"Now I'm beginning to wonder about that too," Mitch growled.
"So's Pat, but he's seen other suicides go out in their scantier. Seems to be a common practice."
"Yeah, I know. She could have had a coat on before she hit the river. Nobody would have noticed her then. If she dropped it any one of that crowd along the docks would have picked it up and hocked it for a drink without thinking about it."
"What'll I tell Pat?"
"I'll play along for a week. Meanwhile, I'll still try to get an angle on those gowns." He looked across his glass at me. "Now what about you, Mike? You've always made interesting copy. Where do you stand?"
"Out of it. I'm a working stiff."
"You're not even curious?"
"Sure," I grinned, "but I'll read about it in The News."
After lunch I walked to Broadway with Mitch, turned north and headed back to the office. The morning damp had turned into a drizzle that slicked the streets and turned the sidewalks into a booby trap of umbrella ribs. The papers on the newsstands were still carrying front-page stories of the death of the redhead and the afternoon edition of one had a nice picture of me alongside the body shot of the corpse and one of the kid. I bought three different papers, stuffed them in my raincoat pocket and turned in at the Hackard Building.
Velda had left a note saying she was going to do some shopping and would be back later. Meanwhile, I was to call the Krauss-Tillman office. I dialed Walt Hanley at K-T, got his instructions on another job, hung up and added a postscript to Velda's note saying that I'd be out of the city for a few days and to cancel our supper date.
She was going to be sore about that last part. It was her birthday. But I was lucky. I had forgotten to buy her a present anyway.
The few days were a week long and I stopped by the office at a quarter to five. Velda sat there typing and didn't even look up until she had finished the page. "Happy birthday," I said.
"Thanks," she said sarcastically.
I grinned and tossed down the package I had picked up ten minutes ago. Then she couldn't hold the mad any longer and ripped the paper off it. The pearls glinted a milky white in the light and she let out a little squeal of pleasure. All she could say was, "They real."
"They'd better be."
"Come here, you."
I leaned over and sipped at the rich softness of her mouth and felt that same surge of warmth that came over me whenever she did those woman-things to me.
I pushed her away and took a deep breath. "Better quit while you're ahead."
"But I thought you were winning."
"You were drowning me, kitten."
"Just wait till later."
"Stop talking like that, will you?" I said. "I've been stuck in the bushes a week until I'm ready to pop."
"So I'll pop You."
I rumpled her hair and perched on the edge of the desk. She had my mail stacked up in three piles, circulars, business and personal, and I riffled through them. "Anything important?"
"Haven't you been reading the papers?"
"Kid, where I've been there wasn't anything but hills and rocks and trees."
"They identified the redhead that was killed."
"Who was she?"
"Maxine Delaney. She was a stripper on the West Coast for a while, was picked up twice in a suspected call-girl operation, but released for lack of evidence or complaints by parties involved. She was last heard of in Chicago where she was registered with a model agency and did a few nudies for a photographer there."
"I meet the nicest people, don't I? Any mail?"
"Nothing special. You got a package there from a pen pal, though."
In the personal pile was a flat, six-inch square package with a box number address and a postmark from that famous city on the Hudson that harbors New York's more notorious ex-citizens. I tore it open and took the lid off the box inside.
A stenciled letter informed me that the enclosed was made by a prison inmate and any voluntary contribution I cared to make would go in the recreational fund. The enclosed was a neat black handmade leather wallet and tooled on the front in an elaborate scroll was MICHAEL HAMMER, INSURANCE ADJUSTER. And it was such a nice piece of work too.
I tossed it in front of Velda. "How about that?"
"Your reputation has gone to the dogs." She looked up, read the letter and added, "They have a complaint department."
"Send five bucks. Maybe it's deductible." I dropped the wallet in my pocket and slid off the desk. "Let's have some supper."
"Okay, insurance adjuster."
We were going out the door when the phone rang. I wanted to let it ring, but Velda was too much a secretary for that. She answered it and handed it to me. "It's Pat."
"Hi, buddy," I said.
I couldn't quite pin down his tone of voice. "Mike...when did you see Mitch Temple last?"
"A week ago. Why?"
"Not since?"
"Nope."
"He give you a hard time or anything?"
"Hell no," I told him. "I gave you all the poop on that deal."
"Then tell me this...you got a straight alibi for, say...twenty-four hours ago?"
"Buddy, I can have my time and places verified by three witnesses for the past seven days to this minute. Now what gives?"
"Somebody bumped Temple in his own apartment, one knife thrust through the aorta, and he died all over his fancy oriental rug.
"Who found him?"
"A girl friend who had a key to his apartment She managed to call us before she went to pieces. Get up here. I want to talk to you."
I hung up and looked at Velda, knowing my face was pulled tight. "Trouble?" she asked me.
"Yeah. Somebody killed Mitch Temple."
She knew what I was thinking. "He was poking around on that girl's murder, wasn't he?" I nodded.
"Then what does Pat want with you?"
"Probably every detail of our last conversation. Come on, let's go."
Mitch Temple had an apartment in a new building on the east side, a lavish place occupied by the wealthy or famous, and the uniformed doorman wasn't used to seeing squad cars and police officers parked outside the ornate doorway.
The cop on duty recognized me, passed me through and we took the elevator up to the sixth floor. Two apartments opened off the small lobby, one apparently belonging to an absent tenant, the other wide open, the cops inside busy with routine work.
Pat waved us in and we skirted the stain on the floor near the door and followed him across the room to where the body lay. The lab team wound up their work and stood to one side talking baseball. I said, "Mind?"
"Go ahead," Pat told me.
I knelt by the body and took a look at it. Mitch Temple lay sprawled on his side in a pool of blood, sightless eyes, glazed with death. One hand was still stretched out, clawing at his suitcoat he had jerked off the chair back, his fingers clutching the white linen handkerchief he always wore in his breast pocket. I stood up and looked at the trail of blood from the door to the hole in his chest. It was a good twenty feet long.
"What do you make of it, Pat?"
"Looks like he opened the door to answer the bell, took a direct stab from an eight-inch knife blade and staggered back. Whoever killed him just closed the door and left."
"A wound like that usually drops a man."
"Most of the time."
"What was he after in his coat?"
"Something to stop the flow of blood is my guess. Nothing seems to have been touched. I'm surprised he lived long enough to get that far. So was the Medical Examiner. He fell twice getting to his coat and crawled the last few feet."
"Nobody comes into these apartments without being announced downstairs first," I reminded him.
Pat gave me a disgusted look. "Come on, we haven't pinpointed the time of death yet, but a pro could manage it at the right time. These places are far from foolproof. We're checking out the tenants and anybody else who was here, but I'm not laying any bets well come up with something. The type who live here don't want to be involved in any way. They don't even know their next-door neighbors."