Looks like you’re just out of luck.”
The stranger walked around the desk and picked up the valise he’d dropped when he’d made his attack. Setting it on the desk, he opened it, and I saw something inside gleam as it caught the light. Out came a hypodermic needle and a small bottle. Slowly and deliberately, he filled the needle and walked back behind the Colonel. The stranger spoke for some time, his voice so low as to be almost imperceptible. When he finished, the Colonel took a deep breath. “Go to hell.”
The answering voice rose slightly, and I detected a slight accent. The Colonel looked straight ahead and didn’t respond. His interrogator held the hypodermic up to the light and pressed until a stream of liquid spurted out the end. Leaning down, he inserted the needle into the Colonel’s neck. The Colonel struggled at first, then slowly relaxed.
Finally, his head lolled forward, onto his chest.
The dark-haired man put away the needle, then left the room. Moments later, he reappeared along with another man whose face I couldn’t get a clear look at. Together, they released the Colonel from the handcuffs and carried his limp body out of the room.
It was impossible to tell if he was still alive. The small man returned and walked past the camera. The lights shut off, and the screen went blank.
Five minutes later, I was standing at the checkout counter, collecting my wing tips, overcoat, and fedora. The old cop working the counter handed over my clothing, as jolly as a sub for Santa doling out gifts to an impoverished child.
“Now here’s a nice hat. I used to wear a hat like that. That’s how I lost my hair.” He guffawed loudly. I ignored him and emptied the contents of the manila envelope onto the counter. Keys, wallet, lighter, cigarettes (thank God), several envelopes (one full of cigarette butts), the blue index card, and the Perry Mason book. As I returned the items to the appropriate pockets, I noticed something sticking out between the pages of the paperback.
It turned out to be a picture of the Colonel, who was dressed like a pirate, and a beautiful young woman, who was wearing a neon-pink bikini and holding a trophy. I flipped the photo over and read “Happy Halloween! Love and Kisses, Melahn.” The bald cop contorted to get a look at the front side of the photo.
“Here, son. Mind if I take a look at that?”
I handed it over and continued distributing. The cop whistled. “Haven’t seen this one for awhile. What a piece of work she was.” Through the snickering, I took back the photo and looked at it again. So, the Colonel had found himself a little plaything. I had to admit, she was an eye-popper. I wondered whether the cops had found anything linking the Colonel to this Melahn person. Maybe if I could track her down, she’d have an idea why someone had cut her sugar daddy’s finger off. It was worth a try. I slipped the picture into my pocket along with the paperback and went looking for Mac.
Malden, despite his seniority, had been stuck in the late shift for as long as I’d known him and still hadn’t been able to adjust his internal clock. He was slumped against a coffee machine, eyes closed, waiting for his cup to fill. I walked over, pulling out a cigarette. Bilge water gurgled from the bowels of the machine, filling the air with a wet ashtray smell. Mac heard me approaching and opened his eyes grudgingly. “Coffee?”
I lit my smoke. “I’d love some, if you have any.”
Mac shrugged apathetically. “Suit yourself.”
He extracted the cup of pond scum and aimed his tired girth in the direction of his office.
Just as we’d gotten seated, Mac’s vid-phone beeped, and he answered it. From the tone of the conversation, it was his wife Joanne.
I pulled out the photo of the Colonel and Melahn and looked it over again. The old man always had a taste for younger girls — not too young in the legal sense, but young enough to offend churchgoers. I inspected the photo closely. With my vague recollection of what the Colonel had looked like a few months ago, the picture was taken recently.
Maybe he’d still been seeing this girl.
She was beautiful in a slightly soiled way. The Colonel had always preferred his playmates a little trashy, and this one certainly fit the bill. But even under the fashionably excessive makeup and overenlarged breasts, there was something undeniably appealing about Melahn. She was the kind of dame that got men into trouble.
I wanted to meet her.
I knew that Drysdale would pursue every angle to find out who the Colonel’s abductor had been, but I was planning on making my own inquiries. At one time, I’d felt a real affinity for the old man, and I couldn’t just stand by knowing that he’d been murdered.
Besides, if I found out who the killer was, it might get me in good with Drysdale, who’d be a considerably more useful contact than Mac Malden.
The fat cop disconnected from the vid-phone and looked at me pathetically, like a dog on his last trip to the vet. I’d never met Joanne… I only knew the effect she had on her poor husband. I decided to change the subject.
“You look great, Mac. The extra weight sure suits you.”
Mac pulled a soggy Merit out from beneath his yellowed mustache, sprinkling ash on his tie. He was obviously too tired to care about friendly provocation. He looked exhausted and irregular, and his scalp glistened beneath a thinning layer of blond hair.
“Looks like you worked things out with Drysdale.”
I nodded. “I owe you one for the tip. It bought me just enough time.”
“I didn’t give you a tip, so shut up about it.” Mac dropped his cigarette into a pool of stale coffee at the bottom of a Styrofoam cup, then reached into a brown lunch bag and pulled out a doughnut. His jowls jiggled as he took a bite. Another doughnut was the last thing he needed. I felt a need to express my concern for his health.
“I think there should be a warning printed on doughnut boxes: Eating these can result in double chins, tight pants, and will kill you as fast as cigarettes.”
Mac stared at me like a beef cow as he slowly chewed his cud and swallowed.
“For your information, this is a Diet Donut. Fat free, cholesterol free, forty calories, and ten grams of fiber. It tastes like a dog toy, but Joanne’s forcing me to eat ‘em. She makes these surprise visits to the office, and if she catches me with an actual pastry, she’ll rip my head off.”
“Well, you know what they say, Mac. Be good to your bowels and they’ll be good to you.”
“Go to hell.”
The lump of a policeman downed the last of the snack and reached for his pack of Merits. “What’s on your mind, Murphy?” Mac picked up my Zippo like it was his and held it to the end of a poorly packed cigarette. The tobacco seemed to cleanse his palette, and he looked somewhat refreshed. I was happy for him.
“Take a look at this for me.” I handed over the photo I’d found in the paperback.
Mac stared at it apathetically and tossed it onto the desk in front of me. “Nice looking broad.”
“You recognize her?”
Mac shook his head. “Should I?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a hunch she has a police record. Her name’s Melahn. That’s all I know about her.”
Mac turned on his computer, pointed and clicked several times, then typed in his name.
He leaned over and picked up the photo and held it up to the screen. “Tode. T-O-D-E.
Melahn Tode. Been picked up twice for soliciting and once for possession. She got suspended sentences for all of them, but she’s still on probation. Here’s an address. No phone number.”
Mac rotated the monitor, and I made a note. Now, there was one other item of business.