CHAPTER
6
Velda 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.”
He was such a nice
kid. He bubbled over with enthusiasm. Unlike so many others who
were bitter. No family, no home, but now he had a landlady who let
him keep bees. Bobo was a funny kid. I couldn’t quiz him or he’d
clam up, but when you got him talking about something he liked he’d
spiel on all day for you.
“I hear you’ve got a
new job, Bobo. How are you making out?”
“Oh, swell, Mike. I
like it. They call me the errand manager.” They probably meant
“erring,” but I didn’t tell him that.
“What kind of work is
it?” I asked. “Very hard?”
“Uh-uh. I run errands
and deliver things and sweep and everything. Sometimes Mr. Didson
lets me ride his bicycle when I deliver things for his store. I
have lots of fun. Meet nice people, too.”
“Do you make much
money?”
“Sure. I get most a
quarter or a half buck every time I do something. Them Park Avenue
swells like me. Last week I made nearly fifteen bucks.” Fifteen
bucks. That was a lot of dough to him. He lived simply enough; now
he was proud of himself. So was I.
“Sounds pretty good,
Bobo. How did you ever manage to run down such a good
job?”
“Well, you remember
old Humpy?” I nodded. Humpy was a hunch-back in his late forties
who shined shoes in Park Avenue offices. I used him for an eye
several times. He’d do anything to make a buck.
“Old Humpy got T.B.,”
Bobo continued. “He went up in the mountains to shine shoes there
and I took his place. Only I wasn’t so good at it like him. Then
folks asked me to do little things for them and I did. Now I go
down there every day early in the morning and they give me things
to do like running errands. I got a day off today on account of I
gotta see a guy about buying a queen bee. He’s got two. Do you
think five bucks is too much to pay for a queen bee,
Mike?”
“Oh, I don’t think
so.” I didn’t know a queen bee from a king cobra, but queens
usually run high in any species. “What did Mr. Kalecki say when you
quit running numbers for him?”
Bobo didn’t clam up
like I expected. “Gee, he was swell. Gimme ten bucks ’cause I was
with him so long and told me I could have my old job back whenever
I wanted it.” No wonder. Bobo was as honest as the day was long.
Generally a runner made plenty for himself, taking a chance that
the dough he clipped wasn’t on the number that pulled in the
shekels. But Bobo was too simple to be dishonest.
“That was pretty nice
of Mr. Kalecki,” I grinned, “but you do better when you’re in
business for yourself.”
“Yeah. Some day I’m
just gonna raise bees. You can make a lot of money from bees. Even
own a bee farm, maybe.”
Bobo smiled happily
at the thought of it. But his smile passed into a puzzled frown.
His eyes were fastened on something behind me. I had my back to the
door, but when I saw Bobo’s face, I knew that we weren’t alone in
the back room any longer.
The knife went under
my chin very slowly. It was held loosely enough, but the slim
fingers that held it were ready to tighten up the second I moved.
Along the blade were the marks of a whetstone, so I knew it had
been sharpened recently. The forefinger was laid on the top of the
four-inch blade in proper cutting position. Here was a lug that
knew what it was all about.
Bobo’s eyes were wide
open with terror. His mouth worked, but no sound came from it. The
poor kid began to sweat, little beads that ran in rivulets down his
sallow cheeks. A brown-sleeved arm came over my other shoulder and
slid nicely under my coat lapel, the hand reaching for my
rod.
I clamped down and
kicked back. The table went sailing as my feet caught it. I got the
knife hand and pulled down hard, and the high yellow landed in a
heap on top of me. Just in time I saw the foot coming and pulled my
head aside. The coal black missed by inches. I didn’t. I let go the
knife hand and grabbed the leg. The next moment I was fighting for
my life under two sweating Negroes.
But not for long. The
knife came out again and this time I got the hand in a wristlock
and twisted. The tendons stretched, and the bones snapped
sickeningly. The high yellow let out a scream and dropped the
knife. I was on my feet in a flash. The big black buck was up and
came charging into me, his head down.
