The Mike Hammer Collection Volume 1

by Spillane, Mickey; Collins, Max Allan

  The police were doing things in their own methodical way, no doubt. They certainly weren’t the saps a lot of newshawks try to make them. A solution to murder takes time. But this murder meant a race. Pat wasn’t going to get the jump on me if I could help it. He’d been to the same places I had, but I bet he didn’t know any more.

  What we were both searching for was motive. There had to be one—and a good one. Murder doesn’t just happen. Murder is planned. Sometimes in haste, but planned nevertheless.

  As for the time element, George Kalecki had time to kill Jack. So did Hal Kines. I hated to think of it, but Charlotte Manning did too. Then there was Myrna. She too could have circled back to do it, leaving time to get home unnoticed. That left the Bellemy twins. Perhaps it was accidental, but they established their arrival time by letting the super open the door for them. Nice thinking if it was deliberate. I didn’t bother to ask whether they left again or not. I knew the answer would be negative. Twins were peculiar; they were supposed to be uncannily inseparable. I’ve noticed it before in other sets, so these two wouldn’t be any different. If it came to it they would lie, cheat or steal for each other.

  I couldn’t quite picture Mary Bellemy as being a nymphomaniac though. From all I’ve read of the two, they were sweet and demure, not young, not old. They kept strictly to themselves, or at least that’s what the papers said. What a woman will do when she’s alone with a man in her room is another thing. I was looking forward to seeing Esther Bellemy. That strawberry birthmark ought to prove sort of interesting.

  Then there was the potshot at Kalecki. That stumped me. The best thing to do was to take a run uptown and check up on his contacts. I signaled the waiter over and asked for a check. The guy frowned at me. I guess he wasn’t used to me leaving after so few.

  I got in my car and drove to the Hi-Ho Club. It used to be a bootleg spot during Prohibition, but changed into a dingy joint over the years. It was a very unhealthy spot for strangers after dark, but I knew the Negro that ran the joint. Four years ago he had backed me up in a little gunplay with a drunken hood and I paid him back a month later by knocking off a punk that tried to set him for a rub-out when he refused to pay off for protection. My name goes pretty strong up that way and since then they let him strictly alone to run his business any way he pleased. In this racket it’s nice to have connections in places like that.

  Big Sam was behind the bar. He saw me come in and waved to me with a wet rag over a toothy grin. I shook hands with the guy and ordered a brew. The high yellow and the tall coal black next to me were giving me nasty looks until they heard Big Sam say “Howday, Mistah Hammah. Glad to see yuh. Long time since yuh done been in dis part of town.”

  When they heard my name mentioned they both moved their drinks six feet down the bar. Sam knew I was here for more than a beer. He moved to the end of the bar and I followed him.

  “What’s up, Mistah Hammah? Somethin’ I can do fuh yuh?”

  “Yeah. You got the numbers running in here?”

  Sam gave a quick look around before he answered. “Yeah. De boys take ’em down same’s they do the othah places. Why?”

  “Is George Kalecki still the big boy?”

  He licked his thick lips. Sam was nervous. He didn’t want to be a squealer, yet he wanted to help me. “It’s murder, Sam,” I told him. “It’s better you tell me than have the bulls drag you to the station. You know how they are.”

  I could see he was giving it thought. The black skin of his forehead furrowed up. “Okay, Mistah Hammah. Guess it’s all right. Kalecki is still head man, but he don’t come around hisself. De runners do all the work.”

  “Is Bobo Hopper doing the running yet? He was with Kalecki some time. Hangs out here all the time, doesn’t he?”

  “Yassuh. He’s heah now, but he don’ do no mo’ running. He done had a good job the last few months. Keeps bees, too.”

