The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 2 by Mickey Spillane Page B

now?” Pat queried.
    “I don’t know. It stinks.”
    “You’re teed off because you were done out of a kill.”
    “Aw, shaddup, will you!”
    “Then what’s so lousy about it?”
    “How the hell do I know? Can’t I not like something without having to explain about it?”
    “Not with me you can‘t, pal. I stuck my neck out when I invited you in.”
    I sucked in on the cigarette. It was cold standing there and I turned my collar up. “Get a complete identification on that corpse, Pat. Then maybe I can tell you why I think it stinks.”
    “Don’t worry, I intend to. I’m not taking any chances of having him laughing at us from somewhere. It would be like the crazy bastard to push someone else under that train to sidetrack us.”
    “Would he have time to jam that stuff in his pockets too?” I flipped my thumb at the papers Pat was holding.
    “He could have. Just the same, we’ll be sure. Lee has both their birth certificates and a medical certificate on Oscar that has his full description. It won’t take long to find out if that’s him or not.”
    “Let me know what you find.”
    “I’ll call you tomorrow. I wish I knew how the devil he spotted us. I nearly killed myself in that damn alley. I thought I heard somebody yelling for you, too.”
    “Couldn’t have been.”
    “Guess not. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
    “Uh-huh.” I took a last pull on the butt and tossed it at the curb. Pat went back into the station and I could hear his heels clicking on the steps.
    The street was more deserted now than ever. All that was left was the one yellow light. It seemed to wink at me. I walked toward it and went up the three steps into the building. The door was still standing open, enough light from the front room seeping into the hall so I could find my way.
    It wasn’t much of a place, just a room. There was a chair, a closet, a single bed and a washstand. The suitcase on the bed was half filled with well-worn clothes, but I couldn’t tell whether it was being packed or unpacked. I poked through the stuff and found another dollar bill stuffed in the cloth lining. Twenty pages of a mail-order catalog were under everything. Part of them showed sporting goods including all sorts of guns. The others pictured automobile accessories. Which part was used? Did he buy a gun or a tire? Why? Where?
    I pulled out the shirts and shook them open, looking for any identifying marks. One had DEA for a laundry tag next to the label, the others had nothing so he must have done his own wash.
    That was all there was to it.
    Nothing.
    I could breathe a little easier and tell Marty Kooperman that his boy was okay and nothing could hurt him now. Pat would be satisfied, the cops would be satisfied and everything was hunky-dory I was the only one who still had a bug up my tail. It was a great big bug and it was kicking up a fuss. I was a hell of a way from being satisfied.
    This wasn’t what I was after, that’s why. This didn’t have to do with three green cards except that the dead man had killed a guy who carried one. What was his name ... Moffit, Charlie Moffit. Was he dead because of a fluke or was there more to it?
    I kicked at the edge of the bed in disgust and took one last look around. Pat would be here next. He’d find prints and check them against the corpse in his usual methodical way. If there was anything to be found, he’d find it and I could get it from him.
    It had only been a few hours since I climbed out of the sack, but for some reason I was more tired than ever. Too much of a letdown, I guessed. You can’t prime yourself for something to happen and feel right when it doesn’t come off. The skin of my face felt tight and drawn, pulling away from my eyes. My back still crawled when I thought of the alley and that thing under the train.
    I went into a shabby drugstore and called Velda’s home. She wasn’t there. I tried the office and she was. I told her to meet me in the bar downstairs and walked