The Mike Hammer Collection

would at that. Okay, spill it.”

“Let’s go back to Dickerson again, Toby.”

“We went through that once.”

“You get the word.”

“Sure . . . secondhand through the broads.”

“Good enough. What’s the word on the money angle? If out-of-town hoods are moving in, something’s drawing them. Who’s spreading the green around?”

Toby’s tongue flicked at dry lips and he pulled on the butt. “Look . . . if I prime you, this is the last?”

I shrugged.

“Let’s hear it, Mike.”

“You bought it. I’ll back off.”

“Okay then, Marge . . . she’s the redhead. She was with . . . a guy one night. No names, Mike. I ain’t giving you names. I specialize in that end of the trade. Marge, she’s a favorite with the hard boys. Does a lot of fancy tricks for them, see? Well, this guy . . . like he’s representing somebody big. He’s like muscle on lend. He comes in to do a favor. He’s Chicago and ready. He ain’t saying what’s to do, but he stands ready. Now his boss man lends him out because a favor was asked, only his boss man don’t do no favors. It’s got to be bought or got to be forced. Somebody’s got something on his boss man and is making a trade.

“Don’t ask what it is. Who am I to know? I just put two and two together until it works out. Somebody is building an organization and although money is there it’s the pressure that’s bringing the boys in.”

I tipped back in the chair watching him. “It plays if somebody is building an organization. Whatever the pressure is, it brings muscle in that can’t be bought, then the muscle can be used to square the money.”

“You play it,” Toby said. “I don’t even want to think on it no more.”

“How many are in?”

“Enough. With a mob like’s here I could damn near run the town single-handed.”

“These boys all come from big sources?”

Toby’s head bobbed once. “The biggest. The Syndicate’s lending men. They come out of the individual operations, but the boss men are the Syndicate men. You’re trouble, boy.”

“Thanks, kiddo. You’ve been a help.”

“For that I ain’t happy. I hope they get you before they tie me into anything.”

“Forget it,” I said and got up from the table.

I left him there and walked out into the rain back toward my office. If Jersey Toby was right Mr. Dickerson was pulling off a cute trick. It figured right, too, because he’d be smart enough and would have had the time to work it out. Little by little he could have built the things he needed to pressure the big ones into line. He had the background, experience, and the desire. One thing led to another. Once the mob was in, an organization could be built that could utilize three million bucks properly.

If Mr. Dickerson was Blackie Conley it fitted just right.

Up in the office I had to wait only fifteen minutes before Pete Ladero came in with a folio under his arm. He laid the stuff on the table and opened it up. “Do I get an explanation first?”

“Research on Blackie Conley,” I said.

“Aw, for crying out loud, he’s been dead for years.”

“Has he?”

“Well . . .” He paused and searched my face. “You on to something?”

“You familiar with this case?”

“I ran over it. The magazine writers rehashed it enough so I know the general background. Give.”

“If Conley’s alive he’s got three million bucks in his kick. He might be old and fiesty enough to start trouble with it.”

“Boy, bring-’em-back-alive Hammer.” He reached for the paper. “You looking for anything special?”

“Conley’s connection with the heist. Take half and we’ll go through them.”

So we sat down and read. Velda called and I told her to hop over, then went back to the papers again.

The prosecution had a cut-and-dried case. Sonny Motley pleaded guilty since he was nailed in the act and faced an automatic sentence anyway. He ranted and raved all the way through the trial, cursing everybody from the judge down, but Torrence and Conley in particular. Torrence because he wouldn’t let him alone, but kept hammering for details, and Conley for the big double cross and a bullet in his shoulder.

The main item of interest was the missing three million dollars, but despite the speculation and the nationwide police search, not one thing was turning up. Sonny Motley didn’t mind spilling his guts if it meant nailing Blackie Conley and the unseen face who engineered the deal. Right then he figured they pulled the double cross together, but Sim Torrence couldn’t get any evidence whatsoever on the one behind the action.

There was another witness. Her name was Sally Devon and she was called because she was assumed to be a confederate of Sonny’s. Her testimony was such that she turned out to be the beautiful but dumb type after all, knowing nothing of the mob’s operation. Sonny and the others all admitted she was only a shack job as far as they were concerned and that seemed to end her part in the affair. Only one reporter mentioned a statement that had any significance. Just before she was discharged from the stand she said that “she’d like to get the snake that was responsible.”

And that was what had bothered me. Sue had said the same thing, only there had been a minor discrepancy in her statements. First she said it was a snake that had killed her mother. Later she said the snake! Sue Devon remembered something, all right. Sally had raved in her drunkenness too . . . not about snakes . . . but about the snake. Old Mrs. Lee just hadn’t understood right.

Now The Snake was emerging. It was the one who engineered the whole damn business. The one nobody knew about or saw. The one who could have engineered it into a massive double cross to start with.

Blackie Conley. He really played it cute. He stood by as a lieutenant to Sonny Motley, but it was his plan to start with. He worked it into a cross and took off with the profits. He was bigger than anybody gave him credit for being. He was big enough to hold on until he felt like it and make the most incredible comeback in the history of crime.

If it worked.

And it was working.

I had been looking over the paper too long. Pete said, “You found it, didn’t you?”

“I think I have.”

“Do I get it?”

“Why not? ” I put the paper down and looked at him. “Can you hold it?”

“Better tell me about it first.”

When I did he whistled softly and started writing. I said, “If it goes out now this guy might withdraw and we’ll never get him. You can call the shots, buddy, but I’d advise you to wait. It could be bigger.”

He put the pencil away, grinning. “This is bonus stuff, Mike. I’ll sit on it. Make it mine though, will you?”

“Done.”

“Want Hy in?”

“Damn right. The office can use the publicity. Give him the same poop.”

“Sure, Mike.” He folded the news clips together and headed for the door. “Call me when you need anything.”

I waved when he left, then picked up the phone and dialed Pat. He was home for a change, and sore about being dragged out of bed. I said, “How’d you make out, Pat?”

“Got something new for you.”

“Oh?”

“Write off Arnold Goodwin. He’s dead.”

“What happened?”

“He was killed a couple of months ago in an automobile accident near Saratoga. His body’s been lying in a morgue up there unclaimed. The report just came in with his prints.”

“Positive?”

“Look, it was a stiff with good prints. He was on file. He checked out. The dead man was Goodwin. The