There was no sense to
busting my hand on his skull, so I lashed out with my foot and the
toe of my shoe caught the guy right in the face. He toppled over
sideways, still running, and collapsed against the wall. His lower
teeth were protruding through his lip. Two of his incisors were
lying beside his nose, plastered there with blood.
The high yellow was
holding his broken wrist in one hand, trying to get to his feet. I
helped him. My hand hooked in his collar and dragged him up. I took
the side of my free hand and smashed it across his nose. The bone
shattered and blood poured out. That guy probably was a lady killer
in Harlem, but them days were gone forever. He let out a little
moan and slumped to the floor. I let him drop.
Just for the hell of
it, I went through his pockets. Not much there. A cheap wallet held
a few photos of girls, one of them white, eleven dollars and a
flock of number stubs. The coal black covered his ruined face when
I went near him, rolling his eyes like a cow. I found a
safety-razor blade in his pocket with a matchstick through it. Nice
trick. They palm the blade, letting it protrude a bit through the
fingers, and slap you across the face. The matchstick keeps it from
sliding through their fingers. That blade can cut a face to
pieces.
The Negro tried to
pull away, so I smashed him again. The pad of my fist landing on
that busted jaw was too much for him. He went out too. Bobo was
still in his chair, only now he was grinning again. “Gee, Mike,
you’re pretty tough. Wish I was like that.”
I pulled a five spot
from my pocket and slipped it in his shirt pocket. “Here’s
something to buy a king for that queen bee, kid,” I said to him.
“See you later.” I grabbed the two jigs by their collars and yanked
them out of the door. Big Sam saw me coming with them. So did a
dozen others in the place. Those at the door looked like they
expected something more.
“What’s the idea,
Sam? Why let these monkeys make a try for me? You know better than
that.”
Big Sam just grinned
broader than ever. “It’s been a long time since we had some
excitements in here, Mistah Hammah.” He turned to the guys at the
bar and held out a thick palm. “Pay me,” he laughed at them. I
dropped the high yellow and his friend in a heap on the floor as
the guys paid Sam off. The next time they wouldn’t bet against
me.
As I was waving so
long to Sam, Bobo came running out of the back room waving the
five. “Hey, Mike,” he yelled. “Queens don’t need no kings. I can’t
buy a king bee.”
“Sure they do, Bobo,”
I called over my shoulder. “All queens have to have kings. Ask Sam
there, he’ll tell you.” Bobo was trying to find out why from Sam
when I left. He’d probably spend the rest of his life getting the
answer.
The drive home took
longer than I had expected. Traffic was heavy and it was nearly six
when I got there. After I parked the car I took the stairs to my
apartment and started to undress. My clean shirt was a mess. Blood
was spattered all over the front of it and my tie was halfway
around my neck. The pocket of my jacket was ripped down the seam.
When I saw that I wished I’d killed that bogie. In these days
decent suits were too hard to get.
A hot and cold shower
made me feel fine. I got rid of my beard in short order, brushed my
teeth and climbed into some fresh clothes. For a moment I wondered
whether it would be decent to wear a gun when calling on a lady,
but habit got the better of me. I slipped the holster on over my
shirt, shot a few drops of oil in the slide mechanism of my .45 and
checked my clip. Everything in order, I wiped the gun and shoved it
under my arm. Anyway, I thought, my suit wouldn’t fit unless old
iron-sides was inside it. This was a custom-made job that had space
built into it for some artillery.
I checked myself in
the mirror to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Without Velda to
give me a once-over before I went anywhere, I couldn’t tell whether
I was dolled up for a circus or a night club. Now I wished I had
been more careful with the Bellemy mouse. Velda was too good a
woman to lose. Guess I could expect the silent treatment for a
week. Someday I’d have to try treating her a little better. She was
kind of hard on a guy though, never approved of my
morals.
The jalopy needed gas
so I ran it into a garage. Henry, the mechanic, and an old friend
of mine, lifted the hood to check the oil. He liked that car. He
was the one who installed an oversized engine in it and pigged down
the frame. From the outside it looked like any beat-up wreck that
ought to be retired, but the rubber was good and the engine better.
