Free The Killing Man by Mickey Spillane

memory and he called Frank Carmody. That’s when the federal agencies came into the picture. Penta was wanted for the murder of their man overseas.”
    “They must have a description of him,” I suggested.
    “Not an iota. No prints, no photos, nothing.”
    “Where did all this happen?”
    “England. Somewhere in England. Outside Manchester, I think.”
    “Yet they know his name.”
    “Yes. I don’t know how.”
    I was getting some ideas, but they would take time to look into. Now I had to let her have her turn. I said, “What can I do for you?”
    She looked down at the small diamond-studded watch on her wrist. “Take me home, for one thing. We can talk on the way.”
    I paid the bill and walked her out of the place, enjoying the envious looks I got. This time her walk was more sedate, but she couldn’t hide the contours of her body. A cab was at the curb and we got in and she gave the driver her address. We were almost there when I said to her, “You haven’t answered my question yet, Candace.”
    “I’ve been told you’re very aggressive,” she started.
    “Sure, I’m in a tough business.”
    “Then tell me ... what do you plan on doing about this ... matter?”
    The lady asked some dramatic questions, all right. The cab pulled up outside her apartment, a uniformed doorman ran up, opened the door and we got out. He said good evening to Candace, barely nodded to me, then seemed to recognize me and nodded again, annoyed because he didn’t remember my name.
    “Would you care to come up for a drink?”
    No way I’d spoil her plan of attack. I said yes, went inside, took the elevator up to the twelfth floor and did the bit of opening the door for her with her own keys.
    Miss Candace Amory lived like the princess she was. The place was magazine-picture perfect, a miniature New York castle that unlimited money could buy. The damned place even looked comfortable. I think the music started automatically when we walked in, something low and sultry and classical. It was nearly nine thirty and I wondered when Ravel’s Bolero would come on.
    “What are you smiling about?”
    “Appreciating your house.”
    “Is it suitably seductive?”
    “Fits you well,” I said.
    She laughed, said, “I suppose now I should go in and put on something more comfortable. Is that my line?”
    “Doesn’t matter. I can handle buttons and snaps.”
    “Touché. Make us a drink while I call my office.”
    I went to the bar and built a pair of highballs. I put them on the coffee table and took a seat in the overstuffed chair across from the matching sofa. I wondered how she would handle this one.
    She listened to her messages, wrote down some notes, then dialed again. The person she spoke to was the district attorney. She told him she’d be home all night, then came over, picked up her drink and eased herself down on the sofa. “Afraid of me?”
    “Nope.” I lifted my glass in a toast. “Cheers.”
    “Cheers,” she said. “Once more. What are your plans?”
    “Legally,” I told her, “I have no position at all. I can contribute knowledge and information to the police department and associated agencies, but I stay hands-off on the case itself.”
    “I didn’t ask you about legalities.”
    My drink tasted good. Smooth. I gave her a little shrug. “I’m a victim seeking redress.”
    “Bullshit to you too,” she said.
    A grin started slowly, tugging at my mouth. “Not too long ago you were about to take my license away.” I took another taste of the drink. “This place bugged?”
    “No.”
    “Doesn’t really matter. I’m glad to tell you. I intend to tumble this Penta guy. I may just take him down or I may take him out altogether. The son of a bitch tried to kill somebody I care a lot about and he laid a load of shit on me with that kill in my office and I don’t let something like that go by.”
    “How can you find him?”
    “What did you learn at Norfolk, kid?”
    “Legwork, informants, psychological