The Mike Hammer Collection Volume 1

by Spillane, Mickey; Collins, Max Allan

  “I’m just vain, I guess. I was hoping so hard that you’d call tonight. I got ready for you. Like my dress?” She swirled in front of me, and glanced over her shoulder at my face. Gone was the psychiatrist. Here was Charlotte Manning, the woman, looking delightfully young and beautiful. Her dress was a tight-fitting blue silk jersey that clung to her like she was wet, concealing everything, yet revealing everything. Her hair hung long and yellow to her neck, little tight curls that sparkled. Even her eyes had cupids in them.

  She strode provocatively across the room and back toward me. Under the dress her body was superb, unlike what I imagined the first time. She was slimmer, really, her waist thin, but her shoulders broad. Her breasts were laughing things that were firmly in place, although I could see no strap marks of a restraining bra. Her legs were encased in sheer nylons and set in high heels, making her almost as tall as I was. Beautiful legs. They were strong looking, shapely....

  “Well, do you like it?” she asked again.

  “Lovely. And you know it.” I grinned at her. “You remind me of something.”

  “What?”

  “A way of torturing a guy.”

  “Oh, please, I can’t be that bad. Do I affect you like that? Torture you, I mean?”

  “No, not quite. But if you take a guy that hasn’t seen a woman in five years, let’s say, and chain him to a wall and let you walk past him the way you did just now—well, that would be torture. See what I’m getting at?”

  Her laugh was low and throaty. She threw back her head a little and I wanted to grab her and kiss the beauty of her throat. Charlotte took my arm and led me to the kitchen. The table was laid out for two. On the table was a big pile of fried chicken and another equally large basket of French fries.

  “Just for us. Now sit down and eat. I’ve already held supper an hour waiting for you.”

  I was dumbfounded. Either she kept a complete file of my likes and dislikes or she was clairvoyant. Chicken was my specialty.

  As I pulled out a chair and sat down, I said, “Charlotte, if there was an angle to this, I’d think the chow was poisoned. But even if it is, I’m going to eat it anyway.”

  She was putting a red-bordered apron on. When she finished she poured the coffee. “There is an angle,” she said casually.

  “Let’s have it,” I said through a mouthful of chicken.

  “When you came in to see me I saw a man that I liked for the first time in a long time.” She sat down and continued. “I have hundreds of patients, and surprisingly enough, most of them are men. But they are such little men. Either they have no character to begin with or what they had is gone. Their minds are frail, their conception limited. So many have repressions or obsessions, and they come to me with their pitiful stories; well, when you constantly see men with their masculinity gone, and find the same sort among those whom you call your friends, you get so you actually search for a real man.”

  “Thanks,” I put in.

  “No, I mean it,” Charlotte went on. “I diagnosed you the moment you set foot in my office. I saw a man who was used to living and could make life obey the rules he set down. Your body is huge, your mind is the same. No repressions.”

  I wiped my mouth. “I got an obsession though.”

  “You have? I can’t imagine what it is.”

  “I want a killer. I want to shoot a killer.” I watched her over a drum-stick, chewing a mile a minute on the succulent dark meat. She tossed her hair and nodded.

  “Yes, but it’s a worthwhile obsession. Now eat up.”

  I went through the pile of chicken in nothing flat. My plate was heaped high with bones. Charlotte did all right, too, but I did most of the damage. After a piece of pie and a second cup of coffee I leaned back in my chair, contented as a cow.

  “That’s a wonderful cook you’ve got there,” I remarked.

  “Cook, hell,” she laughed. “I did all that myself. I haven’t always been wealthy.”

  “Well, when the time comes for you to get married, you’re not going to have to go out of your way to get a husband.”

  “Oh, I have a system,” she said. “You’re getting part of it right now. I lure men to my apartment, cook for them, and before they go home I have my proposal.”

  “Don’t look now,” I told her, “but it’s been tried on me before.”

  “But not by an expert.” We both laughed at that. I suggested we do the dishes and she handed me an apron. Very politely, I laid it on the back of a chair. It just wouldn’t go well with my mug. If anyone I knew happened to breeze in and catch me in a rig like that I’d spend the rest of my life living it down.

  After we finished the dishes we went into the living room. Charlotte curled up in the armchair and I half fell on the sofa. We lit cigarettes, then she smiled at me and said, “All right, you can tell me why you came up to see me. More questions?”

  I shook my head. “I confess. Don’t beat me with that whip. I started out with two things in mind. The first one was to see you with your hair down. It turned out better than I expected.”

  “And the other?”

  “To see if you, as a practicing psychiatrist, could throw some light on the murder of my good friend, Jack Williams.”

  “I see. Perhaps if you tell me more explicitly what you want, I’ll be able to help you.”

