The Mike Hammer Collection (28 page)

“Know her name?”

“Why don't you grow up, mister. Why the hell should I ask when it don't mean nothing. Maybe it was Smith. If you want to see the room, it's the next floor up in the back. I ain't even been in there since she got killed. Soon as I seen her face in the papers I knew somebody would be around. Them broads give me a pain in the behind.”

The broom went back to being a broom and I went up the stairs. There was only one door on the landing and I went in, then locked it behind me.

I always had the idea that girls were kind of fussy, even if they were living in a cracker barrel. Maybe she was fussy at that. It was a sure thing that whoever searched the room wasn't. The bed was torn apart and the stuffing was all over the place. The four drawers of the chest lay upside down on the floor where someone had used them as a ladder to look along the wall molding just below the ceiling. Even the linoleum had been ripped from the floor, and two spots on the wall where the plaster had been knocked off were poked out to let a hand feel around between the partitions. Oh, it was a beautiful job of searching, all right. A real dilly. They had plenty of time, too. They must have had, because they would have had to be quiet or have the young elephant up here with the broom, and the place wouldn't have looked like that if they had been hurried.

One hell of a mess, but I started to grin. Whatever caused the wreckage certainly wasn't found, because even after they had looked in the obvious places they tore apart everything else, right down to the mousehole in the baseboard.

I kicked aside some of the junk on the floor, but there wasn't much to see. Old magazines, a couple of newspapers, some underwear and gadgets that might have been in the drawers. What had once been a coat lay in strips with all the hems ripped out and the lining hanging in shreds. A knife had been used on the collar to split the seams. On top of everything was a film of dust from a spilled powder box giving the place a cheaply perfumed odor.

Then the wind blew some of the mattress stuffing in my face and I walked over to close the window. It faced on a fire escape and the sash had been forced with some kind of tool. It couldn't have been simpler. On the floor by the sill was a white plastic comb. I picked it up and felt the grease on it. A few dark hairs were tangled around the teeth. I smelled it.

Hair oil. The kind of hair oil a greaseball would use. I wasn't sure, but there were ways of finding out. The hag was still in the corridor sweeping when I went down. I told her somebody had crashed the place before I got there and liked to knock it apart. She gave one unearthly shriek and took the steps two at a time until the building shook.

It was enough for one day. I went home and hit the sack. I didn't sleep too well, because the redhead would smile, kiss her finger and put it on my cheek and wake me up.

At half past six the alarm went off with a racket that jerked me out of a wild dream and left me standing on the rug shaking like a kitten in a dog kennel. I shut it off and ducked into a cold shower to wash the sleep out of my eyes, then finish off the morning's ceremonies with a close shave that left my face raw. I ate in my shorts, then stacked the dishes in the sink and laid out my clothes.

This had to be a new-suit day. I laid the tweeds on the bed and, for a change, paid a little attention to the things that went with it. By the time I had climbed into everything and ran a brush over my shoes I even began to look dignified. Or at least sharp enough to call on one of the original 400.

I found Arthur Berin-Grotin's name in the Long Island directory, a town about sixty miles out on the Island that was a chosen spot for lovers, trapshooters and recluses. Buck had my car greased up and ready for me when I got to the garage, and by the time nine-thirty had rolled around I was tooling the heap along the highway, sniffing the breezes that blew in from the ocean. An hour later I reached a cutoff that sported a sign emblazoned with Old English lettering and an arrow that pointed to Arthur Berin-Grotin's estate on the beach.

Under the wheels the road turned to macadam, then packed, crushed gravel, and developed into a long sweep of a drive that took me up to one of the fanciest joints this side of Buckingham Palace. The house was a symbol of luxury, but utterly devoid of any of the garishness that goes with new wealth. From its appearance it was ageless, neither young nor old. It could have stood there a hundred years or ten without a change to its dignity. Choice field stone reached up to the second floor, supporting smooth clapboard walls that gleamed in the sun like bleached bones. The windows must have been imported; those on the south side were all stained glass to filter out the fierce light of the sun, while the others were little lead-rimmed squares arranged in patterns that changed from room to room.

