Words didn't want to form in my mouth. I waited until my breathing was right again and I could think. "How did you know, Dan?" There was an edge on my voice.
He didn't wipe the grin off at all. "Hell, man, this is my racket, too. Nobody in our business would ever have pulled the things off they said you did. Not unless they were crazy. But now you're out and you can answer me one thing you ought to know."
"What?"
"Who did it and why?"
"Rhino, buddy. I found his protection wasn't the long green to the right people, but information he collected on them that could lay them out. I let it be known I was going after the same information and make it public and was doing pretty well when the boom came down. They sacrificed the first guy I was after, probably for a bundle paying for his chagrin of exposure, then they worked it airtight against me."
"Rough."
"That lousy sheet could have stood behind me."
"You had them on a spot."
"Nuts. They'd been on other spots before. That stinking publisher Gates . . ."
"Don't talk ill of the dead."
It was my turn to be surprised. "When?"
Dan shrugged. "A year ago. He was an editor over at Best and Hines. His heart gave out. He never did recover from losing the paper. Anyway, we're back to the first question. Why all the reminiscing?"
I looked at him across the table. "I don't think Rhino Massley is dead, friend."
He didn't say anything. He waved the waiter over, handed him my check and a buck for his back-room bill, waited until I got the change and nodded me out. We walked down the street to his office, went through the lobby to the elevators and he called off a floor.
Except for several offices and the photo lab on the north side, the picture morgue with its aisle after aisle of files took up the entire area. Dan checked at a cross-file cabinet and from a big drawer brought out what he was looking for and handed it to me.
It was a four-by-four positive of Rhino Massley stretched out in a coffin ringed with bank after bank of flowers. To erase all doubt Dan handed me an eight-by-ten blowup so I could see the dead bastard in all his final glory.
When I handed it back he said, "Enough? I can get some clips from the file if you want."
I shook my head. "Don't bother."
"Why?"
"Danny boy, I'm only just starting and you don't get the short stop blues at the beginning, y'know? Photos can be faked. Rhino could have laid real still in a box for a dead shot and from here you couldn't tell the difference. Who took 'em, Dan?"
He glanced at the back of the smaller one. "Gifford," he said.
"Unimpeachable."
He rode me downstairs and walked to the street. This time I did take a cab. I got out at the corner of the block and picked up some cold cuts at the delicatessen and started toward the house. I started to say hello to Mr. Crosetti, my neighbor, then stopped and gave him my package to hold for a minute and felt my teeth all showing in a crazy kind of grin, because across the street holding down a post where they were still looking for Terry were the two hoods who had worked me over that morning.
I held my head down and the first guy didn't even bother to give me a glance. I timed the step and the swing just right and slammed my fist into his stomach just over his belt line and the immediate spasmodic folding of his body sprayed puke over everything, and when he hit the sidewalk his mouth was a wide-open hole in a frantic, twisted face.
His partner went for his gun instead of jumping me, and that was his mistake. My foot caught him in the crotch and he tried to scream and claw at his genitals and yell for help and beg for mercy all at the same time.
But I'm lousy. Real lousy. This sportsmanship crap is for TV heroes. I like it the lousy way where the hoods don't get the wrong idea about you and about coming back to get you and that kind of stuff. I kicked each one's face into a terrible bloody mess, then went back across the street, and thanked Mr. Crosetti for holding my groceries. He didn't look like he was going to be able to hold his.
I knocked four times twice and she opened the door. I stepped in quickly, closing the door with my foot, feeling suddenly breathless because she was still wet, but this time from the shower and the water droplets were like little jewels sparkling all around her, the midnight of her hair longer now, out of its soft wave and sucked tightly against her skin. The towel she held around her was too brief. Beautifully too brief. She was wider in the shoulders than I thought. Lovely round dancer's legs were a song of motion when she stepped away.
She smiled and I smiled back, then the bottom fell out of the grocery bag and when everything began to tumble she reached out instinctively and then the towel went too.
I shook my head so she'd know the groceries wouldn't matter at all and I watched while she picked up the towel, smiled once more, and walked back to the shower.
At 8 that night I got a sweater and skirt combination from Jeannie McDonald upstairs and Terry got dressed. Jeannie passed on the information that the two hoods had been picked up that afternoon by a new Buick sedan occupied by another pair of hard guys and as yet there were no repercussions.
Terry had 300 bucks in her bag and we used part of it to sign her into the Enfield Hotel just off Seventh in the Times Square area. She used the name of Ann Spencer and paid a week in advance in lieu of luggage. Luckily, she had her hotel key with her so I took it to get some of her stuff out of the Sherman. There was no doubt about her movements having been spotted and most likely the hotel was staked out, but it wasn't likely that there would be anybody on the floor.
I was right. I packed one large bag with the things she asked for and brought along the smaller overnighter.
When I got back to the Enfield, I had her call the Sherman to ask if there were any messages for Terry Massley or Ann Lowry. The clerk said there weren't.
She put the phone down, concern deep on her face. I said, "Don't worry, he'll get in touch."
"I'm sure he will." She spun around and strode to the window.
That she sensed something was evident. She walked over and sat down opposite me. "You know my father, don't you?"
I tried to keep my face blank. "If he's the same Massley I knew once, then I do."
"What do you know about him?"
"You won't like it if I tell you."
"Perhaps not, but I'll listen."
"All right. The Massley I knew was a hood," I said. "He was the East Coast wheel for the syndicate and quite possibly head man there. He was a thief and a killer with two early falls against him, one in Chicago and one in San Francisco. A check on the back issues of any paper can verify this and, if you like, I'll be glad to supply the datelines."
She knew I wasn't lying. She said simply. "Never mind. It couldn't be the same one."
I gave her back the possibility. I said, "The Massley I knew is supposed to be dead. I've even seen pictures of him in his coffin."
"This Massley you knew," she asked, "what was his full name?"
"John Lacy Massley. He was known as Rhino."
The frown between her eyes smoothed and a smile touched her mouth. "My father was Jean Stuart Massley. So they aren't the same after all." Then the obvious finally got through to her and her hands squeezed together again. "Somebody thinks my father . . . is the . . . one you mentioned."
"Perhaps."
She held the side of her hand against her mouth and bit into her finger.
I said, "What personal effects did your mother have that might be important?"
She shook her head vacantly. "Nothing. Her marriage license, divorce papers, insurance, and bank books."
"Letters?"
