The Mike Hammer Collection Volume 1

by Spillane, Mickey; Collins, Max Allan

  “Not exactly. I’m a private detective.”

  “Oh.” When she said that her voice held none of the usual contempt or curiosity I find when I tell that to someone. Instead, it was as if I had given her a pertinent piece of information.

  “Is it about the death of Mr. Williams?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh. He was a close buddy of mine. I’m conducting a sort of personal investigation of my own.”

  She looked at me quizzically at first, then, “Oh, yes. I read your statement in the papers. As a matter of fact, I attempted to analyze your reasoning. I’ve always been interested in things of that sort.”

  “And what conclusion did you reach?”

  Charlotte surprised me. “I’m afraid I justify you, although several of my former professors would condemn me if I made that statement public.” I saw what she meant. There’s a school of thought that believes anyone who kills is the victim of a moment’s insanity, no matter what the reason for the killing.

  “How can I help you?” she went on.

  “By answering a few questions. First, what time did you get to the party that night?”

  “Roughly, about eleven. I was held up by a visit to a patient.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Around one. We left together.”

  “Then where did you go?”

  “I had my car downstairs. Esther and Mary Bellemy drove with me. We went to the Chicken Bar and had a sandwich. We left there at one forty-five. I remember the time because we were the only ones there and they were getting ready to close at two. I dropped the twins off at their hotel, then went straight to my apartment. I reached there about a quarter after two. I remember the time there, too, since I had to reset my alarm clock.”

  “Anybody see you come into the apartment?”

  Charlotte gave me the cutest little laugh. “Yes, Mr. District Attorney. My maid. She even tucked me into bed as usual. She would have heard me go out, too, for the only door to my apartment has a chime on it that rings whenever the door opens, and Kathy is a very light sleeper.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at that. “Has Pat Chambers been here to see you already?”

  “This morning, but much earlier.” She laughed again. Shivers went through me when she did that. She radiated sex in every manner and gesture. “What is more,” she continued, “he came, he saw, and he suspected. By now he must be checking my story.”

  “Pat’s not letting any grass grow under his feet,” I mused. “Did he mention me at all?”

  “Not a word. A very thorough man. He represents efficiency. I like him.”

  “One thing more. When did you make the acquaintance of Jack Williams?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that.”

  I shook my head. “If it was in reference to Myrna, you needn’t be. I was on the ground floor there.”

  She seemed surprised at that. But I knew Jack had kept the entire affair of Myrna’s past as close to his vest as possible. “Well,” she said, “that was it. He called me in under advice from a doctor to attend Myrna. She had suffered a severe shock. I doubt if you can comprehend what it means to one addicted to narcotics to go ‘cold turkey’ as they call it. It means an immediate and complete removal from the source of the drug. The mental strain is terrific. They have violent convulsions, their bodies endure the most racking pain there is. Nerve ends eaten raw are exposed to unbelievable torture, and you can give them no relief. Quite often they destroy themselves in fits of madness.

  “The cure is far from an easy one. Having made the decision, they are separated from outside contact in padded cells. During the earlier stages of it, they change their minds and beg to be given the drug. Later the pain and tension mount to such dizzy heights that they are completely unrational. All the while, their body fights the effects of the drug, and it emerges finally either cured or unfit to continue life. In Myrna’s case, she lived through it. Jack was worried what this would do to her mentally and called me. I treated her while she was undergoing the cure, and afterwards. Since she was released I have never visited her in a professional capacity.”

  “Well, I guess that’s all then. I do have some other things I would like to discuss with you about the case. But I want to do a little checking first.”

  She gave me another of those smiles. Any more of them and she’d find out what it was like to be kissed from under a set of whiskers. “If it’s about the time element of my story—or should I say alibi?—then I suggest you hurry over to my apartment before my maid goes on her weekly shopping spree.”

  The woman knew all the answers. I tried to keep my face straight, but it was too much work. I broke out my lopsided grin and picked up my hat. “That’s partly it. Guess I don’t trust anybody.”

  Charlotte rose and gave me the look at her legs I’d been waiting for. “I understand,” she remarked. “To a man friendship is a much greater thing than to a woman.”

  “Especially when that friend gave an arm to save my life,” I said.

  A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “So you’re the one.” It was almost a gasp. “I didn’t know, but I’m glad I do now. I have heard so much about you from Jack, but they were stories in the third person. He never mentioned a thing about his arm, although Myrna later told me why he lost it.”

  “Jack didn’t want to embarrass me. But that’s only part of the reason why I’m going to get his murderer. He was my friend even before that.”

  “I hope you get him,” she said sincerely. “I truly hope you do.”

  “I will,” I said.

  We stood there a moment just looking at each other, then I caught myself. “I have to leave now. I’ll see you soon.”

  Her breath seemed to catch in her throat a moment before she said softly, “Very soon, I trust.” I was hoping that light in her eyes meant what I thought it did when she said it.

