The Mike Hammer Collection (8 page)

A couple of magazines were lying in a rack beside the divan. I picked one up and thumbed through it, but it was one of those pattern and fashion jobs without any pictures and I dropped it. Two new copies of
Confessions
were on the bottom of the pile. These were better than the rest, but still the same old story. One was a humdinger about a gal that meets a detective in a big city. He does her dirt and she tries to throw herself in front of a subway train. Some nice young jerk grabs her in time and makes a respectable woman of her.

I had just gotten to where he was leading her to the justice of the peace when Mary Bellemy came back. Only this time she made my head swim. Instead of the grey suit she had on before, she wore a sheer pink negligee that was designed with simplicity as the motif. Her hair was down out of the roll and her face looked clean and strong.

Whether or not she planned it I don't know, but she passed momentarily in front of the light streaming in from the window and I could see through everything she had on. And it wasn't much. Just the negligee. She smiled and sat down beside me. I moved over to make some room.

“I'm sorry I had to leave you, but the water wouldn't stay hot very long.”

“That's all right, most women take all day at that.”

She laughed again. “Not me. I was too anxious to hear more about this case you're working on.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward to pick a cigarette from the box on the table. I had to turn my head. At this stage of the game I couldn't afford to get wrapped up with a love life. Besides, I wanted to see Charlotte later.

“Smoke?” she offered.

“No thanks.” She leaned back against the divan and blew a ring at the ceiling.

“What else can I tell you? I can speak both for my sister and myself since we were together until the next evening.” The sight of her in that carelessly draped sheer fabric kept my mind from what she was saying. “Of course, you can check with my sister later,” she added, “exactly as Mr. Chambers did.”

“No, that won't be necessary. Those details are minor. What I'm after now are the seemingly unimportant ones. Personality conflicts. Things you might have noticed about Jack the past few days. Any remark that might have been passed or something you overheard.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you there. I'm not very good at eavesdropping and I don't collect gossip. My sister and I have remained fairly isolated in our home, that is, until we came to town. Our circle of friendship reaches out to our neighbors who like isolation as much as we do. Rarely do we entertain guests from the city.”

Mary drew her legs up under her on the divan and turned on her side to face me. During the process the negligee fell open, but she took her time to draw it shut. Deliberately, she let my eyes feast on her lovely bosom. What I could see of her stomach was smooth parallel rows of light muscles, almost like a man's. I licked my lips and said, “How long do you expect to remain in town?”

She smiled. “Just long enough so Esther can get her shopping spree over with. Her main joy in living is wearing pretty clothes, regardless of whether or not she's seen in them.”

“And yours?”

“My main joy in living is living.” Two weeks ago I couldn't picture her saying that, but I could now. Here was a woman to whom time and place didn't mean a damn thing.

“Tell me,” I started, “how can you tell the difference between you and your sister?”

“One of us has a small strawberry birthmark on the right hip.”

“Which one?”

“Why don't you find out?” Brother, this girl was asking for trouble.

“Not today. I have work to do.” I stood up and stretched.

“Don't be a sissy,” she said.

Her eyes were blazing into mine. They were violet eyes, a wild blazing violet. Her mouth looked soft and wet, and provocative. She was making no attempt to keep the negligee on. One shoulder had slipped down and her brown skin formed an interesting contrast with the pink. I wondered how she got her tan. There were no strap marks anywhere. She uncrossed her legs deliberately and squirmed like an overgrown cat, letting the light play with the ripply muscles in her naked thighs.

I was only human. I bent over her, taking her mouth on mine. She was straining in the divan to reach me, her arms tight around my neck. Her body was a hot flame; the tip of her tongue searched for mine. She quivered under my hands wherever I touched her. Now I knew why she hadn't married. One man could never satisfy her. My hand fastened on the hem of the negligee and with one motion flipped it open, leaving her body lean and bare. She let my eyes search every inch of her brown figure.

I grabbed my hat and jammed it on my head. “It must be your sister who has the birthmark,” I told her as I rose. “See you later.”

