Mickey Spillane - The Killing Man

He had me puzzled. "So?"

"See the enlargement?"

This time I looked at it carefully. There were odd geometric patterns from the sole in the print. I took a minute before it hit me. "Those are boating shoes . . . nonskid soles. They come in all styles, from canvas to classics."

"That's right," Pat agreed. "Suggest anything?"

It was all going over Candace's head and the expression she wore was sheer bewilderment. I nodded. "They were pros, all right. They would be dress uppers and working lowers."

"That's not all." He picked up the phone, punched a number and told the listener to come to the office. In two minutes the cop who did the photography came in and handed Pat two more blowups, turned and left.

He studied them for a few seconds, then let me see them. There were those soles again.

"Whoever wore those shoes killed Smiley," he said. "This one's the same size as the one on the other shot, and you know where they came from, don't you?"

I handed the photos to Candace to look at. "Those were the ones who worked me over, weren't they?" Pat was looking smug. "Damn good police work, pal."

He appreciated the compliment. "We're pretty good pros too. The manufacturer of those shoes has been identified and is sending a list of outlets that sell them, though that may not be much help. But shoes are things people keep, so we have something else to look for."

"What leads do you have, Captain?"

He didn't mention the tape I had given him. Pat could work closely with the DA, but he didn't have to get in bed with him. "There are things we are processing right now," he told her. "We should have some results shortly."

I felt like I was in the middle of a dream. Pat was talking to her and I could hear but I wasn't listening. Their voices were a far-off drone and I was sitting in the darkened garage tied to a chair, my mind stupefied from an injected drug. I was being induced to remember someone called Penta, but there was no way I could remember anything except a dream of someone behind me gagging and muttering a curse then forcefully spitting out something ugly.

Pat said, "You with us, Mike?"

I jolted alert. "Sorry about that. I was trying to remember something."

"Did you?"

"Not quite." Apparently Candace had finished her conversation with Pat during my dream sequence and she was putting on touches of lipstick. My stomach was growling, telling me I hadn't eaten all day. "Anybody for an early supper?"

"Another time," Pat told me.

I held out an offering hand to Candace. She shook her head. "Thank you, no. I'm meeting with Bennett Bradley and Mr. Coleman in a little while." Her eyes caught mine over the top of her mirror. "But I'll join you for a drink when we're finished."

"Great. I'll pick you up where?"

"At my office. Sevenish sound all right?"

"Perfect," I said. "What'll we talk about?"

She ran her tongue over her mouth to wet the lipstick. She didn't look up. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Pat didn't have to say a word. I knew what he was thinking.

* * *

A hot, soapy shower turned me new again. I turned the power head from a stinging needle spray to the thudding vibrating sequence, then back to normal for a final five minutes while I shaved my beard off under the running water.

When I dried off, I pulled my Jockey shorts on, made a tall CC and ginger with a twist and turned on the phone recorder. The first call was from the dry cleaners telling me my clothes were ready. The second was from Russell Graves in Manchester, England, who wanted me to return his call. He gave me the number and I put the phone on my shoulder and dialed it.

The British phone did its double burp, rang twice, and a heavily accented voice said, "Yes, can I help you?"

"Russell? This is Mike Hammer. What's happening?"

This time he didn't sound flippant at all. "Mr. Hammer . . . I think you had better know, well . . . this business with the mutilated fingers?"

"Yes?"

"Twice I have been called upon by persons I suspect are from the police. They wanted to know about my interest in the . . . the dead man."

"Did they identify themselves?"

I heard him swallow. "They didn't have to. They have a way about them, y'know."

"Russell, you are in England, buddy. The police don't work that way."

"These were . . . a different sort of police."

"What are you talking about?"

"British intelligence agents don't work under the same rules as our bobbies."

"They threaten you?"

"Let me say . . . they were threatening. Only when they determined I was a bona fide reporter did they leave. The implication I got was . . . that I was an unwelcome intruder."

"Did they say that?"

"It was what they didn't say, y'know. I'm afraid there's something very big in the wind. They were very frightening."

"Why the call then?"

"Because . . . one mentioned, well, rather out of turn, I doubt if he was aware of it . . . not to go looking for 'the others.' Now, he might have said 'any others,' but I'm quite sure he said 'the others.' In that case, there would be more."

"Beautiful, Russell, you did fine. Don't go out looking for any of them."

"Oh, you can be sure of that, Mike. I'm really not into violence. Those men were quite burly. Knew what they were about too. Thought you'd want to know, however."

I thanked him again and hung up.

I sure was in the middle of something.

They hadn't quite finished their meeting when I got to Candace Amory's office. Her door was open and I could hear their quietly argumentative voices down the hall. In a steely tone I heard Coleman say, "In all this time there has to be somebody able to identify him. This one-name 'Penta' business must have some significance."

"Well, we're coordinating all the information the embassy's gathered in. We really haven't all that many men in the field-"

I interrupted him from the doorway. "Why not, Mr. Bradley?"

The interplay of glances between the three of them was quick. Candace reacted with sudden surprise and I knew she had forgotten our date for a drink. Before she could answer, Bradley said, "Why should we? A couple of killings-"

"Cut the crap, Bradley. If this Penta demands State's being on the scene we're in a big-league ball game."

"Mr. Hammer . . ." He turned sharply, facing me, a big guy carrying a lot of federal authority. He was all set to read me right out of the picture, but he wasn't that big.

I walked into the room and said, "Which couple of killings are you referring to? I can name three more civilian jobs that carry Penta's trademark and a lot of others on the political scene without any fingers." I was lying about the last bunch, but he didn't know that and I saw him stiffen visibly. He looked at Coleman quickly, then back to me. "How do you know that?"

Now it was better. He wasn't challenging me at all. He knew that someplace I had gotten information I wasn't supposed to have, and he didn't know what I was going to do with it. I wasn't somebody he could put a hold on and he had to make up his mind fast.

I gave him a simple noncommittal shrug.

Coleman cleared his throat. It had caught him off guard too. "You seem to have some unusual sources, Mr. Hammer."

I still didn't say anything.

"Did Captain Chambers tell you this?"

Truthfully, I said, "I don't think Pat even knows about it." I was full of truth these days. Ray Wilson probably hadn't had time to tell him and he didn't know Russell Graves.

"And, of course, you aren't going to tell us where you got the information from."

"What difference does it make?" I asked him. "Now we all know what the facts are." Candace Amory's face seemed to be frozen, but her eyes were blazing. I added, "Too bad you didn't let the lady district attorney in on your show."