Free The Killing Man by Mickey Spillane Page B

and pushed out of the chair.
    “Mike ... if you had lost ... would you have told me about Penta?”
    I didn’t have to lie my way out of that. I said, “The point is moot, kid. I didn’t lose.” I winked at her and stuck my hat on. “Thanks for the drink.”
    She smiled when I walked past her toward the door and just as I was reaching for the knob, she said, “Mike ...”
    I looked back and suddenly had one of those feelings that I had been here before in another time.
    The Ice Lady had let her dress crumple at her feet in soft folds and she had been wearing nothing beneath it. She was nude rather than naked, not icy at all, but warm and beautiful and so alive I could see the gentle movements of her breathing. Very alive. The nipples of her breasts were proudly erect.
    She smiled at me. I smiled back and opened the door.
     
     
    The desk nurse at the hospital was glad to have somebody to talk to, even at midnight. Velda was still under sedation, but definitely improving. The doctors had been in twice that day and were pleased with her progress. Yes, a police officer was still at the door and no, they never wandered off. Officers would relieve each other at regular intervals. I thanked her, hung up and dialed Petey Benson at his apartment.
    As I expected, he was having a beer in front of the TV and when he recognized my voice, asked, “How’d you make out?”
    “Like brother and sister,” I told him.
    “Yeah, I bet. What’s up this time?”
    “You have any connections in England?”
    “Hey, England’s a big place.”
    “Manchester, England.”
    “Well, there’s a sportswriter on the Manchester Guardian I met in London at a football game. Not like our football, but like soccer ...”
    “I know what you mean,” I snapped impatiently. Don’t steer him and Petey would go off into every odd angle. “How can I reach him?”
    “Got a pencil?”
    “Sure.”
    “Then I’ll give you his number.” He rustled some pages in his phone book, then read the number off to me. “I think we’re five hours behind them over there. Call him a little later and you might get him in.”
    “Okay. I’m going to use your name.”
    “Be my guest. I don’t suppose you want to tell me what this is all about.”
    “Later,” I said.
    Russell Graves was in and “delighted indeed” to speak to someone in the colonies. Actually, in fact, it was the first overseas call he had ever gotten, as he put it. Petey was some sort of a hero figure to him, an American crime reporter who had a fat expense account and was assigned to the really exciting cases. When I told him I was a real American private eye who was working with Petey and needed an overseas connection he got so worked up I thought he’d cream his jeans. He made sure I knew he was only a sports reporter, but I told him that crime was everywhere, even in sports, so that shouldn’t stop him.
    “Well, then, Mr. Hammer, what is it you wish me to do?”
    “Sometime back an American was murdered outside Manchester. I don’t know his name and can’t describe him, but he was a federal agent working over there.”
    “That sounds awfully vague, Mr. Hammer.”
    “Possibly, but murders in your country aren’t all that frequent.”
    “Times have changed somewhat, sir.”
    “I realize that. But this is an American who was killed. If it happened in the countryside somebody would be aware of it. There’s one other thing ... this kill could have been a vicious one.”
    “Vicious?”
    “Not a clean kill. There might be something pretty nasty about it. You know what I mean?”
    “Yes,” he said, “I believe I do.”
    “Now,” I went on, “there’s a possibility that our government and yours are playing this matter down, but we’re looking for a killer who hit over there and here, and likely will try to hit someplace else too. That’s why I suggest you look outside the normal channels for anything on the murder over there.”
    “Is there any way I can get a story out