The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  Price said, “How did you find out he was gone, Mr. Hammer?”

  “Before I went to sleep I decided to look in to see how he was. He hadn’t gone to bed. I knew he’d mentioned Miss Grange and, as I said, figured he had come here.”

  Price nodded. “The door . . . ?”

  “It was open. I came in and found . . . this.” I swept my hand around. “I called you, then the city police. That’s all.”

  Dilwick made a face and bared what was left of his front teeth. “It stinks.”

  So it did, but I was the only one who was sure of it.

  “Couldn’t it have been like this, Mr. Hammer.” Dilwick emphasized the mister sarcastically. “You find the kid, York doesn’t like to pay out ten thousand for hardly any work, he blows after you threaten him, only you followed him and make good the threat.”

  “Sure, it could,” I said, “except that it wasn’t.” I poked a butt in my mouth and held a match to it. “When I kill people I don’t have to use a meat hatchet. If they got a gun, I use a gun. If they don’t I use my mitts.” I shifted my eyes to the body. “I could kill him with my fingers. On bigger guys . . . I’d use both hands. But no cleaver.”

  “How did York get here, Mr. Hammer?”

  “Drove, I imagine. You better detail a couple of boys to lock up his car. A blue ’64 Caddy sedan.”

  Price called a man in plainclothes over with his forefinger and repeated the instructions. The guy nodded and left.

  The coroner decided that it was time to get there with the photo guys and the wicker basket. For ten minutes they went around dusting the place and snapping flashes of the remains from all positions until they ran out of bulbs. I showed Price where I’d touched the wall and the switch so there wouldn’t be a confusion of the prints. For the record he asked me if I’d give him a set of impressions. It was all right with me. He took out a cardboard over which had been spread a light paraffin of some sort and I laid both hands on it and pressed. Price wrote my name on the bottom, took the number off my license and stowed it back in his pocket.

  Dilwick was busy going through the papers York had scattered about, but finding nothing of importance returned his attention to the body. The coroner had spread the contents of the pockets out on an end table and Price rifled through them. I watched over his shoulder. Just the usual junk: a key ring, some small change, a wallet with two twenties and four ones and membership cards for several organizations. Under the wallet was the envelope with the capsules.

  “Anything missing?” Price asked.

  I shook my head. “Not that I know of, but then, I never went through his pockets.”

  The body was stuffed into a wicker basket, the cleaver wrapped in a towel and the coroner left with his boys. More troopers came in with a few city guys tagging along and I had to repeat my story all over again. Standing outside the crowd was a lone newspaperman, writing like fury in a note pad. If this was New York they’d have to bar the doors to hold back the press. Just wait until the story reached the wires. This town wouldn’t be able to hold them all.

  Price called me over to him. “You’ll be where I’ll be able to reach you?”

  “Yeah, at York’s estate.”

  “Good enough. I’ll be out sometime this morning.”

  “I’ll be with him,” Dilwick cut in. “You keep your nose out of things, too, understand?”

  “Blow it,” I said. “I know my legal rights.”

  I shoved my hat on and stamped my butt out in an ashtray. There was nothing for me here. I walked to the door, but before I could leave Price hurried after me. “Mr. Hammer.”

  “Yeah, Sergeant?”

  “Will I be able to expect some cooperation from you?”

  I broke out a smile. “You mean, if I uncover anything will I let you in on it, don’t you?”

  “That covers it pretty well.” He was quite serious.

  “Okay,” I agreed, “but on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “If I come across something that demands immediate action, I’m going to go ahead on it. You can have it too as soon as I can get it to you, but I won’t sacrifice a chance to follow a lead to put it in your hands.”

  He thought a moment, then, “That sounds fair enough. You realize, of course, that this isn’t a permit to do as you choose. The reason I’m willing to let you help out is because of your reputation. You’ve been in this racket longer than I have, you’ve had the benefit of wide experience and are familiar with New York police methods. I know your history, otherwise you’d be shut out of this case entirely. Shorthanded as we are, I’m personally glad to have you help out.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. If I can help, I will. But you’d better not let Dilwick get wise. He’d do anything to stymie you if he heard about this.”

