The Mike Hammer Collection

“Anytime, Mike.” He pulled out a card and scribbled down an address. “Here’s where she is. It’s a rooming house across town. She never goes anywhere so you can always find her home.”

I stuck the card in my pocket. “How about now? You free?”

“Like a bird, man.”

Annette Lee had a front room downstairs in one of the countless brownstones along the street. Her pension money kept her adequately, her cat kept her company, and whatever went on outside her window was enough to keep her busy. She was a small woman, shrunken with age, but in the straight-back rocker, with tiny feet pushing against the floor with tireless rhythm to keep her in motion, she had a funny pixyish quality that was reflected in her faded gray eyes.

There was no telling her accurate age, but it had crept up on her so that her talk wandered into peculiar directions and it was difficult to keep her on one track. But she remembered Sally Devon well. They had been good friends and it was Sally who had taken her in when she was sick and needed an operation, and Sally who cared for her and paid her expenses, so that when Sally needed her, she was glad to go.

She eyed us sharply when I questioned her about Sally’s background, but until she was aware that I knew about her past, was reluctant to talk about it. It was Sally’s earnings in the seamier side of life that paid her expenses and she was grateful. Little by little she gave it to us. Sally had left show business to take up with men, had gotten involved with the wrong ones and found herself in trouble.

Yes, she knew Sim Torrence, and although she didn’t like him, thought he had done well by Sally. He had taken her in when she needed help, and if it hadn’t been for Sally’s drinking the marriage might have been successful. What she thought was that Sally’s guilt complex for bringing a tarnished background into Sim Torrence’s life drove her to alcoholism.

She remembered the night Sally died, too. Outside in the cold. Drunk. It was a shame. She couldn’t revive her. I asked her directly if she thought Sim Torrence had anything to do with Sally’s death.

Annette Lee gave me a shriveling glance. “Don’t be silly,” she said.

“Just clearing up a point,” I told her.

“Then what’s this all about, young man?”

“Sue thinks so.”

“Sally’s little baby?”

“That’s right.”

“Rubbish. She was only a mite.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But she’s pretty insistent about it. One minute she has the idea Torrence was responsible, the next she says it was a snake.”

Annette’s face pulled into a tight expression and for a moment her eyes were less faded-looking. “Snake? Sally used to talk about that. When she was drunk. She kept mentioning the snake. Funny you should bring it up. Never thought it would make an impression on a child. Yes, she used to talk about the snake all right. But no snake killed her. She died right there in the front yard, right in my arms. Like to froze, the poor thing did, all drunk up and sick. Maybe it was for the best though.”

She sat back in the rocker and closed her eyes. Too much talking was wearing her down. I motioned to Joey and we got up. “Well,” I said, “thanks for the talk. Maybe I’ll come back again sometime.”

“Please do.”

We walked to the door as the rhythm of her rocking slowed down. Just as I was about to leave it picked up again and she said, “Young man . . .”

“Ma’am?”

“They ever catch him?”

“Who’s that?”

“The one who ran off with all that money. A whole lot of money. Sally’s old boyfriend.”

I called Joey back in and shut the door. “A lot of money?”

“Indeed. Three million dollars. Conley, I think his name was. Blackie Conley. He was a mean one. He was the meanest of them all. They ever catch him?”

“No, they never did.”

With her eyes still closed she shook her head. “Never thought they would. He was a thinker. Even heard where he was going after they stole it.”

“Where, Miss Lee?” I asked softly.

She didn’t answer. She was asleep.

“Damn,” I said.

The picture was suddenly getting a sharp outline.

I dropped Joey at his AGVA office and went back to my own where Velda was waiting. She had compiled a report on Del Penner for me and from what it looked like he was in solidly now, a natural inheritor of Kid Hand’s old territory. It was a step up and he was ready for it, taking advantage of an occupational hazard. Nothing was solidified yet, but he was there and holding on.

When I finished it I got Pat on the phone, asked him if he could pull a package on Blackie Conley from the file, then told Velda to run over and pick it up. When she left I sat back in my chair and swung around so I could stare out the window at the concrete escarpment that was New York.

It was getting dark out and a mist was closing in. Another hour and it would be raining again. The multicolor neons of the city were bursting against the gray overcast like summer heat lightning and someplace across town a siren wailed. Another followed it.