The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  She was lying in the grass at the edge of the pool, stretched out on an oversized towel with her face cradled in her intertwined fingers. Her hair spilled forward over her head, letting the sun tan her neck, her arms pulled forward so that lines of muscles were in gentle bas-relief down her back into her hips. Her legs were stretched wide in open supplication of the inveterate sun worshipper and her skin glistened with a fine, golden sweat.

  Beside her the shortwave portable boomed in a symphony, the thunder of it obliterating any sound of my feet. I sat there beside her, quietly, looking at the beauty of those long legs and the pert way her breasts flattened against the towel, and after long minutes passed the music became muted and drifted off into a finale of silence.

  I said, “Hello, Laura,” and she started as though suddenly awakened from sleep, then realizing the state of affairs, reached for the edge of the towel to flip it around her. I let out a small laugh and did it for her.

  She rolled over, eyes wide, then saw me and laughed back. “Hey, you.”

  “You’ll get your tail burned lying around like that.”

  “It’s worse having people sneak up on you.”

  I shrugged and tucked my feet under me. “It was worth it. People like me don’t get to see such lovely sights very often.”

  Her eyes lit up impishly. “That’s a lie. Besides, I’m not that new to you,” she reminded me.

  “Out in the sunlight you are, kitten. You take on an entirely new perspective.”

  “Are you making love or being clinical?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know. One thing could lead into another.”

  “Then maybe we should just let nature take its course.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Feel like a swim?”

  “I didn’t bring a suit.”

  “Well . . .” and she grinned again.

  I gave her a poke in the ribs with my forefinger and she grunted. “There are some things I’m prudish about, baby.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” she whispered in amazement. “You never can tell, can you?”

  “Sometimes never.”

  “There are extra suits in the bathhouse.”

  “That sounds better.”

  “Then let me go get into one first. I’m not going to be all skin while you play coward.”

  I reached for her but she was too fast, springing to her feet with the rebounding motion of a tumbler. She swung the towel sari-fashion around herself and smiled, knowing she was suddenly more desirable then than when she was naked. She let me eat her with my eyes for a second, then ran off boyishly, skirting the pool, and disappeared into the dressing room on the other side.

  She came back out a minute later in the briefest black bikini I had ever seen, holding up a pair of shorts for me. She dropped them on a chair, took a run for the pool and dove in. I was a nut for letting myself feel like a colt, but the day was right, the woman was right and those seven years had been a long, hard grind. I walked over, picked up the shorts and without bothering to turn on the overhead light got dressed and went back out to the big, big day.

  Underwater she was like an eel, golden brown, the black of the bikini making only the barest slashes against her skin. She was slippery and luscious and more tantalizing than a woman had a right to be. She surged up out of the water and sat on the edge of the pool with her stomach sucked in so that a muscular valley ran from her navel up into the cleft of her breasts, whose curves arched up in proud nakedness a long way before feeling the constraint of the miniature halter.

  She laughed, stuck her tongue out at me and walked to the grass by the radio and sat down. I said, “Damn,” softly, waited a bit, then followed her.

  When I was comfortable she put her hand out on mine, making me seem almost prison-pale by comparison. “Now we can talk, Mike. You didn’t come all the way up here just to see me, did you?”

  “I didn’t think so before I left.”

  She closed her fingers over my wrist. “Can I tell you something very frankly?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “I like you, big man.”

  I turned my head and nipped at her forearm. “The feeling’s mutual, big girl. It shouldn’t be though.”

  “Why not?” Her eyes were steady and direct, deep and warm as they watched and waited for the answer.

  “Because we’re not at all alike. We’re miles apart in the things we do and the way we think. I’m a trouble character, honey. It’s always been that way and it isn’t going to change. So be smart. Don’t encourage me because I’ll only be too anxious to get in the game. We had a pretty hello and a wonderful beginning and I came up here on a damn flimsy pretext because I was hungry for you and now that I’ve had a taste again I feel like a pig and want it all.”

  “Ummmm,” Laura said.

  “Don’t laugh,” I told her. “White eyes is not speaking with forked tongue. This old soldier has been around.”

  “There and back?’

  “All the way, buddy.”

  Her grin was the kind they paint on pixie dolls. “Okay, old soldier, so kill me.”

  “It’ll take days and days.”

  “Ummm,” she said again. “But tell me your pretext for coming in the first place.”

  I reached out and turned the radio down. “It’s about Leo.”

  The smile faded and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Oh?”

  “Did he ever tell you about his—well, job let’s say, during the war?”

  She didn’t seem certain of what I asked. “Well, he was a general. He was on General Stoeffler’s staff.”

  “I know that. But what did he do? Did he ever speak about what his job was?”

  Again, she looked at me, puzzled. “Yes. Procurement was their job. He never went into great detail and I always thought it was because he never saw any direct action. He seemed rather ashamed of the fact.”

  I felt myself make a disgusted face.

