The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [49]
I handed the photos back. “No.”
“Sure?”
“I never forget faces.”
“Then that’s one angle out.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“But where did you ever get hold of that bit?”
I reached for my hat. “Have you ever heard of a red herring?”
Hy chuckled and nodded. “I’ve dropped a few in my life.”
“I think I might have picked one up. It stinks.”
“So drop it. What are you going to do now?”
“Not drop it, old buddy. It stinks just a little too bad to be true. No, there’s another side to this Erlich angle I’d like to find out about.”
“Clue me.”
“Senator Knapp.”
“The Missile Man, Mr. America. Now how does he come in? ”
“He comes in because he’s dead. The same bullet killed him as Richie Cole and the same gun shot at me. That package on Knapp that you gave me spelled out his war record pretty well. He was a light colonel when he went in and a major general when he came out. I’m wondering if I could tie his name in with Erlich’s anyplace.”
Hy’s mouth came open and he nearly lost the cigar. “Knapp working for another country?”
“Hell no,” I told him. “Were you?”
“But—”
“He could have had a cover assignment too.”
“For Pete’s sake, Mike, if Knapp had a job other than what was known he could have made political capital of it and—”
“Who knew about yours?”
“Well—nobody, naturally. At least, not until now,” he added.
“No friends?”
“No.”
“Only authorized personnel.”
“Exactly. And they were mighty damn limited.”
“Does Marilyn know about it now?”
“Mike—”
“Does she?”
“Sure, I told her one time, but all that stuff is seventeen years old. She listened politely like a wife will, made some silly remark and that was it.”
“The thing is, she knows about it.”
“Yes. So what?”
“Maybe Laura Knapp does too.”
Hy sat back again, sticking the cigar in his mouth. “Boy,” he said, “you sure are a cagey one. You’ll rationalize anything just to see that broad again, won’t you?”
I laughed back at him. “Could be,” I said. “Can I borrow that photo of Erlich?”
From his desk Hy pulled a pair of shears, cut out the shot of the Nazi agent and handed it to me. “Have fun, but you’re chasing a ghost now.”
“That’s how it goes. But at least if you run around long enough something will show up.”
“Yeah, like a broad.”
“Yeah,” I repeated, then reached for my hat and left.
Duck-Duck Jones told me that they had pulled the cop off Old Dewey’s place. A relative had showed up, some old dame who claimed to be his half sister and had taken over Dewey’s affairs. The only thing she couldn’t touch was the newsstand which he had left to Duck-Duck in a surprise letter held by Bucky Harris who owned the Clover Bar. Even Duck-Duck could hardly believe it, but now pride of ownership had taken hold and he was happy to take up where the old man left off.
When I had his ear I said, “Listen, Duck-Duck, before Dewey got bumped a guy left something with him to give to me.”
“Yeah? Like what, Mike?”
“I don’t know. A package or something. Maybe an envelope. Anyway, did you see anything laying around here with my name on it? Or just an unmarked thing.”
Duck folded a paper and thrust it at a customer, made change and turned back to me again. “I don’t see nuttin’, Mike. Honest. Besides, there ain’t no place to hide nuttin’ here. You wanna look around?”
I shook my head. “Naw, you would have found it by now.”
“Well what you want I should do if somethin’ shows up?”
“Hang onto it, Duck. I’ll be back.” I picked up a paper and threw a dime down.
I started to leave and Duck stopped me. “Hey, Mike, you still gonna do business here? Dewey got you down for some stuff.”
“You keep me on the list, Duck. I’ll pick up everything in a day or two.”
I waved, waited for the light and headed west across town. It was a long walk, but at the end of it was a guy who owed me two hundred bucks and had the chips to pay off on the spot. Then I hopped a cab to the car rental agency on Forty-ninth, took my time about picking out a Ford coupé and turned toward the West Side Drive.
It had turned out to be a beautiful day, it was almost noon, the sun was hot, and once on the New York