  “That pig,” Price grunted. “Tell me, what are you going to do?”

  “The same thing you are. See what became of the Grange dame. She seems to be the key figure right now. You putting out a dragnet?”

  “When you called, a roadblock was thrown across the highways. A seven-state alarm is on the Teletype this minute. She won’t get far. Do you know anything of her personally?”

  “Only that she’s supposed to be the quiet type. York told me that she frequents the library a lot, but I doubt if you’ll find her there. I’ll see what I can pick up at the house. If I latch on to anything about her I’ll buzz you.”

  I said so long and went downstairs. Right now the most important thing in my life was getting some sleep. I felt like I hadn’t seen a pillow in months. A pair of young troopers leaned against the fender of a blue Caddy sedan parked down further from my heap. They were comparing notes and talking back and forth. I’d better remind Billy to come get it.

  The sun was thumbing its nose at the night when I reached the estate. Early-morning trucks that the gas station attendant had spoken of were on the road to town, whizzing by at a good clip. I honked my horn at the gate until Henry came out, still chewing on his breakfast.

  He waved. “So it was you. I wondered who opened the gates. Why didn’t you get me up?”

  I drove alongside him and waited until he swallowed. “Henry, did you hear me go out last night?”

  “Me? Naw, I slept like a log. Ever since the kid was gone I couldn’t sleep thinking that it was all my fault because I sleep so sound, but last night I felt pretty good.”

  “You must have. Two cars went out, the first one was your boss.”

  “York? Where’d he go?”

  “To town.”

  He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Do . . . do you think he’ll be sore because I didn’t hear him?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t think he wanted to be heard.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “He won’t. He’s dead.” I left him standing there with his mouth open. The next time he’d be more careful of those gates.

  I raced the engine outside the house and cut it. If that didn’t wake everyone in the house the way I slammed the door did. Upstairs I heard a few indignant voices sounding off behind closed doors. I ran up the stairs and met Roxy at the top, holding a quilted robe together at her middle.

  She shushed me with her hand. “Be quiet, please. The boy is still asleep.” It was going to be hard on him when he woke up.

  “Just get up, Roxy?”

  “A moment ago when you made all the noise out front. What are you doing up?”

  “Never mind. Everybody still around?”

  “How should I know? Why, what’s the matter?”

  “York’s been murdered.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. For a long second her breath caught in her throat. “W . . . who did it?” she stammered.

  “That’s what I’d like to know, Roxy.”

  She bit her lip. “It . . . it was like we were talking about, wasn’t it?”

  “Seems to be. The finger’s on Myra Grange now. It happened in her apartment and she t
ook a powder.”

  “Well, what will we do?”

  “You get the gang up. Don’t tell them anything, just that I want to see them downstairs in the living room. Go ahead.”

  Roxy was glad to be doing something. She half ran to the far end of the hall and threw herself into the first room. I walked around to Ruston’s door and tried it. Locked. Roxy’s door was open and I went in that way, closing it behind me, then stepped softly to the door of the adjoining room and went in.

  Ruston was fast asleep, a slight smile on his face as he played in his dreams. The covers were pulled up under his chin making him look younger than his fourteen years. I blew a wisp of hair away that had drifted across his brow and shook him lightly. “Ruston.”

  I rocked him again. “Ruston.”

  His eyes came open slowly. When he saw me he smiled. “Hello, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Call me Mike, kid, we’re pals, aren’t we?”

  “You bet . . . Mike.” He freed one arm and stretched. “Is it time to get up?”

  “No, Ruston, not yet. There’s something I have to tell you.” I wondered how to put it. It wasn’t easy to tell a kid that the father he loved had just been butchered by a blood-crazy killer.

  “What is it? You look awfully worried, Mike, is something wrong?”

