Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

“Luckily, it didn’t seem to go any further, and it was pretty damn effective, so not much more was said about it. It was practically forgotten. But let’s suppose it was well remembered by somebody who saw how the pattern could be used right here in the United States. Not only used, but modified and sophisticated to such an extent the ramifications took on unbelievable proportions.

“First, it would take a pro who was familiar with as many details of the syndicate operation as anybody could be. He had to have knowledge, the time, the ability and the money to plan it out and put it into effect without ever risking exposure himself. He had to work them against themselves and when only a few were left, put the frosting on the cake with a completely legal maneuver that left him successful and satisfied.”

Burke drew into the curb outside the apartment building and cut the switch. When he got out, Helen and Bill Long followed him. The captain looked at the building and Burke said, “Shelby had an apartment here.”

“It’s not in our files.”

“It is in mine,” Burke told him.

As Burke expected, there was no apartment listed under Shelby’s name, but when he flashed his badge and gave his description, the doorman remembered Mark and said he visited Miss Helga Piers in 21A. In fact, he added he was there that very evening and had left quite hurriedly a little after ten o’clock.

“You have a passkey?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you’d better come with us.”

“Sir,” the doorman said, “don’t you have to have...”

“We can get a warrant in five minutes or you can do it the easy way,” Burke told him.

One look at those eyes of his and the doorman didn’t hesitate. He led them to the elevator, took them up to the top floor and pointed out the door. While Helen and the doorman stayed to one side, Burke and Long flanked the door and looked at each other.

A thin line of light lined the sill and from inside a TV program rambled on. There was another sound too, an intermittent wail of hysterical laughter coupled with an overtone of anguish.

Burke pushed the doorbell and waited. Nothing happened. He tried it again and there was no answer. He snapped his fingers and the doorman opened the lock with his passkey. Gill turned the knob, threw the door open an inch and looked back at the doorman. “Beat it,” he said.

They went in together, guns ready, spreading out inside, poised like cats, taking in the entire situation in a fraction of a second.

Nobody came at them.

All they heard was the TV and the strange wail, with an odd aromatic smell permeating the air. With professional caution, they picked their way through the area to the living room until they got to the arch and saw the remains of the furniture and the nearly naked wreckage of the woman who squatted on the floor in a pool of her own blood, rocking and writhing in pain, a lit candle in front of her that she kept hacking at with a knife in ineffectual, weary motions.

Bill Long had seen a lot of things, but this one almost made him sick. The terrible beating she had taken was beyond anything he had witnessed before and whoever did it had to be so twisted he never should have lived through his own birth.

Gill yelled for Helen and this time there was no fear or disgust in her. It was a woman recognizing the emergency and becoming equal to it. She didn’t even give them time to phone, making them help her get Helga on the couch, finding the towles, the compresses and the medication until the eyes that were so blanked out from shock suddenly became alive from pain and all she could say was, “No... no... please, no more.”

“You’re all right,” Helen told her. “We’re friends and we’ll help you.”

“Help... me?”

“That’s right.” She waved to Gill and said, “Better get the ambulance now.”

He made the call, then followed Long over to the bar. The entire back section was wrecked, a large religious picture and a plaster statue lying in smashed pieces on the shelf. The cop said, “Crazy. She dragged herself all over the place in that condition. You see that blood trail?”

“I saw it.”

“It doesn’t seem possible.”

Burke looked at the red splotches around the back of the bar and on the shelving. There were other smears on the end table and the arm of a chair were she had propped herself as she pulled her wracked body around the room. “Maybe she was motivated,” Burke said.

“What... to get to a religious picture?” He kicked over a four-legged metal holder, looking at the wax fragments in its base. “Maybe you’re right.” He picked the holder up and showed it to Burke. “I guess people who got a strong religious conviction can do damn near anything. She thought she was dying and wanted to light a candle to herself.”

“Then why was she chopping at it with that knife.”

“Maybe it’s part of her religion,” Long said sourly.

“Gill...” Helen was waving him over to the couch.

“She coming around?”

“He told her his name was Norris. He was keeping her, all right, but do you know she knew who he really was?” Before he could answer she held out a cheap magazine folded open to a full-page picture of recognizable faces. “She had it under the couch. She pointed him out to me.”

He glanced at it, flipped the cover over and tapped his finger under the issue date at the top. “This is this month’s copy.”

Helen got the message and nodded. “She just found out who he really is. That poor kid.”

Burke said, “Come here, old buddy.” When the captain walked up Gill showed him the photo. “There’s your man,” he said and tapped the photo of the one in the background.

“Mark Shelby,” Long said softly.

“I hope you feel better now,” Burke said.

“About him,” Long grated, “but not about you. You’re still a bastard.”

Helga’s hot eyes stared at the two of them, her mouth working, trying to form words. Bill Long had to be sure. He held the picture out, his finger indicating Shelby. “That the one who did it?”

Her nod was affirmative. “He...”

“Don’t try to talk,” Helen told her.

She made a feeble motion with her hand and her mouth worked again. “He got... mad about... something. Then he... found about... Nils.”

“Nils? Your husband?”

She shook her head. “Friend. We were... going to... marry. Take his... money and... run away.”

Burke said, “You want me to call this Nils for you? Look if...”

The pain in her eyes washed out into one of incredible sorrow and tears flowed slowly onto her cheeks. “Nils... was here. He saw me... and he... ran away... too.” She managed to force a gruesome smile to her lips. “All gone. Nothing left... at all. Only his... beautiful candle. He... loved the candle. Now I... kill that... damn thing.”

It hit Burke first, the entire implication of the whole thing, the beauty of the way Shelby had disguised it. He walked to the middle of the floor, blew the candle out and picked up the blood-stained knife she had tried to kill the candle with. He ran the tip of it down the side of its foot-long length, rammed the blade into the crack and pried the waxen cylinder open.

The rolls of microfilm were stacked one on top of the other and when Burke held it up for Long to see he said, “The ultimate proof, friend. We just got it in time. If that candle kept burning it would have destroyed the whole bundle. Old Shelby was covering every angle, even to a built-in self-destruct. Who the hell would blow out a religious candle anyway?”

“Someone with no religion, maybe,” Long said. “Or no conscience. Like you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Burke said.

Bill Long gave him a tight smile. “You see I’m right. You are the one. A whole execution squad wrapped up in one man. There was a time when you would have jumped me for saying what I just did, but you can’t now because you know I’m right and you never could fake me out.”