The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  Lots of stuff, but no kid.

  Bill Cuddy was a hard man to awaken. He twitched a few times, pawed the covers and grunted. When I shook him some more his eyelids flickered, went up. No pupils. They came down ten seconds later. A pair of bleary, bloodshot eyes moved separately until they came to an accidental focus on me.

  Bill sat up. “Who’re you?”

  I gave him a few seconds to study me, then palmed my badge in front of his face. “Cop. Get up.”

  His legs swung to the floor, he grabbed my arm. “What’s the matter, officer? I ain’t been poachin’. All I got is clams, go look.” He pointed to the barrel. “See?”

  “I’m no game warden,” I told him.

  “Then whatcha want of me?”

  “I want you for kidnapping. Murder maybe.”

  “Oh . . . No!” His voice was a hoarse croak. “But . . . I ain’t killed nobody atall. I wouldn’t do that.”

  He didn’t have to tell me that. There are types that kill and he wasn’t one of them. I didn’t let him know I thought so.

  “You brought a set of pajamas into Andy’s place this afternoon. Where did you get them?”

  He wrinkled his nose, trying to understand what I was talking about. “Pajamas?”

  “You heard me.”

  He remembered then. His face relaxed into a relieved grin. “Oh, that. Sure, I found ’em lying on Shore Road. Thought I’d kid Andy with ’em.”

  “You almost kidded him to death. Put on your pants. I want you to show me the spot.”

  He stuck his feet into a pair of dungarees and pulled the suspenders over his bony shoulders, then dragged a pair of boots out from under the bed. A faded denim shirt and a battered hat and he was dressed. He kept shooting me sidewise glances, trying to figure it out but wasn’t getting anyplace.

  “You won’t throw me in the jug, will you?”

  “Not if you tell the truth.”

  “But I did.”

  “We’ll see. Come on.” I let him lead the way. The sand had drifted too deep along the road to take the car so we plodded along slowly, keeping away from the other shacks. Shore Road was a road in name only. It was a strip of wet Sahara that separated the tree line from the water. A hundred yards up and the shacks had more room between them. Bill Cuddy pointed ahead.

  “Up there is the cove where I bring the boat in. I was coming down there and where the old cistern is I see the pants lying right in the middle of the road.”

  I nodded. A few minutes later we had reached the cistern, a huge, barrel-shaped thing lying on its side. It was big enough to make a two-car garage. Evidently it, like everything else around here, had been picked up during a storm and deposited along the shore. Bill indicated a spot on the ground with a gnarled forefinger.

  “Right here’s the spot, officer, they was lying right here.”

  “Fine. See anyone?”

  “Naw. Who would be out here? They was washed up, I guess.”

  I looked at him, then the water. Although the tide was high the water was a good forty yards from the spot. He saw what I meant and he shifted uneasily.

  “Maybe they blew up.”

  “Bill?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you ever see wet clothes blow along the ground? Dry clothes, maybe, but wet?”

  He paused. “Nope.”

  “Then they didn’t blow up or wash up. Somebody dropped them there.”

  He got jittery then, his face was worried. “But I didn’t do it. No kidding, I just found them there. They was new-looking so I brung ’em to Andy’s. You won’t jug me, will you? I . . .”

  “Forget it, Bill. I believe you. If you want to keep your nose clean turn around and trot home. Remember this, though. Keep your mouth shut, you hear?”

  “Gee, yeah. Thanks . . . thanks, officer. I won’t say nothing to nobody.” Bill broke into a fast shuffle and disappeared into the night.

  Alone like that you can see that what you mistook for silence was really a jungle of undertones, subdued, foreign, but distinct. The wind whispering over the sand, the waves keeping time with a steady lap, lap. Tree sounds, for which there is no word to describe bark rubbing against bark, and the things that lived in the trees. The watch on my wrist made an audible tick.

  Somewhere oars dipped into the water and scraped in the oar-locks. There was no telling how far away it was. Sounds over water carry far on the wind.

