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"Who Keeps Stealing the Bodies?"
May. 17th, 2022 02:15 pm"Who Keeps Stealing the Bodies?"
7/11-7/14/1956
I.
Leaving his new two-seater Thunderbird convertible parked several blocks away, Michael Hawk trotted silently along Ninth Avenue, keeping to shadows and alleys as much as possible. Even at three in the morning, Manhattan had enough traffic that he had to be stealthy and duck out of sight constantly. Milk trucks with their glass bottles rattling, newspaper delivery vans heading out with morning editions of the POST and DAILY NEWS, an occasional Checkered Cab. Wearing a dark denim jacket over a flannel shirt and jeans, his black Stetson pulled low, Hawk was not easy to spot in the gloom in any case.
At Twenty-Ninth Street, he snuck around to the rear of the Paradise Hotel. Its dingy yellow brick exterior and clouded windows, as well as the fact that the neon letter H flickered on and off, gave the establishment a rather embarrassed hangdog air. Hawk stole into the alley between the hotel and a boarded-up restaurant next door, found a window that had been left ajar on this muggy July night and eased through. A short hallway was lit by a lamp in the ceiling whose glass dish cover had collected an eclectic assortment of insects. At the bottom of the stairs leading up, a defeated potted plant sat in its ceramic vase and drooped hopelessly. A scent of mildew added the final touch to make this hotel completely unappealing.
No one was in sight. From the street, he had not even seen the blue flicker of a televison set in any window, although the roof had severals antennas installed. The New York skyline was sprouting TV aerials more rapidly every day. Michael Hawk waited, listening, for a full minute. Although only in his late thirties, his skin had the weathered texture of someone who has defied bad weather too many times. The wide square face was rugged and impressive rather than good-looking in any conventional way. Hawk started moving up the stairs with a quick easy stride.
At the third floor landing, he found the room he was seeking right in front of him. Small brazen numbers read 301, obvious enough. He tried the handle without much hope of finding it unlocked, then pulled a keyring from his jacket, the keys being held in a snug leather case to keep them from clinking. The lock was a common Schlage and he had no trouble getting the door open.
Still listening, watching for any signs of activity on that floor of the Paradise, Hawk stepped into darkness and closed the door behind him. A pencil flashlight from his inner pocket shone an intense white beam no thicker than a thread. The sagging bed, the dresser with a cracked mirror in a gilt frame, the grimy old-fashioned radio that sat in one corner, even the outdated calendar thumbtacked to the wall... these had all been expected. It was the short slim woman in black leotards that surprised him. She hopped up onto her feet from where she had been squatting while digging through a nightstand drawer.
They both reacted quickly, considering how surprised they were by each other's presence. Hawk reached back under his denim jacket and whipped up a clunky handgun with an extended needle-thin barrel. At the same time, the woman dove right at him and drove the top of her head below his sternum. She bounced off without budging him. Landing in a seated position, she cried, "Is that your STOMACH? What are you made of, marble?"
Holding both the flashlight beam and the dart gun steadily on the woman in black, Hawk instantly memorized her face. His unusual upbringing had developed many useful skills since childhood. He would be able to sketch a reasonable likeness of her or pick her photo from a dozen similar ones after that instant's glance. "Settle down, missy. Afore we tangle, let's see if we're playing the same game?"
"And you're a cowboy too? This gets better and better."
"Raised in Montana, if you want to know," he said. Hawk thumbed the end of the flashlight to widen the beam. "Check out a dump like this, a room taken by a man who labors for his living. I don't calculate you're here after precious jewels or fur coats, right?"
"Oh, my God. You're Michael Hawk! I've seen your picture in the papers." Scrambling up to her feet, the woman took two steps back toward the wide open window behind her.
"Guilty as charged. And you might be?"
"I'll be a memory to haunt you," she laughed and dove out through the window as nimble as any gymnast. Hawk yelped in dismay, thinking for sure she was killing herself by falling three stories to the pavement. But even as he dropped both the flashlight and the anesthetic dart gun, he heard a throaty chuckle from above. He reached the window just in time to see a white silken cord being yanked upward.
Well, at least now he knew how she had entered the room. Michael Hawk grumbled unhappily to himself, fetched his dart gun and holstered it, and then began searching the room himself. Maybe he had arrived here only a short time after the acrobatic thief had, maybe he would find what she had not had time enough to discover.