  This was new. Bobo Hopper was only half human, an example of what environment can do to a man. His mental age was about twelve, with a build that went with it. Underfed all his life, he developed into a skinny caricature of a person. I knew him well. A nice Joe that had a heart of gold. No matter how badly you treated him, you were still his friend. Everything was his friend. Birds, animals, insects. Why, once I saw him cry because some kids had stepped on an anthill and crushed a dozen of its occupants. Now he had a “good” job and was keeping bees.

  “Where is he, Sam? Back room?”

  “Yassuh. You know where. Last I seed him he was looking at a pitcher book of bees.”

  I polished the beer off in one swallow, hoping the guys that had used it before me didn’t have anything contagious. When I passed the high yellow and his friend, I saw their eyes follow me right through the doors of the back room.

  Bobo Hopper was sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. The place used to be fixed up with a dice table and a couple of wheels, but now the stuff was stacked in a corner. High up on the wall a single barred window was trying hard to keep out what light seeped down the air shaft, leaving all the work to the solitary bulb dangling on the wire strand from the ceiling. Rubbish was piled high along one side, held back by a few frail pieces of beer poster cardboards.

  On the walls a few dirty pictures still hung from thumbtacks, the scenes half wiped out by finger smudges and dust. Someone had tried to copy the stuff in pencil on the wallpaper, but it was a poor try. The door to the bar was the only exit. I fished for the bolt lock, but there was nothing to slide it into so I let it be.

  Bobo didn’t hear me come in, he was so absorbed in his book. For a few seconds I looked at the pictures over his shoulders, watching his mouth work as he tried to spell out the words. I slammed him on the back.

  “Hey, there, don’t you say hello to an old friend?”

  He half leaped from his chair, then saw that it was me and broke into a big smile. “Gee, Mike Hammer! Golly, I’m glad to see you.” He stuck out a skinny paw at me and I took it. “Whatcha doin’ down here, Mike? Come down just to see me, huh? Here, lemme get you a chair.” He rolled an empty quarter keg that had seen better days over to the table and I parked on it.

  “Hear you’re keeping bees now, Bobo. That right?”

  “Gee, yeah, an’ I’m learning all about it from this book here. It’s lotsa fun. They even know me, Mike. When I put my hand near the hive they don’t bite me at all. They walk on me. You should see them.”

  “I’ll bet it’s a lot of fun,” I told him. “But bees are expensive to keep, aren’t they?”

  “Naw. I made the hive from an egg box. And painted it, too. They like their hive. They don’t fly away like other guys’ do. I got ‘em on my roof where the landlady lets me keep ’em. She don’t like bees, but I brought her a tiny bit of honey and she liked that. I’m good to my bees.”

  He was such a nice kid. He bubbled over with enthusiasm. Unlike so many others who were bitter. No family, no home, but now he had a landlady who let him keep bees. Bobo was a funny kid. I couldn’t quiz him or he’d clam up, but when you got him talking about something he liked he’d spiel on all day for you.

  “I hear you’ve got a new job, Bobo. How are you making out?”

  “Oh, swell, Mike. I like it. They call me the errand manager.” They probably meant “erring,” but I didn’t tell him that.

  “What kind of work is it?” I asked. “Very hard?”

  “Uh-uh. I run errands and deliver things and sweep and everything. Sometimes Mr. Didson lets me ride his bicycle when I deliver things for his store. I have lots of fun. Meet nice people, too.”

  “Do you make much money?”

  “Sure. I get most a quarter or a half buck every time I do something. Them Park Avenue swells like me. Last week I made nearly fifteen bucks.” Fifteen bucks. That was a lot of dough to him. He lived simply enough; now he was proud of himself. So was I.

  “Sounds pretty good, Bobo. How did you ever manage to run down such a good job?”

  “Well, you remember old
Humpy?” I nodded. Humpy was a hunch-back in his late forties who shined shoes in Park Avenue offices. I used him for an eye several times. He’d do anything to make a buck.