I half expected to hear a barrage of nasty words when I went through the door and was disappointed. Instead, I heard a faint, faraway chuckle. I would love to have known how Pat reacted to that act. It had dawned on me all of a sudden that she was left in my path as a sort of booby trap while Pat went on his own way. Huh, I'd wrap that guy up for this little trick. There was a neat tomato down on Third Avenue who loved to play tricks herself, especially against the police. Later, perhaps....

CHAPTER 6

V
elda was still at the office when I got there. When I saw the light on I stopped in front of a mirrored door and gave myself a thorough inspection for lipstick marks. I managed to wipe my mouth clean, but getting it off my white collar was something else again. I could never figure out why the stuff came off women so easy and off the men so hard. Before I fooled around with Mary Bellemy again I'd be sure she used Kleenex first.

I went in whistling. Velda took one look at me and her mouth tightened up. “Now what's the matter?” I could see something was wrong.

“You didn't get it off your ear,” she said.

Uh-oh. This gal could be murder when she wanted to. I didn't bother to say anything more, but walked into my office. Velda had laid out a clean shirt for me, and an unwrinkled tie. Sometimes I thought she was a mind reader. I kept a few things handy for emergencies, and she generally knew when that would be.

At a washbowl in the corner I cleaned up a bit, then got into my shirt. Ties always were a problem. Usually Velda was on hand to help me out, but when I heard the door slam I knew I'd have to go it alone.

Downstairs I stopped in at the bar and had a few quick ones. The clock on the wall said it was early, so I picked out an empty booth and parked to spend a few hours. The waiter came over and I told him to bring me a rye and soda every fifteen minutes. This was an old custom and the waiter was used to it.

I dragged a list from my pocket and jotted down a few notes concerning Mary Bellemy. So far, the list was mainly character studies, but things like that can give a good insight into a crime. Actually, I hadn't accomplished much. I had made the rounds of the immediate suspects and had given them a good reason to sweat.

The police were doing things in their own methodical way, no doubt. They certainly weren't the saps a lot of newshawks try to make them. A solution to murder takes time. But this murder meant a race. Pat wasn't going to get the jump on me if I could help it. He'd been to the same places I had, but I bet he didn't know any more.

What we were both searching for was motive. There had to be one—and a good one. Murder doesn't just happen. Murder is planned. Sometimes in haste, but planned nevertheless.

As for the time element, George Kalecki had time to kill Jack. So did Hal Kines. I hated to think of it, but Charlotte Manning did too. Then there was Myrna. She too could have circled back to do it, leaving time to get home unnoticed. That left the Bellemy twins. Perhaps it was accidental, but they established their arrival time by letting the super open the door for them. Nice thinking if it was deliberate. I didn't bother to ask whether they left again or not. I knew the answer would be negative. Twins were peculiar; they were supposed to be uncannily inseparable. I've noticed it before in other sets, so these two wouldn't be any different. If it came to it they would lie, cheat or steal for each other.

I couldn't quite picture Mary Bellemy as being a nymphomaniac though. From all I've read of the two, they were sweet and demure, not young, not old. They kept strictly to themselves, or at least that's what the papers said. What a woman will do when she's alone with a man in her room is another thing. I was looking forward to seeing Esther Bellemy. That strawberry birthmark ought to prove sort of interesting.

Then there was the potshot at Kalecki. That stumped me. The best thing to do was to take a run uptown and check up on his contacts. I signaled the waiter over and asked for a check. The guy frowned at me. I guess he wasn't used to me leaving after so few.

I got in my car and drove to the Hi-Ho Club. It used to be a bootleg spot during Prohibition, but changed into a dingy joint over the years. It was a very unhealthy spot for strangers after dark, but I knew the Negro that ran the joint. Four years ago he had backed me up in a little gunplay with a drunken hood and I paid him back a month later by knocking off a punk that tried to set him for a rub-out when he refused to pay off for protection. My name goes pretty strong up that way and since then they let him strictly alone to run his business any way he pleased. In this racket it's nice to have connections in places like that.