I drove up under the arched dome of a portico and killed the engine, wondering whether to wait for a major-domo to open the door for me or do it myself. I decided not to wait.

The bell was the kind you pull; a little brass knob set in the door-frame, and when I gave it a gentle tug I heard the subtle pealing of electric chimes inside. When the door opened I thought it had been done by an electric eye, but it wasn't. The butler was so little and so old that he scarcely reached above the doorknob and didn't seem strong enough to hold it open very long, so I stepped in before the wind blew it shut and turned on my best smile.

“I'd like to see Mr. Berin-Grotin, please.”

“Yes, sir. Your name please?” His voice crackled like an old hen's.

“Michael Hammer, from New York.”

The old man took my hat and led me to a massive library paneled in dark oak and waved his hand toward a chair. “Would you care to wait here, sir? I'll inform the master that you have arrived. There are cigars on the table.”

I thanked him and picked out a huge leather-covered chair and sank into it, looking around to see how society lived. It wasn't bad. I picked up a cigar and bit the end off, then looked for a place to spit it. The only ash tray was a delicate bowl of rich Wedgwood pottery, and I'd be damned if I'd spoil it. Maybe society wasn't so good after all. There were footsteps coming down the hall outside so I swallowed the damn thing to get rid of it.

When Arthur Berin-Grotin came into the room I stood up. Whether I wanted to or not, there are some people to whom you cannot help but show respect. He was one of them. He was an old man, all right, but the years had treated him lightly. There was no stoop to his shoulders and his eyes were as bright as an urchin's. I guessed his height to be about six feet, but he might have been shorter. The shock of white hair that crowned his head flowed up to add inches to his stature.

“Mr. Berin-Grotin?” I asked.

“Yes, good morning, sir.” He held out his hand and we clasped firmly. “I'd rather you only use the first half of my name,” he added. “Hyphenated family names have always annoyed me, and since I am burdened with one myself I find it expedient to shorten it. You are Mr. Hammer?”

“That's right.”

“And from New York. It sounds as though one of you is important,” he laughed. Unlike his butler, his voice had a good solid ring. He pulled a chair up to mine and nodded for me to be seated.

“Now,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

I gave it to him straight. “I'm a detective, Mr. Berin. I'm not on a case exactly, but I'm looking for something. An identity. The other day a girl was killed in the city. She was a redheaded prostitute, and she doesn't have a name.”

“Ah, yes. I saw it in the papers. You have an interest in her?”

“Slightly. I gave her a handout, and the next day she was killed. I'm trying to find out who she was. It's kind of nasty to die and not have anyone know you're dead.”

The old man closed his eyes slightly and looked pained. “I understand completely, Mr. Hammer.” He folded his hands across his lap. “The same thought has occurred to me, and I dread it. I have outlived my wife and children and I am afraid that when I pass away the only tears to fall on my coffin will be those of strangers.”

“I doubt that, sir.”

He smiled. “Thank you. Nevertheless, in my vanity I am erecting a monument that will bring my name to the public eye on occasion.”

“I saw the picture of the vault in the papers.”

“Perhaps I seem morbid to you?”

“Not at all.”

“One prepares a house for every other phase of living ... why not for death? My silly hyphenated name will go to the grave with me, but at least it will remain in sight for many generations to come. A bit of foolishness on my part, yes; I care to think of it as pride. Pride in a name that has led a brilliant existence for countless years. Pride of family. Pride of accomplishment. However, the preparations concerning my death weren't the purpose of your visit. You were speaking of this ... girl.”

“The redhead. Nobody seems to know her. Just before she was killed your chauffeur tried to pick her up in a joint downtown.”

“My chauffeur?” He seemed amazed.