  “Something is very wrong, kid, are you pretty tough?”

  Another shy smile. “I’m not tough, not really. I wish I were, like people in stories.”

  I decided to give it to him the hard way and get it over with. “Your dad’s dead, son.”

  He didn’t grasp the meaning of it at first. He looked at me, puzzled, as though he had misinterpreted what I had said.

  “Dead?”

  I nodded. Realization came like a flood. The tears started in the corners. One rolled down his cheek. “No . . . he can’t be dead. He can’t be!” I put my arms around him for a second time. He hung on to me and sobbed.

  “Oh . . . Dad. What happened to him, Mike? What happened?”

  Softly, I stroked his head, trying to remember what my own father did with me when I hurt myself. I couldn’t give him the details. “He’s . . . just dead, Ruston.”

  “Something happened, I know.” He tried to fight the tears, but it was no use. He drew away and rubbed his eyes. “What happened, Mike, please tell me?”

  I handed him my handkerchief. He’d find out later, and it was better he heard it from me than one of the ghouls. “Someone killed him. Here, blow your nose.” He blew, never taking his eyes from mine. I’ve seen puppies look at me that way when they’ve been kicked and didn’t understand why.

  “Killed? No . . . nobody would kill Dad . . . not my dad.” I didn’t say a word after that. I let it sink in and watched his face contort with the pain of the thought until I began to hurt in the chest myself.

  For maybe ten minutes we sat like that, quietly, before the kid dried his eyes. He seemed older now. A thing like that will age anyone. His hand went to my arm. I patted his shoulder.

  “Mike?”

  “Yes, Ruston?”

  “Do you think you can find the one who did it?”

  “I’m going to try, kid.”

  His lips tightened fiercely. “I want you to. I wish I were big enough to. I’d shoot him, that’s what I’d do!” He broke into tears again after that outburst. “Oh . . . Mike.”

  “You lay there, kid. Get a little rest, then when you feel better get dressed and come downstairs and we’ll have a little talk. Think of something, only don’t think of . . . that. It takes time to get over these things, but you will. Right now it hurts worse than anything in the world, but time will fix it up. You’re tough, Ruston. After last night I’d say that you were the toughest kid that ever lived. Be tough now and don’t cry anymore. Okay?”

  “I’ll try, Mike, honest, I’ll try.”

  He rolled over in the bed and buried his face in the pillow. I unlocked his door to the hall and went out. I had to stick around now whether I wanted to or not. I promised the kid. And it was a promise I meant to keep.

  Once before I made a promise, and I kept it. It killed my soul, but I kept it. I thought of all the blood that had run in the war, all that I had seen and had dripped on me, but none was redder or more repulsive than that blood I had seen when I kept my last promise.

  CHAPTER 5

  Their faces were those that stare at you from the walls of a museum: severe, hostile, expectant. They stood in various attitudes waiting to see what apology I had to offer for dragging them from their beds at this early hour.

  Arthur Graham awkwardly sipped a glass of orange juice between swollen lips. His brother puffed nervously at a cigarette. The Ghents sat as one family in the far corner, Martha trying to be aloof as was Junior. Rhoda and her father felt conspicuous in their hurried dressing and fidgeted on the edge of their chairs.

  Alice Nichols was . . . Alice. When I came into the living room she threw an eyeful of passion at me and said under her breath, “’Lo, lover.” It was too early for that stuff. I let the bags under my eyes tell her so. Roxy, sporting a worried frown, stopped me to say that there would be coffee ready in a few minutes. Good. They were going to need it.

  I threw the ball from the scrimmage line before the opposition could break through with any bright remarks. “Rudolph York is dead. Somebody parted his hair with a cleaver up in Miss Grange’s apartment.”

  I waited.

  Martha gasped. Her husband’s eyes nearly popped out. Junior and Rhoda looked at each other. Arthur choked on his orange juice and William dropped his cigarette. Behind me Alice said, “Tsk, tsk.”

