Read Pardon My Body for Free Online Page B

guy oughta take everything into account before he starts trespassing.”
    Then I felt something hard pressed into the small of my back. The voice went on, “Okay—you can turn round now—I guess I’d better take a gander at you. But keep them hands outa your pockets.”
    I turned slowly and looked into the thin, darkly sallow face of a man about my own age who wore a striped suit from the same no-good family as the lot in the closet. Goddammit, Congress ought to pass a law stopping tailors making suits like that. Mr. Bule eyed me with no show of brotherly love.
    â€œWhen a guy busts into my apartment there ain’t nothin’ to stop me committing violence on his person and askin’ for an explanation afterwards,” he began conversationally.
    His eyes flickered from me to the oversize near-gold ring he wore on the middle finger of the hand which held a .32 Smith and Wesson automatic pistol and back again.
    Deliberately I started to put my hand into the pocket of my raincoat.
    â€œI said to keep them hands outa there,” he snarled.
    â€œLook,” I said, “in the recent international fuss in Europe half the German Army seemed to be loosing off miscellaneous weapons at me personally for weeks on end. And those boys weren’t scared of pulling their triggers.”
    â€œWell, I guess you can smoke if you want,” said the intrepid gunman uncertainly. “But, mind, I’ve got this rod just in case…”
    I got my pipe out and stuffed it with tobacco. The operation helped to hide the fact that my hands were in about as bad shape as his. Just then the pair of us would have got a 4F card in any spread-fingers test and no further questions asked.
    I said, “You wouldn’t be Harry Bule, would you?”
    â€œI would. And you got a helluva nerve bustin’ in like it was your place.”
    â€œJust a friendly visit.”
    â€œYeah? I ain’t never seen you in my life. And that ain’t no loss, either.”
    He groped for a cigarette with his left hand, put it in his mouth, then groped again for matches. I struck one of mine and held it out towards him, and as he bent forward, I knocked the Smith & Wesson spinning from his hand. Then I kicked it under the bureau and took a seat on the arm of the big chair.
    â€œNow we can face a nice gentlemanly chat,” I said.
    Bule’s rat face was twitching. “You think you’re goddamned smart, dontcha?”
    â€œSmart enough not to recommend police suspects to Mike Hannigan,” I said evenly.
    The sallow complexion paled another shade. He ran the tip of his tongue round his lips before he spoke.
    â€œYou ain’t no copper or you’d have sprung your badge on me. What the hell are you—a shamus?”
    â€œI’m a good friend of yours if you had the wit to know it. I’m putting you a jump ahead of the police.”
    â€œI ain’t done a thing they can put the finger on me for. A guy can recommend another guy to a room, can’t he?”
    â€œHe can—but he should make sure the client isn’t taking it on the lam first.”
    Bule shifted uneasily. “I tell ya I know nothing. I was just doing a friendly turn.”
    I stood up and then yanked him towards me by his scrambled-egg tie. His teeth bit on his tongue.
    â€œListen you oily yegg,” I breathed. “When the cops get you down to headquarters they won’t waste time bandying nice cosy words like me. They’ll sit you slap under the lights and you’ll find yourself talking so fast that the shorthand writers will be sending in an official protest. Now—give. Who was the man you sent to Mike Hannigan?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Bule’s voice cracked in a little scream. “I was told his name was George Clark, thassall…”
    â€œDid you see him?”
    â€œNo—I was asked to fix him up by a…a client.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œI