The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  “Big,” I said.

  Hy nodded. “Then some louse shoots him. A simple burglary and he gets killed in the process.”

  “You sure?”

  Hy looked at me, the cigar hard in his teeth. “You know me, Mike, I’m a reporter. I’m a Commie-hater. You think I didn’t take this one right into the ground?”

  “I can imagine what you did.”

  “Now fill me in.”

  “Can you keep your mouth shut?”

  He took the cigar away and frowned, like I had hurt him. “Mike—”

  “Look,” I said, “I know, I know. But I may feed you a hot one and I have to be sure. Until it’s ended, it can’t come out. There’s something here too big to mess with and I won’t even take a little chance on it.”

  “So tell me. I know what you’re angling for. Your old contacts are gone or poisoned and you want me to shill for you.”

  “Natch.”

  “So I’ll shill. Hell, we’ve done it before. It won’t be like it’s a new experience.”

  “And keep Marilyn out of it. To her you’re a new husband and a father and she doesn’t want you going down bullet alley anymore.”

  “Aw, shut up and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  I did.

  I sat back and told it all out and let somebody else help carry the big lid. I gave it to him in detail from seven years ago and left out nothing. I watched his face go through all the changes, watched him let the cigar burn itself out against the lip of the ashtray, watched him come alive with the crazy possibilities that were inherent in this one impossibility and when I finished I watched him sit back, light another cigar and regain his usual composure.

  When he had it back again he said, “What do you want from me?”

  “I don’t know. It could be anything.”

  Like always, Hy nodded. “Okay, Mike. When it’s ready to blow let me light the fuse. Hell, maybe we can do an interview with the about-to-be-deceased on the TV show ahead of time.”

  “No jokes, kid.”

  “Ah, cheer up. Things could be worse.”

  “I know,” I quoted, “ ‘So I cheered up and sure enough things got worse.’ ”

  Hy grinned and knocked the ash off the stogie. “Right now—anything you need?”

  “Senator Knapp—”

  “Right now his widow is at her summer place upstate in Phoenicia. That’s where the Senator was shot.”

  “You’d think she’d move out.”

  Hy shrugged gently. “That’s foolishness, in a way. It was the Senator’s favorite home and she keeps it up. The rest of the year she stays at the residence in Washington. In fact, Laura is still one of the capital’s favorite hostesses. Quite a doll.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded sagely, the cigar at an authoritative tilt. “The Senator was all man and what he picked was all woman. They were a great combination. It’ll be a long time before you see one like that again.”

  “Tough.”

  “That’s the way it goes. Look, if you want the details, I’ll have a package run out from the morgue.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Two minutes after he made his call a boy came through with a thick manila envelope and laid it on the desk. Hy hefted it, handed it over and said: “This’ll give you all the background on the murder. It made quite a story.”

  “Later there will be more.”

  “Sure,” he agreed, “I know how you work.”

  I got up and put on my hat. “Thanks.”

  “No trouble, Mike.” He leaned back in his chair and pulled his glasses down. “Be careful, Mike. You look lousy.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Just the same, don’t stick your neck out. Things can change in a few years. You’re not like you were. A lot of people would like to catch up with you right now.”

  I grinned back at him. “I think most already have.”

  You drive up the New York Thruway, get off at Kingston and take the mountain route through some of the most beautiful country in the world. At Phoenicia you turn off to the north for five or six miles until you come to The Willows and there is the chalet nestling in the upcurve of the mountain, tended by blue spruces forty feet high and nursed by a living stream that dances its way in front of it.

  It was huge and white and very senatorial, yet there was a lived-in look that took away any pretentiousness. It was a money house and it should have been because the Senator had been a money man. He had made it himself and had spent it the way he liked and this had been a pet project.

  I went up through the gentle curve of the drive and shut off the motor in front of the house. When I touched the bell I could hear it chime inside, and after a minute of standing there, I touched it again. Still no one answered.

  Just to be sure, I came down off the open porch, skirted the house on a flagstone walk that led to the rear and followed the S turns through the shrubbery arrangement that effectively blocked off all view of the back until you were almost on top of it.

  There was a pool on one side and a tennis court on the other. Nestling between them was a green-roofed cottage with outside shower stalls that was obviously a dressing house.

  At first I thought it was deserted here too, then very faintly I heard the distance-muffled sound of music. A hedgerow screened the southeast corner of the pool and in the corner of it the multicolor top of a table umbrella showed through the interlocking branches.

  I stood there a few seconds, just looking down at her. Her hands were cradled behind her head, her eyes were closed and she was stretched out to the sun in taut repose. The top of the two-piece bathing suit was filled to overflowing with a matured ripeness that was breathtaking; the bottom half turned down well below her dimpled navel in a bikini effect, exposing the startling whiteness of untanned flesh against that which had been sun-kissed. Her breathing shallowed her stomach, then swelled it gently, and she turned slightly, stretching, pointing her toes so that a sinuous ripple of muscles played along her thighs.

