Mickey Spillane and The Murder Room

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The Murder Room

Where Criminal Minds Meet

themurderroom.com

Day of the Guns

Mickey Spillane

Contents

Cover

The Murder Room Introduction

Title page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Outro

By Mickey Spillane

Dedication

About the author

Copyright page

Chapter One

I LOOKED past Wally Gibbons at the woman who had just come into the Cavalier Restaurant and felt the same as every other man in the place. Just to see her had a startling effect, but that low laugh and throaty voice was like the caress of fingertips across a naked stomach.

She was tall and auburn-haired with the edges of it curling around an upturned collar onto her shoulders and the wide-belted trench coat made you tingle because you knew she was all real beneath it. She had the lapels thrown back wide so that the flesh of her throat merged into the swell of her breasts before plunging into the black fabric of her dress.

Pedro, the maître d’, bowed lower than was his usual habit, smiled more charmingly than he ever did to anyone else and led her past the tables of craning necks to the back of the room and into the alcove where the two stout men were sitting and hid her out of sight in the corner. Once she was there the table talk around us resumed, but the subject was the same, from the wishful thinking of the junior execs to the dirty cracks of the boys who liked to make like they’d been around.

Wally speared a piece of fish and grinned at me. ‘How about that,’ he said.

I grunted and picked up my drink.

‘Come on, Tiger, don’t play it down. Some broad, huh?’

‘Swell,’ I said.

‘Comes in here every once in a while. Never saw it yet when she didn’t stop the action. I ran a piece about the mystery . . . just a U.N. translator, a sort of foreign-type career girl too dedicated to her job to be seen around much. Not that she doesn’t get the offers.’

Somebody at the next table made a snide remark and the others laughed. ‘Not that they wouldn’t like to hand them out,’ I said.

Wally shook his head. ‘Hell, Tiger, I’ve seen it tried. Those English broads can knock you off your pins with two words and a look.’ He grinned at me. ‘Being a big columnist and all, I even tried it myself.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘I got knocked off with two words and a look.’

‘Tough.’

‘Go give it a try, Tiger. You’re not like in the old days, but from the word I hear you’re still pretty active. I’d like to see you get bounced. Just once.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, you know . . . losers enjoy seeing winners get their lumps once in a while.’

‘I got enough to last me, buddy.’

‘So be a sport and give it a try. Hell, everybody else did. They’re all waiting for a champ to come along. They’ll hate your guts if you make out, but, man, they’ll be looking up to you the rest of your life if you swing it.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Come on, Tiger . . .’ he grinned again and shoved his plate away. ‘Her name is Edith Caine. London background, old family and all that. I understand she has plenty of private loot, so you can’t use that approach. I’ve seen some Hollywood types make their pitch, and public personalities don’t seem to sway her any, so that’s out. All you can do is turn on the charm and whisper whatever the hell it is you whisper in their ears.’

‘Quit being a clown. I’ve had it.’

‘I’ll write that you’re a fink.’

‘So who knows me?’ I laughed.

Wally put his drink down and stared across the table. ‘That, Tiger, is something I’ve always wondered about. Once or twice a year we get together and each time there’s something different about you. At the wrong seasons you come in with a tan, I catch you in the shower last time and you got a new bullet hole in you that wasn’t from the Army days, you have money to sit in on a big game and some funny pull in queer quarters. Now I’m a newspaperman and have ways of finding out things, yet I can’t run you down in anything. I can’t get past that discharge in ’46. You might not even be alive, for all I know.’

‘I’m a spook.’

‘Sure. So go spook the broad. You’re Tiger Mann, she’s Edith Caine, go introduce yourself.’

I put my drink down, swirled the ice around in my glass a second and took my hand away. ‘I don’t need any introduction,’ I told him. ‘Her name isn’t Edith Caine . . . it’s Rondine Lund. She isn’t English, she’s Austrian, and during the war she was a goddamn Nazi spy. She shot me twice in ’45 and left me for dead, and if there’s anybody in this world left that I’d like to kill, it’s her. No, buddy, we don’t need any introduction.’

Wally couldn’t answer. He sat there looking at me as though I was crazy, then his eyes squinched up to ask a question, but before he could he waved the thought away and said, ‘You’re nuts.’ He pointed at my drink, then motioned to the waiter for another round. ‘Damn, what an actor you are. You almost get me believing you. After twenty years on the Broadway circuit in the newspaper business you’d think I could spot a line right off. Buddy, you should be in Hollywood, you and that crazy name of yours.’

‘The checker-outer,’ I said as the drinks came.

‘Damn right. I have a reputation too, Tiger boy. She’s been a news item since she got here six months ago. Everybody was flipping over the glamorpuss at the U.N., and right after she was on the cover of the Sunday-supplement section, I was assigned to do a piece on her. So did a few other columnists. So back we went through the British Embassy, the respectable Caine family in old London, a fashionable girl’s school and a previous position in some obscure agency of the British government. She’s twenty-eight, unmarried and untouchable. You’re just finding out.’