  “Old Humpy got T.B.,” Bobo continued. “He went up in the mountains to shine shoes there and I took his place. Only I wasn’t so good at it like him. Then folks asked me to do little things for them and I did. Now I go down there every day early in the morning and they give me things to do like running errands. I got a day off today on account of I gotta see a guy about buying a queen bee. He’s got two. Do you think five bucks is too much to pay for a queen bee, Mike?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” I didn’t know a queen bee from a king cobra, but queens usually run high in any species. “What did Mr. Kalecki say when you quit running numbers for him?”

  Bobo didn’t clam up like I expected. “Gee, he was swell. Gimme ten bucks ’cause I was with him so long and told me I could have my old job back whenever I wanted it.” No wonder. Bobo was as honest as the day was long. Generally a runner made plenty for himself, taking a chance that the dough he clipped wasn’t on the number that pulled in the shekels. But Bobo was too simple to be dishonest.

  “That was pretty nice of Mr. Kalecki,” I grinned, “but you do better when you’re in business for yourself.”

  “Yeah. Some day I’m just gonna raise bees. You can make a lot of money from bees. Even own a bee farm, maybe.”

  Bobo smiled happily at the thought of it. But his smile passed into a puzzled frown. His eyes were fastened on something behind me. I had my back to the door, but when I saw Bobo’s face, I knew that we weren’t alone in the back room any longer.

  The knife went under my chin very slowly. It was held loosely enough, but the slim fingers that held it were ready to tighten up the second I moved. Along the blade were the marks of a whetstone, so I knew it had been sharpened recently. The forefinger was laid on the top of the four-inch blade in proper cutting position. Here was a lug that knew what it was all about.

  Bobo’s eyes were wide open with terror. His mouth worked, but no sound came from it. The poor kid began to sweat, little beads that ran in rivulets down his sallow cheeks. A brown-sleeved arm came over my other shoulder and slid nicely under my coat lapel, the hand reaching for my rod.

  I clamped down and kicked back. The table went sailing as my feet caught it. I got the knife hand and pulled down hard, and the high yellow landed in a heap on top of me. Just in time I saw the foot coming and pulled my head aside. The coal black missed by inches. I didn’t. I let go the knife hand and grabbed the leg. The next moment I was fighting for my life under two sweating Negroes.

  But not for long. The knife came out again and this time I got the hand in a wristlock and twisted. The tendons stretched, and the bones snapped sickeningly. The high yellow let out a scream and dropped the knife. I was on my feet in a flash. The big black buck was up and came charging into me, his head down.

  There was no sense to busting my hand on his skull, so I lashed out with my foot and the toe of my shoe caught the guy right in the face. He toppled over sideways, still running, and collapsed against the wall. His lower teeth were protruding through his lip. Two of his incisors were lying beside his nose, plastered there with blood.

  The high yellow was holding his broken wrist in one hand, trying to get to his feet. I helped him. My hand hooked in his collar and dragged him up. I took the side of my free hand and smashed it across his nose. The bone shattered and blood poured out. That guy probably was a lady killer in Harlem, but them days were gone forever. He let out a little moan and slumped to the floor. I let him drop.

  Just for the hell of it, I went through his pockets. Not much there. A cheap wallet held a few photos of girls, one of them white, eleven dollars and a flock of number stubs. The coal black covered his ruined face when I went near him, rolling his eyes like a cow. I found a safety-razor blade in his pocket with a matchstick through it. Nice trick. They palm the blade, letting it protrude a bit through the fingers, and slap you across the face. The matchstick keeps it from sliding through their fingers. That blade can cut a face to pieces.

  The Negro tried to pull away, so I smashed him again. The pad of my fist landing on that busted jaw was too much for him. He went out too. Bobo was still in his chair, only now he was grinning again. “Gee, Mike, you’re pretty tough. Wish I was like that.”

  I pulled a five spot from my pocket and slipped it in his shirt pocket. “Here’s something to buy a king for that queen bee, kid,” I said to him. “See you later.” I grabbed the two jigs by their collars and yanked them out of the door. Big Sam saw me coming with them. So did a dozen others in the place. Those at the door looked like they expected something more.

