Mickey Spillane - I, The Jury

I parked a few feet away from the blue canopy of the apartment house. The doorman, for once conservatively dressed, opened the door of my car without wrinkling his mouth in disgust. I gave him a nod and went into the outer foyer.

The name over the bell was stamped in aluminum. “Manning Charlotte,” it read, without a series of degrees following it like the doctor’s below. That guy must have had a letter complex. I rang the bell and walked in when the buzzer sounded.

She lived on the fourth floor, in a suite facing the street. A coal-black maid in a white uniform answered the door. “Mistah Hammah?” she asked me.

“Yeah, how didja know?”

“De police gennimuns in de front room was ’specting you. Come in, please.” Sure enough, there was Pat sprawled in a chair by the window.

“Hi, Mike,” he called. I threw my hat on an end table and sat down on a hassock beside him.

“What did you find, Pat?”

“Her story checks. A neighbor saw her come in at the proper time; her maid confirmed it.” For once I was relieved. “I knew you’d be along, so I just parked the carcass until you showed up. By the way, I wish you’d be a little easier on the men I detail to keep track of you.”

“Easier, hell. Keep ’em off my neck. Either that or get an expert.”

“Just for your own protection, Mike.”

“Nuts. You know me better than that. I can take care of myself.” Pat let his head fall back and closed his eyes. I looked around the room. Like her office, Charlotte Manning’s apartment was furnished in excellent taste. It had a casual air that made it look lived in, yet everything was in order. It wasn’t large; then too it had no reason to be. Living alone with one maid, a few rooms was all that was necessary. Several good paintings adorned the walls, hanging above shelves that were well stocked with books of all kinds. I noticed one bookcase that held nothing but volumes on psychology. At one end of the room a framed diploma was the only ornament. A wide hallway opened off the living room and led to a bedroom and the kitchen, with a bathroom opposite. Beside the foyer was the maid’s room. Here the color scheme was not conducive to mental peace, but designed to add color and gaiety to its already beautiful occupant. Directly opposite the hassock I was parked on was a sofa, a full six feet long. It gave me ideas, which I quickly ignored. It was no time to play wolf. Yet

I nudged Pat with my foot. “Don’t let’s be going to sleep, chum. You’re on taxpayers’ time.”

He came out of his reverie with a start. “Only giving you time to size things up, junior. Let’s roll.”

Kathy, the maid, came scurrying in when she heard us making sounds of leaving. She opened the door for us and I heard the sound of the chimes Charlotte had spoken of. “Does the gong go off when the bell rings too?” I asked her.

“Yassuh, or when de do’ opens, too.”

“Why?”

“Well, sun, when I’se not to home, Miss Charlotte has to answer de do’. Sometimes when she’s busy in de black-room de bell rings and she just opens de lock. Den when de visitors come up she knows when dey comes in. She can’t leave in de middle of her work in de blackroom to answer both de bell and de do’.”

I looked at Pat and he looked at me. “What’s the black-room?” I practically demanded.

Kathy jumped like she was shot. “Why, where she makes pitchers from de fillums,” she answered. Pat and I left feeling a little foolish. So Charlotte made a hobby of photography. I reminded myself to brush up on details so we’d have something to speak about the next time we met. Besides that, I mean.

Chapter Five

Downstairs, Pat and I went across the street to a tiny delicatessen and sat in a booth with two bottles of beer. He asked me if I had gotten anywhere yet and I had to give him a negative answer.

“What about motive?” I put to him. “I’m up the creek on that angle, mainly because I haven’t looked into it. When I get all the case histories down I’ll begin on the motive. But did you dig up anything yet?”

“Not yet,” Pat answered. “Ballistics checked on the slug and it came from an unidentified .45. According to the experts, the barrel was nearly new. We followed that up by inquiring into the sale of all guns, but got nowhere. Only two had been sold, both to store owners who were recently robbed. We took some samples of the slugs, but they didn’t match.”

“For that matter it might have been a gun sold some time ago, but unfired until recently,” I said.

“We thought of that, too. Records still don’t account for it. None of those at the party have ever owned a gun to our knowledge.”

“Officially,” I added.

“Yes, that’s a possibility. It isn’t hard to come in possession of a gun.”

“What about the silencer? The killer was no novice about firearms. A silencer plus a dumdum. He wanted to make sure Jack died—not too fast. Just definitely died.”

“No trace of that, either. Where it may have come from is a rifle. There are a few makes of rifle silencers that can be adjusted to a .45.”

We sipped the beer slowly, each of us thinking hard. It was a full two minutes before Pat remembered something and said, “Oh, yeah, almost forgot. Kalecki and the Kines kid moved into an apartment in town this morning.”

That was news. “What for?”

“Someone took a shot at him through his window late last night. Missed by a hair. It was a .45 slug, too. We checked it with the one that killed Jack. It was the same gun.”

I almost choked on my beer. “You almost forgot,” I said with a smirk.

“Oh, and one other thing.”

“What?”

“He thinks you did it.”

I banged my glass down on the table so hard Pat jumped. “Why, that dirty snivelling louse! That does it. This time I’ll smash his face all over the place!”

“There you go, racing your motor again, Mike. Sit down and pipe down. As he said, he wasn’t without a little influence at city hall, and they made us look into you. But don’t forget, you’ve knocked off a few undesirable citizens before and the slugs from your gun were photographed. We keep all the prints and tried in the worst way to match ’em, but they don’t match. Besides, we knew where you were last night. They raided the joint ten minutes after you left.”

I got kind of red in the face and sat down. “You got one hell of a way of breaking things to me, Pat. Now let’s quit the joking and tell me where Kalecki and company moved to.”

Pat grinned. “They live right around the corner in the same apartment hotel the Bellemy twins occupy, but on the second floor. The Midworth Arms.”

“Have you been there yet?”

“Not to see the twins. I saw George and Hal, though. Had quite a time telling him that it would do no good to place a charge against you for assault and battery after the other night. Didn’t take much talking, either. Evidently he’s heard a lot about the way you operate, but just likes to keep his own courage up with a lot of talk.”

Both of us poured down the remainder of the beer and got up to leave. I outfumbled Pat and got stuck for the check. Next time he’d buy. Cop or no cop. We parted outside the door, and as soon as he took off I started around the corner for the Midworth Arms. I wanted to get the low-down when anyone accused me of murder—attempted or successful. The real reason why Pat was sure it wasn’t me was because the killer missed. I wouldn’t have.

I knew Kalecki probably had tipped the doorman and the super off not to admit me, so I didn’t bother messing with them. Instead I walked in like a regular resident and took the elevator to the second floor. The operator was a skinny runt in his late twenties who wore a built-in leer. I was the only one in the car, and when we stopped I pulled a bill from my pocket and showed him the color of it.