  “Good enough. I want details. The murder isn’t old enough to get well into it yet, but I will. It’s entirely reasonable that someone at the party knocked off Jack. It’s just as reasonable that it was someone completely outside. I’ve made some character studies, and what I’ve found I don’t like. However, that may not be a good reason for murder. What I want from you is an opinion, not one based on fact or logic, but an opinion, purely professional, on how you think those I mentioned may tie into this thing and whom you’d line up for the killer.”

  Charlotte took a deep drag on her cigarette, then crushed it out in an ash tray. Her mind was working hard, it was reflected in her expression. A minute passed before she spoke. “You are asking me to do a difficult thing, pass judgment on a person. Usually it takes twelve men and a judge, after hours of deliberation, to do the same thing. Mike, after I met you, I made it my job to look into your character. I wanted to know what a man like you was made of. It wasn’t hard to find out. The papers have been full of your episodes, editorials were even written about you, and not very favorable ones, either. Yet I found people who knew you and liked you. Little people and big people. I like you. But if I were to tell you what I thought I’m afraid I’d be passing a sentence of death on a person. No, I won’t tell you that, you’d be too quick to kill. That I don’t want. There’s so much about you that could be nice if only your mind wasn’t trained to hate too fiercely.

  “What I will do is give you that which I have observed. It takes time to think back, and I’ve taken the whole afternoon to do just that. Little things I thought I had forgotten are clear now and they may make sense to you. I’m used to personal conflict, the struggle that goes on within one’s mind, not with differences between two or more people. I can notice things, put them in their proper places, but I can’t do more than file them away. If a person hates, then I can find the reason for his hatred and possibly help him to rationalize more clearly, but if that hatred has consumed him to the point of murder, then I can but say I might have expected it. The discovery of murderers and motives belongs to more astute minds than mine.”

  I was listening intently to every word, and I could see her point. “Fair enough,” I said, “then tell me what you have observed.”

  “It isn’t too much. Jack had been in a state of nervous tension for a week before the party. I saw him twice and neither time had he seemed any better. I remarked about it, but he laughed and told me he was still trying to rehabilitate himself to civilian life. At the time it seemed reasonable to me. A man who has lost a limb would naturally find life awkward for some time.

  “The night of the party he was still as tense as ever. Somehow, it radia
ted to Myrna. She worried about him anyway, and I could see that she was nearly as upset as he was. Nothing visible, however, just those little things. A tendency to anger at the dropping of a glass or a sudden sound. Both Jack and she covered it up nicely, so I imagine that I was the only one who noticed anything.

  “Mr. Kalecki came to the party in a grouch. Perhaps anger would be a better word, but I couldn’t figure out with whom he was angry. He snapped at Harold Kines several times and was completely uncivil to Mary Bellemy.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “They were dancing and she said something or other. I didn’t hear what it was, but he scowled and said, ‘The hell with that stuff, sister.’ Right after that he took her back to the group and walked away.”

  I laughed. She didn’t know what was so funny until I told her. “Mary Bellemy probably propositioned George right on the floor. Guess he’s getting old. She’s a nymphomaniac.”

  “Oh, yes? How did you find out?” The way she said it was with icebergs.

  “Don’t get ideas,” I said. “She tried it on me but I wasn’t in the market.”

  “Right then?”

  “No, never. I like to do some of the work myself, not have it handed to me on a platter.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. I did suspect that Mary was like that, but I never gave it much thought. We were only casual friends. Anyway, when we were leaving, Jack stopped me by the door and asked me to stop back to see him sometime during the week. Before he could say anything further, the gang called me and I had to leave. I never saw him again.”

  “I see.” I tried to mull it over in my mind, but it didn’t work out. So Jack had something bothering him, and so did Myrna. It might have been that they were worried about the same thing. Maybe not. And George. He was upset about something, too.

  “What do you make of it?” Charlotte asked.

  “Nothing, but I’ll think it over.” Charlotte got up from the chair and came over to the sofa and sat down. She laid her hand on mine and our eyes met.

  “Mike, do me a favor. I’m not asking you to stay out of this and let the police handle it, all I want is for you to be careful. Please don’t get hurt.”

  When she spoke like that I felt as if I had known her a lifetime. Her hand was warm and pulsing lightly. I felt myself going fast—and I had seen her only twice.

  “I’ll be careful,” I told her. “Why are you worrying?”

  “Here’s why.” She leaned forward, her lips parted, and kissed me on the mouth. I squeezed her arms so hard my hands hurt, but she never moved. When she drew away her eyes were soft and shining. Inside me a volcano was blazing. Charlotte looked at the marks on her arms where I held her and smiled.

  “You love hard, too, don’t you, Mike?”

  This time I didn’t hurt her. I stood up and drew her toward me. I pressed her to me, closely, so she could feel the fire I had in me. This kiss lasted longer. It was a kiss I’ll never forget. Then I kissed her eyes, and that spot on her throat that looked so delicious. It was better than I expected.