It was souped up to the ears. I’ve had it on the road doing over a
hundred and the pedal was only half down. Henry pulled the motor
from a limousine that had the rear end knocked in and sold it to me
for a song. Whenever a mech saw the power that was under the hood,
he let out a long low whistle. In its own way it was a
masterpiece.
I pulled out of the
garage and turned down a one-way street to beat the lights to
Charlotte’s apartment. I couldn’t forget the way she looked through
me the last time we met. What a dish.
The road in front of
her house was lined with cars, so I turned around the block and
slid in between a black sedan and a club coupé, Walking back to her
place I kept hoping she didn’t have a dinner date or any company.
That would be just my luck. What we would talk about was something
else again. In the back of my mind was the idea that as a
psychiatrist, she would have been more observant than any of the
others. In her line it was details that counted, too.
I rang the downstairs
bell. A moment later the buzzer clicked and I walked in. The maid
was at the door to greet me, but this time she had on her hat and
coat.
“Come right in,
Mistah Hammah,” she said. “Miss Charlotte’s expecting y’all.” At
that I really raised my eyebrows. I threw my hat down on a table
beside the door and walked in. The maid stayed long enough to call
into the bedroom, “He’s heah, Miss Charlotte.”
That cool voice
called back. “Thank you. You can go ahead to the movies now.” I
nodded to the maid as she left and sat on the couch.
“Hello.” I jumped to
my feet and took the warm hand she offered me.
“Hello yourself,” I
smiled. “What’s this about expecting me?”
“I’m just vain, I
guess. I was hoping so hard that you’d call tonight. I got ready
for you. Like my dress?” She swirled in front of me, and glanced
over her shoulder at my face. Gone was the psychiatrist. Here was
Charlotte Manning, the woman, looking delightfully young and
beautiful. Her dress was a tight-fitting blue silk jersey that
clung to her like she was wet, concealing everything, yet revealing
everything. Her hair hung long and yellow to her neck, little tight
curls that sparkled. Even her eyes had cupids in them.
She strode
provocatively across the room and back toward me. Under the dress
her body was superb, unlike what I imagined the first time. She was
slimmer, really, her waist thin, but her shoulders broad. Her
breasts were laughing things that were firmly in place, although I
could see no strap marks of a restraining bra. Her legs were
encased in sheer nylons and set in high heels, making her almost as
tall as I was. Beautiful legs. They were strong looking,
shapely....
“Well, do you like
it?” she asked again.
“Lovely. And you know
it.” I grinned at her. “You remind me of something.”
“What?”
“A way of torturing a
guy.”
“Oh, please, I can’t
be that bad. Do I affect you like that? Torture you, I
mean?”
“No, not quite. But
if you take a guy that hasn’t seen a woman in five years, let’s
say, and chain him to a wall and let you walk past him the way you
did just now—well, that would be torture. See what I’m getting
at?”
Her laugh was low and
throaty. She threw back her head a little and I wanted to grab her
and kiss the beauty of her throat. Charlotte took my arm and led me
to the kitchen. The table was laid out for two. On the table was a
big pile of fried chicken and another equally large basket of
French fries.
“Just for us. Now sit
down and eat. I’ve already held supper an hour waiting for
you.”
I was dumbfounded.
Either she kept a complete file of my likes and dislikes or she was
clairvoyant. Chicken was my specialty.
As I pulled out a
chair and sat down, I said, “Charlotte, if there was an angle to
this, I’d think the chow was poisoned. But even if it is, I’m going
to eat it anyway.”
She was putting a
red-bordered apron on. When she finished she poured the coffee.
“There is an angle,” she said casually.
“Let’s have it,” I
said through a mouthful of chicken.
“When you came in to
see me I saw a man that I liked for the first time in a long time.”
She sat down and continued. “I have hundreds of patients, and
surprisingly enough, most of them are men. But they are such little
men. Either they have no character to begin with or what they had
is gone. Their minds are frail, their conception limited. So many
have repressions or obsessions, and they come to me with their
pitiful stories; well, when you constantly see men with their
masculinity gone, and find the same sort among those whom you call
your friends, you get so you actually search for a real
man.”
“Thanks,” I put
in.
