Mickey Spillane - I, The Jury

She inclined her head toward the door behind her and said, “Miss Manning will see you now. Please go in.” With special emphasis on the please. When I went past her she drew back slightly.

“Don’t worry, honey,” I told her out of the corner of my mouth, “I won’t bite. This is just a disguise.” I yanked open the door and went in.

She was better than her picture. She was delicious. There was a lot about her that couldn’t be put into words. Charlotte Manning was sitting at her desk, hands folded in front of her as if she were listening for something. Beautiful was a poor description. She was what you would expect to find in a painting if each of the world’s greatest artists added their own special technique to produce a masterpiece.

Her hair was almost white as I thought. It fell in such soft curls you wanted to bury your face in it. Each of her features was modeled exquisitely. A smooth forehead melted into alive, hazel eyes, framed in the symmetrical curves of naturally brown eyebrows, studded with long, moist lashes.

The dress she wore was not at all revealing, being a long-sleeved black business garb, but what it attempted to conceal was pure loveliness. Her breasts fought the dress as valiantly as they had the bathing suit. I could only imagine how the rest of her looked since the desk blocked my vision.

All this I saw in the three seconds it took to walk across the room. I doubt if she saw any change in my expression, but she could have sued me if she knew what went on in my mind.

“Good morning, Mr. Hammer. Please sit down.” Her voice was like liquid. I wondered what she could do if she put a little passion in it. Plenty, I bet. It wasn’t hard to see why she was a successful psychiatrist. Here was a woman anyone could tell their troubles to.

I sat down in the chair beside her and she swung around to meet my eyes with a steady, direct gaze. “I presume you are here on police business?”

“Not exactly. I’m a private detective.”

“Oh.” When she said that her voice held none of the usual contempt or curiosity I find when I tell that to someone. Instead, it was as if I had given her a pertinent piece of information.

“Is it about the death of Mr. Williams?” she asked.

“Uh-huh. He was a close buddy of mine. I’m conducting a sort of personal investigation of my own.”

She looked at me quizzically at first, then, “Oh, yes. I read your statement in the papers. As a matter of fact, I attempted to analyze your reasoning. I’ve always been interested in things of that sort.”

“And what conclusion did you reach?”

Charlotte surprised me. “I’m afraid I justify you, although several of my former professors would condemn me if I made that statement public.” I saw what she meant. There’s a school of thought that believes anyone who kills is the victim of a moment’s insanity, no matter what the reason for the killing.

“How can I help you?” she went on.

“By answering a few questions. First, what time did you get to the party that night?”

“Roughly, about eleven. I was held up by a visit to a patient.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Around one. We left together.”

“Then where did you go?”

“I had my car downstairs. Esther and Mary Bellemy drove with me. We went to the Chicken Bar and had a sandwich. We left there at one forty-five. I remember the time because we were the only ones there and they were getting ready to close at two. I dropped the twins off at their hotel, then went straight to my apartment. I reached there about a quarter after two. I remember the time there, too, since I had to reset my alarm clock.”

“Anybody see you come into the apartment?”

Charlotte gave me the cutest little laugh. “Yes, Mr. District Attorney. My maid. She even tucked me into bed as usual. She would have heard me go out, too, for the only door to my apartment has a chime on it that rings whenever the door opens, and Kathy is a very light sleeper.”

I couldn’t help but grin at that. “Has Pat Chambers been here to see you already?”

“This morning, but much earlier.” She laughed again. Shivers went through me when she did that. She radiated sex in every manner and gesture. “What is more,” she continued, “he came, he saw, and he suspected. By now he must be checking my story.”

“Pat’s not letting any grass grow under his feet,” I mused. “Did he mention me at all?”

“Not a word. A very thorough man. He represents efficiency. I like him.”

“One thing more. When did you make the acquaintance of Jack Williams?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that.”

I shook my head. “If it was in reference to Myrna, you needn’t be. I was on the ground floor there.”

She seemed surprised at that. But I knew Jack had kept the entire affair of Myrna’s past as close to his vest as possible. “Well,” she said, “that was it. He called me in under advice from a doctor to attend Myrna. She had suffered a severe shock. I doubt if you can comprehend what it means to one addicted to narcotics to go ‘cold turkey’ as they call it. It means an immediate and complete removal from the source of the drug. The mental strain is terrific. They have violent convulsions, their bodies endure the most racking pain there is. Nerve ends eaten raw are exposed to unbelievable torture, and you can give them no relief. Quite often they destroy themselves in fits of madness.

“The cure is far from an easy one. Having made the decision, they are separated from outside contact in padded cells. During the earlier stages of it, they change their minds and beg to be given the drug. Later the pain and tension mount to such dizzy heights that they are completely unrational. All the while, their body fights the effects of the drug, and it emerges finally either cured or unfit to continue life. In Myrna’s case, she lived through it. Jack was worried what this would do to her mentally and called me. I treated her while she was undergoing the cure, and afterwards. Since she was released I have never visited her in a professional capacity.”

“Well, I guess that’s all then. I do have some other things I would like to discuss with you about the case. But I want to do a little checking first.”

She gave me another of those smiles. Any more of them and she’d find out what it was like to be kissed from under a set of whiskers. “If it’s about the time element of my story—or should I say alibi?—then I suggest you hurry over to my apartment before my maid goes on her weekly shopping spree.”

The woman knew all the answers. I tried to keep my face straight, but it was too much work. I broke out my lopsided grin and picked up my hat. “That’s partly it. Guess I don’t trust anybody.”

Charlotte rose and gave me the look at her legs I’d been waiting for. “I understand,” she remarked. “To a man friendship is a much greater thing than to a woman.”

“Especially when that friend gave an arm to save my life,” I said.

A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “So you’re the one.” It was almost a gasp. “I didn’t know, but I’m glad I do now. I have heard so much about you from Jack, but they were stories in the third person. He never mentioned a thing about his arm, although Myrna later told me why he lost it.”

“Jack didn’t want to embarrass me. But that’s only part of the reason why I’m going to get his murderer. He was my friend even before that.”

“I hope you get him,” she said sincerely. “I truly hope you do.”

“I will,” I said.

We stood there a moment just looking at each other, then I caught myself. “I have to leave now. I’ll see you soon.”

Her breath seemed to catch in her throat a moment before she said softly, “Very soon, I trust.” I was hoping that light in her eyes meant what I thought it did when she said it.