'The answer?' I said. I shook my head. 'I don't have it. Not where I can reach out and touch it yet. I need more details.'
'So do we. I thought we were sharing this thing.'
'I didn't forget. What have you got?'
Pat stared at me a long time, reached out and fanned a few papers across his desk. 'Berga didn't escape from the sanitarium. She had it planned for her. She had a guest early that evening, a woman. The name and address were phony and we got no description except that she had brown hair. An attendant stated that she was pretty nervous after the guest left.'
I cut in with, 'How come you're just finding this stuff out?'
'It's a private sanitarium and they were afraid of ruining their reputation. They held off until we scared them. Anyway, we checked everybody in the place that night and came up with a spot from a couple of female visitors in the next room.
'When the closing bell rang they stood outside in the hall a few minutes talking. They were close to Berga's door and overheard a voice saying... ' He glanced down at the sheet and read from it '. . . `they're after you. They were at the house today.' ' The rest of it we had to put together and when we had it the dame was telling her something about the main gate, to be as casual as possible, and there would be a car waiting for her at the northwest corner.'
Pat stopped and tapped the sheet. He tapped the stem of the pipe against his teeth and said, 'On that corner was an F.B.I. wagon so whoever was waiting had to take up another spot. She got scared out of the deal and started hitchhiking when she didn't see the person she was expecting.'
I said, 'She saw the person, all right. He was in another car. She knew damn well she was being followed.'
'There's something wrong,' Pat said.
'Yeah. Like murders on the books as accidents.'
Pat's jaw worked. 'Proof?'
'No, but that's the way it happened.' I couldn't see his face, but I knew what he was thinking. In his own way he had covered every detail I had. 'The first one was Nicholas Raymond. That's where the answer is, Pat.'
His eyes peered out at me. 'Nicholas Raymond was a Mafia agent. He ran an import business as an excuse to make frequent overseas trips.'
I didn't answer so he said, '. . . he was the guy who ran the stuff into this country that was turned into cash for Mafia operations.'
He was watching me so closely that you couldn't see anything but the black pupils of his eyes. His face was all screwed up with the intensity of watching me and it was all I could do to hold still in the chair. I covered by dragging in another lungful of smoke and letting it go toward the ceiling so I could do something with my mouth except feel it try to stretch out of shape.
The picture was perfect now. It was the most beautiful piece of art work I had ever seen. The only trouble was I couldn't make out what it was all about nor who drew it.
I said, 'How much would two million in narcotics before the war be worth now, Pat?'
'About double.'
I got up and put on my hat. 'That's what you're looking for, friend. A couple of shoe boxes that big. If I find them I'll tell you about it.'
'Do you know where it is?'
'No. I have a great big fat idea, but if it's stayed buried this long it won't hurt anybody staying buried a while longer. All I want is the person who is after it because that person has Velda. If I have to I'll dig it up and trade for her.'
'Where are going now?'
'I think I'm going out and kill somebody, Pat,' I said.
Chapter Eleven
The cop at the switchboard told me to go ahead and use the phone. He plugged in an outside line and I dialed the number that got me Michael Friday. I said, 'Your line clear? This is Mike.'
'Mike! Yes... There's no one here.'
'Good. Now listen. There's a place called the Texan Bar on
Fifty-sixth Street. Get down there as fast as you can. I'll be waiting. You got that?'
'Yes, but... '
I hung up on her. It was the best thing you could do with a woman when you wanted her to move fast. She'd be a good hour getting there which was just what I needed.
They were changing shifts outside the building and the flow of cops was getting thicker. I stepped outside, flagged down a cab and gave him the address of Al Affia's place. The rain had thinned traffic down to a minimum and he didn't take long getting there.
Nothing had changed. The blood was still there on the floor, dried into a crusty maroon. Close to the door the air was a little foul and inside it was worse. I shoved the door open, snapped on the light and there was Al grinning at me from the corner of the room, but it was a horrible kind of grin because somebody had broken him into pieces with the whiskey bottle. He wasn't killed plain. He was killed fancy as a person could be killed. He was killed so that he couldn't make any sound as he died and whoever did it must have had a great time laughing because Al died slow.
What I came for was gone. There were still two of the blueprints on the table but they showed the layout of the docks. The rest were missing. I picked the phone up, dialed the operator and said very quietly, 'Operator... get me the local office of the F.B.I.'
Somebody said briskly, 'Federal Bureau of Investigation, Moffat speaking.'
'You better get down here, Moffat,' I said. I laid the phone down gently alongside the base and walked out.
They'd know. They were lads you never noticed in the crowd, but they were all eyes and ears and brains. They worked quietly and you never read about them in the papers, but they got things done and they'd know. Maybe they knew a lot more than I thought they'd know.
She was waiting for me at the bar. She was a lusty, beautiful woman with a mouth that made you hungry when she smiled at you as you came in. There was humor in her eyes, but the wonder and curiosity showed below in the little lines that radiated from the corners of her lips.
There was nothing in mine. I could feel them flat and dull in their sockets. I nudged my chin to the booths in the back and she followed me. We sat down and she waited for me to say something and all I could think of was the last time I had sat here it was with Velda and now time was getting short.
I took the cigarette she held out from the case, lit it and leaned on the table. 'How much do you love your brother, kid?' 'Mike... '
'I'm asking the questions.'
'He's my brother.'
'Partially.'
'That's doesn't matter.'
'He's mixed up in one of the dirtiest rackets you'll ever find. He has a part in it someplace and is paid off in the blood and terror you'll find wherever you find the Mafia operating. He's part of a chain of killers and thieves, yet you like what his money can buy. Your love doesn't stop anyplace, does it?'
She sat away from me as if I held a snake out at her.
'Stop, Mike, please stop!'
'You can stay on his side or mine, kid. The choice is up to you.'
The hysteria was caught in her chest. Her mouth wasn't pretty any more. One little sob got loose and that was all. 'Al Affia is dead. So far he's the latest. He isn't the last. Where do you stand?
It came out slowly. She fought it all the way and won it. 'With you, Mike.'
'I need some information. About Berga Tom.' She dropped her head and toyed with the ashtray. 'Your