  I tried to see into the night, wondering how the pajamas got there. A road that came from the cove and went nowhere. The trees and the bay. A couple of shacks and a cistern.

  The open end faced away from me, making it necessary to push through yards of saw grass to reach it. Two rats ran out making ugly squeaking noises. When I lit a match I seemed to be in a hall of green slime. Droplets of water ran down the curved sides of the cistern and collected in a stinking pool of scum in the middle. Some papers had blown in, but that was all. The only things that left their footprints in the muck had tails. When I couldn’t hold my breath any longer I backed out and followed the path I had made to the road.

  Right back where I started. Twenty-five yards away was the remains of a shack. The roof had fallen in, the sides bulged out like it had been squeezed by a giant hand. Further down was another. I took the first one. The closer I came to it the worse it looked. Holes in the side passed for windows, the door hung open on one hinge and was wedged that way by a pile of sand that had blown around the corner. No tracks, no nothing. It was as empty as the cistern.

  Or so I thought.

  Just then someone whimpered inside. The .45 leaped into my hand. I took a few wooden matches, lit them all together and threw them inside and went in after them.

  I didn’t need my gun. Ruston York was all alone, trussed up like a Christmas turkey over in the corner, his naked body covered with bruises.

  In a moment I was on my knees beside him, working the knots loose. I took it easy on the adhesive tape that covered his mouth so I wouldn’t tear the skin off. His body shook with sobs. Tears of fright and relief filled his large, expressive eyes, and when he had his arms free he threw them around my neck. “Go ahead and cry, kid,” I said.

  He did, then. Hard, body-racking gasps that must have hurt. I wiggled out of my jacket and put it around him, talking quickly and low to comfort him. The poor kid was a mess.

  It came with jarring suddenness, that sound. I shoved the kid on his back and pivoted on my heels. I was shooting before I completed the turn. Someone let out a short scream. A heavy body crashed into my chest and slammed my back against the wall. I kicked out with both feet and we spilled to the floor. Before I could get my gun up a heavy boot ripped it out of my hand.

  They were all over me. I gave it everything I had, feet, fingernails and teeth, there wasn’t enough room to swing. Somehow I managed to hook my first two fingers in a mouth and yank, and I felt a cheek rip clear to the ear.

  There was no more for me. Something smashed down on my skull and I stopped fighting. It was a peaceful feeling, as if I were completely adrift from my body. Feet thudded into my ribs and pounded my back raw, but there was no pain, merely vague impressions. Then even the impressions began to fade.

  CHAPTER 3

  I came back together like a squadron of flak-eaten bombers reforming. I heard the din of their motors, a deafening, pulsating roar that grew louder and louder. Pieces of their skin, fragments of their armor drifted to earth and imbedded themselves in my flesh until I thought I was on fire.

  Bombs thudded into the earth and threw great flashes of flame into my face and rocked my body back and forth, back and forth. I opened my eyes with an effort.

  It was the kid shaking me. “Mister. Can you get up? They all ran away looking for me. If you don’t get up they’ll be back and find us. Hurry, please hurry.”

  I tried to stand up, but I didn’t do too good a job. Ruston York got his arms around me and boosted. Between the two of us I got my feet in position where I could shove with my legs and raise myself. He
still had on my coat, but that was all.

  I patted his shoulder. “Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.”

  It was enough talk for a while. He steered me outside and up into the bushes along the trees where we melted into the darkness. The sand muffled our footsteps well. For once I was grateful for the steady drip of rain from the trees; it covered any other noises we made.

  “I found your gun on the floor. Here, do you want it?” He held the .45 out gingerly by the handle. I took it in a shaking hand and stowed it in the holster. “I think you shot somebody. There’s an awful lot of blood by the door.”

  “Maybe it’s mine,” I grunted.

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s on the wall, too, and there’s a big hole in the wall where it looks like a bullet went through.”

  I prayed that he was right. Right now I half hoped they’d show again so I could have a chance to really place a few where they’d hurt.