“No, I mean it,”
Charlotte went on. “I diagnosed you the moment you set foot in my
office. I saw a man who was used to living and could make life obey
the rules he set down. Your body is huge, your mind is the same. No
repressions.”
I wiped my mouth. “I
got an obsession though.”
“You have? I can’t
imagine what it is.”
“I want a killer. I
want to shoot a killer.” I watched her over a drum-stick, chewing a
mile a minute on the succulent dark meat. She tossed her hair and
nodded.
“Yes, but it’s a
worthwhile obsession. Now eat up.”
I went through the
pile of chicken in nothing flat. My plate was heaped high with
bones. Charlotte did all right, too, but I did most of the damage.
After a piece of pie and a second cup of coffee I leaned back in my
chair, contented as a cow.
“That’s a wonderful
cook you’ve got there,” I remarked.
“Cook, hell,” she
laughed. “I did all that myself. I haven’t always been
wealthy.”
“Well, when the time
comes for you to get married, you’re not going to have to go out of
your way to get a husband.”
“Oh, I have a
system,” she said. “You’re getting part of it right now. I lure men
to my apartment, cook for them, and before they go home I have my
proposal.”
“Don’t look now,” I
told her, “but it’s been tried on me before.”
“But not by an
expert.” We both laughed at that. I suggested we do the dishes and
she handed me an apron. Very politely, I laid it on the back of a
chair. It just wouldn’t go well with my mug. If anyone I knew
happened to breeze in and catch me in a rig like that I’d spend the
rest of my life living it down.
After we finished the
dishes we went into the living room. Charlotte curled up in the
armchair and I half fell on the sofa. We lit cigarettes, then she
smiled at me and said, “All right, you can tell me why you came up
to see me. More questions?”
I shook my head. “I
confess. Don’t beat me with that whip. I started out with two
things in mind. The first one was to see you with your hair down.
It turned out better than I expected.”
“And the
other?”
“To see if you, as a
practicing psychiatrist, could throw some light on the murder of my
good friend, Jack Williams.”
“I see. Perhaps if
you tell me more explicitly what you want, I’ll be able to help
you.”
“Good enough. I want
details. The murder isn’t old enough to get well into it yet, but I
will. It’s entirely reasonable that someone at the party knocked
off Jack. It’s just as reasonable that it was someone completely
outside. I’ve made some character studies, and what I’ve found I
don’t like. However, that may not be a good reason for murder. What
I want from you is an opinion, not one based on fact or logic, but
an opinion, purely professional, on how you think those I mentioned
may tie into this thing and whom you’d line up for the
killer.”
Charlotte took a deep
drag on her cigarette, then crushed it out in an ash tray. Her mind
was working hard, it was reflected in her expression. A minute
passed before she spoke. “You are asking me to do a difficult
thing, pass judgment on a person. Usually it takes twelve men and a
judge, after hours of deliberation, to do the same thing. Mike,
after I met you, I made it my job to look into your character. I
wanted to know what a man like you was made of. It wasn’t hard to
find out. The papers have been full of your episodes, editorials
were even written about you, and not very favorable ones, either.
Yet I found people who knew you and liked you. Little people and
big people. I like you. But if I were to tell you what I thought
I’m afraid I’d be passing a sentence of death on a person. No, I
won’t tell you that, you’d be too quick to kill. That I don’t want.
There’s so much about you that could be nice if only your mind
wasn’t trained to hate too fiercely.
“What I will do is
give you that which I have observed. It takes time to think back,
and I’ve taken the whole afternoon to do just that. Little things I
thought I had forgotten are clear now and they may make sense to
you. I’m used to personal conflict, the struggle that goes on
within one’s mind, not with differences between two or more people.
I can notice things, put them in their proper places, but I can’t
do more than file them away. If a person hates, then I can find the
reason for his hatred and possibly help him to rationalize more
clearly, but if that hatred has consumed him to the point of
murder, then I can but say I might have expected it. The discovery
of murderers and motives belongs to more astute minds than
mine.”
I was listening
intently to every word, and I could see her point. “Fair enough,” I
said, “then tell me what you have observed.”
“It isn’t too much.