  I parked a few feet away from the blue canopy of the apartment house. The doorman, for once conservatively dressed, opened the door of my car without wrinkling his mouth in disgust. I gave him a nod and went into the outer foyer.

  The name over the bell was stamped in aluminum. “Manning Charlotte,” it read, without a series of degrees following it like the doctor’s below. That guy must have had a letter complex. I rang the bell and walked in when the buzzer sounded.

  She lived on the fourth floor, in a suite facing the street. A coal-black maid in a white uniform answered the door. “Mistah Hammah?” she asked me.

  “Yeah, how didja know?”

  “De police gennimuns in de front room was ’specting you. Come in, please.” Sure enough, there was Pat sprawled in a chair by the window.

  “Hi, Mike,” he called. I threw my hat on an end table and sat down on a hassock beside him.

  “What did you find, Pat?”

  “Her story checks. A neighbor saw her come in at the proper time; her maid confirmed it.” For once I was relieved. “I knew you’d be along, so I just parked the carcass until you showed up. By the way, I wish you’d be a little easier on the men I detail to keep track of you.”

  “Easier, hell. Keep ’em off my neck. Either that or get an expert.”

  “Just for your own protection, Mike.”

  “Nuts. You know me better than that. I can take care of myself.” Pat let his head fall back and closed his eyes. I looked around the room. Like her office, Charlotte Manning’s apartment was furnished in excellent taste. It had a casual air that made it look lived in, yet everything was in order. It wasn’t large; then too it had no reason to be. Living alone with one maid, a few rooms was all that was necessary. Several good paintings adorned the walls, hanging above shelves that were well stocked with books of all kinds. I noticed one bookcase that held nothing but volumes on psychology. At one end of the room a framed diploma was the only ornament. A wide hallway opened off the living room and led to a bedroom and the kitchen, with a bathroom opposite. Beside the foyer was the maid’s room. Here the color scheme was not co
nducive to mental peace, but designed to add color and gaiety to its already beautiful occupant. Directly opposite the hassock I was parked on was a sofa, a full six feet long. It gave me ideas, which I quickly ignored. It was no time to play wolf. Yet.

  I nudged Pat with my foot. “Don’t let’s be going to sleep, chum. You’re on taxpayers’ time.”

  He came out of his reverie with a start. “Only giving you time to size things up, junior. Let’s roll.”

  Kathy, the maid, came scurrying in when she heard us making sounds of leaving. She opened the door for us and I heard the sound of the chimes Charlotte had spoken of. “Does the gong go off when the bell rings too?” I asked her.

  “Yassuh, or when de do’ opens, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, suh, when I‘se not to home, Miss Charlotte has to answer de do’. Sometimes when she’s busy in de blackroom de bell rings and she just opens de lock. Den when de visitors come up she knows when dey comes in. She can’t leave in de middle of her work in de blackroom to answer both de bell and de do’”

  I looked at Pat and he looked at me. “What’s the blackroom?” I practically demanded.

  Kathy jumped like she was shot. “Why, where she makes pitchers from de fillums,” she answered. Pat and I left feeling a little foolish. So Charlotte made a hobby of photography. I reminded myself to brush up on details so we’d have something to speak about the next time we met. Besides that, I mean.

  CHAPTER 5

  Downstairs, Pat and I went across the street to a tiny delicatessen and sat in a booth with two bottles of beer. He asked me if I had gotten anywhere yet and I had to give him a negative answer.

  “What about motive?” I put to him. “I’m up the creek on that angle, mainly because I haven’t looked into it. When I get all the case histories down I’ll begin on the motive. But did you dig up anything yet?”

  “Not yet,” Pat answered. “Ballistics checked on the slug and it came from an unidentified .45. According to the experts, the barrel was nearly new. We followed that up by inquiring into the sale of all guns, but got nowhere. Only two had been sold, both to store owners who were recently robbed. We took some samples of the slugs, but they didn’t match.”

  “For that matter it might have been a gun sold some time ago, but unfired until recently,” I said.

  “We thought of that, too. Records still don’t account for it. None of those at the party have ever owned a gun to our knowledge.”

  “Officially,” I added.

  “Yes, that’s a possibility. It isn’t hard to come in possession of a gun.”

  “What about the silencer? The killer was no novice about firearms. A silencer plus a dumdum. He wanted to make sure Jack died—not too fast. Just definitely died.”

  “No trace of that, either. Where it may have come from is a rifle. There are a few makes of rifle silencers that can be adjusted to a .45.”

  We sipped the beer slowly, each of us thinking hard. It was a full two minutes before Pat remembered something and said, “Oh, yeah, almost forgot. Kalecki and the Kines kid moved into an apartment in town this morning.”

  That was news. “What for?”