  I don’t know how long it took to reach the car, but it seemed like hours. Every once in a while I thought I could discern shouts and guarded words of caution. By the time Ruston helped slide me under the wheel I felt as though I had been on the Death March.

  We sat there in silence a few moments while I fumbled for a cigarette. The first drag was worth a million dollars. “There’s a robe in the back,” I told the kid. He knelt on the seat, got it and draped it over his legs.

  “What happened?”

  “Gosh, mister, I hardly know. When you pushed me away I ran out the door. The man I think you shot nearly grabbed me, but he didn’t. I hid behind the door for a while. They must have thought I ran off because when they followed me out one man told the others to scatter and search the beach, then he went away too. That’s when I came in and got you.”

  I turned the key and reached for the starter. It hurt. “Before that. What happened then?”

  “You mean the other night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I woke up when the door opened. I thought maybe it was Miss Malcom. She always looks in before she goes to bed, but it wasn’t her. It was a man. I wanted to ask him who he was when he hit me. Right here.” Ruston rubbed the top of his head and winced.

  “Which door did he come in?”

  “The one off the hall, I think. I was pretty sleepy.”

  Cute. Someone sneaks past the guard at the gate, through a houseful of people and puts the slug on the kid and walks off with him.

  “Go on.” While he spoke I let in the clutch and swung around, then headed the car toward the estate.

  “I woke up in a boat. They had me in a little room and the door was locked. I could hear the men talking in the stern and one called the man who was steering Mallory. That’s the only time I heard a name at all.”

  The name didn’t strike any responsive chord as far as I was concerned, so I let him continue.

  “Then I picked the lock and . . .”

  “Wait a second, son.” I looked at him hard. “Say that again.”

  “I picked the lock. Why?”

  “Just like that you picked the lock. No trouble to it or anything?”

  “Uh-uh.” He flashed a boyish grin at me, shyly. “I learned all about locks when I was little. This one was just a plain lock.”

  He must be a genius. It takes me an hour with respectable burglar tools to open a closet door.

  “. . . and as soon as I got out I opened a little hatch and crawled up on the deck. I saw the lights from shore and jumped overboard. Boy, was that water cold. They never even heard me at all. I nearly made it at that. After I jumped the boat kept right on going and disappeared, but I guess they found the door open down below. I should have locked it again but I was sort of scared and forgot. Just when I got up on the shore some man came running at me and they had me again. He said he’d figured I’d head for the lights, then he slapped me. He was waiting for the others to come and he made me go into the shack with him. Seems like they tied up in the cove and had to wait awhile before they could take me back to the boat.

  “He had a bottle and started drinking from it, and pretty soon he was almost asleep. I waited until he was sort of dopey then threw my pajama pants out the window with a rock in them hoping someone would find them. He never noticed what I did. But he did know he was getting drunk, and he didn’t have any more in the bottle. He hit me a few times and I tried to get away. Then he really gave it to me. When he got done he took some rope and tied me up and went down the beach after the others. That was when you came in.”

  “And I went out,” I added.

  “Gee, mister, I hope you didn’t get hurt too badly.” His face was anxious, truly anxious. It’s been a long time since someone worried about me getting hurt. I ran my fingers through his hair and shook his head gently.

  “It isn’t too bad, kid,” I said. He grinned again, pulled the robe tighter and moved closer to me. Every few seconds he’d throw me a searching glance, half curious, half serious.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mike Hammer.”

  “Why do you carry a gun?”

  “I’m a detective, Ruston. A private detective.”

  A sigh of relief escaped him. He probably figured me for one of the mob who didn’t like the game, I guess.

  “How did you happen to find me?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “I’m . . . I’m glad it was you, Mr. Hammer, and not somebody else. I don’t think anyone would have been brave enough to do what you did.”