  I said, “Hello.”

  Her eyes came open, focused sleepily and she smiled at me. “Oh.” Her smile broadened and it was like throwing a handful of beauty in her face. “Oh, hello.”

  Without being asked I handed her the terry-cloth robe that was thrown across the tabletop. She took it, smiled again and threw it around her shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “Isn’t it a little cold for that sort of thing?”

  “Not in the sun.” She waved to the deck chair beside her. “Please?” When I sat down she rearranged her lounge into a chair and settled back in it. “Now, Mr.—”

  “Hammer. Michael Hammer.” I tried on a smile for her too. “And you are Laura Knapp?”

  “Yes. Do I know you from somewhere, Mr. Hammer?”

  “We’ve never met.”

  “But there’s something familiar about you.”

  “I used to get in the papers a lot.”

  “Oh?” It was a full-sized question.

  “I was a private investigator at one time.”

  She frowned, studying me, her teeth white against the lushness of her lip as she nibbled at it. “There was an affair with a Washington agency at one time—”

  I nodded.

  “I remember it well. My husband was on a committee that was affected by it.” She paused. “So you’re Mike Hammer.” Her frown deepened.

  “You expected something more?”

  Her smile was mischievous. “I don’t quite know. Perhaps.”

  “I’ve been sick,” I said, grinning.

  “Yes,” she told me, “I can believe that. Now, the question is, what are you doing here? Is this part of your work?”

  There was no sense lying to her. I said, “No, but there’s a possibility you can help me.”

  “How?”

  “Do you mind going over the details of your husband’s murder, or is it too touchy a subject?”

  This time her smile took on a wry note. “You’re very blunt, Mr. Hammer
. However, it’s something in the past and I’m not afraid to discuss it. You could have examined the records of the incident if you wanted to. Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

  I let my eyes travel over her and let out a laugh. “I’m glad I came now.”

  Laura Knapp laughed back. “Well, thank you.”

  “But in case you’re wondering, I did go over the clips on the case.”

  “And that wasn’t enough?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d rather hear it firsthand.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Something has come up that might tie in your husband’s killer with another murder.”

  Laura shook her head slowly. “I don’t understand—”

  “It’s a wild supposition, that’s all, a probability I’m trying to chase down. Another man was killed with the same gun that shot your husband. Details that seemed unimportant then might have some bearing now.”

  “I see.” She came away from the chair, leaning toward me with her hands hugging her knees, a new light of interest in her eyes. “But why aren’t the police here instead of you?”

  “They will be. Right now it’s a matter of jurisdiction. Very shortly you’ll be seeing a New York City officer, probably accompanied by the locals, who will go over the same ground. I don’t have any legal paperwork to go through so I got here first.”

  Once again she started a slow smile and let it play around her mouth a moment before she spoke. “And if I don’t talk—will you belt me one?”

  “Hell,” I said, “I never hit dames.”

  Her eyebrows went up in mock surprise.

  “I always kick ’em.”

  The laugh she let out was pleasant and throaty and it was easy to see why she was still queen of the crazy social whirl at the capital. Age never seemed to have touched her, though she was in the loveliest early forties. Her hair shimmered with easy blond highlights, a perfect shade to go with the velvety sheen of her skin.

  “I’ll talk,” she laughed, “but do I get a reward if I do?”

  “Sure, I won’t kick you.”

  “Sounds enticing. What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She reflected a moment. It was evident that the details were there, stark as ever in her mind, though the thought didn’t bring the pain back any longer. She finally said, “It was a little after two in the morning. I heard Leo get up but didn’t pay any attention to it since he often went down for nighttime snacks. The next thing I heard was his voice shouting at someone, then a single shot. I got up, ran downstairs and there he was on the floor, dying.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No—he called out my name twice, then he died.” She looked down at her feet, then glanced up. “I called the police. Not immediately. I was—stunned.”

  “It happens.”

  She chewed at her lip again. “The police were inclined to—well, they were annoyed. They figured the person had time to get away.” Her eyes clouded, then drifted back in time. “But it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. No more. In fact, there could have been no time at all before I called. It’s just that I don’t remember those first few moments.”

  “Forget it anyway,” I said. “That part doesn’t count anymore.”

  Laura paused, then nodded in agreement. “You’re right, of course. Well, then the police came, but there was nothing they could do. Whoever it was had gone through the French windows in the den, then had run across the yard, gone through the gate and driven away. There were no tire tracks and the footprints he left were of no consequence.”

  “What about the house?”

  She wrinkled her forehead as she looked over at me. “The safe was open and empty. The police believe Leo either surprised the burglar after he opened the safe or the burglar made him open the safe and when Leo went for him, killed him. There were no marks on the safe at all. It had been opened by using the combination.”

  “How many people knew the combination?”

  “Just Leo, as far as I know.”

  I said, “The papers stated that nothing of importance was in the safe.”