Maybe she hadn't been here because six fresh corpses had disappeared in less than a month.
( the rest of the story )
7/11-7/14/1956
I.
Leaving his new two-seater Thunderbird convertible parked several blocks away, Michael Hawk trotted silently along Ninth Avenue, keeping to shadows and alleys as much as possible. Even at three in the morning, Manhattan had enough traffic that he had to be stealthy and duck out of sight constantly. Milk trucks with their glass bottles rattling, newspaper delivery vans heading out with morning editions of the POST and DAILY NEWS, an occasional Checkered Cab. Wearing a dark denim jacket over a flannel shirt and jeans, his black Stetson pulled low, Hawk was not easy to spot in the gloom in any case.
At Twenty-Ninth Street, he snuck around to the rear of the Paradise Hotel. Its dingy yellow brick exterior and clouded windows, as well as the fact that the neon letter H flickered on and off, gave the establishment a rather embarrassed hangdog air. Hawk stole into the alley between the hotel and a boarded-up restaurant next door, found a window that had been left ajar on this muggy July night and eased through. A short hallway was lit by a lamp in the ceiling whose glass dish cover had collected an eclectic assortment of insects. At the bottom of the stairs leading up, a defeated potted plant sat in its ceramic vase and drooped hopelessly. A scent of mildew added the final touch to make this hotel completely unappealing.
No one was in sight. From the street, he had not even seen the blue flicker of a televison set in any window, although the roof had severals antennas installed. The New York skyline was sprouting TV aerials more rapidly every day. Michael Hawk waited, listening, for a full minute. Although only in his late thirties, his skin had the weathered texture of someone who has defied bad weather too many times. The wide square face was rugged and impressive rather than good-looking in any conventional way. Hawk started moving up the stairs with a quick easy stride.
At the third floor landing, he found the room he was seeking right in front of him. Small brazen numbers read 301, obvious enough. He tried the handle without much hope of finding it unlocked, then pulled a keyring from his jacket, the keys being held in a snug leather case to keep them from clinking. The lock was a common Schlage and he had no trouble getting the door open.
Still listening, watching for any signs of activity on that floor of the Paradise, Hawk stepped into darkness and closed the door behind him. A pencil flashlight from his inner pocket shone an intense white beam no thicker than a thread. The sagging bed, the dresser with a cracked mirror in a gilt frame, the grimy old-fashioned radio that sat in one corner, even the outdated calendar thumbtacked to the wall... these had all been expected. It was the short slim woman in black leotards that surprised him. She hopped up onto her feet from where she had been squatting while digging through a nightstand drawer.
They both reacted quickly, considering how surprised they were by each other's presence. Hawk reached back under his denim jacket and whipped up a clunky handgun with an extended needle-thin barrel. At the same time, the woman dove right at him and drove the top of her head below his sternum. She bounced off without budging him. Landing in a seated position, she cried, "Is that your STOMACH? What are you made of, marble?"
Holding both the flashlight beam and the dart gun steadily on the woman in black, Hawk instantly memorized her face. His unusual upbringing had developed many useful skills since childhood. He would be able to sketch a reasonable likeness of her or pick her photo from a dozen similar ones after that instant's glance. "Settle down, missy. Afore we tangle, let's see if we're playing the same game?"
"And you're a cowboy too? This gets better and better."
"Raised in Montana, if you want to know," he said. Hawk thumbed the end of the flashlight to widen the beam. "Check out a dump like this, a room taken by a man who labors for his living. I don't calculate you're here after precious jewels or fur coats, right?"
"Oh, my God. You're Michael Hawk! I've seen your picture in the papers." Scrambling up to her feet, the woman took two steps back toward the wide open window behind her.
"Guilty as charged. And you might be?"
"I'll be a memory to haunt you," she laughed and dove out through the window as nimble as any gymnast. Hawk yelped in dismay, thinking for sure she was killing herself by falling three stories to the pavement. But even as he dropped both the flashlight and the anesthetic dart gun, he heard a throaty chuckle from above. He reached the window just in time to see a white silken cord being yanked upward.
Well, at least now he knew how she had entered the room. Michael Hawk grumbled unhappily to himself, fetched his dart gun and holstered it, and then began searching the room himself. Maybe he had arrived here only a short time after the acrobatic thief had, maybe he would find what she had not had time enough to discover.
Maybe she hadn't been here because six fresh corpses had disappeared in less than a month.
( the rest of the story )