  “Is there—anything specific—like—”

  “No,” I said bluntly, “it’s just that I wondered if he could possibly have had an undercover job.”

  “I don’t understand, Mike.” She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at me. “Are you asking if Leo was part of the cloak-and-dagger set?”

  I nodded.

  The puzzled look came back again and she moved her head in easy negative. “I think I would have known. I’ve seen all his old personal stuff from the war, his decorations, his photos, his letters of commendation and heard what stories he had to tell. But as I said, he always seemed to be ashamed that he wasn’t on the front line getting shot at. Fortunately, the country had a better need for him.”

  “It was a good try,” I said and sat up.

  “I’m sorry, Mike.”

  Then I thought of something, told her to wait and went back to the bathhouse. I got dressed and saw the disappointment in her eyes from all the way across the pool when I came out, but the line had to be drawn someplace.

  Laura gave me a look of mock disgust and patted the grass next to her. When I squatted down I took out the photo of Gerald Erlich and passed it over. “Take a look, honey. Have you ever seen that face in any of your husband’s effects?”

  She studied it, her eyes squinting in the sun, and when she had made sure she handed it back. “No, I never have. Who is he?”

  “His name used to be Gerald Erlich. He was a trained espionage agent working for the Nazis during the war.”

  “But what did he have to do with Leo?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her. “His name has been coming up a little too often to be coincidental.”

  “Mike—” She bit her lip, thinking, then: “I have Leo’s effects in the house. Do you think you might find something useful in them? They might make more sense to you than they do to me.”

  “It sure won’t hurt to look.” I held out my hand to help her up and that was as far as I got. The radio between us suddenly burst apart almost spontaneously and slammed backward into
the pool.

  I gave her a shove that threw her ten feet away, rolled the other way and got to my feet running like hell for the west side of the house. It had to have been a shot and from the direction the radio skidded I could figure the origin. It had to be a silenced blast from a pistol because a rifle would have had either Laura or me with no trouble at all. I skirted the trees, stopped and listened, and from almost directly ahead I heard a door slam and headed for it wishing I had kept the .45 on me and to hell with Pat. The bushes were too thick to break through so I had to cut down the driveway, the gravel crunching under my feet. I never had a chance. All I saw was the tail end of a dark blue Buick Special pulling away to make a turn that hid it completely.

  And now the picture was coming out a little clearer. It hadn’t been a tired driver on the Thruway at all. The bastard had picked me up at Duck’s stand, figured he had given me something when he had handed me the paper, probably hired a car the same time I did with plenty of time to do it in since I wasn’t hurrying at all. He followed me until he was sure he knew where I was headed and waited me out.

  Damn. It was too close. But what got me was, how many silenced shots had he fired before hitting that radio? He had been too far away for accurate shooting apparently, but he could have been plunking them all around us hoping for a hit until he got the radio. Damn!

  And I was really important. He knew where I was heading. Even since I had started to operate I had had a tail on me and it had almost paid off for him. But if I were important dead, so was Laura, because now that killer could never be sure I hadn’t let her in on the whole business. Another damn.

  She stood over the wreckage of the portable she had fished from the pool, white showing at the corners of her mouth. Her hands trembled so that she clasped them in front of her and she breathed as though she had done the running, not me. Breathlessly, she said, “Mike—what was it? Please, Mike—”

  I put my arm around her shoulder and with a queer sob she buried her face against me. When she looked up she had herself under control. “It was a shot, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right. A silenced gun.”

  “But—”

  “It’s the second time he’s tried for me.”

  “Do you think—”

  “He’s gone for now,” I said.

  “But who was he?”

  “I think he was The Dragon, sugar.”

  For a few seconds she didn’t answer, then she turned her face up toward mine. “Who?”

  “Nobody you know. He’s an assassin. Up until now his record has been pretty good. He must be getting the jumps.”

  “My gracious, Mike, this is crazy! It’s absolutely crazy.”

  I nodded in agreement. “You’ll never know, but now we have a real problem. You’re going to need protection.”

  “Me!”

  “Anybody I’m close to is in trouble. The best thing we can do is call the local cops.”

  She gave me a dismayed glance. “But I can’t—I have to be in Washington—Oh, Mike!”

  “It won’t be too bad in the city, kid, but out here you’re too alone.”

  Laura thought about it, then shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. After Leo was killed the police made me keep several guns handy. In fact, there’s one in each room.”

  “Can you use them?”

  Her smile was wan. “The policeman you met the last time showed me.”

  “Swell, but what about out here?”

  “There’s a shotgun in the corner of the bathhouse.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Yes.”

  “A shotgun isn’t exactly a handgun.”

  “Leo showed me how to use it. We used to shoot skeet together at the other end of the property.”

  “Police protection would still be your best bet.”

  “Can it be avoided?”

  “Why stick your neck out?”

  “Because from now on I’m going to be a very busy girl, Mike. Congress convenes this week and the race is on for hostess of the year.”