  “That’s right. There couldn’t have been over a few hundred dollars in cash, a couple of account books, Leo’s insurance policies, some legal papers and some jewelry of mine. The books and legal papers were on the floor intact so—”

  “What jewelry?” I interrupted.

  “It was junk.”

  “The papers quoted you as saying about a thousand dollars’ worth.”

  She didn’t hesitate and there was no evasion in her manner. “That’s right, a thousand dollars’ worth of paste. They were replicas of the genuine pieces I keep in a vault. That value is almost a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “A false premise is as good a reason for robbery as any.”

  Her eyes said she didn’t agree with me. “Nobody knew I kept that paste jewelry in there.”

  “Two people did.”

  “Oh?”

  I said, “Your husband and his killer.”

  The implication of it finally came to her. “He wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone. No, you’re wrong there. It wasn’t that important to him at all.”

  “Then why put it in the safe?”

  “It’s a natural place for it. Besides, as you mentioned, it could be a strong come-on to one who didn’t know any better.”

  “Why didn’t you have the combination?”

  “I didn’t need it. It was the only safe in the house, in Leo’s private study—and, concerning his affairs, I stayed out completely.”

  “Servants?”

  “At that time we had two. Both were very old and both have since died. I don’t think they ever suspected that there were two sets of jewels anyway.”

  “Were they trustworthy?”

  “They had been with Leo all his life. Yes, they were trustworthy.”

  I leaned back in the chair, reaching hard for any possibility now. “Could anything else have been in that safe? Something you didn’t know about?”

  “Certainty.”

  I edged forward now, waiting.

  “Leo could have kept anything there, but I doubt that he did. I believe you’re thinking of what could be termed state secrets?”

  “It’s happened before. The Senator was a man pretty high in the machinery of government.”

  “And a smart one,” she countered. “His papers that had governmental importance were all intact in his safe-deposit box and were recovered immediately after his death by the FBI, according to a memo he left with his office.” She waited a moment then, watching me try to fasten on some obscure piece of information. Then she asked, “May I know what you’re trying to get at?”

  This time there was no answer. Very simply the whole thing broke down to a not unusual coincidence. One gun had been used for two kills. It happens often enough. These kills had been years apart, and from all the facts, totally unrelated.

  I said, “It was a try, that’s all. Nothing seems to match.”

  Quietly, she stated, “I’m sorry.”

  “Couldn’t be helped.” I stood up, not quite wanting to terminate our discussion. “It might have been the jewels, but a real pro would have made sure of what he was going after, and this isn’t exactly the kind of place an amateur would hit.”

  Laura held out her hand and I took it, pulling her to her feet. It was like an unwinding, like a large fireside cat coming erect, yet so naturally that you were never aware of any artifice, but only the similarity. “Are you sure there’s nothing further . . .?”

  “Maybe one thing,” I said. “Can I see the den?”

  She nodded, reaching out to touch my arm. “Whatever you want.”

  While she changed she left me alone in the room. It was a man’s place, where only a man could be comfortable, a place designed and used by a man used to living. The desk was an oversized piece of deep-colored wood, almost antique in style, offset by dark leather c
hairs and original oil seascapes. The walnut paneling was hand carved, years old and well polished, matching the worn Oriental rug that must have come over on a Yankee clipper ship.

  The wall safe was a small circular affair that nestled behind a two-by-three-foot picture, the single modern touch in the room. Laura had opened the desk drawer, extracted a card containing the combination and handed it to me. Alone, I dialed the seven numbers and swung the safe out. It was empty.

  That I had expected. What I hadn’t expected was the safe itself. It was a Grissom 914A and was not the type you installed to keep junk jewelry or inconsequential papers in. This safe was more than a fireproof receptacle and simple safeguard for trivia. This job had been designed to be burglar-proof and had a built-in safety factor on the third number that would have been hooked into the local police PBX at the very least. I closed it, dialed it once again using the secondary number, opened it and waited.

  Before Laura came down the cops were there, two excited young fellows in a battered Ford who came to the door with Police Specials out and ready, holding them at my gut when I let them in and looking able to use them.

  The taller of the pair went around me while the other looked at me carefully and said, “Who’re you?”

  “I’m the one who tuned you in.”

  “Don’t get smart.”

  “I was testing the wall safe out.”

  His grin had a wicked edge to it. “You don’t test it like that, buddy.”

  “Sorry. I should have called first.”

  He went to answer, but his partner called in from the front room and he waved me ahead with the nose of the .38. Laura and the cop were there, both looking puzzled.

  Laura had changed into a belted black dress that accented the sweeping curves of her body and when she stepped across the room toward me it was with the lithe grace of an athlete. “Mike—do you know what—”

  “Your safe had an alarm number built into it. I checked it to see if it worked. Apparently it did.”

  “That right, Mrs. Knapp?” the tall cop asked.

  “Well, yes. I let Mr. Hammer inspect the safe. I didn’t realize it had an alarm on it.”