The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3 Page 26

  Arnold Goodwin looked like a good bet.

  Velda said, “Did you want to see the other probable?”

  “Sonny Motley?”

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  “He’s in his seventies. Why?”

  She moved her shoulders in thought. “He was a good story. The three-million-dollar killer.”

  “He wasn’t in for murder. He was a three-time loser when they caught him in that robbery and he drew an automatic life sentence.”

  “That could make a man pretty mad,” she reminded me.

  “Sure, but guys in their seventies aren’t going to hustle on a kill after thirty years in the pen. Be reasonable.”

  “Okay, but it wouldn’t take long.”

  “Oh, hell,” I said.

  Sonny Motley’s shoe repair shop had been open at seven as usual, the newsboy said, and pointed the place out to us. He was sitting in the window, a tired-looking old man bent over a metal foot a woman’s shoe was fitted to, tapping on a heel. He nodded, peering up over his glasses at us like a shaven and partially bald Santa Claus.

  Velda and I got up in the chairs and he put down his work to shuffle over to us, automatically beginning the routine of a shine. It wasn’t a new place and the rack to one side of the machines was filled with completed and new jobs.

  When he finished I gave him a buck and said, “Been here long?”

  He rang the money up and smiled when I refused the change. “Year and a half.” Then he pulled his glasses down a little more and looked at me closely. “Reporter?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, you look like a cop, but cops aren’t interested in me anymore. Not city cops. So that makes you independent, doesn’t it?”

  When I didn’t answer him he chuckled. “I’ve had lots of experience with cops, son. Don’t let it discourage you. What do you want to know?”

  “You own this place?”

  “Yup. Thirty years of saving a few cents a day the state paid me and making belts and wallets for the civilian trade outside bought me this. Really didn’t cost much and it was the only trade I learned in the pen. But that’s not what you want to know.”

  I laughed and nodded. “Okay, Sonny, it’s about a promise you made a long time ago to kill Sim Torrence.”

  “Yeah, I get asked that lots of times. Mostly by reporters though.” He pulled his stool over and squatted on it. “Guess I was pretty mad back then.” He smiled patiently and pushed his glasses up. “Let’s say that if he up and died I wouldn’t shed any tears, but I’ll tell you Mr. . . .”

  “Hammer. Mike Hammer.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hammer . . . well, I’m just not about to go back inside walls again. Not that this is any different. Same work, same hours. But I’m on the outside. You understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Something else too. I’m old. I think different. I don’t have those old feelings.” He looked at Velda, then me. “Like with the women. Was a time when even thinking of one drove me nuts, knowing I couldn’t have one. Oh, how I wanted to kill old Torrence then. But like I told you, once you get old the fire goes out and you don’t care anymore. Same way I feel about Torrence. I just don’t care. Haven’t even thought about him until somebody like you or a reporter shows up. Then I think of him and it gets funny. Sound silly to you?”

  “Not so silly, Sonny.”

  He giggled and coughed, then looked up. “Silly like my name. Sonny. I was a heller with the women in them days. Looked young as hell and they loved to mother me. Made a lot of scores like that.” For a moment his eyes grew dreamy, then he came back to the present. “Sonny. Ah, yeah, they were the days, but the fire is out now.”

  “Well . . .” I took Velda’s arm and he caught the motion.

  Eagerly, a man looking for company, he said, “If you want I could show you the papers on what happened. I had somebody save ’em. You wait here a minute.” He got up, shuffled off through a curtained door, and we could hear him rummaging through his things. When he came back he laid out a pitiful few front pages of the old World and there he was spread all over the columns.

  According to the testimony, in 1932 the Sonny Motley mob, with Black Conley second in command, were approached secretly by an unknown expert on heisting through an unrevealed medium. The offer was a beautifully engineered armored-car stickup. Sonny accepted and was given the intimate details of the robbery including facets known only to insiders, which would make the thing come off.

  Unfortunately, a young Assistant District Attorney named Sim Torrence got wind of the deal, checked it out, and with a squad of cops, broke up the robbery . . . but only after it had been accomplished. The transfer of three million dollars in cash had been made to a commandeered cab and in what looked like a spectacular double cross, or possibly an attempt to save his own skin, Black Conley had jumped in the cab when the shooting started and taken off, still firing back into the action with the rifle he had liked so well. One shot caught Sonny Motley and it was this that stopped his escape more than anything else. In an outburst of violence in the courtroom Sonny shouted that he had shot back at the bastard who double-crossed him and if he didn’t hit him, then he’d get him and Torrence someday for sure. They never found the cab, the driver, the money, or Black Conley.

  Sonny let me finish and when I handed the papers back said, “It would’ve gone if Blackie didn’t pull out.”

  “Still sore?”

  “Hell no.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Tell you what, Mr. Hammer. I got me a guess. That was a double cross somehow, only a triple cross got thrown in. I think old Blackie wound up cab and all at the bottom of the river someplace.”

  “The money never showed.”