  “That stuff is a lot of crap.”

  “Maybe, but that’s what Leo wanted.”

  “So he’s leaving a dead hand around.”

  There was a hurt expression on her face. “Mike—I did love him. Please . . .?”

  “Sorry, kid. I don’t have much class. We bat in different leagues.”

  She touched me lightly, her fingers cool. “Perhaps not. I think we are really closer than you realize.”

  I grinned and squeezed her hand, then ran my palm along the soft swell of her flanks.

  Laura smiled and said, “Are you going to—do anything about that shot?”

  “Shall I?”

  “It’s up to you. This isn’t my league now.”

  I made the decision quickly. “All right, we’ll keep it quiet. If that slob has any sense he’ll know we won’t be stationary targets again. From now on I’ll be doing some hunting myself.”

  “You sure, Mike?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good. Then let’s go through Leo’s effects.”

  Inside she led me upstairs past the bedrooms to the end of the hall, opened a closet and pulled out a small trunk. I took it from her, carried it into the first bedroom and dumped the contents out on the dresser.

  When you thought about it, it was funny how little a man actually accumulated during the most important years of his life. He could go through a whole war, live in foreign places with strange people, be called upon to do difficult and unnatural work, yet come away from those years with no more than he could put in a very small trunk.

  Leo Knapp’s 201 file was thick, proper and as military as could be. There was an attempt at a diary that ran into fifty pages, but the last third showed an obvious effort being made to overcome boredom, then the thing dwindled out. I went through every piece of paperwork there was, uncovering nothing, saving the photos until last.

  Laura left me alone to work uninterruptedly, but the smell of her perfume was there in the room and from somewhere downstairs I could hear her talking on the phone. She was still tense from the experience outside and although I couldn’t hear her conversation I could sense the strain in her voice. She came back in ten minutes later and sat on the edge of the bed, quiet, content just to be there, then she sighed and I knew the tension had gone out of her.

  I don’t know what I expected, but the results were a total negative. Of the hundreds of photos, half were taken by G.I. staff photogs and the rest an accumulation of camp and tourist shots that every soldier who ever came home had tucked away in his gear. When you were old and fat you could take them out, reminisce over the days when you were young and thin and wonder what had happened to all the rest in the picture before putting them back in storage for another decade.

  Behind me Laura watched while I began putting things back in the trunk and I heard her ask, “Anything, Mike?”

  “No.” I half threw his medals in the pile. “Everything’s as mundane as a mud pie.”

  “I’m sorry, Mike.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Sometimes the mundane can hide some peculiar things. There’s still a thread left to pull. If Leo had anything to do with Erlich I have a Fed for a friend who just might come up with the answer.” I snapped the lock shut on the trunk. “It just gives me a pain to have everything come up so damn hard.”

  “Really?” Her voice laughed.

  I glanced up into the mirror on the dresser and felt that wild warmth steal into my stomach like an ebullient catalyst that pulled me taut as a bowstring and left my breath hanging in my throat.

  “Something should be made easy for you then,” she said.

  Laura was standing there now, tall and lovely, the sun still with her in the rich loamy color of her skin, the nearly bleached white tone of her hair.

  At her feet the bikini made a small puddle of black like a shadow, then she walked away from it to me and I was waiting for her.

  CHAPTER 9

  Night and the rain had
come back to New York, the air musty with dust driven up by the sudden surge of the downpour. The bars were filled, the sheltered areas under marquees crowded and an empty taxi a rare treasure to be fought over.

  But it was a night to think in. There is a peculiar anonymity you can enjoy in the city on a rainy night. You’re alone, yet not alone. The other people around you are merely motion and sound and the sign of life whose presence averts the panic of being truly alone, yet who observe the rules of the city and stay withdrawn and far away when they are close.

  How many times had Velda and I walked in the rain? She was big and our shoulders almost touched. We’d deliberately walk out of step so that our inside legs would touch rhythmically and if her arm wasn’t tucked underneath mine we’d hold hands. There was a ring I had given her. I’d feel it under my fingers and she’d look at me and smile because she knew what that ring meant.

  Where was she now? What had really happened? Little hammers would go at me when I thought of the days and hours since they had dragged me into Richie Cole’s room to watch him die, but could it have been any other way?

  Maybe not seven years ago. Not then. I wouldn’t have had a booze-soaked head then. I would have had a gun and a ticket that could get me in and out of places and hands that could take care of anybody.

  But now. Now I was an almost-nothing. Not quite, because I still had years of experience going for me and a reason to push. I was coming back little by little, but unless I stayed cute about it all I could be a pushover for any hardcase.

  What I had to do now was think. I still had a small edge, but how long it would last was anybody’s guess. So think, Mike, old soldier. Get your head going the way it’s supposed to. You know who the key is. You’ve known it all along. Cole died with her name on his lips and ever since then she’s been the key. But why? But why?