Free Kiss Her Goodbye by Mickey Spillane Page B

taking it, Pete?"
    "For real?"
    "Yeah, for real."
    Cummings leaned back, the swivel chair squeaking. "It isn't easy. We were friends for a long time." He took his glasses off, threw them on the desk, and massaged the bridge of his nose. "He wasn't my partner, but he did a lot of work out of here. So I saw him quite a bit. He was the last of the old bunch that I did see. With the others..." He shrugged. "...you say you'll keep in touch, but you don't. The past goes on a back burner and stays there."
    I nodded.
    "Now," he said, and sighed, "there's nobody left. Shit, who can blame Doolan for doing the Dutch act? Some days I feel like packing it in myself."
    "You're working off a false premise."
    "What?" His eyes caught mine and I saw both irritation and confusion there.
    "Bill Doolan never killed himself."
    Time was the heavy tick of the aged pendulum wall clock that seemed to be the only sound not just in the office, but in the world. It went on and on while Cummings slowly edged forward until his arms rested on his desk, his head tilted up to watch me carefully.
    Softly, Cummings said, "Okay. How do you know this?"
    "Doolan told me," I said. "A long time ago."
    The clock kept ticking. It seemed louder now.
    "You mind making that clear, Mike?"
    I told him about the conversation in the Blue Ribbon.
    Finally he nodded, his eyes narrowing. There was no discussion, no argument at all. "What are you going to do?"
    "Sure as hell not let it sit the way it is. Somebody's going to get tumbled."
    "The old Mike Hammer way?"
    "I haven't come up with a new one."
    "How can I help?"
    "You can start by letting me go through Doolan's files."
    He pointed across the room. "Feel free. Everything's over there in the two cabinets on the far end. Other three are mine. Of course, you know, the police have gone over the works. Pat Chambers is no slouch."
    "They find anything?"
    "Nothing they seemed to think was important. Maybe you can do better. You're no slouch either."
    "Thanks a bunch."
    Five old four-drawer wooden filing cabinets were pushed against the wall, looking like they came with the building. None of the drawers was locked and, from the way the folders were replaced, I knew everything had indeed been looked at by the police.
    I could have told them what was in there—Doolan had always been a clipper. Whatever had looked interesting, he had cut out and saved: newspapers, magazines, anything at all. There was a file of news clippings on every intriguing murder case the past year and a half. Two folders had schematics of the latest alarm systems, including those used in Europe.
    When I reached the third drawer, I found a particularly thick folder labeled PERSONALS and pulled it out. I had to crack a grin at that one—old Doolan still had his ego working for him. These were all news photos of him mixing with the public he had served so long. He had been a damn good after-dinner speaker, and there were shots of him in black tie speaking at banquets, a good dozen at political rallies, and just as many at police functions.
    The old boy had gotten around more than I thought. Two shots were with presidents of the United States, and eight more were group shots where state senators were listening to whatever he was hanging on them.
    What tickled me most was the envelope at the back of the folder filled with 8 x 10s of Doolan posing with dolls. Some of the shots went back twenty years and included movie stars like Marilyn Monroe and Rhonda Fleming up through Raquel Welch and Tuesday Weld; they were all classy ladies, really, even the two who ran elegant call-girl books. The backgrounds were restaurants, theaters, and clubs, the old ones I recognized, the new ones I didn't.
    I waved a handful of the photos at Cummings. "What's with these, Pete?"
    His grunt was meaningful. "I never asked for details. Doolan would show me new ones as he added them, grinning like a goofy kid. I was too envious to give him the satisfaction."
    I chuckled. "Don't tell me