Murderers' Row by Donald Hamilton Page A

look after her.”
    â€œAnd you’ve elected yourself to the job?”
    He cleared his throat, a little self-consciously. “Well, yes. After the way she insisted on waiting to speak with you outside the police station, it was obvious she had something crazy in mind. I—” He stopped and squared his shoulders. “I don’t intend to let her ruin her life by becoming involved with a racketeer and strong-arm man, Mr. Petroni. She’s just a crazy kid; she doesn’t mean everything she says. I think she likes to pretend. Stay away from her, Petroni.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Stay away from her. Sure.”
    I hit him. I gave it to him hard and low, without warning, and he went to the ground, hugging himself where it hurt; and somebody was coming at me from behind. I whirled, ready, but it was only Teddy Michaelis in her blue pajamas. She made her way up to us cautiously, still barefooted, and looked down. Orcutt pushed himself to hands and knees, retching painfully.
    â€œWhat did you do that for?” Teddy asked me. There was no reproach in her voice, only curiosity.
    â€œI felt like it,” I said. I didn’t say I’d hit him because I’d come damn close to killing him. She wouldn’t have understood. I wasn’t sure I understood myself.
    She giggled. “He looks awfully silly, doesn’t he? Poor boy. I heard what he said. I think it’s kind of cute, his wanting to protect me, don’t you?”
    â€œYeah, cute,” I said. “When he catches his breath, clean him up and send him home. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night.”
    As I drove away, I kept hearing Mac’s voice in my head: I have seen it happen before in men whose occupation allows them to kill and get away with it. I’d laughed at the time, but now I had to face the fact that twice in one night I’d almost killed a man, quite casually, without even making sure of his identity first. After a while, Mac had said, their judgment becomes impaired, since human life has ceased to have much value for them.
    I’d almost killed two men, and I had killed a woman. At least Jean had died, and I was no longer so sure that my hand hadn’t slipped, a little. Maybe I’d even wanted it to slip, as Mac had said, subconsciously...
    I found a hotel, got a room, and sent the bellboy away with a tip. I opened the suitcase he’d placed on the stand at the foot of the bed and grimaced at the gaudy Petroni apparel inside. I found a silver flask and started towards the bathroom for a glass and said to hell with it. Drinking when I felt lousy had never made me feel any better. I screwed the cap back onto the flask and dropped the flask back into the suitcase. The telephone rang. I picked it up.
    â€œIs this Mr. Peterson?” a female voice asked. “Is this Mr. Peterson, from Chicago?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “I’m from Chicago, but the name is Peters, ma’am. James A. Peters.”
    â€œOh, dear,” the voice said. “I’m terribly sorry. I do hope I didn’t wake you, or anything.”
    â€œIt’s perfectly all right, ma’am,” I said.
    I put the instrument back in its cradle. It was code, of course. There were half a dozen names she might have asked for. Peterson meant I was supposed to hunt up a clear phone and call Washington. I didn’t ask myself how Mac had known where to reach me. After all, I’d told him I had a date with the Michaelis kid, whose temporary residence was known; and I hadn’t made it very hard for anybody who wanted to tail me from there. The only question was, should I call and learn where I stood, or should I be proud and independent.
    I didn’t feel very proud and independent. I went down into the lobby and used one of the pay phones.
    â€œEric here,” I said, when I heard the familiar voice on the line.
    Mac said, “Yellow Cadillac two-door, male