."

"I know," he said. "Mitch Temple didn't know for sure how the Poston girl might have died. He had no reason to check with Miller on that angle."

"He wanted something, that's for sure," I said.

Pat nodded. "Pericon Chemicals got involved in some litigation over the theft and we're going into that for what it's worth. There's got to be some connection."

"How expensive is that stuff?"

"It sells for twelve hundred dollars an ounce."

"That's more than H."

"And a half liter is missing."

I let out a low whistle. "That's a lot of loot. Somebody was still taking a chance on handling it."

"The package wouldn't be very large. It could be moved around. Hell, the stuff is even soluble in water and can be impregnated into clothes and recovered later the same way."

"No sign of Ali Duval?"

"Nothing yet. He was of French Arabian parentage and we're covering all the places he might go to find his own kind. Photos of Duval are being circulated and if he's around, we'll find him."

"And charge him with what?"

"We'll break him down."

"I didn't ask that."

"That's the other hole in the picture. I'd rather not think about it right now. If he's wrapped up in anything, maybe another country will want to pick him up. The inquiry to Interpol is out now and I'm waiting for an answer." Pat paused and finished his coffee. He put the cup down carefully, his eyes watching my face. "Have you got anything more to add?"

"Not yet."

He would have known if I were lying. He nodded and said, "I'm going to check a couple of belly dance places tonight. Native music...the real stuff they say. Want to tag along?"

"Not tonight. I got a date."

"Better than a belly dancer?"

I looked at him with a slow grin. "Much."

Pat felt in his pocket, extracted a two-by-two photo and tossed it on the table. "Here's a passport telephoto of your boy Duval. You might want to know what he looks like."

I said thanks and Pat walked off. I looked at the picture, studying the ineptitude of some photographer. The telephoto process and subsequent reproduction had modified the features, taking out the sharpness of the original photo, but Duval was still distinguishable. He was a tanned face with nothing spectacular about him until you saw the eyes and the innate savagery that lay behind them.

The curb in front of the hotel on Park Avenue was lined with limousines. Photographers roamed the sidewalks, picking their way through the curious, trying for a spot to snap the greats of the international set for their society pages.

Most of the cars were chauffeur-driven, and pulled away after discharging their passengers, but another group bearing DPL plates parked wherever they wanted to, insolently occupying the space in the no-parking zones. Two mounted cops on horseback disgustedly ignored them and concentrated on keeping traffic moving the best they could.