I leaned back in my chair and lit a smoke. ‘She’s thirty-nine, an Austrian national and in ’45 she tried to kill me.’

‘Okay, Tiger, tell me a story. I’ll give you two minutes and have to blow. Maybe I can sell it to Paramount.’

‘Drop dead,’ I said.

Wally called for the check, signed it, and picked up his envelope off the spare chair. ‘When do I see you again?’

‘Who knows? I’ll call you.’

‘Anytime. You’re always good for a laugh. If you ever run across any of the old gang, give ’em my regards. You going to be at the Group reunion this year?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Try to make it. Terry Atkins and Bob Shiffer won’t be there. Terry got killed down in Honduras during the flare-up and Ben got his from a cheap hood when they were cleaning up that narcotics ring in L.A.’

‘I heard about it.’

‘Brother, they can stuff the cop angle. One tour during the war with the O.S.S. was all I could take. I get scared.’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Yeah,’ he grinned. ‘Take it easy. I’ll see you around.’

He left then, and I sat back with the butt until it was down to the filter, then I squashed it out and got up from the chair.

The two fat guys had the look of importance about them, their clothes tailor-made for shape and the cigars the best. They were dignity and money with the subtle power of governments showing in their demeanor. They were speaking of the Common Market and exchange of trade when I walked up to the table and their eyes showed the intelligence of breeding and knowledge of affairs and they stood up when they realised I was about to join them.

But there was a hint of laughter there because they had evidently seen it happen before, knew why I was there and waited to see sudden death from a frosty glance and a few words.

I said, ‘Hello, Rondine.’

Chapter Two

SHE was very good. Much better than I had expected. Her smile was lovely and forthright, and when the two men passed a quizzical look between them, I said, ‘Pet name,’ and held out my hand.

There was strength in her fingers, her smile a magical thing, and when I looked at her sitting there I could see why all the others wanted that crazy body so badly. She was woman all the way, bloomed to perfection and proud of the valley between her breasts and the way the tight-fitting dress dipped into her hips and swelled out against her thighs.

‘It’s been a long time, honey,’ I told her. I let her hand go and looked at the two men. ‘Tiger Mann,’ I said, shaking with them both. ‘Ridiculous name, but my father gave it to me.’

One was Burton Selwick, the other Vincent Harley Case. Both were connected with the British legation, active at the U.N., both models of propriety and they invited me to join them. Pedro found another chair, brought a fresh drink, and we raised a toast to the beautiful, gorgeous killer sitting in the corner.

Selwick put his drink down and offered me a cigar. I shook my head and dumped the last butt out of my pack. ‘Are you in politics, Mr. Mann?’ His voice had the crisp, cultured tone of an Oxford graduate that didn’t quite conceal the subtle note of authority, a quality heard only behind closed doors at Downing Street.

I took the light he held out. ‘No . . . not politics.’ I looked across the flame at Rondine. She was sitting there with her chin propped on the back of her fingers, smiling. ‘You might call it . . . international business. Of a sort, that is.’

‘I see.’ He didn’t really, but he said it.

‘And how have you been, honey?’

‘Fine, Mr. Mann.’

‘It used to be Tiger.’

Her laugh was as deep as it ever was. ‘Fine, Tiger. And you?’

‘Not bad at all. I’m surprised to see you again.’

She made a gesture with her hands. ‘The world changes. Things happen.’

I could still feel those two bullets going into my belly. ‘But we can still remember, can’t we?’ I said.

Her eyes were a peculiar shade. I tried to remember what they were like when I saw them last in the little room in Hamburg. Outside, the Eighth Air Force was plastering the city with blockbusters and in another two minutes Cal Haggerty would be coming up the stairs with a tommy gun that would blow that goddamn nest of agents right off the face of the earth . . . only she had killed Cal too because she was quicker and had all the wiles of a woman going for her. You don’t spray a naked broad with .45’s without looking at her first and he had looked too pointedly and too long and had missed the Luger in her hand.

Vincent Case looked at his watch and snubbed his cigar out. ‘Well, you two, supposing we leave you to your reminiscing. We have to be back, but since everyone had adjourned for the week-end, you might as well stay, my dear. Mr. Mann, it was a pleasure.’ Unlike his partner, there was a slight Scottish burr to his words.

Burton Selwick said, ‘As for me, I’m afraid my day is ended. A few years after fifty can bring tiredness too easily, ulcers too abruptly and strange pains that make one yearn for the heath and heather and the hearth.’

Rondine shot him a sudden glance of compassion, but one so easily assumed. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Just the usual complaint. Overwork, my dear. Too many late hours, too much work and the usual complaints. I’ll be happy to be replaced when the time comes.’

‘The doctor . . .’

He spread his palms out and smiled. ‘Exactly what I’ve just told you. Age, my dear. A few pills, a little administration, and I shall be quite well again to work another day.’

I shook hands with them both. ‘Nice to see you,’ I said and watched them leave. Then I picked up a cigarette from her gold case, put it between her lips like I used to and lit it for her.

