I just nodded.
"A very sensible man," he continued. "Too often those final preparations are hurried and a person's name is lost to posterity. Not so with Mr. Berin-Grotin."
"Mr. Berin," I corrected.
"Ah, you know him then."
"Somewhat. Do you think it would be O.K. if I looked at the place close up?"
"Oh, certainly." He opened the door. "Come, I'll take you there."
"I'd rather go alone. I may never have another chance to get back, and... well, you understand."
He was sympathetic at once. "Of course. You go right ahead. I'll walk back. I must see to certain plots at this end, anyway."
I waited until he was lost among the headstones, then lit a cigarette and walked up the path: The men were working on the far side of the scaffolding and never saw me come up. Or else they were used to sightseers. The place was bigger than it looked. Curved marble columns rose upwards for fifteen feet, overshadowing huge solid-bronze doors that were embellished with handcrafted Greek designs.
The lintel over the doors was a curved affair held in place with an engraved keystone. Cut in the granite was the three-feather emblem of the royal family, or a good bottle of American whisky. Each plume, the tall center one and the two outward-curving side plumes, was exact in detail until they could have passed for fossil impressions. There were words under it in Latin. Two of them were Berin-Grotin. Very simple, very dignified. The pride of a name; and the public could draw its own conclusions from the grandeur of the structure.
I started to walk around the side, then flattened against a recess in the wall. The greaseball was there, jawing out the workman for something or other. His voice had the same nasty tone that it had had the other night, only this time he had on a brown gabardine chauffeur's uniform instead of a sharp suit. One of the workmen told him to shut up and he threw a rock at the scaffolding.
Just on a hunch I reached in my pocket and took out the plastic comb, and slid it down the walk so that it stopped right by his feet. He didn't turn around for a minute, but when he did he kicked the comb and sent it skittering back in my direction. Instinctively, his hand went to his breast pocket, then he bent over and picked it up, wiped it on his hand and ran it through his hair, then returned it to his shirt.
I didn't need any more after that. The greaseball was the guy who'd made a mess out of the redhead's room.
He didn't see me until I said, "Hullo, Feeney."
Then his lips drew back over his teeth and his ears went flat against the side of his head. "You dirty son of a bitch," he snarled.
Both of us saw the same thing at the same time. No guns. Feeney must have liked it that way because the sneer turned into a sardonic smile and he dropped his hand casually into his pocket. Maybe he thought I was dumb or something. I was just as casual when I flicked open the buttons of my nice new jacket and slouched back against the wall.
"What do you want, shamus?"
"You, greaseball."
"You think I'm easy to take?"
"Sure."
He kept on grinning.
I said, "I went up to the redhead's room last night. What were you looking for, Feeney?"
I thought he'd shake apart, he got so mad. There was a crazy light going in his eyes. "There was a comb on the floor by the window. When you doubled over to get out it dropped out of your pocket. That comb you just picked up."
He yanked his hand out of his pocket and the partially opened blade of the knife caught on cloth and snapped into place. I had my jacket off one arm and flipped it into his face. For a second it blinded him and the thrust missed my belly by an inch. He jumped back, then came in at me again, but my luck was better. The knife snagged in the jacket and I yanked it out of his hand.
Feeney Last wasn't easy. He ripped out a curse and came into me with both fists before I could get the coat all the way off. I caught a stinger on the cheek and under the chin, then smashed a right into his face that sent him reeling back to bounce off one of the columns. I tore the sleeve half off the jacket shucking it, and rushed him. That time I was a damn fool. He braced against the pillar and lashed out with a kick that landed in my gut and turned me over twice. If I hadn't kept rolling, his heels would have broken my back. Feeney was too anxious; he tried it again. I grabbed his foot and he landed on the stone flooring with a sickening smash.
No more chances. I could hardly breathe, but I had enough strength left to get a wristlock and make him scream with pain. He lay like that, face down and yelling, while I knelt across his back and dragged his hand nearly to his neck. Little veins and tendons stretched in bas-relief under his skin, and the screams died to a choking for air.
"Who was she, Feeney?"
"I dunno!"
The arm went up another fraction. His face was bleeding from pressing it into the stone. "What were you after, Feeney? Who was she?"
"Honest to God... I dunno. God... stop!"
"I will... when you talk." A little more pressure on the arm again. Feeney started talking. I could barely hear him.
"She was a whore I knew from the Coast. I went up there and fell asleep. She stole something from me and I wanted it back."
"What?"
"Something I had on a guy. He was paying off and she stole it. Pictures of the guy and a broad in a hotel room."
"Who was the redhead?"
"I swear it, I dunno! I'd tell you, only I dunno. Oh, God, oh, God!"
For the second time Feeney fainted. I heard footsteps behind me and looked up to see the two workers standing there in coveralls. One had a newly smashed nose and a black eye and he was carrying a stonemason's hammer. I didn't like the way he held it.
"You in on this, chums?"
The guy with a black eye shook his head. "Just wanted to make sure he got it good. He's a wise guy... too quick to use his hands. Always wants to play boss. If we weren't getting plenty for this job we would have chucked it long ago." The other agreed, with a nod.
I stood up and pulled on what remained of my new suit, then picked Feeney up and hoisted him on my shoulder. Just across from my car was a newly opened grave with the canopy up and chairs all set, waiting for a new arrival. I leaned forward and Feeney Last dropped six feet to the bottom of the grave and never moved. I hoped they'd find him before they lowered the coffin, or somebody was going to get the hell scared out of him.
The gate-keeper came to the side of my car as I was pulling out to say a friendly word and be complimented on his handiwork. He took one look at me and froze there with his mouth open. I put the car in gear. "Mighty unfriendly corpses you have in this place," I said.
Chapter Three
I hit New York in the middle of a rainstorm and drove straight to my apartment to change my clothes and down a bottle of beer. As soon as I finished I grabbed a quick bite in a luncheonette and headed back towards the office. The rain was still coming down when I found a parking space two blocks away, so I hopped a cab to save my only remaining suit.
It was after five, but Velda was still there. So was Pat. He looked up with a grin and waved hullo. "What are you doing here?" I asked.
"Oh, just stopped by to give you some news. Velda makes good company. Too bad you don't appreciate her more."
"I do, but I don't have a chance to show it." She wrinkled her nose at me. "What news?"
"We found the guy that killed the redhead."
My heart started hammering against my ribs. "Who?"
"Some young kid. He was drunk, speeding, and beat out the red light. He remembered hitting somebody and knew he was in the wrong, whole hog, and kept on going. His father turned him in to us."