The Mike Hammer Collection

“Tell you what, Mr. Hammer. I got me a guess. That was a double cross somehow, only a triple cross got thrown in. I think old Blackie wound up cab and all at the bottom of the river someplace.”

“The money never showed.”

“Nope. That went with Blackie too. Everybody lost. I just hope I did shoot the bastard before he died. I don’t see how I coulda missed.”

“You’re still mad, Sonny.”

“Naw, not really. Just annoyed about them thirty years he made me take. That Torrence really laid it on, but hell, he had it made. I was a three-timer by then anyway and would have taken life on any conviction. It sure made Torrence though.” He pulled his glasses off, looked at the papers once with disgust, rolled them into a ball, and threw them away from him into a refuse carton. “Frig it. What’s the sense thinking on them things?”

He looked older and more tired in that moment than when we came in. I said, “Sure, Sonny, sorry we bothered you.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Hammer. Come in for a shine any time.”

On the street Velda said, “Pathetic, wasn’t he?”

“Aren’t they all?”

We waited there a few minutes trying to flag a cab, then walked two blocks before one cut over to our side and squealed to a stop. A blue panel truck almost caught him broadside, but the driver was used to those simple occupational hazards and didn’t blink an eye.

I let Velda off at the office with instructions to get what she could from Pat concerning Basil Levitt and Kid Hand and to try to reestablish some old pipelines. If there were new faces showing in town like Jersey Toby said, there was a reason for it. There was a reason for two dead men and a murder attempt on me. There was a reason for an assassination layout with Sue Devon the target and somebody somewhere was going to know the answers.

When Velda got out I gave the cabbie Sim Torrence’s Westchester address and sat back to try and think it out. Traffic was light on the ride north and didn’t tighten up until we got to the upper end of Manhattan.

Then it was too thick. Just as the cab slowed for a light somebody outside let out a scream and I had time to turn my head, see the nose of a truck almost in the window, and throw myself across the seat as the cab took a tremendous jar that crushed in the side and sent glass and metal fragments ripping above my head. There was one awful moment as the cab tipped, rolled onto its side, and lay there in that almost total silence that follows the second after an accident.

Up front the cabbie moaned softly and I could smell the sharp odor of gasoline. Somebody already had the front door open and arms were reaching in for the driver. I helped lift him, crawled out the opening, and stood there in the crowd brushing myself off. A couple dozen people grouped around the driver, who seemed more shaken than hurt, and for a change a few were telling him they’d be willing to be witnesses. The driver of the truck had cut across and deliberately slammed into the cab like it was intentional or the driver was drunk.

But there wasn’t any driver in the truck at all. Somebody said he had jumped out and gone down into a subway kiosk across the street and acted like he was hurt. He was holding his belly and stumbled as he ran. Then I noticed the truck. It was a blue panel job and almost identical to the one which almost nailed the cab when Velda and I first got in it.

Nobody noticed me leave at all. I took the number of the cab and would check back later, but right now there wasn’t time enough to get caught up in a traffic accident. A block down I got another cab and gave him the same address. At the Torrence estate I told the driver to wait, went up, and pushed the bell chime.

Seeing Geraldine King again was as startling as it was the first time. She was in a sweater and skirt combination that set off the titian highlights in her hair, giving a velvet touch to the bright blue of her eyes. There was nothing businesslike about the way she was dressed. It was there only to enhance a lovely body and delight the viewer. I had seen too many strap marks not to know she was skin naked beneath the sweater.

She caught my eyes, let me look a moment longer, and smiled gently. “Stickler for convention?”

“Not me, honey.”

“Women should be like pictures . . . nice to look at.”

“Not if you haven’t got the price to afford to take them home.”

“Sometimes you don’t have to buy. There are always free gifts.”

“Thanks,” I grunted. Then I laughed at her. “You sure must be one hell of a political advantage to have around.”

“It helps.” She held the door open. “Come on in. Mr. Torrence is in the study.”

When I went in Sim pushed some papers aside, stood up, and shook hands. “Glad to see you again, Mike. What can I do for you?”

“Some gal you got there.”

“What?” He frowned behind his glasses. “Oh . . . oh, yes, indeed. Now . . .”

“I’ve been checking out your enemies, Mr. Torrence. Those who wanted to kill you.”

“Oh?”

“You said you knew of a dozen persons who threatened to kill you. Would Arnold Goodwin be one?”

“The sex offender?”