Sometimes the city is worse than the jungle. You can get lost in it with a million people within arm's length. I was glad of it now. A guy could roam the streets for a week without being recognized if he were careful not to do anything to attract attention. A cab went by and I whistled it, waited while it braked to a stop and backed up, then got in. After I told the driver where to go, I settled back against the cushions and did exercises to loosen up my neck.
I missed the redhead's ring. I was doing good while I had it. Nancy, a mother... a blackmailer? A girl down on her luck. A good kid. I could never forget the way she looked at me when I gave her the dough. I'd never forget it, because I told her that kind of stuff was murder.
I didn't know how right I was.
She must have had fun shopping for those clothes, being waited on, seeing herself in the mirror as a lady again. What had happened to her attitude, her personal philosophy after that? She was happy, I knew that. Her letter was bubbling over with happiness. What was it that meant so much to her?... and did I help change her mind about it?
Nancy with the grace of a lady, the veneer of a tramp. A girl who should have been soft and warm, staying home nights to cook supper for some guy, was being terrorized by a gunslinging punk. A lousy greaseball. A girl who had no defense except running, forced to sell herself to keep alive. I did her a favor and her eyes lit up like candles at an altar. We were buddies, damn good buddies for a little while.
The driver said, "Here you are, mister."
I passed a bill through the window and got out, my eyes looking up and down the street until I spotted a familiar blue uniform. I was going to have to do it the quickest way possible. The cop was walking towards me and I stared into a drugstore window until he went by, and when he had a half-block lead I followed him at a leisurely pace.
A lot of people like to run down the cops. They begin to think of them as human traffic lights, or two faces in a patrol car cruising down the street hoping some citizen will start some trouble. They forget that a cop has eyes and ears and can think. They forget that sometimes a cop on a beat likes it that way. The street is his. He knows everyone on it. He knows who and what they are and where they spend their time. He doesn't want to get pulled off it even for a promotion, because then he loses his friends and becomes chained to a desk or an impersonal case. The cop I was following looked like that kind. He was big from the ground up, and almost as big around. There was a purpose in his stride and pride in his carriage, and several times I saw him nod to women sitting in doorways and fake a pass at fresh brats that yelled out something nasty about coppers. Some day those same kids would be screaming for him to hurry up and get to where the trouble was.
When the cop called in at a police phone I picked up on him. He turned into a lunchroom, climbed on a stool and I was right beside him. He took off his coat and hat, ordered corn beef and cabbage and I took the same. The plates came and we both ate silently. Half-way through, the two guys next to me paid up and left, which was the chance I waited for.
One had left a tabloid on the stool and I propped it up in front of me, using it as a shield while I took my badge and identification card from my pocket. I only had to nudge the cop once and he looked over, saw the stuff I palmed and frowned.
"Mike Hammer, private cop." I kept my voice low, chewing as I spoke. "Don't watch me."
The cop frowned again and went back to his lunch. "Pat Chambers will vouch for me. I'm working with him on a case." This time the frown deepened and lines of disbelief touched his cheeks.
"I have to find Cobbie Bennett," I said. "Right away. Do you know where he is?"
He took another mouthful of corn beef and threw a dime on the counter. The chef came over and he asked for change. When he had two nickels he got up, still chewing, and walked over to a phone booth up front and shut the door.
About a minute later he was back and working on the corn beef again. He shoved the plate away, drew his coffee to him and seemed to notice me for the first time.
"Done with the paper, feller?"
"Yeah." I handed it to him. He took a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from his pocket and worked them on, holding the paper open to the baseball scores. His lips worked as if he were reading, only he said, "I think Cobbie's hiding out in a rooming house one block west. Brownstone affair with a new stoop. He looks scared."
The counterman came over and took the plates away. I ordered pie and more coffee, ate it slowly, then paid up and left. The cop was still there reading the paper; he never glanced up once and he probably wouldn't for another ten minutes.
I found the stoop first, then the house. Cobbie Bennett found me. He peered out of a second-story window just as I turned up the stairs and for a split second I had a look at a pale, white face that had terror etched deep into the skin.
The door was open and I walked into the hallway. Cobbie called to me from the head of the stairs. "Here, up here, Mike." This time I watched where I was going. There were too many nice places for a guy to hide with a baseball bat in those damn hallways. Before I reached the landing Cobbie had me by the lapels of my coat and was dragging me into a room.
"Christ, Mike, how'd ya find me? I never told nobody where I was! Who said I was here?"
I shoved him away. "You're not hard to find, Cobbie. Nobody is when they're wanted badly enough."
"Don't say that, Mike, will ya? Christ, it's bad enough having you find me. Suppose..."
"Stop jabbering like an idiot. You wanted me, so I'm here."
He shoved a bolt in the door and paced across the room, running his fingers through his hair and down his face. He couldn't stand still and the fact that I parked myself in the only chair in the place and seemed completely at ease made him jumpier still.
"They're after me, Mike. I just got away in time."
"Who's they?"
"Look, ya gotta help me out. Jeez, you got me inta this, now ya gotta help me out. They're after me, see? I can't stick around. I gotta get outa town." He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and tried to light it. He made it with the fourth match.
"Who's they?" I asked again.
Cobbie licked his lips. His shoulder had a nervous twitch and he kept turning his head towards the door as if he were listening for something. "Mike, somebody saw you with me that night. They passed the word and the heat's on. I-I gotta blow."
I just sat there and watched him. He took a drag on the cigarette before he threw it on the worn-out carpet and ground it in with his heel. "Damn it, Mike, don't just sit there. Say something!"
"Who's they?"
For the first time it sank in. He got white around the corners of his mouth. "I dunno, I dunno. It's somebody big. Something's popping in this town and I don't know what it is. All I know is the heat's on me because I got seen messing around with you. What'll I do, Mike? I can't stay here. You don't know them guys. When they're out to get ya they don't miss!"
I stood up and stretched, trying to look bored. "I can't tell you a damn thing, Cobbie, not unless you sound off first. If you don't want to speak, then the hell with you. Let 'em get you."
He grabbed my sleeve and hung on for dear life. "No, Mike, don't... I'd tell you what I know only I don't know nothing. I just got the sign, then I heard some things. It was about that redhead. Because of you I'm getting the works. I saw some big boys down the street last night. They wasn't locals. They was here before when there was some trouble, and a couple guys disappeared. I know why they're there... they're after me... and you maybe."
He was doing better now. "Go on, Cobbie."
"Th' racket's organized, see? We pay for protection and we pay plenty. I don't know where it goes, but as long as we pay there's no trouble. As long as we make like clams there's still no trouble. But, damn it, you came around and somebody saw me shooting my mouth off, now there's plenty of trouble again and it's all for me."