Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

“Who bought it?”

She spread her hands and heaved her immense bosom. “Who remembers? Some things here, some things there. Myron, my cousin, he took care of things. He’s a lawyer, Myron is. If you ever need a lawyer...”

“What about the files?”

“The papers?” Gill nodded. “Bah, papers. Bills they paid, bills they got. Some checks that bounced. Downstairs is a whole box of papers that should get thrown out. Myron, he’s the lawyer, he says I should keep them in case they ask questions about taxes. He knows about taxes, Myron does. Tell me, Mister...”

“Burke.”

“Yes, Mr. Burke. Why should the police want to know about Mr. Berkowitz after all this time? That little foreigner who got killed did it and we couldn’t even sue. If it wasn’t for the insurance...”

“Could I see those papers, Mrs. Berkowitz?”

“Maybe I should call Myron. He’s my lawyer, you know.”

“Call him,” Gill suggested.

“So why should I bother Myron? You are a nice man with the badge and everything. Before everybody from the station house was very nice too. Downstairs in the celler next to the furnace is the big box of papers. Look all you want, then come back and I’ll have some more tea ready. You’d like some soup, maybe?”

“Just tea will be fine.”

He crouched in the dim light of the dusty forty-watt bulb in the ceiling fixture squinting at the array of papers. Their equipment had been purchased all second hand, sixteen millimeter cameras, lights, development supplies and a lot of inexpensive accessories. It had been paid for in cash and receipted. After that their biggest cash outlay seemed to be for a bimonthly delivery of raw film ends from a large midtown supplier. Three months before their deaths, Manute had bought a used thirty-five-millimeter Nikon, a swivel chair and had double locks installed on their office door.

Myron, the lawyer, had left an inventory sheet on top of the pile along with a sales sheet from the auction. Everything had gone for the total price of a little more than two thousand dollars. The sheet was signed by Mrs. Cynthia Berkowitz and Mrs. Irma Manute. Myron’s illegible signature was below theirs.

Gill Burke put everything back in the box, folded the cover into place and went upstairs for some more tea. He spent an hour probing for anything that might fit and something out of place, but all he got was bloated from the inexhaustible teapot.

He told Mrs. Berkowitz good-bye, promised to keep in touch and went downstairs to find a cab. It was almost six o’clock and he was going to see Helen Scanlon for supper. Why, he didn’t know.

Maybe it was the way she kissed, he thought.

They had the guy in a loft over the garage in Brooklyn. He was tied to a chair, his hands and feet numb from the loss of circulation, and all he could do was moan softly behind the tape that covered his mouth. What made it worse was that he couldn’t see. The last thing he remembered was the sharp crack against the back of his head and then total darkness. The darkness was still there behind a cloth whose knot was biting into the wound on his scalp.

When Frank Verdun came in with Slick Kevin, Bingo Miles and Shatzi Heinkle stood up respectfully. The guy in the chair moaned and rolled his head.

“Who is he?” Frank asked.

“All his I.D. reads is William R. Hays. He’s from East Orange, New Jersey.” Bingo pointed to the open attaché case on the floor. “He was in Chicago and Cleveland on the right days. He sure looks like the picture, Mr. Verdun.”

Frank pointed toward the case. “Check it,” he told Slick. He walked over and stood in front of the man in the chair. “He wears glasses?”

Shatzi held out a broken frame and several pieces of the lens. “Same kind as in the picture. They broke when we took him.”

“Clean snatch?”

“We used Bingo’s cab. No problem at all. He wanted to go to the Hilton.”

Kevin finished going through the papers and dropped them back in the case. “He’s got a good cover, Frank. Fabric salesman to upholstery places.”

“Check him out all the way, Slick.” He glanced at Bingo and Shatzi. “You two keep him here and take care of him. I don’t want anything to happen to this guy until we know all about him. He might have a lot to tell us.” He took an ink pad and a white card from his pocket, went behind the chair, daubed the man’s fingers on the black sponge and rolled his fingerprints onto the card. He only used one hand and two of the prints were messy, but they were enough. When he dried the card off he put it in an envelope and stuck it back in his pocket.

The guy moaned again and a wet stain darkened his trousers.

“Your call was a pleasant surprise,” Helen Scanlon told him. “I really didn’t think you’d want to see me again.”

Gill told the waiter to bring more coffee and lit a cigarette. “My turn to apologize for being so rough on you. I could have been nicer in the office... or more hospitable at home.”

“It wouldn’t become you, Mr. Burke.”

“Can’t you call me Gill?”

“All right.”

“Don’t figure me for a social outcast, will you.”

Helen Scanlon smiled gently, playing with a cube of sugar. “You remind me of my father, always the dedicated policeman. Nothing else mattered.”

Gill reached out and laid his hand over hers. “In case you’re interested, this isn’t question and answer time. I felt like inviting you out to dinner because I had you on my mind all day.”

“Why?”

“Not because you work in the Frenchman’s office. They don’t stop me from rousting them if I want to and if I need information I don’t have to play any games to get it, either. I wished to hell I knew why I wanted to see you, but I don’t. I just wanted to, that’s all.” He felt annoyed at himself for some reason.

“You really don’t know much about women, do you?”

“Depends. Why?”

“Because you just gave me the best reason of all,” she said.

“I did?” he said querulously.

She laughed again, turned her hand around and squeezed his. “Do you know what would happen if some journalist saw us together and decided it would make a good story?”

“Limit that to just a couple of journalists, baby. The rest were all on my side and as for the other couple, I’d scratch them so fast it would make their eyes cross. Besides, we’re both old news now anyway. Anything that could be said has already been said.”

“Not with you, Gill. You still have a lot more to say.” She took her hand away, glanced around her and reached into her handbag. She found the small oblong she wanted and handed it to him. “Whose picture is that?”

He took it from her, looked at it barely a second and asked, “Where did you get this?” It was the photo of a man at the counter of a car rental agency.

“A box of them was delivered to Mr. Verdun today. He had them separated into six groups and had them picked up by a man from the main office. He was on the phone for over an hour and was very excited about something. When he was out of the room for a minute I went in to leave some mail and picked one out of the pile.”

Gill said, “Damn,” and looked at the picture again. He could tell it wasn’t an original, but had been recopied from a positive print, but for identification purposes, it was as good as the one that had come in from Cleveland. “Who were the photos sent to?”

“I don’t know. The packages were unmarked.”

“Recognize the guy who picked them up?”

“No. I’m sorry... he came and went too fast. I was busy at the files.”

“This is good enough.”

“Who is it, Gill?”

“A guy they think killed a hood named Holland in Cleveland.”

“Important?”