Микки Спиллейн - Death of the Too-Cute Prostitute [= Man Alone]

The redhead, Leo Marcus and me. Somebody had missed the boat in planning the State’s case. They should have tied in the redhead and I would have been on the death list at Sing Sing. The D.A. could have made it look like we were in it together to knock off Marcus, that in my hatred I had somehow recruited her. Now she was out of it altogether and if they wanted to build a new case they could try it on me for size. Sooner or later the D.A.’s boys would be asking questions, they’d have some answers to Mildred Swiss’ past and they’d be asking me where I was when she was dumped.

So... where was I? My contacts had been limited. I had been walking and thinking. I was ready to be a patsy again. I needed an alibi, but before I could nail it down I had to find out when she had died.

I waited until I saw Ted Marker come out of the building and followed him from across the street and half a block back to the subway station, made sure none of the others were around and caught up with him as he was buying tokens from the attendant on the platform. He could have used his badge to go through the gate for free but never bothered to. I came up beside him, got two tokens and said, “Wait for me, Ted.”

He nodded curiously, went through the turnstile and stood behind the crowd of commuters. We went three stops and upstairs to a bar and grill where everybody was watching the last inning of a ball game and ordered a pair of beers at the counter.

“What’s it about, Pat?”

“How’d the make go through on Mildred Swiss?”

“Checked right out.”

“They establish the time of death?”

“On the nose. The Medical Examiner’s autopsy report checked with a watch in her pocket that had stopped. Five-fifteen.”

“Why was the watch in her pocket?”

“Because the clasp had been broken.”

“It was daylight then,” I said. “They don’t usually go in during the day. Not female suicides. They think about their hair and their clothes and the water isn’t a good prospect for death. It’s filthy with garbage and sewerage and stinks.”

“That’s suicide. She was murdered.”

I looked at him.

“Fingernails broken from where she clawed somebody apparently. Her hands had been well manicured. She had a bruise on her head that could have knocked her out. There was a hairdressing appointment on a card in her wallet for the next day. She made the date by phone and didn’t seem disturbed at all.”

“It figures. One odd thing.”

“What’s that?” Ted asked.

“Why didn’t the body sink?”

“Simple. She was hung up on a piece of driftwood, a plank with one end waterlogged had nails that snagged her clothes. She wasn’t in the water very long at all.”

Mentally, I checked the time. I had been in the apartment all that while and nobody had seen me come in or spoken to me until I had gotten Spud’s message. It didn’t have to be planned that way, but it could put me back in the hot water again. The other alternative was that somebody wanted Mildred Swiss dead, just plain dead and quickly.

Ted finished his beer and said without taking his eyes from the TV: “Where do you fit in, Regan?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“I’m feeling your line of thought.”

“Not good, is it?”

“Uh-uh,” he told me. Then: “I asked some questions about that sleep gas. It took a while, but a smart boy in Washington provided some answers. Right after the war a batch got into this country mixed in a surplus deal. They couldn’t pin it down, but there was a shady aspect about it. About ninety percent was recovered from the Ross and Buttick Warehouse where it was stored by a company who imported it among other things. Bensilee Imports. Legitimate firm operating since 1919.”

“Who broke it down?”

“The O.S.S. discovered the stuff missing, then Washington moved and working with our department located the stuff. It was taken out to sea and dumped. Lot of publicity on it when it happened. They were afraid some kids would get into the stuff thinking it was DDT or something. The citizenry sent in truckloads of stuff for inspection, but none of it was that FS-7 derivative of the Roderick Formula.”

Another little piece, I thought. Publicity alerted the public to the potential dangers of the stuff, but it could have aroused the curiosity of other parties to its potential for their own activities.

I said, “Any deaths attributed to its use?”

Ted Marker turned his head and said, “I was wondering when you’d ask. The man in Washington said there were two prominent Syndicate defectors who died mysteriously from undetected causes. It’s a possibility, but wasn’t detected. In each case the M.E. wasn’t familiar with FS-7. Only the prominence of the dead men kept it open.”

“And if I had died it would have looked like a natural thing... nobody would have shaken the room down and probed under the bed for a can until the landlord or a new tenant did... or the guy who planted the stuff came back. It could have been easy... he could have posed as a reporter, a new tenant... anybody.”

“Cute. Again I say you were lucky.”

“Nope... just filled with natural instincts.” I finished the beer and waved to the bartender for another round. “They figure out where the redhead got it?”

“Roughly. The tide was incoming, the rate of drift and time of death put it in the dock area around the Forties... providing the plank that held her didn’t get snagged along the way. In that case it would have happened farther up. Anyplace along there you find traffic, drifters... well, hell, you know the area. Even in daylight it could have been arranged.”

“Yeah, sure,” I agreed.

Ted looked at his watch and I knew he was anxious to get going. “One more thing. I read everything available on the Sentol product. One thing it doesn’t induce... in fact, inhibits it... is a person under its influence passing out.”

“I was out cold when they found me there.”

“That’s what I mean. Sentol keeps the user awake like the goof balls the truckers use, but acting in strange directions.”

“Positive?”

He nodded, his face grim.

“In that case I did it all on my own... that what you’re thinking?”

“What do you think, Regan?” he asked me.

“A factor has been missed somewhere. Thanks for the time. Let’s go.”

I bought a barbecued chicken at the delicatessen and brought it up to the apartment for supper. I hadn’t taken time to clean up the place and it was beginning to look like a Harlem hovel with dirty dishes and damp towels all over the place. There was a note in my box, hand delivered from George Lucas, that I opened when I got the chicken on the table that simply said, “Give me a call.”

When I tried his office the number didn’t answer, so I sat down to the chicken, giving him time to get home. The light on the electric coffee pot blinked red, a signal that it was finished, so I rinsed out a cup and poured it full, sitting with my feet propped up on the table and a dripping drumstick in my fist.

That was when the bell rang. Before I opened it I took the.45 automatic I had liberated after the war, checked the load and held it ready. I had to hold the chicken leg in my teeth to unlock the door and swing it open.

Madaline took all of me in with one sweep of her eyes, started a laugh, then stifled it behind a grin. “All you need is a cutlass to look like Blackboard,” she said.

“His name was Teach. Captain Teach.”

“Okay, brains. But you sure do take a big mouthful.” I yanked the chicken down and closed the door behind her. She took one look around and shook her head in disgust. “So this is how a cop lives,” she said. “Can’t you afford any better?”