The Mike Hammer Collection

His jaw dropped open stupidly for a brief second, then snapped shut and his eyes followed suit. He stood there, knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the desk and he gradually leaned forward so that when he swung he wouldn’t be out of reach this time.

“What kind of crazy stunt are you pulling?” His voice was almost hoarse.

I shook my head. “The New York State law says that you must have served three or more years in an accredited police agency, city, state, or federal in a rating of sergeant or higher to get a Private Investigator’s license. It isn’t easy to get and takes a lot of background work.”

Quietly, Pat said, “She worked for you. Why didn’t you ask?”

“One of the funny things in life. Her ticket was good enough for me at first. Later it never occurred to me to ask. I was always a guy concerned with the present anyway and you damn well know it.”

“You bastard. What are you trying to pull?”

“Yes or no, Pat.”

His grin had no humor in it. Little cords in his neck stood out against his collar and the pale blue of his eyes was deadly. “No,” he said. “You’re a wise guy, punk. Don’t pull your tangents on me. You got this big feeling inside you that you’re coming back at me for slapping you around. You’re using her now as a pretty little oblique switch—but, mister, you’re pulling your crap on the wrong soldier. You’ve just about had it, boy.”

Before he could swing I leaned back in my chair with as much insolence as I could and reached in my pocket for the slug I had dug out of the fence. It was a first-class gamble, but not quite a bluff. I had the odds going for me and if I came up short, I’d still have a few hours ahead of him.

I reached out and laid the splashed-out bit of metal on the desk. “Don’t punk me, man. Tell ballistics to go after that and tell me what I want and I’ll tell you where that came from.”

Pat picked it up, his mind putting ideas together, trying to make one thing fit another. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but one thing took precedence over all others. He was a cop. First-rate. He wanted a killer. He had to play his own odds too.

“All right,” he told me, “I can’t take any chances. I don’t get your point, but if it’s a phony, you’ve had it.”

I shrugged. “When will you know about the license?”

“It won’t take long.”

“I’ll call you,” I said.

He straightened up and stared out the window over my head, still half in thought. Absently, he rubbed the back of his neck. “You do that,” he told me. He turned away, putting his hat on, then reached for the door.

I stopped him. “Pat—”

“What?”

“Tell me something.”

His eyes squinted at my tone. I think he knew what I was going to ask.

“Did you love Velda too?”

Only his eyes gave the answer, then he opened the door and left.

“May I come in?”

“Oh, Laura—please.”

“Was there—trouble?”

“Nothing special.” She came back to the desk and sat down in the client’s chair, her face curious. “Why?”

With a graceful motion, she crossed her legs and brushed her skirt down over her knees. “Well, when Captain Chambers was with me—well, he spoke constantly of you. It was as if you were right in the middle of everything.” She paused, turning her head toward me. “He hates you, doesn’t he?”

I nodded. “But we were friends once.”

Very slowly, her eyebrows arched. “Aren’t most friendships only temporary at best?”

“That’s being pretty cynical.”

“No—only realistic. There are childhood friendships. Later those friends from school, even to the point of nearly blood brotherhood fraternities, but how long do they last? Are your Army or Navy friends still your friends or have you forgotten their names?”

I made a motion with my shoulders.

“Then your friends are only those you have at the moment. Either you outgrow them or something turns friendship into hatred.”

“It’s a lousy system,” I said.

“But there it is, nevertheless. In 1945 Germany and Japan were our enemies and Russia and the rest our allies. Now our former enemies are our best friends and the former allies the direct enemies.”

She was so suddenly serious I had to laugh at her. “Beautiful blondes aren’t generally philosophers.”

But her eyes didn’t laugh back. “Mike—it really isn’t that funny. When Leo was—alive, I attended to all his affairs in Washington. I still carry on, more or less. It’s something he would have wanted me to do. I know how people who run the world think. I served cocktails to people making decisions that rocked the earth. I saw wars start over a drink and the friendship of generations between nations wiped out because one stupid, pompous political appointee wanted to do things his way. Oh, don’t worry, I know about friendships.”

“So this one went sour.”

“It hurts you, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so. It never should have happened that way.”

“Oh?” For a few moments she studied me, then she knew. “The woman—we talked about—you both loved her?”

“I thought only I did.” She sat there quietly then, letting me finish. “We both thought she was dead. He still thinks so and blames me for what happened.”

“Is she, Mike?”