Jack had been in a state of nervous tension for a week before the
party. I saw him twice and neither time had he seemed any better. I
remarked about it, but he laughed and told me he was still trying
to rehabilitate himself to civilian life. At the time it seemed
reasonable to me. A man who has lost a limb would naturally find
life awkward for some time.
“The night of the
party he was still as tense as ever. Somehow, it radiated to Myrna.
She worried about him anyway, and I could see that she was nearly
as upset as he was. Nothing visible, however, just those little
things. A tendency to anger at the dropping of a glass or a sudden
sound. Both Jack and she covered it up nicely, so I imagine that I
was the only one who noticed anything.
“Mr. Kalecki came to
the party in a grouch. Perhaps anger would be a better word, but I
couldn’t figure out with whom he was angry. He snapped at Harold
Kines several times and was completely uncivil to Mary
Bellemy.”
“How?” I
asked.
“They were dancing
and she said something or other. I didn’t hear what it was, but he
scowled and said, ‘The hell with that stuff, sister.’ Right after
that he took her back to the group and walked away.”
I laughed. She didn’t
know what was so funny until I told her. “Mary Bellemy probably
propositioned George right on the floor. Guess he’s getting old.
She’s a nymphomaniac.”
“Oh, yes? How did you
find out?” The way she said it was with icebergs.
“Don’t get ideas,” I
said. “She tried it on me but I wasn’t in the market.”
“Right
then?”
“No, never. I like to
do some of the work myself, not have it handed to me on a
platter.”
“I’ll have to
remember that. I did suspect that Mary was like that, but I never
gave it much thought. We were only casual friends. Anyway, when we
were leaving, Jack stopped me by the door and asked me to stop back
to see him sometime during the week. Before he could say anything
further, the gang called me and I had to leave. I never saw him
again.”
“I see.” I tried to
mull it over in my mind, but it didn’t work out. So Jack had
something bothering him, and so did Myrna. It might have been that
they were worried about the same thing. Maybe not. And George. He
was upset about something, too.
“What do you make of
it?” Charlotte asked.
“Nothing, but I’ll
think it over.” Charlotte got up from the chair and came over to
the sofa and sat down. She laid her hand on mine and our eyes
met.
“Mike, do me a favor.
I’m not asking you to stay out of this and let the police handle
it, all I want is for you to be careful. Please don’t get
hurt.”
When she spoke like
that I felt as if I had known her a lifetime. Her hand was warm and
pulsing lightly. I felt myself going fast—and I had seen her only
twice.
“I’ll be careful,” I
told her. “Why are you worrying?”
“Here’s why.” She
leaned forward, her lips parted, and kissed me on the mouth. I
squeezed her arms so hard my hands hurt, but she never moved. When
she drew away her eyes were soft and shining. Inside me a volcano
was blazing. Charlotte looked at the marks on her arms where I held
her and smiled.
“You love hard, too,
don’t you, Mike?”
This time I didn’t
hurt her. I stood up and drew her toward me. I pressed her to me,
closely, so she could feel the fire I had in me. This kiss lasted
longer. It was a kiss I’ll never forget. Then I kissed her eyes,
and that spot on her throat that looked so delicious. It was better
than I expected.
I turned her around
and we faced the windows overlooking the street. She rubbed her
head against mine, holding my arms around her waist tightly. “I’m
going now,” I said to her. “If I don’t, I’ll never leave. The next
time I’ll stay longer. I don’t want to do this wrong. I will if you
keep me here.”
She tilted her head
up and I kissed her nose. “I understand,” she said softly. “But
whenever you want me, I’ll be here. Just come and get
me.”
I kissed her again,
lightly this time, then went to the door. She handed me my hat and
pushed my hair back for me. “Good-bye, Mike.”
I winked at her. “So
long, Charlotte. It was a wonderful supper with a wonderful
girl.”
It was a wonder I got
downstairs at all. I hardly remember getting to my car. All I could
think of was her face and that lovely body. The way she kissed and
the intensity in her eyes. I stopped on Broadway and dropped into a
bar for a drink to clear my head. It didn’t help so I went home and
hit the sack earlier than usual.