The Mike Hammer Collection

“You never have to say please,” I told her, then I kissed her again and we found our place in time and in distance, lost people who didn’t have to hurry or be cautious and who could enjoy the sensual discomfort of a cold leather couch on naked skin and take pleasure in the whispering of clothing and relish the tiny sounds of a bursting seam; two whose appetites had been stifled for much too long, yet who loved the food of flesh enough not to rush through the first offering, but to taste and become filled course by course until in an explosion of delight, the grand finale of the whole table, was served and partaken.

We were gourmets, the body satisfied, but the mind knowing that it was only a momentary filling and that there would be other meals, each different, each more succulent than the last in a never-ending progression of enjoyment. The banquet was over so we kissed and smiled at each other, neither having been the guest, but rather, one the host, the other the hostess, both having the same startling thought of Where was the past now? Could the present possibly be more important?

When she was ready I said, “Let’s get you home now, Laura.”

“Must I?”

“You must.”

“I could stay in town.”

“If you did it would be a distraction I can’t afford.”

“But I live a hundred and ten miles from your city.”

“That’s only two hours up the Thruway and over the hills.”

She grinned at me. “Will you come?”

I grinned back. “Naturally.”

I picked up my hat and guided her to the outer office. For a single, terrible moment I felt a wash of shame drench me with guilt. There on the floor where it had been squashed underfoot by the one who killed old Morris Fleming and who had taken a shot at me was the letter from Velda that began, “Mike Darling—”

We sat at the corner of the bar in P. J. Moriarty’s steak and chop house on Sixth and Fifty-second and across the angle his eyes were terrible little beads, magnified by the lenses of his glasses. John, the Irish bartender, brought us each a cold Blue Ribbon, leaving without a word because he could feel the thing that existed there.

Art Rickerby said, “How far do you think you can go?”

“All the way,” I said.

“Not with me.”

“Then alone.”

He poured the beer and drank it as if it were water and he was thirsty, yet in a perfunctory manner that made you realize he wasn’t a drinker at all, but simply doing a job, something he had to do.

When he finished he put the glass down and stared at me blandly. “You don’t realize just how alone you really are.”

“I know. Now do we talk?”

“Do you?”

“You gave me a week, buddy.”

“Uh-huh.” He poured the rest of the bottle into the glass and made a pattern with the wet bottom on the bar. When he looked up he said, “I may take it back.”

I shrugged. “So you found something out.”

“I did. About you too.”

“Go ahead.”

From overhead, the light bounced from his glasses so I couldn’t see what was happening to his eyes. He said, “Richie was a little bigger than I thought during the war. He was quite important. Quite.”

“At his age?”

“He was your age, Mike. And during the war age can be as much of a disguise as a deciding factor.”

“Get to it.”

“My pleasure.” He paused, looked at me and threw the rest of the beer down. “He commanded the Seventeen Group.” When I didn’t give him the reaction he looked for he asked me, “Did you ever hear of Butterfly Two?”

I covered the frown that pulled at my forehead by finishing my own beer and waving to John for another. “I heard of it. I don’t know the details. Something to do with the German system of total espionage. They had people working for them ever since the First World War.”

There was something like respect in his eyes now. “It’s amazing that you even heard of it.”

“I have friends in amazing places.”

“Yes, you had.”

As slowly as I could I put the glass down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And then his eyes came up, fastened on my face so as not to lose sight of even the slightest expression and he said, “It was your girl, the one called Velda, that he saw on the few occasions he was home. She was something left over from the war.”

The glass broke in my hand and I felt a warm surge of blood spill into my hand. I took the towel John offered me and held it until the bleeding stopped. I said, “Go on.”

Art smiled. It was the wrong kind of smile, with a gruesome quality that didn’t match his face. “He last saw her in Paris just before the war ended and at that time he was working on Butterfly Two.”

I gave the towel back to John and pressed on the Band-Aid he gave me.

“Gerald Erlich was the target then. At the time his name wasn’t known except to Richie—and the enemy. Does it make sense now?”

“No.” My guts were starting to turn upside down. I reached for the beer again, but it was too much. I couldn’t do anything except listen.