  “Nope. That went with Blackie too. Everybody lost. I just hope I did shoot the bastard before he died. I don’t see how I coulda missed.”

  “You’re still mad, Sonny.”

  “Naw, not really. Just annoyed about them thirty years he made me take. That Torrence really laid it on, but hell, he had it made. I was a three-timer by then anyway and would have taken life on any conviction. It sure made Torrence though.” He pulled his glasses off, looked at the papers once with disgust, rolled them into a ball, and threw them away from him into a refuse carton. “Frig it. What’s the sense thinking on them things?”

  He looked older and more tired in that moment than when we came in. I said, “Sure, Sonny, sorry we bothered you.”

  “No trouble at all, Mr. Hammer. Come in for a shine any time.”

  On the street Velda said, “Pathetic, wasn’t he?”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  We waited there a few minutes trying to flag a cab, then walked two blocks before one cut over to our side and squealed to a stop. A blue panel truck almost caught him broadside, but the driver was used to those simple occupational hazards and didn’t blink an eye.

  I let Velda off at the office with instructions to get what she could from Pat concerning Basil Levitt and Kid Hand and to try to reestablish some old pipelines. If there were new faces showing in town like Jersey Toby said, there was a reason for it. There was a reason for two dead men and a murder attempt on me. There was a reason for an assassination layout with Sue Devon the target and somebody somewhere was going to know the answers.

  When Velda got out I gave the cabbie Sim Torrence’s Westchester address and sat back to try and think it out. Traffic was light on the ride north and didn’t tighten up until we got to the upper end of Manhattan.

  Then it was too thick. Just as the cab slowed for a light somebody outside let out a scream and I had time to turn my head, see the nose of a truck almost in the window, and throw myself across the seat as the cab took a tremendous jar that crushed in the side and sent glass and metal fragments ripping above my head. There was one awful moment as the cab tipped, rolled onto its side, and lay there in that almost total silence that follows the second after an accident.

  Up front the cabbie moa
ned softly and I could smell the sharp odor of gasoline. Somebody already had the front door open and arms were reaching in for the driver. I helped lift him, crawled out the opening, and stood there in the crowd brushing myself off. A couple dozen people grouped around the driver, who seemed more shaken than hurt, and for a change a few were telling him they’d be willing to be witnesses. The driver of the truck had cut across and deliberately slammed into the cab like it was intentional or the driver was drunk.

  But there wasn’t any driver in the truck at all. Somebody said he had jumped out and gone down into a subway kiosk across the street and acted like he was hurt. He was holding his belly and stumbled as he ran. Then I noticed the truck. It was a blue panel job and almost identical to the one which almost nailed the cab when Velda and I first got in it.

  Nobody noticed me leave at all. I took the number of the cab and would check back later, but right now there wasn’t time enough to get caught up in a traffic accident. A block down I got another cab and gave him the same address. At the Torrence estate I told the driver to wait, went up, and pushed the bell chime.

  Seeing Geraldine King again was as startling as it was the first time. She was in a sweater and skirt combination that set off the titian highlights in her hair, giving a velvet touch to the bright blue of her eyes. There was nothing businesslike about the way she was dressed. It was there only to enhance a lovely body and delight the viewer. I had seen too many strap marks not to know she was skin naked beneath the sweater.

  She caught my eyes, let me look a moment longer, and smiled gently. “Stickler for convention?”

  “Not me, honey.”

  “Women should be like pictures . . . nice to look at.”

  “Not if you haven’t got the price to afford to take them home.”

  “Sometimes you don’t have to buy. There are always free gifts.”

  “Thanks,” I grunted. Then I laughed at her. “You sure must be one hell of a political advantage to have around.”

  “It helps.” She held the door open. “Come on in. Mr. Torrence is in the study.”

  When I went in Sim pushed some papers aside, stood up, and shook hands. “Glad to see you again, Mike. What can I do for you?”

  “Some gal you got there.”

  “What?” He frowned behind his glasses. “Oh . . . oh, yes, indeed. Now . . .”

  “I’ve been checking out your enemies, Mr. Torrence. Those who wanted to kill you.”

  “Oh?”

  “You said you knew of a dozen persons who threatened to kill you. Would Arnold Goodwin be one?”

  “The sex offender?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Yes . . . he made threats. Since he was so young I paid no attention to them. Why?”

  “Because he’s out and is in violation of his parole. He hasn’t reported in for some time.”

  “He was quite an emotionally disturbed young man. Do you think . . .?”

  I shrugged. “Those guys can do anything. They’d hurt anybody to get to the primary object of their hate. I haven’t followed through on him, but I will.”

  “Well, the police should be informed immediately . . .”

  “They will be. His parole officer has him listed already. The thing is, he can cut a wide path before they nail him. Meantime, any protection for Sue or yourself should be direct and personal. I’d suggest an armed guard.”

  “Mr. Hammer . . . we’re coming into an election year. If this kind of thing gets out do you know what it means?”

  “So take your chances then.”

  “I’ll have to. Nevertheless, it may be sensible to keep somebody here in the house with me. I think Geraldine can arrange for someone.”