  I laughed at that. He was a good kid. If any bravery was involved he had it all. Coming back in after me took plenty of nerve. I told him so, but he chuckled and blushed. Damn, you couldn’t help but like him. In spite of a face full of bruises and all the hell he had been through he could still smile. He sat there beside me completely at ease, watching me out of the corner of his eye as though I was a tin god or something.

  For a change some of the lights were off in the house. Henry, the gatekeeper, poked a flashlight in the car and his mouth fell open. All he got out was, “M . . . Master Ruston!”

  “Yeah, it’s him. Open the gates.” He pulled a bar at the side and the iron grillwork rolled back. I pushed the buggy through, but by the time I reached the house Henry’s call had the whole family waiting on the porch.

  York didn’t even wait until I stopped. He yanked the door open and reached for his son. Ruston’s arms went around his neck and he kept repeating, “Dad . . . Dad.”

  I wormed out of the car and limped around to the other side. The family was shooting questions at the kid a mile a minute and completely ignored me, not that it mattered. I shoved them aside and took York by the arm. “Get the kid in the house and away from this mob. He’s had enough excitement for a while.”

  The scientist nodded. Ruston said, “I can walk, Dad.” He held the robe around himself and we went in together.

  Before the others could follow, York turned. “If you don’t mind, please go to your rooms. You will hear what happened in the morning.”

  There was no disputing who was master in that house. They looked at one another then slouched off in a huff. I drew a few nasty looks myself.

  I slammed the door on the whole pack of them and started for the living room, but Harvey interrupted me en route. Having once disrupted his composure, events weren’t likely to do it a second time. When he handed me the tray with the diagram of the bedroom layout neatly worked up he was the perfect flunky.

  “The guest plan, sir,” he said. “I trust it is satisfactory?”

  I took it without looking at it and thanked him, then stuck it in my pocket.

  York was in an anteroom with his son. The kid was stretched out on a table while his father went over each bruise carefully, searching for abrasions. Those he daubed with antiseptic and applied small bandages. This done he began a thorough examination in the most professional manner.

  When he finished I asked, “How is he?”

  “All right, apparently,” he answered, “but it will be diffic
ult to tell for a few days. I’m going to put him to bed now. His physical condition has always been wonderful, thank goodness.”

  He wrapped Ruston in a robe and rang for Harvey. I picked up the wreckage that was my coat and slipped into it. The butler came in and at York’s direction, picked the kid up and they left the room. On the way out Ruston smiled a good-night at me over the butler’s shoulder.

  York was back in five minutes. Without a word he pointed at the table and I climbed on. By the time he finished with me I felt like I had been in a battle all over again. The open cuts on my face and back stung from iodine, and with a few layers of six-inch tape around my ribs I could hardly breathe. He told me to get up in a voice shaky from suppressed emotion, swallowed a tablet from a bottle in his kit and sat down in a cold sweat.

  When I finished getting dressed I said, “Don’t you think you ought to climb into the sack yourself? It’s nearly daybreak.”

  He shook his head. “No. I want to hear about it. Everything. Please, if you don’t mind . . . the living room.”

  We went in and sat down together. While I ran over the story he poured me a stiff shot of brandy and I put it away neat.

  “I don’t understand it. Mr. Hammer . . . it is beyond me.”

  “I know. It doesn’t seem civilized, does it?”

  “Hardly.” He got up and walked over to a Sheraton secretary, opened it and took out a book. He wrote briefly and returned waving ten thousand dollars in my face. “Your fee, Mr. Hammer. I scarcely need say how grateful I am.”

  I tried not to look too eager when I took that check, but ten G’s is ten G’s. As unconcernedly as I could, I shoved it in my wallet. “Of course, I suppose you want me to put a report in to the state police,” I remarked. “They ought to be able to tie into that crew, especially with the boat. A thing like that can’t be hidden very easily.”

  “Yes, yes, they will have to be apprehended. I can’t imagine why they chose to abduct Ruston. It’s incredible.”

  “You are rich, Mr. York. That is the primary reason.”

  “Yes. Wealth does bring disadvantages sometimes, though I have tried to guard against it.”