‘Tiger,’ she said softly.

‘Yes, dear,’ I said just as softly. ‘And now you’re on your way down because I’m going to kill you just as dead as you thought you did me. Surprised? You shouldn’t be.’

She blew a thin stream of smoke at me, her eyes as steady as ever, not afraid. They had never been afraid. Determined, dedicated, but never afraid. ‘I was wondering when someone would come,’ she said.

‘It’s now, honey.’

‘I see. Can I explain?’

‘No.’

‘How are you going to kill me?’

‘I’m not sure yet,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll shoot you.’

‘Why?’

I grinned at her, enjoying something I had thought about for almost twenty years. ‘It’s not so much the past, sugar, but the present. You’re back, you’re here. Nobody knows it except me, maybe, but you haven’t changed. Your damn setup is as good as it was then. You’re still what you were, one of those tying the world into knots and you’re in the right place to do it. U.N. translator? Hell kid you can speak seven languages and were trained in the greatest espionage school that ever existed. Right now you have a minor job but a key position to take what you want and wherever your information is going you got it made. With all the background and experiences you have it must be like making mud pies for you. Only now there’s a difference.’

‘Oh?’

‘Me. Now you can die. You left me with my belly torn out and figured me for dead. You suckered me into a beautiful love trap when I should have known better than to fall for a stinking Nazi agent and even when I let you off the hook . . . when I gave you a chance to get out when I could have killed you, you didn’t take it . . . hell no, you gave me a pair of quick ones and blew. Honey . . . it wouldn’t have mattered . . . the war was over . . . you could have made it if the hate wasn’t inside you so deep nobody could get it out.’

I put out my butt and sat back smiling at her as if it were just another luncheon conversation. ‘So now you die, kid. Whatever you’re up to, tough . . . you die.’

Her face pulled together and the tip of her tongue wet her lips. ‘When?’

‘Soon. I could do it right now, but first I find out what game you’re playing and why. Then, pretty killer . . . right in that smooth gut of yours.’

‘Tiger . . .’

‘Come on, honey . . . you’ve had it too. No way out. Maybe you’ve had the face lifted and the gray dyed out, but this is the old soldier who dropped into Germany and made the big one. I don’t go the mistake route twice. Kid . . . you’re dead. From this minute on, you’re dead. I’d do it now only I want to enjoy it. I want to poke around some and blow your game before I put the big one inside your stomach.’

I pushed my chair back, stood up and grinned down at her. A sudden, strange expression clouded her eyes, then passed.

‘You were a great lover,’ I said. ‘Remember the bomb shelter?’

Her eyes were like twin arrows reaching for me.

‘Remember the rainy night I lied to keep the Frenchies from finding you?’

Both of her hands were tightened into knots.

‘They would have killed me if they had found out, Rondine. But we were lovers, one Nazi spy, one American spy. You showed your appreciation well. Ten minutes after we went to bed together and you shot me. Twice. Ten minutes after you were rolling on that bed crying and moaning because you never had anything like it before you gave me two in the gut. That’s real appreciation. Thanks a bunch. Now sweat.’

The wetness that came in her eyes didn’t bother me any. The quick motion of a sob that forced the cleft of her breasts apart had no effect at all.

I said, ‘Later, Rondine. I’ll see you later. Just sweat.’

They watched when I left. They knew I had been back there alone with her when nobody else was able to make it. They had seen the other two go, the essence of dignity and respectability, and now they saw a different type none of them could put their finger on and wouldn’t really want to because I had to shave every day and looked at too many mirrors not to know what the others had seen.

Only those wouldn’t talk any more. They couldn’t. They were dead.

They came for me that night like I knew they would. I set it up beautifully and it was like the New York Giants pulling the Statue of Liberty play on the Packers. It was so damn old, with the dummy in the bed and all the archaic bits and pieces that went with the play that it was almost pathetic. I wanted to find out how fast they could run me down when nobody knew I was here or where I was, and they did a great job. Just great.

Except they missed.

I was outside on the window sill, forty feet above the street, hanging on to a rig I had snapped into the window washer’s clamps, with a .45 in my fist for safety’s sake and they came in the door with a key, smiling and joking like it was their room and the two of them pumped a full clip of slugs into the mound on the bed, each one going off with an almost inaudible plop, and the idiots were so sure of themselves and so anxious to be out of there they didn’t check to see what they had hit. You don’t catch a slug, even in your sleep, without a twitch or rearing up or some blood spilling out and the jerks didn’t check it. They simply laughed some more, opened the door and walked out.

I gave them a full minute, opened the window, swung in and looked at the holes in the bedclothes. Tomorrow the housekeeper was going to be one teed-off broad. Maybe I’d even make a complaint. Fourteen shots had torn up three pillows under the blankets and left the room stinking of cordite.

I threw the chain on the door, double-locked it, fanned the fumes out of the room and climbed into my nice shot-up sack. Tomorrow was going to be full of surprises. For Rondine, anyway.