Mickey Spillane - The Girl Hunters

"Presumed dead?"

"What else do you need? Listen, I even have a picture of the guy I took at that camp and some of those survivors when they were brought back. He wasn't in that bunch at all."

I perched forward on my chair, my hands flat on the table. "You have what?"

Surprised at the edge in my voice, he pulled out another one of those cigars. "They're in my personal stuff upstairs." He waved a thumb toward the street.

"Tell me something, Hy," I said, "Are you cold on these details?"

He caught on quick. "When I got out of the army, friend, I got out. All the way. I was never that big that they called me back as a consultant."

"Can we see those photos?"

"Sure. Why not?"

I picked up my beer, finished it, waited for him to finish his, then followed him out. We went back through the press section of the paper, took the service, elevator up and got out at Hy's floor. Except for a handful of night men, the place was empty, a gigantic echo chamber that magnified the sound of our feet against the tiled floor. Hy unlocked his office, flipped on the light and pointed to a chair.

It took him five minutes of rummaging through his old files, but he finally came up with the photos. They were 120 contact sheets still in a military folder that was getting stiff and yellow around the edges and when he laid them out he pointed to one in the top left-hand corner and gave me an enlarging glass to bring out the image.

His face came in loud and clear, chunky features that bore all the physical traits of a soldier with overtones of one used to command. The eyes were hard, the mouth a tight slash as they looked contemptuously at the camera.

Almost as if he knew what was going to happen, I thought.

Unlike the others, there was no harried expression, no trace of fear. Nor did he have the stolid composure of a prisoner. Again, it was as if he were not really a prisoner at all.

Hy pointed to the shots of the survivors of the accident. He wasn't in any of those. The mangled bodies of the dead were unrecognizable.

Hy said, "Know him?"

I handed the photos back. "No."

"Sure?"

"I never forget faces."

"Then that's one angle out."

"Yeah," I said.

"But where did you ever get hold of that bit?"

I reached for my hat. "Have you ever heard of a red herring?"

Hy chuckled and nodded. "I've dropped a few in my life."

"I think I might have picked one up. It stinks."

"So drop it. What are you going to do now?"

"Not drop it, old buddy. It stinks just a little too bad to be true. No, there's another side to this Erlich angle I'd like to find out about."

"Clue me."

"Senator Knapp."

"The Missile Man, Mr. America. Now how does he come in?"

"He comes in because he's dead. The same bullet killed him as Richie Cole and the same gun shot at me. That package on Knapp that you gave me spelled out his war record pretty well. He was a light colonel when he went in and a major general when he came out. I'm wondering if I could tie his name in with Erlich's anyplace."

Hy's mouth came open and he nearly lost the cigar. "Knapp working for another country?"

"Hell no," I told him.

"Were you?"

"But--"

"He could have had a cover assignment too."

"For Pete's sake, Mike, if Knapp had a job other than what was known he could have made political capital of it and--"

"Who knew about yours?"

"Well--nobody, naturally. At least, not until now,", he added.

"No friends?"

"No."

"Only authorized personnel."

"Exactly. And they were mighty damn limited."

"Does Marilyn know about it now?"

"Mike--"

"Does she?"

"Sure, I told her one time, but all that stuff is seventeen years old. She listened politely like a wife will, made some silly remark and that was it."

"The thing is, she knows about it."

"Yes. So what?"

"Maybe Laura Knapp does too."

Hy sat back again, sticking the cigar in his mouth. "Boy," he said, "you sure are a cagy one. You'll rationalize anything just to see that broad again, won't you?"

I laughed back at him. "Could be," I said. "Can I borrow that photo of Erlich?"

From his desk Hy pulled a pair of shears, cut out the, shot of the Nazi agent and handed it to me. "Have fun, but you're chasing a ghost now."

"That's how it goes. But at least if you run around long enough something will show up."

"Yeah, like a broad."

"Yeah," I repeated, then reached for my hat and left.

Duck-Duck Jones told me that they had pulled the cop off Old Dewey's place. A relative had showed up, some, old dame who claimed to be his half sister and had taken over Dewey's affairs. The only thing she couldn't touch, was the newsstand which he had left to Duck-Duck in a surprise letter held by Bucky Harris who owned the Clover Bar. Even Duck-Duck could hardly believe it, but now pride of ownership had taken hold and he was happy to take up where the old man left off.

When I had his ear I said, "Listen, Duck-Duck, before Dewey got bumped a guy left something with him to give to me."

"Yeah? Like what, Mike?"

"I don't know. A package or something. Maybe an envelope. Anyway, did you see anything laying around here with my name on it? Or just an unmarked thing."

Duck folded a paper and thrust it at a customer, made change and turned back to me again. "I don't see nuttin', Mike. Honest. Besides, there ain't no place to hide nuttin' here. You wanna look around?"

I shook my head. "Naw, you would have found it by now."

"Well what you want I should do if somethin' shows up?"

"Hang onto it, Duck. I'll be back." I picked up a paper and threw a dime down.

I started to leave and Duck stopped me. "Hey, Mike, you still gonna do business here? Dewey got you down for some stuff."

"You keep me on the list, Duck. I'll pick up everything in a day or two."

I waved, waited for the light and headed west across town. It was a long walk, but at the end of it was a guy who owed me two hundred bucks and had the chips to pay off on the spot. Then I hopped a cab to the car rental agency on Forty-ninth, took my time about picking out a Ford coupé and turned toward the West Side Drive.

It had turned out to be a beautiful day, it was almost noon, the sun was hot, and once on the New York Thruway I had the wide concrete road nearly to myself. I stayed at the posted sixty and occasionally some fireball would come blasting by, otherwise it was smooth run with only a few trucks to pass. Just before I reached Harriman I saw the other car behind me close to a quarter mile and hold there. Fifteen miles further at the Newburgh entrance it was still there so I stepped it up to seventy. Momentarily, the distance widened, then closed and we stayed like that. Then just before the New Paltz exit the car began to close the gap, reached me, passed and kept on going. It was a dark blue Buick Special with a driver lazing behind the wheel and as he went by all the tension left my shoulders. What he had just pulled was a typical tricky habit of a guy who had driven a long way--staying behind a car until boredom set in, then running for it to find a new pacer for a while. I eased off back to sixty, turned through the toll gate at Kingston, picked up Route 28 and loafed my way up to the chalet called The Willows and when I cut the motor of the car I could hear music coming through the trees from behind the house and knew that she was waiting for me.

She was lying in the grass at the edge of the pool, stretched out on an oversize towel with her face cradled in her intertwined fingers. Her hair spilled forward over her head, letting the sun tan her neck, her arms pulled forward so that lines of muscles were in gentle bas-relief down her back into her hips. Her legs were stretched wide in open supplication of the inveterate sun worshipper and her skin glistened with a fine, golden sweat.