Big Sam was behind the bar. He saw me come in and waved to me with a wet rag over a toothy grin. I shook hands with the guy and ordered a brew. The high yellow and the tall coal black next to me were giving me nasty looks until they heard Big Sam say “Howday, Mistah Hammah. Glad to see yuh. Long time since yuh done been in dis part of town.”

When they heard my name mentioned they both moved their drinks six feet down the bar. Sam knew I was here for more than a beer. He moved to the end of the bar and I followed him.

“What's up, Mistah Hammah? Somethin' I can do fuh yuh?”

“Yeah. You got the numbers running in here?”

Sam gave a quick look around before he answered. “Yeah. De boys take 'em down same's they do the othah places. Why?”

“Is George Kalecki still the big boy?”

He licked his thick lips. Sam was nervous. He didn't want to be a squealer, yet he wanted to help me. “It's murder, Sam,” I told him. “It's better you tell me than have the bulls drag you to the station. You know how they are.”

I could see he was giving it thought. The black skin of his forehead furrowed up. “Okay, Mistah Hammah. Guess it's all right. Kalecki is still head man, but he don't come around hisself. De runners do all the work.”

“Is Bobo Hopper doing the running yet? He was with Kalecki some time. Hangs out here all the time, doesn't he?”

“Yassuh. He's heah now, but he don' do no mo' running. He done had a good job the last few months. Keeps bees, too.”

This was new. Bobo Hopper was only half human, an example of what environment can do to a man. His mental age was about twelve, with a build that went with it. Underfed all his life, he developed into a skinny caricature of a person. I knew him well. A nice Joe that had a heart of gold. No matter how badly you treated him, you were still his friend. Everything was his friend. Birds, animals, insects. Why, once I saw him cry because some kids had stepped on an anthill and crushed a dozen of its occupants. Now he had a “good” job and was keeping bees.

“Where is he, Sam? Back room?”

“Yassuh. You know where. Last I seed him he was looking at a pitcher book of bees.”

I polished the beer off in one swallow, hoping the guys that had used it before me didn't have anything contagious. When I passed the high yellow and his friend, I saw their eyes follow me right through the doors of the back room.

Bobo Hopper was sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. The place used to be fixed up with a dice table and a couple of wheels, but now the stuff was stacked in a corner. High up on the wall a single barred window was trying hard to keep out what light seeped down the air shaft, leaving all the work to the solitary bulb dangling on the wire strand from the ceiling. Rubbish was piled high along one side, held back by a few frail pieces of beer poster cardboards.

On the walls a few dirty pictures still hung from thumbtacks, the scenes half wiped out by finger smudges and dust. Someone had tried to copy the stuff in pencil on the wallpaper, but it was a poor try. The door to the bar was the only exit. I fished for the bolt lock, but there was nothing to slide it into so I let it be.

Bobo didn't hear me come in, he was so absorbed in his book. For a few seconds I looked at the pictures over his shoulders, watching his mouth work as he tried to spell out the words. I slammed him on the back.

“Hey, there, don't you say hello to an old friend?”

He half leaped from his chair, then saw that it was me and broke into a big smile. “Gee, Mike Hammer! Golly, I'm glad to see you.” He stuck out a skinny paw at me and I took it. “Whatcha doin' down here, Mike? Come down just to see me, huh? Here, lemme get you a chair.” He rolled an empty quarter keg that had seen better days over to the table and I parked on it.

“Hear you're keeping bees now, Bobo. That right?”

“Gee, yeah, an' I'm learning all about it from this book here. It's lotsa fun. They even know me, Mike. When I put my hand near the hive they don't bite me at all. They walk on me. You should see them.”

“I'll bet it's a lot of fun,” I told him. “But bees are expensive to keep, aren't they?”

“Naw. I made the hive from an egg box. And painted it, too. They like their hive. They don't fly away like other guys' do. I got ‘em on my roof where the landlady lets me keep 'em. She don't like bees, but I brought her a tiny bit of honey and she liked that. I'm good to my bees.”