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

“How can they pull them in? They haven’t got radios. Most don’t break for the garages until four.”

“Then put out a call to all prowl cars to look out for them. Get word to the subway guards and the tunnel and bridge attendants, but tell them to be damn careful. He’ll do anything now. He’s killed before and he won’t stop at anything. She’s his shield and a warning to me.”

Jerry tried to make it sound easy, but there was an edge in his voice. “He wants back at you, Regan. He’s not planning to keep her alive.”

“I know,” I said. “Get with it.”

“We’ll do all we can.”

I looked at my watch. He had an hour’s start. And an hour can get you pretty far from the city. One way or another, I had to locate the cab that waited for him. On the street pedestrian traffic was going by in a thin stream, hugging the walls of the buildings, leaning into the rain. The braver ones stood at the curb waving fruitlessly at cabs already filled. None were cruising. When any stopped to discharge passengers others were right there to fill it up again.

Madison Avenue. The center of the advertising world. The middle of everything, I thought, and I was trapped in the center of it like a helpless old lady trying to get across an intersection during the rush hour. Thousands of people were in the buildings all around me, preparing to talk commerce to the world via the medium of TV and radio and I couldn’t locate a single cab for another hour yet. At four they’d break and start a new shift and I’ve had to wait until then.

Think, Regan. Think or she’d be dead.

I waited for the light, crossed over and half ran two blocks down to the modern concrete structure that housed a major network studio. The head guard was a retired sergeant from the 4th Precinct I knew and when I briefed him, he led me upstairs to the right man.

Steve McDell handled special news bulletins for the radio network of the company, got my story down in thirty seconds, checked with headquarters and put the item on the air himself. Any cabbie who had picked up a fare from Madaline’s building was requested to report in immediately. When he finished the broadcast he said, “It’ll go out every two minutes. Let me contact the other networks in case the guy’s tuned into another station.”

“If he’s got a radio on,” I said.

“Most of them have those small transistors up on the dash these days when there isn’t one installed in the car,” he reminded me.

McDell flipped a switch and popular music swept into the room over a wall speaker, the continuity broken every so often by a taped rebroadcast of the announcement. Right after the third one the phones started and he answered them. “Reporters calling in,” he said. “What do I tell them?”

“Nothing. They’ll get a statement from the police.”

He passed the message on, hanging up when they became insistent. Then one phone to his right obviously reserved for special calls blinked on, the red light on its base flicking furiously. He picked it up, talked a moment and turned back to me. “The other network. They have your cabbie on the line.”

I grabbed the phone out of his hand. “This is Pat Regan, Police Department. Put him on.”

There were a series of clicks as the connection was made, then a guttural voice said, “You the guy I should talk to about that call?”

“That’s right.”

“I just now caught it. I picked up a fare there today.”

“How many?”

“Two... big guy and a good looking woman. He flagged me down on Forty-first, had me drive there and wait, then we went out to Long Island City. I let him off right by the B.M.T. station.”

“They take the train?”

“Nope.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I turned around at the next block and they was still there trying to find another cab, that’s why. I can tell you this... they ain’t gonna get none there. It’s raining like hell and all the cabs is filled. The taxi stands are empty and traffic’s pretty heavy. Plenty of people waiting. You know how it is.”

“Okay, thanks. We’ll pick it up from there.”

Steve McDell was looking at me anxiously. “Any help?”

“They’re in Long Island City. I have to get there.”

“Need a staff car? One’s standing by downstairs.”

I grinned at him. “Then let’s roll.” My ex-sergeant friend was caught up in the excitement like an old fire horse smelling smoke. I told him, “Call it in for me, will you?”

“Glad to, Pat.”

“Get a cruiser to pick us up to clear the way. There won’t be time for red lights. And tell the other networks to wipe out that broadcast. If he hears it he might jump the gun.”

He caught my meaning and reached for the phone as Steve McDell and I ran out to the bank of elevators, grabbed one before the doors closed and rode it down.

The rain had turned late afternoon into near-dusk, spiked by headlights of cars picking their way through the traffic. Store fronts and office windows put on a garish display of opulence as if all were well with the world. The police cruiser met us two blocks away, cut in front and angled east, threading the way through the flow of cars with its siren.

When we reached the subway station twenty minutes later another police car was already there, parked behind a cab whose driver was talking excitedly to one of the patrolmen. I introduced myself and the cop pointed to the cabbie. “We got the call to ask around and he said he picked up a couple who answered the description of the pair.”

I went over to the driver who waited anxiously. “Describe them.”

He did. It was Argenio and Madaline, all right. “Dropped a fare off right at the station here,” he told me. “They got in and I took ’em down to the Marco Bottling Works. That woman, she was scared, that’s what I told myself. Figured like he was her husband caught her roaming. Neither one of them said nothin’ while they was driving.”

“They go inside?”

“How could they? The place is locked up. I was wondering about it because I thought they got out at the wrong place and would need another hop somewhere else, but when I stopped at the red light at the next block I saw them in the mirror crossing the street.”

“This isn’t a residential section,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. So where could they go? Hardly no cabs take fares from down there unless there’s a direct call. Guys in the factories, they use the subway or got their own car pools.”

Another prowl car pulled up and the cop beside the driver hopped out and came over. “The dispatcher’s standing by for instructions.”

“Blanket the area,” I said. “We might have to do it building by building. Keep it quiet... if he knows we’re this close he’ll kill the woman.”

“I’ll call it in,” he said and went back to the cruiser. The other cops got in their cars and swung out into traffic.

McDell was waiting for me, leaning out the window. “Anything you want me to do?”

“You’ve done enough. Stay out of it for now. If there’s a story I get it to you.”

“Watch yourself, Regan. Glad I could help.”

“Thanks,” I said. The cabbie was still standing by and I got in his hack. “Take me there,” I instructed him. “Cut down the street they took. I want to look it over.”

His nod was eager and he didn’t bother putting the flag down. This ride was on the house, one of the things he had wanted to do all his life. If he had known all the details he might not have been so eager. The place they had left the cab was only seven minutes away. He pointed out the building, then turned left up the street he had seen them entering. Both sides of the block were flanked by structures housing small industries and businesses that couldn’t stand high overhead.