The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  Myra Grange. I didn’t want it to, but it came back to her every time. Missing the night of the kidnapping; seen on the road, but she said no. Why? I started to grin a little. An unmarried person goes out at night for what reason? Natch . . . a date. Grange had a date, and her kind of dates had to be kept behind closed doors, that’s why she was rarely seen about. York wouldn’t want it to get around either for fear of criticism, that’s why he was nice about it. Grange would deny it for a lot of reasons. It would hurt her professionally, or worse, she might lose a perfectly good girlfriend. It was all supposition, but I bet I was close.

  The night air hit me in the face. I hadn’t realized I was standing outside the door until a chilly mist ran up the steps and hugged me. I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked down the drive. Behind me the house watched with staring eyes. I wished it could talk. The gravel path encircled the gloomy old place with gray arms and I followed it aimlessly, trying to straighten out my thoughts. When I came to the fork I stood motionless a moment then followed the turn off to the right.

  Fifty yards later the colorless bulk of the laboratory grew out of the darkness like a crypt. It was a drab cinder-block building, the only incongruous thing on the estate. No windows broke the contours of the walls on either of the two sides visible, no place where prying eyes might observe what occurred within. At the far end a thirty-foot chimney poked a skinny finger skyward, stretching to clear the treetops. Upon closer inspection a ventilation system showed just under the eaves, screened air intakes and outlets above eye level.

  I went around the building once, a hundred-by-fifty-foot structure, but the only opening was the single steel door in the front, a door built to withstand weather or siege. But it was not built to withstand curiosity. The first master key I used turned the lock. It was a laugh. The double tongue had prongs as thick as my thumb, but the tumbler arrangement was as uncomplicated as a glass of milk.

  Fortunately, the light pulls had tiny phosphorescent tips that cast a greenish glow. I reached up and yanked one. Overhead a hundred-watt bulb flared into daylight brilliance. I checked the door and shut it, then looked about me. Architecturally, the building was a study in simplicity. One long corridor ran the length of it. Off each side were rooms, perhaps sixteen in all. No dirt marred the shining marble floor, no streaks on the enameled white walls. Each door was shut, the brass of the knobs gleaming, the woodwork smiling in varnished austerity. For all its rough exterior, the inside was spotless.

  The first room on the one side was an office, fitted with a desk, several filing cabinets, a big chair and a water cooler. The room opposite was its mate. So far so good. I could tell by the pipe rack which had been York’s.

  Next came some sort of supply room. In racks along the walls were hundreds of labeled bottles, chemicals unknown to me. I opened the bins below. Electrical fittings, tubes, meaningless coils of copper tubing lay neatly placed on shelves alongside instruments and parts of unusual design. This time the room opposite was no mate. Crouched in one corner was a generator, snuggling up to a transformer. Wrist-thick power lines came in through the door, passed through the two units and into the walls. I had seen affairs like this on portable electric chairs in some of our more rural states. I couldn’t figure this one out. If the education of Ruston was York’s sole work, why all the gadgets? Or was that merely a shield for something bigger?

  The following room turned everything into a cockeyed mess. Here was a lounge that was sheer luxury. Overstuffed chairs, a seven-foot couch, a chair shaped like a French curve that went down your back, up under your knees and ended in a cushioned foot rest. Handy to everything were magazine racks of popular titles and some of more obscure titles. Books in foreign languages rested between costly jade bookends. A combination radio-phonograph sat in the corner, flanked by cabinets of symphonic and pop records. Opposite it at the other end of the room was a grand piano with operatic scores concealed in the seat. Cleverly contrived furniture turned into art boards and reading tables. A miniature refrigerator housed a bottle of ice water and several frosted glasses. Along the wall several Petri dishes held agar-agar with yellow bacteria cultures mottling the tops. Next to them was a double-lensed microscope of the best manufacture.

  What a playpen. Here anyone could relax in comfort with his favorite hobby. Was this where Ruston spent his idle hours? There was nothing here for a boy, but his mind would appreciate it.

  It was getting late. I shut the door and moved on, taking quick peeks into each room. A full-scale lab, test tubes, retorts, a room of books, nothing but books, then more electrical equipment. I crossed the corridor and stuck my head in. I had to take a second look to be sure I was right. If that wasn’t the hot seat standing in the middle of the floor it was a good imitation.

