Dr. Moody had not sold me out-instead, he’d pulled a smart one. Let the reporters get an idea of what had happened and there would be no tricks played on Poochie by the local bully boys. A swell move on the doc’s part, gaining my full approval after the fact.
I cooperated with the bunch of newshounds by telling them what happened.
“Mike Hammer,” somebody said, laughing, “saved by a beachcomber! We should stop the presses.”
Another asked, “Any idea who shot at you? Was it the same guy who murdered Sharron?”
“Well, as it happens,” I said, “I do know who tried to gun me down.”
Anyway, I figured I did, and saying this might smoke Dekkert out. He’d either make another try for me or jump down my throat. He still was the law in this town, after all. Either way, I’d have some real fun.
With their rapt attention, I continued: “It’s very possible that Sharron Wesley’s killer did try to take me out. Perhaps even probable. This is a small town, where there hasn’t been a killing in years. How likely is it that two murderers would be at large?”
“So it’s one perpetrator?”
“I’m not sure… yet.”
I let the significance of that linger. The reporters exchanged glances.
“Can we quote you on this, Mike?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
I went on and told them of Sharron Wesley’s gambling setup and the way the town was operated, without mentioning the mayor by name. They could fill that in themselves. I also omitted Poochie getting beaten by Dekkert and his goon squad. I didn’t have to mention Dekkert’s checkered past with the New York PD because every one of these newsmen had covered that story years ago.
What I gave them seemed to satisfy them, and they closed their pads.
A little guy from the News piped up: “Hey, Mike. Think there’s any use us sticking around any longer?”
“Why not? Before I’m through someone’s sure to get shot up.”
Several of them laughed at that. Several others didn’t-they knew I meant it.
“Guess you’re right,” the little guy said, sticking his pad in his sportcoat pocket. “Always could depend on getting a good story out of your exploits. Can’t print all the details sometimes, but every damn time a darn good story. Okay, I’m sticking. What about you guys?”
The others grinned and nodded. They were happy as long as there was a bar handy and an expense sheet to pad. If a story panned out, great. If not, so what? They still had a paid vacation far enough away from town that the city editor couldn’t ride their tails.
When they drifted away, I picked up the house phone and asked for Velda’s room. The operator rang a few times, but no one answered. I thanked her, hung up and took the stairs to my room. There was no note under the door for me, so I took the chance that she was off eating or still snooping around.
I laid out a suit for tomorrow and was switching my junk to the other pockets when I pulled out that feminine handkerchief from the side coat pocket. It still smelled of the musky perfume. I sniffed it and put it with the rest of my stuff. I had almost forgotten that little item.
The phone rang and it was Velda. “Mike, when did you get back?”
“Little while ago. I gave an impromptu press conference for the boys in the lobby, then tried your number but got no answer.”
“I was down the hall taking a shower. Come on over.”
I did, and she answered the door in a white terrycloth robe that came almost to the floor. Her hair was damp and she toweled it as she sat on the edge of the bed and I pulled up a chair so we could talk.
I filled her in on my day, and when I got to the part where I’d got into it at the office with the two intruders, she came over and checked the back of my head. She smelled great. It was just soap, but, man…
“You’ll live,” she said, and sat back down on the edge of her bed. “What then?”
I told her about my visit to Louie’s, and decided the better part of valor would be to omit going to Marion’s crib. Moving the gist of that conversation to Louie’s place wouldn’t hurt anything, and there was no need to get Velda’s nose out of joint. The Ruston girl parading herself for me, and yours truly pretending not to be interested, would not seem the harmless fun it had been. Not to a secretary who gave me hell for two weeks after spotting one lousy lipstick smear on my shirt collar.
“So Sharron’s silent partner,” Velda said, “is some big gambler from the city. It wouldn’t be this Miami Bull character you mentioned, or…?”
“Bill Evans. No-wrong city. They’re Chicago boys.”
“I hear there’s crime in Chicago.”
“Yeah, I heard that rumor, too, but this will be some big boy from New York, and I may try to track down Evans and Miami Bull to lead me to him. They won’t have anything to lose.”
“Our friend Dekkert has ties in the city.”
“That fact is not lost on me, honey. How was your day?”
She put her hands on the terrycloth over her knees and rocked like a little girl. “Quiet. You’d almost think I was on vacation.”
“Ouch.”
“I had a few conversations with locals, but most of the stores weren’t open. Either closed on Sunday or not open for the season yet.”
“No surprise.”
She went back to toweling her hair. “I spoke to several reporters, but I knew more than they did. They got wind of Doc Moody, but I handled that.”
“So that was your fine hand at work? Good job all around. What about Poochie? Did you see him today?”
She smiled tightly. There was frustration in it.
“I did,” she said. “But the doc is mostly keeping him sedated. I finally spoke with the little guy this evening, but you’re not going to like what I found.”
“He didn’t finger Dekkert as the shooter in the window?”
She shook her head. “At first he said he didn’t remember. Then when I pressed, he said he just saw the gun and that a man was holding it. But it was too dark outside for him to see who was aiming the gun.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe you can get more out of him. I pressed as hard and as long as the doctor would allow. Obviously, the poor soul may just be scared, Mike. Dekkert almost killed him the other night. And getting beaten to death is a hard way to go.”
I nodded. “Say, you look tan. Don’t tell me you actually got some sun?”
“I did!” She hopped off the bed. “Want to see?”
“Easy there, kitten…”
“Oh, don’t be a prude. You’re a big boy.”
Getting bigger all the time.
“I have a bra and panties on,” she said, “you coward. My bikini is skimpier, you know.”
She opened the terrycloth robe. It was like curtains parting on a masterpiece of sculpture devoted to the female form. She had a nice tan going, all right, nicely dark against the underthings. And I had seen her in a two-piece suit before, but the psychology of seeing her that way, presenting herself to me with a proud smile, letting me admire the jut of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the hint of dark curls behind the whiteness of panty, the long, long legs, not the pipe cleaner legs of a model but the fully fleshed, muscular legs of a vibrant woman.
“What do you think?” she said, as she closed the robe and cinched the terrycloth belt.
“I think,” I said, managing to get to my feet, “that it’s been a long day, and I could use a shower myself. A cold one.”
She laughed and showed me to the door.
“See you in the morning,” she said.
“See you, kitten.”
You’re here to find a killer, buster, a voice in my head said.
“If these dames don’t kill me first,” I muttered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The two naked bodies were strung by their heels from a rafter in the barn, their fingertips almost brushing the warped planked flooring. Dried blood in frightful trails from countless wounds made vertical stripes down twin flesh in horrible design. The smears of blood beneath had clotted, merging into each other like an obscene Rorschach test ink-blot pattern peppered with blow flies trying to feast there.