  “You want me to?”

  “No, we’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay then. Incidentally, I saw Sonny Motley.”

  “Sonny Motley?” He tugged at his glasses and pulled them off. “He was given a life sentence.”

  “Life ends at thirty years in the pen. He’s out. You remember him then?”

  “I certainly do! It was that case that made me a public figure. You don’t think . . .”

  “He’s an old guy who runs a shoe shop uptown now. No, he’s safe enough. You don’t play tough when you’re over seventy. Those brick walls took too much out of him. It was a pretty interesting case. Neither Blackie Conley or the loot ever showed up, did it?”

  “Mike, we covered every avenue possible looking for that money. We alerted every state, every foreign government . . . but whatever happened to Conley or the money has never come to light.”

  “What do you think happened?” I asked him. Torrence made a vague gesture with his hands. “If he could have gotten out of the country, affected a successful new identity, and didn’t try to make too much of a splash so as to attract attention he could have made it. Others have done it on a smaller scale. So might he. That job was well engineered. Whether or not Conley actually planned a double cross or took off when he saw how the fighting was going, we’ll never know, but he got away.”

  “There was the cab.”

  “He could have killed the driver and dumped the cab somewhere. He was a ruthless man.”

  “Sonny seemed to think somebody else got to him.”

  Torrence shook his head, thinking. “I doubt it. There was still the cab and driver, still the money whose serial numbers were recorded. No, I think Conley made a successful escape. If he did, he’s probably dead by now. He was eight years older than Sonny, if I remember right. That would put him in his eighties at the end of this time.” He looked at me steadily. “Funny you should bring that up.”

  “Something’s come out of the past, buddy. There’s trouble. I’m in the middle of it.”

  “Yes,” he nodded, “you are. Now, how can I be of further help?”

  “Look back. No matter how slight it might seem, see who wants you badly enough to try to hurt Sue or yourself.”

  “I will, Mr. Hammer.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your former wife.”

  “Yes?”

  “How much did you know about her?” I asked him.

  Torrence flinched visibly, dropped his eyes to his hands, then brought them back to my face again. “I assume you went to the trouble of looking into her background.”

  “I heard a few things.”

  “Then let me say this . . . I was well aware of Sally’s history before marrying her. In way of explanation I’ll tell you that I loved her. In way of an excuse you might understand, say there’s no accounting for taste. We met when she was in trouble. A business relationship developed into friendship that became love. Unfortunately, she maintained her alcoholism and died because of it. Why do you ask?”

  “I was thinking of blackmail possibilities.”

  “Discard them. Everything is a matter of public record. I wouldn’t tolerate blackmail.”

  “Maybe it hasn’t been tried yet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There are just some interesting possibilities that have developed. You try to stay ahead of them.” I got up and put on my hat. “Okay, if I need anything else I’ll stop by.”

  “I’m always available, Mr. Hammer.” With a gesture of dismissal he went back to his papers, so I eased out the door and looked for Geraldine King.

  She was in a smaller room toward the front, one that had been converted into a small but efficiently equipped office. Behind a typewriter, with black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, she looked like a calendar artist’s idea of what a secretary should be. Through the knee well in the desk I could see her skirt hiked halfway up her thighs for comfort and the first thing she did when she saw me in the doorway was reach for the hem and tug it down.

  I let out a half-silent wolf whistle and grinned. “Man,” I said.

  She pulled her glasses off and dropped them in front of her. “Distracting, aren’t I?”

  “T
ell me, honey, how the hell does Torrence work with you around?”

  Geraldine chuckled and shrugged. “With ease, that’s how. I am a fixture, a political associate and nothing more. I can prance around this house in the buff and he’d never notice.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “No, I mean it. Mr. Torrence is dedicated. His political life is all he knows and all he wants. He’s been in public service so long that he thinks of nothing else. Any time he is seen with a woman having supper or at some social function is for a political advantage.”

  “The female votes?”

  “Certainly. Women don’t mind widowers who seem to still have a family instinct but they do seem to resent confirmed bachelors.”

  “That’s what the men get for giving them the vote. Look, kid, Sim tells me you’ve been through a few of his political campaigns.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He ever have any trouble before?”

  “Like what?”

  “Something from his past coming out to shake him. Any blackmail attempts or threats against his personal life. He says no, but sometimes these things go through the party rather than the individual.”

  She sat back, frowning, then shook her head. “I think I’d know of anything like that. The organization is well knit and knows the implications of these things and I would have been told, but as far as I know nothing can interfere with his career. He’s exceptionally clean. That’s why we were so concerned about Sue’s running off. Even a thing like that can affect voting. A man who can’t run his own house can hardly be expected to run a state.”

  “You know he’s in a position to be hurt now.”

  “I realize that.” She got up, pushed her chair back and walked toward me with a swaying stride, not conscious at all of the subtle undulations beneath the tight-fitting sweater and skirt. “Do you think Sue will be all right?”

  “She’s a big girl. She may not look it, but don’t be fooled.”