  “Someone took a shot at him through his window late last night. Missed by a hair. It was a .45 slug, too. We checked it with the one that killed Jack. It was the same gun.”

  I almost choked on my beer. “You almost forgot,” I said with a smirk.

  “Oh, and one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “He thinks you did it.”

  I banged my glass down on the table so hard Pat jumped. “Why, that dirty snivelling louse! That does it. This time I’ll smash his face all over the place!”

  “There you go, racing your motor again, Mike. Sit down and pipe down. As he said, he wasn’t without a little influence at city hall, and they made us look into you. But don’t forget, you’ve knocked off a few undesirable citizens before and the slugs from your gun were photographed. We keep all the prints and tried in the worst way to match ’em, but they don’t match. Besides, we knew where you were last night. They raided the joint ten minutes after you left.”

  I got kind of red in the face and sat down. “You got one hell of a way of breaking things to me, Pat. Now let’s quit the joking and tell me where Kalecki and company moved to.”

  Pat grinned. “They live right around the corner in the same apartment hotel the Bellemy twins occupy, but on the second floor. The Midworth Arms.”

  “Have you been there yet?”

  “Not to see the twins. I saw George and Hal, though. Had quite a time telling him that it would do no good to place a charge against you for assault and battery after the other night. Didn’t take much talking, either. Evidently he’s heard a lot about the way you operate, but just likes to keep his own courage up with a lot of talk.”

  Both of us poured down the remainder of the beer and got up to leave. I outfumbled Pat and got stuck for the check. Next time he’d buy. Cop or no cop. We parted outside the door, and as soon as he took off I started around the corner for the Midworth Arms. I wanted to get the lowdown when anyone accused me of murder—attempted or successful. The real reason why Pat was sure it wasn’t me was because the killer missed. I wouldn’t have.

  I knew Kalecki probably had tipped the doorman and the super off not to admit me, so I didn’t bother messing with them. Instead I walked in like a regular resident and took the elevator to the second floor. The operator was a skinny runt in his late twenties who wore a built-in leer. I was the only one in the car, and when we stopped I pulled a bill from my pocket and showed him the color of it.

  “Kalecki. George Kalecki. He’s new in this dump. What apartment and the green is yours,” I said.

  He gave me a careful going over, that one. Finally put his tongue in his cheek and said, “You must be that Hammer mug. He gimme a ten not to spot him for you.”

  I opened my coat and pulled my .45 from its holster. The kid’s eyes popped when he saw it. “I am that Hammer mug, junior,” I told him, “and if you don’t spot him for me I’m giving you this.” I motioned toward his teeth with the gun barrel.

  “Front 206,” he said hastily. My bill was a five. I rolled it up in a ball and poked it in his wide-opened mouth, then shoved the rod back.

  “The next time remember me. And in the meantime, act like a clam or I’ll open you up like one.”

  “Y-yes, sir.” He practically leaped back in the car and slammed the door shut.

  206 was down the hall, the apartment facing on the street. I knocked, but there was no answer. Hardly breathing, I put my ear against the wood paneling of the door and kept it there. That way the wood acts as a sounding board, and any noise made inside is magnified a hundred times. That is, except this time. Nobody was home. Just to be sure, I slid a note under the door, then walked away and took the stairs down to the first landing. There I took off my shoes and tiptoed back up. The note was still sticking out exactly as I had placed it.

  Instead of fooling around I brought out a set of skeleton keys. The third one did it. I snapped the deadlock on the door behind me—just in case.

  The apartment was furnished. None of Kalecki’s personal stuff was in the front room except a picture of himself on the mantel when he was younger. I walked into the bedroom. It was a spacious place, with two chests of drawers and a table. But there was only one bed. So they did sleep together. I had to laugh even if I did mention it to get a rise out of them before.

  A suitcase was under the bed. I opened that first. On top of six white shirts a .45 was lying with two spare clips beside it. Man, oh man, that caliber gun is strictly for professionals, and they were turning up all over the place. I sniffed the barrel, but it was clean. As far as I could tell, it hadn’t been fired for a month. I wiped my prints off and put the gun back.

  There wasn’t much in the chest of drawers, either. Hal Kines had a photo album that showed him engaging in nearly every college sport there is. A lot of the shots were of women
, and some of them weren’t half bad, that is if you like them tall and on the thin side. Me, I like ’em husky. Toward the end of the book were several showing Kalecki and Hal together. In one they were fishing. Another was taken alongside a car in camping clothes. It was the third one that interested me.

  Both Hal and Kalecki were standing outside a store. In this one Hal wasn’t dressed like a college kid at all. In fact, he looked quite the businessman. But that wasn’t the point—yet. In the window behind him was one of those news releases they plant in stores facing the street that are made up of a big photo with a caption below it. There were two. One was indiscernible, but the other was the burning of the Morro Castle. And the Morro Castle went up in flames eight years ago. Yet here was Hal Kines looking older than he looked now.