  “What’s the idea, Sam? Why let these monkeys make a try for me? You know better than that.”

  Big Sam just grinned broader than ever. “It’s been a long time since we had some excitements in here, Mistah Hammah.” He turned to the guys at the bar and held out a thick palm. “Pay me,” he laughed at them. I dropped the high yellow and his friend in a heap on the floor as the guys paid Sam off. The next time they wouldn’t bet against me.

  As I was waving so long to Sam, Bobo came running out of the back room waving the five. “Hey, Mike,” he yelled. “Queens don’t need no kings. I can’t buy a king bee.”

  “Sure they do, Bobo,” I called over my shoulder. “All queens have to have kings. Ask Sam there, he’ll tell you.” Bobo was trying to find out why from Sam when I left. He’d probably spend the rest of his life getting the answer.

  The drive home took longer than I had expected. Traffic was heavy and it was nearly six when I got there. After I parked the car I took the stairs to my apartment and started to undress. My clean shirt was a mess. Blood was spattered all over the front of it and my tie was halfway around my neck. The pocket of my jacket was ripped down the seam. When I saw that I wished I’d killed that bogie. In these days decent suits were too hard to get.

  A hot and cold shower made me feel fine. I got rid of my beard in short order, brushed my teeth and climbed into some fresh clothes. For a moment I wondered whether it would be decent to wear a gun when calling on a lady, but habit got the better of me. I slipped the holster on over my shirt, shot a few drops of oil in the slide mechanism of my .45 and checked my clip. Everything in order, I wiped the gun and shoved it under my arm. Anyway, I thought, my suit wouldn’t fit unless old iron-sides was inside it. This was a custom-made job that had space built into it for some artillery.

  I checked myself in the mirror to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Without Velda to give me a once-over before I went anywhere, I couldn’t tell whether I was dolled up for a circus or a night club. Now I wished I had been more careful with the Bellemy mouse. Velda was too good a woman to lose. Guess I could expect the silent treatment for a week. Someday I’d have to try treating her a little better. She was kind of hard on a guy though, never approved of my morals.

  The jalopy needed gas so I ran it into a garage. Henry, the mechanic, and an old friend of mine, lifted the hood to check the oil. He liked that car. He was the one who installed an oversized engine in it and pigged down the frame. From the outside it looked like any beat-up wreck that ought to be retired, but the rubber was good and the engine better. It was souped up to the ears. I’ve had it on the road doing over a hundred and the pedal was only half down. Henry pulled the motor from a limousine that had the rear end knocked in and sold it to me for a song. Whenever a mech saw the power that was under the hood, he let out a long low whistle. In its own way it was a masterpiece.

  I pulled out of the garage and turned down a one-way street to beat the lights to Charlotte’s apartment. I couldn’t forget the way she looked through me the last time we met. What a dish.

  The road in front of her house was lined with cars, so I turned around the block and slid in between a black sedan and a club coupé, Walking back to her place I kept hoping she didn’t have a dinner date or any company. That woul
d be just my luck. What we would talk about was something else again. In the back of my mind was the idea that as a psychiatrist, she would have been more observant than any of the others. In her line it was details that counted, too.

  I rang the downstairs bell. A moment later the buzzer clicked and I walked in. The maid was at the door to greet me, but this time she had on her hat and coat.

  “Come right in, Mistah Hammah,” she said. “Miss Charlotte’s expecting y’all.” At that I really raised my eyebrows. I threw my hat down on a table beside the door and walked in. The maid stayed long enough to call into the bedroom, “He’s heah, Miss Charlotte.”

  That cool voice called back. “Thank you. You can go ahead to the movies now.” I nodded to the maid as she left and sat on the couch.

  “Hello.” I jumped to my feet and took the warm hand she offered me.

  “Hello yourself,” I smiled. “What’s this about expecting me?”