“That's right. Feeney Last, his name is.”

“And how did you know that?”

“He was messing with the redhead and I called him on it. He tried to pull a rod on me and I flattened him. Later I turned him over to the cops in a squad car to haul him in on a Sullivan charge and they found out he had a license for the gun.”

His bushy white eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. “He ... would have killed you, do you think?”

“I don't know. I wasn't taking any chances.”

“He was in town that night, I know. I never thought he'd act like that! Had he been drinking?”

“Didn't seem that way to me.”

“At any rate, it's inexcusable. I regret the incident extremely, Mr. Hammer. Perhaps it would be better if I discharged him.”

“That's up to you. If you need a tough boy around maybe he's all right. I understand you need protection.”

“That I do. My home has been burglarized several times, and although I don't keep much money on hand, I do have a rather valuable collection of odds and ends that I wouldn't want stolen.”

“Where was he the night the girl was killed?”

The old gent knew what I was thinking and shook his head slowly. “I'm afraid you can dismiss the thought, Mr. Hammer. Feeney was with me all afternoon and all evening. We went to New York that day and I kept several appointments in the afternoon. That night we went to the Albino Club for dinner, from there to a show, then back to the Albino Club for a snack before returning home. Feeney was with me every minute.”

“Your chauffeur?”

“No, as a companion. Here in the country Feeney assumes servant's garb when I make social calls, because others expect it. However, when we go to the city I prefer to have someone to talk to and Feeney wears mufti, so to speak. I'm afraid I have to tell you that Feeney was in my company every minute of the time.”

“I see.” There was no sense trying to break an alibi like that. I knew damn well the old boy wasn't lying, and the hardest guy to shake was one whose character was above reproach. I had a nasty taste in my mouth. I was hoping I could tag the greaseball with something.

Mr. Berin said, “I can understand your suspicion. Certainly, though, the fact that Feeney saw the girl before she died was a coincidence of a nature to invite it. From the papers I gathered that she was a victim of a hit-and-run driver.”

“That's what the papers said,” I told him. “Nobody saw it happen, so how could you be sure? She was somebody I liked ... I hate like hell to see her buried in potter's field.”

He passed a hand over his face, then looked up slowly. “Mr. Hammer ... could I help in some way ... for instance, could I take care of decent funeral arrangements for her? I ... would appreciate it if you would allow me to. Somehow I feel as though I should. Here I have everything, while she....”

I interrupted with a shake of my head. “I'd rather do it, but thanks anyway. Still, it won't be like having her family take care of her.”

“If you do need assistance of any sort, I wish you would call on me, Mr. Hammer.”

“I might have to do that.” The butler came in then with a tray of brandy. We both took one, toasted each other with a raised glass and downed it. It was damn good brandy. I put the glass on a side table hating myself because it looked like everything stopped here. Almost I should say. The greaseball was still in it, because he might possibly know who the redhead was. So I made one last stab at it.

“Where did you get this Last character?”

“He came well recommended to me by a firm who had used his services in the past. I investigated thoroughly and his record is excellent. What connection could he have had with the deceased girl, do you suppose?”

“I don't know. Maybe he was only making use of her services. Where is he now, Mr. Berin?”

“He left for the cemetery with the name plate for the tomb early this morning. I instructed him to stay and see that it was properly installed. I doubt if he will be back before late this afternoon.”

There was as much here as I wanted to know. I said, “Maybe I'll run out and see him there. Where's the cemetery?”

He stood up and together we started walking toward the door. The little old butler appeared from out of nowhere and handed me my hat. Mr. Berin said, “Go back toward the city for ten miles. The cemetery lies west of the village at the first intersection. The gatekeeper will direct you once you reach it.”

I thanked him for his time and we shook hands again. He held the door open for me and I ran down the steps to the car. He was still there when I pulled away and I waved so long. In the rear-view mirror I saw him wave back.