  The silence was like an explosion, but before the echo died away Martha Ghent recovered enough to say coldly, “And where was Miss Grange?”

  I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” I laid it on the table then. “It’s quite possible that she had nothing to do with it. Could be that someone here did the slaughtering. Before long the police are going to pay us a little visit. It’s kind of late to start fixing up an alibi, but if you haven’t any, you’d better think of one, fast.”

  While they swallowed that I turned on my heel and went out to the kitchen. Roxy had the coffee on a tray and I lifted a cup and carried it into Billy’s room. He woke up as soon as I turned the knob.

  “Hi, Mike.” He looked at the clock. “What’re you doing up?”

  “I haven’t been to bed yet. York’s dead.”

  “What!”

  “Last night. Got it with a cleaver.”

  “Good night! What happens now?”

  “The usual routine for a while, I guess. Listen, were you in the sack all this time?”

  “Hell, yes. Wait a minute, Mike, you . . .”

  “Can you prove it? I mean did anyone see you there?”

  “No. I’ve been alone. You don’t think . . .”

  “Quit worrying, Billy. Dilwick will be on this case and he’s liable to have it in for you. That skunk will get back at you if he can’t at me. He’s got what little law there is in this town on his side now. What I want to do is establish some way you can prove you were here. Think of any?”

  He put his finger to his mouth. “Yeah, I might at that. Twice last night I thought I heard a car go out.”

  “That’d be York then me.”

  “Right after the first car, someone came downstairs. I heard ’em inside, then there was some funny sound like somebody coughing real softly, then it died out. I couldn’t figure out what it was.”

  “That might do it if we can find out who came down. Just forget all about it until you’re asked, understand?”

  “Sure, Mike. Geez, why did this have to happen? I’ll be out on my ear now.” His head dropped into his hands. “What’ll I do?”

  “We’ll think of something. If you feel okay you’d better get dressed. York’s car is still downtown, and when the cops get done with it you’ll have to drive it back.”

  I handed him the coffee and he drank it gratefully. When he finished I too
k it away and went into the kitchen. Harvey was there drying his eyes on a handkerchief. He saw me and sniffed, “It’s terrible, sir. Miss Malcom just told me. Who could have done such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, Harvey. Whoever it was will pay for it. Look, I’m going to climb into bed. When the police come, get me up, will you?”

  “Of course, sir. Will you eat first?”

  “No thanks, later.”

  I skirted the living room and pushed myself up the stairs. The old legs were tired out. The bedclothes were where I had thrown them, in a heap at the foot of the bed. I didn’t even bother to take off my shoes. When I put my head down I didn’t care if the house burned to the ground as long as nobody awakened me.

  The police came and went. Their voices came to me through the veil of sleep, only partially coherent. Voices of insistence, voices of protest and indignation. A woman’s voice raised in anger and a meeker man’s voice supporting it. Nobody seemed to care whether I was there or not, so I let the veil swirl into a gray shroud that shut off all sounds and thoughts.

  It was the music that woke me. A terrible storm of music that reverberated through the house like a hurricane, shrieking in a wonderful agony. There had never been music like that before. I listened to the composition, wondering. For a space of seconds it was a song of rage, then it dwindled to a dirge of sorrow. No bar or theme was repeated.

  I slipped out of the bed and opened the door, letting the full force of it hit me. It was impossible to conceive that a piano could tell such a story as this one was telling.

  He sat there at the keyboard, a pitiful little figure clad in a Prussian blue bathrobe. His head was thrown back, the eyes shut tightly as if in pain, his fingers beating notes of anguish from the keys.

  He was torturing himself with it. I sat beside him. “Ruston, don’t.”

  Abruptly, he ceased in the middle of the concert and let his head fall to his chest. The critics were right when they acclaimed him a genius. If only they could have heard his latest recital.

  “You have to take it easy, kid. Remember what I told you.”

  “I know, Mike, I’ll try to be better. I just keep thinking of Dad all the time.”