  I turned her around and we faced the windows overlooking the street. She rubbed her head against mine, holding my arms around her waist tightly. “I’m going now,” I said to her. “If I don’t, I’ll never leave. The next time I’ll stay longer. I don’t want to do this wrong. I will if you keep me here.”

  She tilted her head up and I kissed her nose. “I understand,” she said softly. “But whenever you want me, I’ll be here. Just come and get me.”

  I kissed her again, lightly this time, then went to the door. She handed me my hat and pushed my hair back for me. “Good-bye, Mike.”

  I winked at her. “So long, Charlotte. It was a wonderful supper with a wonderful girl.”

  It was a wonder I got downstairs at all. I hardly remember getting to my car. All I could think of was her face and that lovely body. The way she kissed and the intensity in her eyes. I stopped on Broadway and dropped into a bar for a drink to clear my head. It didn’t help so I went home and hit the sack earlier than usual.

  CHAPTER 7

  I woke up before the alarm went off, which is pretty unusual. After a quick shower and shave, I whipped up some scrambled eggs and shoveled them into me. When I was on my second cup of coffee the boy from the tailor shop came in with my suit nicely cleaned and pressed. The pocket was sewed up so that you could never have told it was torn. I dressed leisurely and called the office.

  “Hammer Investigating Agency, good morning.”

  “Good morning yourself, Velda, this is your boss.”

  “Oh.”

  “Aw, come on, honey,” I pleaded, “quit being sore at me. That lipstick came under the line of business. How can I work when you’ve got me by the neck?”

  “You seem to do all right,” her reply came back. “What can I do for you, Mister Hammer?”

  “Any calls?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any mail?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anybody been in?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, so long then.”

  “Marry? Hey ... wait a minute, Mike. MIKE! Hello ... hello....”

  I hung up very gently, laughing to myself. That would fix her. The next time she’d do more than say “nope.” I’d better start watching that stuff. Can’t afford to trip myself up; though with Velda maybe it wouldn’t be so bad at that.

  The police had taken their watchdog away from Jack’s apartment. The door was still sealed pending further investigation and I didn’t want to get in dutch with the D.A.’s office by breaking it, so I looked around a bit.

  I had just about given up when I remembered that the bathroom window bordered on an air shaft, and directly opposite it was another window. I walked around the hall and knocked on a door. A small, middle-aged gent poked his head out and I flashed my badge on him. “Police,” was all I had to say.

  He didn’t bother looking the badge over, but opened the door in haste. A good respectable citizen that believed in law and order. He stood in front of me, clutching a worn smoking jacket around his pot belly and trying to look innocent. Right then he was probably thinking of some red light he ran a month ago, and picturing himself in the line-up.

  “Er ... yes, officer, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m investigating possible entries into the apartment of Mr. Williams. I understand you have a window that faces his. Is that right?”

  His jaw dropped. “Wh-why, yes, but nobody could have gone through our window without us seeing him.”

  “That isn’t the point,” I explained to him. “Somebody could have come down from the roof on a rope. What I want to do is see if that window can be opened from the outside. And I don’t want to shinny down a rope to do it.”

  The guy sighed with relief. “Oh, I see. Well, of course, just come this way.” A mousey-type woman stuck her head from the bedroom door and asked, “John, what is it?”

  “Police,” he told her importantly. “They want me to help them.” He led me to the bathroom and I pushed up the window. It was some job. Those modest folks, fearing somebody might peek, must never have had it open. When it went up, a shower of paint splinters fluttered to the floor.

  There was Jack’s bathroom window, all right. A space of three feet separated the two walls. I worked myself to the outside sill while the little guy held my belt to steady me. Then I let myself fall forward. The guy let out a shriek and his wife came tearing in. But all I did was stick my hands out and lean against the opposite wall. He thought I was a goner.

  The bathroom window went up easily. I pulled myself across the space, thanked the guy and his wife, and slithered inside. Nothing had been moved around much. The fingerprint crew had left powder tracings on most of the objects that could have been handled, and where Jack’s body had lain were the chalk marks outlining the position. His artificial arm was still on the bed where he had put it. The only thing that was go
ne was his gun, and stuck in the empty holster was a note. I pulled it out and read it. “Mike,” it said, “don’t get excited over the gun. I have it at headquarters.” It was signed, “Pat.”

  How do you like that? He thought I’d find a way to get in. I put the note back with an addition at the bottom. “Thanks, chum,” I wrote, “I won’t.” I scrawled my name underneath it.

  It was easy to see that the police had been over everything in the place. They had gone at it neatly, but completely. Everything was replaced much the same as it had been. There were just a few things not quite in order that made it possible to tell that it had been searched.

  I started in the living room. After I pushed the chairs to the middle of the floor and examined them, I went around the edges of the carpet. Nothing there but a little dirt. I found three cents under the cushions of the couch, but that was all. The insides of the radio hadn’t been touched for months, as evidenced by the dust that had settled there. What books were around had nothing in them, no envelopes, no bookmarks or paper of any sort. If they had, the police got them.