Mickey Spillane - The Girl Hunters

Peerage Brokers could have been anything. The desks and chairs and filing cabinets and typewriters represented nothing, yet represented everything. Only the gray man in the glasses sitting alone in the corner drinking coffee represented something.

Art Rickerby said, "Now?" and I knew what he meant.

I shook my head. He looked at me silently a moment, then sipped at the coffee container again. He knew how to wait, this one. He wasn't in a hurry now, not rushing to prevent something. He was simply waiting for a moment of vengeance because the thing was done and sooner or later time would be on his side.

I said, "Did you know Richie pretty well?"

"I think so."

"Did he have a social life?"

For a moment his face clouded over, then inquisitiveness replaced anger and he put the coffee container down for a reason, to turn his head away. "You'd better explain."

"Like girls," I said.

When he turned back he was expressionless again. "Richie had been married," he told me. "In 1949 his wife died of cancer."

"Oh? How long did he know her?"

"They grew up together."

"Children?"

"No. Both Richie and Ann knew about the cancer. They married after the war anyway but didn't want to leave any children a difficult burden."

"How about before that?"

"I understood they were both pretty true to each other."

"Even during the war?"

Again there was silent questioning in his eyes. "What are you getting at, Mike?"

"What was Richie during the war?"

The thought went through many channels before it was properly classified. Art said, "A minor O.S.I. agent. He was a Captain then based in England. With mutual understanding, I never asked, nor did he offer, the kind of work he did."

"Let's get back to the girls."

"He was no virgin, if that's what you mean."

He knew he reached me with that one but didn't know why. I could feel myself tighten up and had to relax deliberately before I could speak to him again.

"Who did he go with when he was here? When he wasn't on a job."

Rickerby frowned and touched his glasses with an impatient gesture. "There were--several girls. I really never inquired. After Ann's death--well, it was none of my business, really."

"But you knew them?"

He nodded, watching me closely. Once more he thought quickly, then decided. "There was Greta King, a stewardess with American Airlines that he would see occasionally. And there was Pat Bender over at the Craig House. She's a manicurist there and they had been friends for years. Her brother, Lester, served with Richie but was killed just before the war ended."

"It doesn't sound like he had much fun."

"He didn't look for fun. Ann's dying took that out of him. All he wanted was an assignment that would keep him busy. In fact, he rarely ever got to see Alex Bird, and if--"

"Who's he?" I interrupted.

"Alex, Lester and Richie were part of a team throughout the war. They were great friends in addition to being experts in their work. Lester got killed, Alex bought a chicken farm in Marlboro, New York, and Richie stayed in the service. When Alex went civilian he and Richie sort of lost communication. You know the code in this work--no friends, no relatives--it's a lonely life."

When he paused I said, "That's all?"

Once again, he fiddled with his glasses, a small flicker of annoyance showing in his eyes. "No. There was someone else he used to see on occasions. Not often, but he used to look forward to the visit."

My voice didn't sound right when I asked, "Serious?"

"I--don't think so. It didn't happen often enough and generally it was just a supper engagement. It was an old friend, I think."

"You couldn't recall the name?"

"It was never mentioned. I never pried into his business."

"Maybe it's about time."

Rickerby nodded sagely. "It's about time for you to tell me a few things too."

"I can't tell you what I don't know."

"True." He looked at me sharply and waited.

"If the information isn't classified, find out what he really did during the war, who he worked with and who he knew."

For several seconds he ran the thought through his mental file, then: "You think it goes back that far?"

"Maybe." I wrote my number down on a memo pad, ripped off the page and handed it to him. "My office. I'll be using it from now on."

He looked at it, memorized it and threw it down. I grinned, told him so-long and left.

Over in the west Forties I got a room in a small hotel, got a box, paper and heavy cord from the desk clerk, wrapped my .45 up, addressed it to myself at the office with a buck's worth of stamps and dropped it in the outgoing mail, then sacked out until it was almost noon in a big new tomorrow.

Maybe I still had that look because they thought I was another cop. Nobody wanted to talk, and if they had, there would have been little they could have said. One garrulous old broad said she saw a couple of men in the back court and later a third. No, she didn't know what they were up to and didn't care as long as they weren't in her yard. She, heard the shot and would show me the place, only she didn't know why I couldn't work with the rest of the cops instead of bothering everybody all over again.

I agreed with her, thanked her and let her take me to where I almost had it going over the fence. When she left, wheezing and muttering, I found where the bullet had torn through the slats and jumped the fence, and dug it out of the two-by-four frame in the section on the other side of the yard. There was still enough of it to show the rifling marks, so I dropped it in my pocket and went back to the street.

Two blocks away I waved down a cab and got in. Then I felt the seven years, and the first time back I had to play it hard and almost stupid enough to get killed. There was a time when I never would have missed with the .45, but now I was happy to make a noise with it big enough to start somebody running. For a minute I felt skinny and shrunken inside the suit and cursed silently to myself.

If she was alive, I was going to have to do better than I was doing now. Time, damn it. There wasn't any. It was like when the guy in the porkpie hat had her strung from the rafters and the whip in his hand had stripped her naked flesh with bright red welts, the force of each lash stroke making her spin so that the lush beauty of her body and the deep-space blackness of her hair and the wide sweep of her breasts made an obscene kaleidoscope and then I shot his arm off with the tommy gun and it dropped with a wet thud in the puddle of clothes around her feet like a pagan sacrifice and while he was dying I killed the rest of them, all of them, twenty of them, wasn't it? And they called me those terrible names, the judge and the jury did.

Damn. Enough.

Chapter 7

The body was gone, but the police weren't. The two detectives interrogating Nat beside the elevators were patiently listening to everything he said, scanning the night book one held open. I walked over, nodded and said, "Morning, Nat."

Nat's eyes gave me a half-scared, half-surprised look followed by a shrug that meant it was all out of his hands.

"Hello, Mike." He turned to the cop with the night book. "This is Mr. Hammer. In 808."

"Oh?" The cop made me in two seconds. "Mike Hammer. Didn't think you were still around."

"I just got back."

His eyes went up and down, then steadied on my face. He could read all the signs, every one of them. "Yeah," he said sarcastically. "Were you here last night?"

"Not me, buddy. I was out on the town with a friend."

The pencil came into his hand automatically. "Would you like to--"

"No trouble. Bayliss Henry, an old reporter. I think he lives--"

He put the pencil away with a bored air. "I know where Bayliss lives."