“Hello, buddy. Mike again.”
“Mike, I figured you’d be back in Sidon by now.”
“I’m about to head that way. But some things have happened since I saw you this afternoon.”
“You do lead an eventful life.”
I filled him in on the two thugs who’d been rifling my office, and the ensuing scuffle.
He didn’t even bother telling me I should have reported it. But he did ask, “Could you identify either of them?”
“By their clothes maybe, but the lights were out and the blinds closed. Their faces were a blur. Does this qualify as connecting the Sidon case to the city?”
He snorted a laugh. “Like there aren’t three dozen hoods in this town with other reasons for shaking down your office.”
“Okay, then, how about this? I have a little more information for you on the late Sharron Wesley.”
“Do you now?”
“These names do anything for you? Miami Bull and Bill Evans-from Chicago? They’ve been sitting in out at the Wesley casino.”
A long, low whistle came over the wires. “Party girl Sharron was running a pretty high-rolling operation. This is more than just rich kids and dilettantes throwing some loose change around.”
“Sure as hell is. The take out there on any given weekend had to be plenty high. Look, I need to get back to Sidon. If you want me at all, call that hotel.”
“Got it. Should have something for you in a day or so.”
“Good. See you.”
Sunday night, cabs were scarce but I finally snagged one, and had it head over to the garage near the Hackard Building to pick up my heap. The cab rolled through a nighttime city cool and calm with twinkles of light and touches of neon giving it a soothing, dreamy quality.
But I knew the statistics.
Somebody would be getting killed out there, right now.
I wanted to get back to Sidon before midnight if I could. Luckily, the roads were empty. Under a star-studded sky so clear and so deep a blue Hollywood might have had a hand in it, I stepped it up to seventy, then eighty, flying through darkness, chasing my own bright headlights.
The miles rolled by. I stopped once at a dog wagon and had a bite to eat before I went on. It was eleven- thirty when I saw Sidon up ahead, its lights reduced to a small swarm of fireflies. In less than a minute, I hit the outskirts.
I rolled the buggy into a corner of the parking lot behind the hotel and hustled into the lobby, anxious to sit down with Velda and catch each other up. From the crowd that sat around, you would think it was maybe seven at night and the town was enjoying a mid-summer boom.
One of the loungers spotted me and yelled, “ Here he is!”
A half dozen guys came running, dragging scratch pads from their pockets. Finally the reporters had caught up to me, shouting questions.
“What have you got, Mike?”
“How about the lowdown?”
“Michael, these city hicks are clammed up tight!”
I spoke to the knot of men around me. “Nothing much, fellers. Sorry, but I haven’t really gone to work yet. Still in the prelim phase.”
“Cut it, Mike, it’s all over town that somebody took a shot at you!”
That stopped me cold.
“Where did you get that from?” I asked them.
A little chunky guy from the Chronicle spoke up. “It’s just a rumor around town, but I got in to see the local doctor…”
Had Doc Moody sold me out?
“…and he told me about that potshot, Mike, and I told the boys, but how the town folk found out, hell, that’s no fault of mine. That good-looking secretary of yours told us to pipe down until you came back, and we did. So what’s the story?”
I thought it over.
Dr. Moody had not sold me out-instead, he’d pulled a smart one. Let the reporters get an idea of what had happened and there would be no tricks played on Poochie by the local bully boys. A swell move on the doc’s part, gaining my full approval after the fact.
I cooperated with the bunch of newshounds by telling them what happened.
“Mike Hammer,” somebody said, laughing, “saved by a beachcomber! We should stop the presses.”
Another asked, “Any idea who shot at you? Was it the same guy who murdered Sharron?”
“Well, as it happens,” I said, “I do know who tried to gun me down.”
Anyway, I figured I did, and saying this might smoke Dekkert out. He’d either make another try for me or jump down my throat. He still was the law in this town, after all. Either way, I’d have some real fun.
With their rapt attention, I continued: “It’s very possible that Sharron Wesley’s killer did try to take me out. Perhaps even probable. This is a small town, where there hasn’t been a killing in years. How likely is it that two murderers would be at large?”
“So it’s one perpetrator?”
“I’m not sure… yet.”
I let the significance of that linger. The reporters exchanged glances.
“Can we quote you on this, Mike?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
I went on and told them of Sharron Wesley’s gambling setup and the way the town was operated, without mentioning the mayor by name. They could fill that in themselves. I also omitted Poochie getting beaten by Dekkert and his goon squad. I didn’t have to mention Dekkert’s checkered past with the New York PD because every one of these newsmen had covered that story years ago.
What I gave them seemed to satisfy them, and they closed their pads.
A little guy from the News piped up: “Hey, Mike. Think there’s any use us sticking around any longer?”
“Why not? Before I’m through someone’s sure to get shot up.”
Several of them laughed at that. Several others didn’t-they knew I meant it.
“Guess you’re right,” the little guy said, sticking his pad in his sportcoat pocket. “Always could depend on getting a good story out of your exploits. Can’t print all the details sometimes, but every damn time a darn good story. Okay, I’m sticking. What about you guys?”
The others grinned and nodded. They were happy as long as there was a bar handy and an expense sheet to pad. If a story panned out, great. If not, so what? They still had a paid vacation far enough away from town that the city editor couldn’t ride their tails.
When they drifted away, I picked up the house phone and asked for Velda’s room. The operator rang a few times, but no one answered. I thanked her, hung up and took the stairs to my room. There was no note under the door for me, so I took the chance that she was off eating or still snooping around.
I laid out a suit for tomorrow and was switching my junk to the other pockets when I pulled out that feminine handkerchief from the side coat pocket. It still smelled of the musky perfume. I sniffed it and put it with the rest of my stuff. I had almost forgotten that little item.
The phone rang and it was Velda. “Mike, when did you get back?”
“Little while ago. I gave an impromptu press conference for the boys in the lobby, then tried your number but got no answer.”
“I was down the hall taking a shower. Come on over.”
I did, and she answered the door in a white terrycloth robe that came almost to the floor. Her hair was damp and she toweled it as she sat on the edge of the bed and I pulled up a chair so we could talk.
