I let him turn the corner before I started the car. If the police were there, they weren't in sight. Nothing was moving this night. I knew the route Cobbie would take, and rather than follow him, decided to go ahead and wait, taking a wide sweep around the one-way street and coming up in the direction he was walking.
There were stores here, some still open. A pair of gin mills operated at a short stagger apart, smelling the block up with the rank odor of flat beer. Upstairs in an apartment a fight was going on. Somebody threw a coffeepot that smashed through the window and clattered down the basement well. Cobbie was part of the night until it hit, then, he made a short dash to the safety of a stairway and crouched there determining the origin of the racket before continuing his walk. He stopped once to light a cigarette and made it this time.
He was almost opposite me when a car pulled up the street and stopped in front of the gin mill. Cobbie went rigid with fear, one hand half-way to his mouth. When the driver hopped out and went into the dive he finished dragging on the cigarette.
I had to leave the car where it was, using Cobbie's tactics of hugging the shadows to pass him on the opposite side of the street without being seen. Following did no good. I had to anticipate his moves and try to stay ahead of him. The rain came in handy; it let me walk under awnings, stop in doorways for a breather before starting off again...
A cop went by, whistling under his slicker, his night stick slapping his leg in rhythm to his step. It was ten minutes after ten then. I didn't see Pat or his men. Just Cobbie and me. We were in his own bailiwick now, the street moving with people impervious to the rain and the tension. Beside a vacant store I stopped and watched Cobbie hesitate on the corner, making his decision and shuffling off into a cross street.
I didn't know where I expected it to come from, certainly not from the black mouth of an apartment. Cobbie's weave had been discarded for an ambling gait of resignation. Tension can be borne only so long, then the body and mind reverts to normal. His back suddenly stiffened and I heard a yelp that was plain fear. His head was swivelled around to the building and his hands came up protectively.
If the guy had shot from the doorway he would have had him, but he wanted to do it close up and came down the steps with a rod in his fist. He hadn't reached the third step when Cobbie screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to shrink back against the inevitable. The gun levelled with Cobbie's chest but never went off because a dark blur shot out of the same doorway and crashed into the guy's back with such force that they landed at Cobbie's feet together.
My own rod was in my hand as I ran. I heard the muted curses mingled with Cobbie's screaming as a heavy fist slammed into flesh. I was still fifty yards away when the two separated, one scrambling to his feet immediately. Cobbie had fallen into a crouch and the guy fired, flame lacing towards his head.
The other guy didn't bother to rise. He propped his gun arm on the sidewalk, took deliberate aim and pulled the trigger. The bullet must have gone right through his head because his hat flew off faster than he was running and was still in the air when the man was nothing but a lump of lifeless flesh.
A gun went off farther up the street. Somebody shouted and shot again. I was on top of the guy with the rod and it didn't worry me at all seeing it pointed at my middle. It was a police positive and the guy had big, flat feet.
Just the same, I raised my hands, my .45 up and said, "Mike Hammer, private cop. Ticket's in my pocket, want to see it?"
The cop stood up and shook his head. "I know you, feller."
A prowl car made the corner on two wheels and passed it, the side door already open with a uniformed patrolman leaning out, his gun cocked. The cop and I followed it together, crossing the street diagonally where the commotion was.
Windows were being thrown open, heads shouted down asking what went on and were told to get back in and stay there. A voice yelled, "He's on the roof!" There was another shot, muffled by the walls this time. A woman screamed and ran, slamming a door in her passage.
Almost magically the searchlights opened up, stretching long arms up the building fronts to the parapets, silhouetting half a dozen men racing across the roof in pursuit of someone.
The reflection of the lights created an artificial dawn in the tight group, dancing from the riot guns and blued steel of service revolvers. The street was lousy with cops, and Pat was holding one of the lights.
We saw each other at the same time and Pat handed the light over to a plainclothes man. I said, "Where the hell did you come from? There wasn't a soul on the street a minute ago."
Pat grimaced at me. "We didn't come, Mike... we were there. The hard boys weren't too smart. We had men tailing them all day and they never knew it. Hell, we couldn't lay a trap without having everybody and his brother get wise, so the men stuck close and stayed on their backs. Cobbie was spotted before he got off his block. The punks kept in touch with each other over the phone. When they saw Cobbie turn down here one cut behind the buildings and got in front of him. There was another one up the block to cut him off if he bolted."
"Good deal! How many were there?"
"We have nine so far. Seven of them just folded up their tents and came along quietly. We let them pass the word first so there would be no warning. What came of that guy down the block?"
"He's dead."
From the roof there was a volley of shots that smashed into stone and ricochetted across the sky. Some didn't ricochet. A shrill scream testified to that. One of the cops stepped into the light and called down. "He's dead. Better get a stretcher ready, we have a wounded officer up here."
Pat snapped. "Damn! Get those lights in the hallway so they can see what they're doing!" A portable stretcher came out of a car and was carried upstairs. Pat was directing operations in a clear voice, emphasized by vigorous arm movements.
There wasn't anything I could do right then. I edged back through the crowd and went up the street. There was another gang around the body on the sidewalk, with two kids trying to break away from their parents for a closer look.
Cobbie Bennett was nowhere in sight.
Chapter Fourteen
Seeing a job well done can bring a feeling of elation whether you did it yourself or not. There was a sense of pride in me when I climbed behind the wheel of my heap, satisfaction extraordinary because the bastards were being beaten at their own game. I switched on the radio a few minutes later in time to catch the interruption of a program and a news flash of the latest coup. I went from station to station, but it was always the same. The noses for news were right in there following every move. Scattered around town would be other tough boys hearing the same thing. Money wouldn't mean a damn thing now, not if the cops were going to play it their way. It's one thing to jump the law, but when the law is right behind you, ready to jump back even harder, it's enough to make even the most stupid, hopped-up killer think twice.
Ha! They wouldn't be wearing their metallic smiles tonight. The ball was piling up force as it rolled along. The half-ways were jumping on the wagon, eager to be on the winning side. Political injustice and string-pulling were taking one hell of a beating. I knew where I stood and I felt good about it.
My route uptown was taking me within a few blocks of the Sunic House, and late as it was I wanted to stop off and see my client. This the old boy would like. He was paying for it. At least he was getting his money's worth. The name of Berin-Grotin would be remembered in places long after the marble tomb was eaten away by the sands of time, and that's what he wanted... someone to remember him.