There was a driveway beside the old brownstone structure that curved into a parking space in back. I pulled half-way in and handed the keys over to a bellboy old enough to be my father. As I walked to the door I heard him grind it into gear, then jerk out of sight. I waited to hear him hit something else, but apparently he made it.
The Sunic House was a well-kept relic of yesteryear, reserved for gentlemen guests only. The hushed atmosphere wasn't due to the late hour: it probably was that way all day. The lobby was done in plush, gilt and leather. From the ceiling ancient gas fixtures had been converted to electric whose yellow bulbs did little to brighten the mortuary effect of the mahogany-panelled walls. The pictures spotted around the place showed the city of long ago when it was at peace with itself, and the Sunic House was a name to hold honor among the best.
I asked the desk-clerk if Mr. Berin was in.
He nodded slowly and knit his eyebrows. "I'm certain Mr. Berin does not care to be disturbed, sir. He has been coming here these many years and I know his preferences well."
"This is a very unusual circumstance, pop. Give him a call, will you?"
"I'm afraid that... really, now, sir. I don't think it proper to..."
"If I suddenly stuck my fingers between my teeth and whistled like hell, then ran up and down the room yelling at the top of my lungs, what would you do?"
His eyebrows ran up to where his hairline used to be. He craned his head to the wall where an old guy was nodding in a chair. "I'd be forced to call the house detective, sir!"
I gave him a great big grin and stuck my fingers between my teeth. With the other hand I pointed to the phone and waited. The clerk got pale, flushed, went white again as he tried to cope with the situation. Evidently, he figured one upset customer would be better than a dozen and picked up the house phone.
He tugged the call bell while watching me nervously, jiggled it again and again until a voice barked hard enough in his ear to make him squirm. "I beg your pardon, sir, but a man insists he should see you. He... he said it was very urgent."
The phone barked again and the clerk swallowed hard. "Tell him it's Mike Hammer," I said.
It wasn't so easy to get it in over the tirade my client was handing out. At last he said bleakly, "It's a Mr. Hammer, sir... a Mr. Hammer. Yes, sir,. Mike Hammer. Yes, he's right here, sir. Very well, sir. I'll send him right up."
With a handkerchief the clerk wiped his face and gave me his look reserved for the most inferior of persons. "Room 406," he said. I waved my thanks and climbed the stairs, ignoring the elevator that stood in the middle of the room, working through a well in the overhead.
Mr. Berin had the door open waiting for me. I pushed it in and closed it behind me, expecting to find myself in just another room. I was wrong, dead wrong. Whatever the Sunic House looked like on the outside, its appearance was deceiving. Here was a complete suite of rooms, and as far as I could see executed with the finest taste possible.
A moment later my client appeared, dressed in a silken smoking jacket, his hair brushed into a snow-white mane, looking for all the world like a man who had planned to receive a guest rather than be awakened out of a sound sleep by an obnoxious employee.
His hand met mine in a firm clasp. "It's good to see you, Mike, very good. Come inside where we can talk."
"Thanks." He led me past the livingroom, that centered around a grand piano, into a small study that faced on the street, a room banked with shelves of books, mounted heads of animals and fish, and rows of framed pictures showing himself in his younger days. "Some place you have here, Mr. Berin."
"Yes, I've used it for years as you can see. It's my city residence with all the benefits of a hotel. Here, sit down." He offered me an overstuffed leather chair and I sank into it, feeling the outlines of another person who had made his impression through constant use.
"Cigar?"
"No, thanks." I took out my deck of Luckies and flipped one into my mouth. "Sorry I had to drag you out of bed like this."
"Not at all, Mike. I must admit that I was rather surprised. That all comes of having fixed habits for so many years, I presume. I gathered you had a good reason for wanting to see me."
I breathed out a cloud of smoke. "Nope, I just wanted to talk to somebody. I have five hundred bucks of yours and that's my excuse for picking you as that somebody."
"Five hundred..." he began, "you mean that money I sent to your bank to cover that, ah, expense?"
"That's right. I don't need it now."
"But you thought it would be worth spending to secure the information. Did you change your mind?"
"No, the girl didn't live to cash it, that's all." His face showed bewilderment, then amazement. "I was tailed. Like a jerk I didn't think of it and was tailed. Whoever was behind me killed the girl and fixed it to look like suicide. It didn't work. While I was out the same party went through my room and copped some of the stuff."
"You know... ?" his voice choked off.
"Feeney Last. Your ex-hired hand, Mr. Berin."
"Good Lord, no!"
"Yes."
His fingers were entwined in his lap and they tightened until the knuckles went white. "What have I done, what have I done?" He sat there with his eyes closed, looking old and shrunken for the first time.
"You didn't do a thing. It would have happened anyway. What you did do was stop the same thing from happening again."
"Thank you, Mike."
I stood up and laid my hand on his shoulder. "Look, come off it. You don't have anything to feel bad about. If you feel anything, feel good. You know what's been going on in town all day and night?"
"Yes, I--I've heard."
"That's what your money bought, a sense of decency to this place. It's what the town has needed for a long time. You hired me to find a name for the redhead. We found a package of dirt instead, all because a girl lies in the morgue unidentified. I didn't want her buried without a name, neither did you. Neither of us expected what would come, and it isn't over yet by a long shot. One day the sun is going to shine again and when it does it will be over a city that can hold its head up."
"But the redheaded girl still doesn't have a name, does she?" He glanced at me wryly, his eyes weary.
"No. Maybe she will have soon. Mind if I use your phone?"
"Not at all. It's outside in the livingroom. I'll mix a drink in the meantime. I believe I can use one. I'm not used to distressing news, Mike."
There was sadness in his carriage that I hated to see. The old boy was going to take a lot of cheering up. I found the phone and dialed Velda's number at home. She took a long time answering and was mad as hell. "It's me, Velda. Anything doing at the office?"
"Gee whiz, Mike, you call at the most awful hours. I waited in the office all evening for you to call. That girl, Lola, was it?... sent up an envelope by special messenger. There was a pawn ticket in it and nothing else."
"A pawn ticket?" My voice hit a high note. "She's found it then, Velda! Hot damn, she's found it! What did you do with it?"
"I left it there," she said, "on top of my desk."
"Damn, that's wonderful. Look, kid, I left my office keys home. Meet me there in an hour... make it an hour and a half. I want a drink first to celebrate the occasion. I'll call Pat from there and we can go on together. This is it, Velda, see you in a jiffy!"
I slapped my hand over the bar, holding it a moment before I spun out Lola's number on the dial. Her voice came on before the phone finished ringing. She was breathless with excitement. "Mike, baby!... Oh, Mike, where are you? Did you get my envelope?"
"I just called Velda, and she has it at the office. I'm going up to get it in a little while. Where did you find it?"
"In a little place just off the Bowery. It was hanging in the window like you said it might be."