The Girl Hunters

"Would Velda have gone along with them?"

"If they threatened the client that's the best way. It's better to give up insured gems than get killed. Even a rap on the head can kill if it isn't done right and, generally speaking, jewel thieves aren't killers unless they're pushed."

I felt a shudder go through my shoulders. "No. The body--showed why." I paused and he sat patiently, waiting. "Marta was a pudgy dame with thick fingers. She had crammed on three rings worth a hundred grand combined and they weren't about to come off normally. To get the rings they had severed the fingers."

Softly, he remarked, "I see."

"It was lousy."

"What do you think happened, Mike?"

I was going to hate to tell him, but it had been inside too long. I said, "Velda advised them to go along thinking it would be a heist without any physical complications. Probably when they started to take the rings off the hard way the woman started to scream and was shot. Then her husband and Velda tried to help her and that was it."

"Was what?"

I stared at the ceiling. Before it had been so plain, so simple. Totally believable because it had been so totally terrible. For all those years I had conditioned myself to think only one way because in my job you got to know which answers were right.

Now, suddenly, maybe they weren't right anymore.

Larry asked, "So they killed the man and Velda too and their bodies went out to sea and were never found?"

My tired tone was convincing. I said, "That's how the report read."

"So Pat took it all out on you."

"Looks that way."

"Uh-huh. You let her go on a job you should have handled yourself."

"It didn't seem that way at first."

"Perhaps, but you've been taking it out on yourself too. It just took that one thing to make you a bum."

"Hard words, friend."

"You realize what happened to Pat?"

I glanced at him briefly and nodded. "I found out."

"The hard way."

"So I didn't think he cared."

"You probably never would have known if that didn't happen."

"Kismet, buddy. Like your getting punched in the mouth."

"But there's a subtle difference now, Mikey boy, isn't there?"

"Like how?" I turned my head and watched him. He was the type who could hide his thoughts almost completely, even to a busted-up pro like me, but it didn't quite come off. I knew what he was getting to.

"Something new has been added, Mike."

"Oh?"

"You were a sick man not many hours ago."

"I'm hurting right now."

"You know what I'm talking about. You were a drunk just a little while back."

"So I kicked the habit."

"Why?"

"Seeing old friends helped."

He smiled at me, leaned forward and crossed his arms, "What did that guy tell you?"

"Nothing," I lied.

"I think I know. I think I know the only reason that would turn you from an acute alcoholic to a deadly sober man in a matter of minutes."

I had to be sure. I had to see what he knew. I said, "Tell me, Doc."

Larry stared at me a moment, smiled smugly and sat back, enjoying every second of the scene. When he thought my reaction would be just right, he told me, "That guy mentioned the name of the killer."

So he couldn't see my face I turned my head. When I looked at him again he was still smiling, so I looked at the ceiling without answering and let him think what he pleased.

Larry said, "Now you're going out on your own, just like in the old days Pat used to tell me about."

"I haven't decided yet.

"Want some advice?"

"No."

"Nevertheless, you'd better spill it to Pat. He wants the same one."

"Pat can go drop."

"Maybe."

This time there was a peculiar intonation in his voice. I half turned and looked up at him. "Now what's bugging you?"

"Don't you think Pat knows you have something?"

"Like the man said, frankly, buddy, I don't give a damn."

"You won't tell me about it then?"

"You can believe it."

"Pat's going to lay charges on you."

"Good for him. When you clear out I'm going to have a lawyer ready who'll tear Pat apart. So maybe you'd better tell him."

"I will. But for your own sake, reconsider. It might be good for both of you."

Larry stood up and fingered the edge of his hat. A change came over his face and he grinned a little bit.

"Tell you something, Mike. I've heard so much about you it's like we're old friends. Just understand something. I'm really trying to help. Sometimes it's hard to be a doctor and a friend."

I held out my hand and grinned back. "Sure, I know. Forget that business about a paste in the mouth. You'd probably tear my head off."

He laughed and nodded, squeezed my hand and walked out. Before he reached the end of the corridor I was asleep again.

They make them patient in the government agencies. There was no telling how long he had been there. A small man, quiet, plain-looking-no indication of toughness unless you knew how to read it in his eyes. He just sat there as if he had all the time in the world and nothing to do except study me.

At least he had manners. He waited until I was completely awake before he reached for the little leather folder, opened it and said, "Art Rickerby, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"No," I said sarcastically.

"You've been sleeping quite a while."

"What time is it?"

Without consulting his watch he said, "Five after four."

"It's pretty late."

Rickerby shrugged noncommittally without taking his eyes from my face. ""Not for people like us," he told me. "It's never too late, is it?" He was smiling a small smile, but behind his glasses his eyes weren't smiling at all.

"Make your point, friend," I said.

He nodded thoughtfully, never losing his small smile. "Are you--let's say, capable of coherent discussion?"

"You've been reading my chart?"

"That's right. I spoke to your doctor friend too."

"Okay," I said, "forget the AA tag. I've had it, you know?"

"I know."

"Then what do we need the Feds in for? I've been out of action for how many years?"

"Seven."

"Long time, Art, long time, feller. I got no ticket, no rod. I haven't even crossed the state line in all that time. For seven years I cool myself off the way I want to and then all of a sudden I have a Fed on my neck." I squinted at him, trying to find the reason in his face. "Why?"

"Cole, Richie Cole."

"What about him?"

"Suppose you tell me, Mr. Hammer. He asked for you, you came and he spoke to you. I want to know what he said."

I reached way back and found a grin I thought I had forgotten how to make. "Everybody wants to know that, Rickeyback."

"Rickerby."

"So sorry." A laugh got in behind the grin. "Why all the curiosity?"

"Never mind why, just tell me what he said."

"Nuts, buddy."

He didn't react at all. He sat there with all the inbred patience of years of this sort of thing and simply looked at me tolerantly because I was in a bed in the funny ward and it might possibly be an excuse for anything I had to say or do.

Finally he said, "You can discuss this, can't you?"

I nodded. "But I won't."

"Why not?"

"I don't like anxious people. I've been kicked around, dragged into places I didn't especially want to go, kicked on my can by a cop who used to be a friend and suddenly faced with the prospects of formal charges because I object to the police version of the hard sell."

"Supposing I can offer you a certain amount of immunity?"

After a few moments I said, "This is beginning to get interesting."

Rickerby reached for words, feeling them out one at a time. "A long while ago you killed a woman, Mike. She shot a friend of yours and you said no matter who it was, no matter where, that killer would die. You shot her."