Jerry the doorman was okay, telling the cops how the guy they found dressed in his uniform had approached him about a supposed tenant, asked him to verify an address on a letter, and then coldcocked him while his attention was diverted.
Velda and I hadn't been in the office long enough for me to make it into my inner sanctum, from sharing coffee and Danish at her desk in the outer one, when our visitors arrived.
One was the kind who could drop by unannounced anytime, no problem—Pat Chambers, his eyes puffy from a long rough night that I guessed was not courtesy of a certain wealthy ex-ecdysiast. His suit was the one I'd seen him in at the restaurant and it looked almost as rumpled as he did.
But he wasn't even the first through our door. That honor was reserved for the ambitious young assistant D.A. whose suit was almost as sharp as his eyes. Vance Traynor, with his lanky frame and insincere smile, still struck me as a guy who might go far in politics.
Not a compliment.
"I'm sorry to just drop by, Mr. Hammer," he said.
"Phones out over at City Hall?" I asked good-naturedly, wiping some Danish off my mouth with a paper napkin.
"No, I just took a chance."
"I've taken a few of those. Velda, get our guests some coffee, would you? Captain Chambers, always a pleasure."
Standing behind Traynor, Pat gave me a look that was half apologetic and half annoyed. Pissed off at me as he might be, he did not take kindly to carrying anybody's water, especially a slick young political rung-climber like Traynor.
Soon I was behind my desk, and Velda had served our guests coffee in plastic cups, and refilled mine. I asked her to join us and take notes on the conversation.
"That's not necessary," Traynor said, opposite me in a client's chair, Pat next to him in the other one.
"This is my office," I said. "Not yours. I'd like to have a record of what's said."
"That's a fairly extreme reaction, when you don't even know why I'm here."
I grinned at him. "There were two men killed in the lobby of my apartment house last night. I read the newspapers. I sometimes even listen to TV and radio."
Pat, looking embarrassed, said, "Mike, if it had been up to me—"
"Anyway, I'd say," I cut in, "having an assistant district attorney and the captain of Homicide drop in on you, first thing in the morning, also qualifies as 'fairly extreme.' Velda?"
She went out for her stenog pad and came back in and got settled. She was in a white blouse and black skirt and black pumps and yet still looked like a damn pinup girl. But she sat with her knees together, not crossing her distracting legs. Always thinking of the boss, my Velda.
"At this point," Traynor said, in a voice so smooth you could bead water off it, "I'm not looking for a formal statement. Captain Chambers suggested we just have a friendly talk, and determine whether any further steps are needed."
"And I assume Captain Chambers has told you," I said, "that he and I and Miss Sterling, my secretary, had dinner together at Finero's Steakhouse. The captain's date was a young lady named DiVay, and I'm sure he's given you information on how to contact her."
Pat shifted in his chair. "Actually, I didn't get her contact information. I thought you or Velda might be able to help with that."
I glanced at Velda. Her expression said what I was thinking: Poor dumb schmuck.
Velda told Traynor she'd get the phone number and address for him before he left, and I told my story of how my secretary and I had left Pat and Helen at the restaurant, and had walked home, and then never left her apartment.
Traynor listened quietly but his expression was rather glazed. Pat had no doubt told him exactly what to expect out of me.
Then the assistant D.A. folded his arms and smiled on one side of his face and said, "And here we are again, Mr. Hammer."
"Where would that be, Mr. Traynor?"
"At that improbable place where you expect me to accept a wild coincidence. It's been only a few days since you expected me to accept the last one."
"What coincidence are we talking about this morning?"
"That two men were murdered in the lobby of your apartment house, and you were conveniently away at the time. One of the men was battered in a manner so brutal as to suggest an assailant of considerable strength, and with a reckless disregard for human life."
"Was I seen there?"
"...No."
"Any witnesses place me there?"
"...No."
I grinned again and leaned back in the swivel chair. "Not wishing to embarrass my secretary, Mr. Traynor, I invite you to steal a glance at her and determine whether it's far-fetched that I would rather spend time at her place than mine."
She was smiling just a little as the assistant D.A. couldn't help himself but to steal that glance.
Then I said, "And I don't have the statistics—you'd have to check with Captain Chambers about that—but my guess is there were a whole lot of murders in New York City last night, and the night before that, and before that. This is that concrete jungle you hear so much about. And I am not necessarily involved with any of those homicides."
"You aren't necessarily not involved, either."
"No. But unless you have evidence or witnesses or a motive—little details like that—I need to remind you that I am not on the city's payroll. I have a business to run. And if you don't have any other questions, I would respectfully ask you not to let the door hit you on the ass on the way out."
Pat hadn't said anything during my indignant denial of the innuendos, but I knew he'd be out checking taxicab trip sheets and my route home the minute he left, and if he reached that newspaper stand, my tail would be in a sling.
Give Traynor credit. He merely smiled, shrugged, and said, "Point taken."
He rose and turned to the Homicide captain.
Pat said, "I'll hang behind, sir. If you don't mind. I can find my way back."
Traynor gave Pat a nod, too, and went out. Velda followed to get that DiVay info for him, and Pat got up, went over, and shut the door behind them. He took the client chair where Traynor had been sitting.
"Where do you get your luck?" he asked.
"Same place as my nerve."
He shook his head. I offered him a cigarette and he took it. We both fired up and he sat there and laughed. I didn't know what was so funny.
Finally, he told me: "Somebody saw you last night, Mike."
I felt the back of my neck prickle.
"Somebody saw you when you went in Velda's place after walking her home."
So Lady Luck did love me.
He filled me in. Across the street from Velda's building, a plain-clothes cop on a stakeout on an unrelated matter was sitting in a parked car, and spotted us going in ... and swore he never saw me leave. He had been surveilling the area the past eight hours.
Pat and I both knew that if the flatfoot had fallen asleep, he obviously wouldn't say so; and if he had missed me, because his attention was elsewhere, whether on a sandwich or a girlie mag, he couldn't even know he had. He could only present himself as the ever-vigilant watchman of the NYPD, and along the way provide me with one lucky alibi.
Move over, Sky Masterson and Nathan Detroit.
"Then what the hell," I said, "was Traynor dropping in about?"
"He wanted to see if you'd spill something before you knew you were covered by a cop, no less."
I laughed and, to his credit, so did Pat.
Also to his credit, Pat didn't bother to ask whether I had or hadn't taken that lobby pair out of the action. He could see it was my style, but what he didn't know couldn't hurt me.
"Give me one reason," he said, heaving a smoky sigh, "why I should share police information with you?"
I hadn't asked for any, but I said, "Because I saved your life a couple times?"