  I didn’t get a chance to go over it. Very faintly I heard metal scratching against metal. I pulled the door shut and ran down the corridor, pulling at the light cords as I went. I wasn’t the only one that was curious this night.

  Just as I closed the door of Grange’s office behind me the outside door swung inward. Someone was standing there in the dark waiting. I heard his breath coming hard with an attempt to control it. The door shut, and a sliver of light ran along the floor, shining through the crack onto my shoes. The intruder wasn’t bothering with the overheads, he was using a flash.

  A hand touched the knob. In two shakes I was palming my rod, holding it above my head ready to bring it down the second he stepped in the door. It never opened. He moved to the other side and went into York’s office instead.

  As slowly as I could I eased the knob around, then brought it toward my stomach. An inch, two, then there was room enough to squeeze out. I kept the dark paneling of the door at my back, stood there in the darkness, letting my breath in and out silently while I watched Junior Ghent rifle York’s room.

  He had the flashlight propped on the top of the desk, working in its beam. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He pulled out every drawer of the files, scattering their contents on the floor in individual piles. When he finished with one row he moved to another until the empty cabinet gaped like a toothless old man.

  For a second I thought he was leaving and faded to one side, but all he did was turn the flash to focus on the other side of the room. Again, he repeated the procedure. I watched.

  At the end of twenty minutes his patience began to give out. He yanked things viciously from place and kicked at the chair, then obviously holding himself in check tried to be calm about it. In another fifteen minutes he had circled the room, making it look like a bomb had gone off in there. He hadn’t found what he was after.

  That came by accident.

  The chair got in his way again. He pushed it so hard it skidded along the marble, hit an empty drawer and toppled over. I even noticed it before he did.

  The chair had a false bottom.

  Very clever. Search a room for hours and you’ll push furniture all over the place, but how often will you turn up a chair and inspect it? Junior let out a surprised gasp and went down on his knees, his fingers running over the paneling. When his fingernails didn’t work he took a screwdriver from his pocket and forced it into the wood. There was a sharp snap and the bottom was off.

  A thick envelope was fastened to a wire clasp. He smacked his lips and wrenched it free. With his forefinger he lifted the flap and drew out a sheaf of papers. These he scanned quickly, let out a sarcastic snort, and discarded them on the floor. He dug into the envelope and brought out something else. He studied it closely, rubbing his hand over his stomach. Twice he adjusted his glasses and held them closer to the light. I saw his face flush. As though he knew he was being watched he threw a furtive glance toward the door, then shoved the stuff back in the envelope and put it in his side pocket.

  I ducked back in the corridor while he went out the door, waited until it closed then snapped the light on and stepped over the junk. One quick look at the papers he had found in the envelope told me what it was. This will was made out
only a few months ago, and it left three-quarters of his estate to Ruston and one-quarter to Alice. York had cut the rest out with a single buck.

  Junior Ghent had something more important, though. I folded the will into my pocket and ran to the door. I didn’t want my little pal to get away.

  He didn’t. Fifty yards up the drive he was getting the life beat out of him.

  I heard his muffled screams, and other voices, too. I got the .45 in my hand and thumbed the safety off and made a dash for them.

  Maybe I should have stayed on the grass, but I didn’t have that much time. Two figures detached themselves from the one on the ground and broke for the trees. I let one go over their heads that echoed over the grounds like the roiling of thunder, but neither stopped. They went across a clearing and I put on speed to get free of the brush line so I could take aim. Junior stopped that. I tripped over his sprawled figure and went flat on my kisser. The pair scrambled over the wall before I was up. From the ground I tried a snap shot that went wild. On the other side of the wall a car roared into life and shot down the road.

  A woman’s quick, sharp scream split the air like a knife and caught me flat-footed. Everything happened at once. Briars ripped at my clothes when I went through the brush and whipped at my face. Lights went on in the house and Harvey’s voice rang out for help. By the time I reached the porch Billy was standing beside the door in his pajamas.

  “Upstairs, Mike, it’s Miss Malcom. Somebody shot her!”

  Harvey was waving frantically, pointing to her room. I raced inside. Roxy was lying on the floor with blood making a bright red picture on the shoulder of her nightgown. Harvey stood over me, shaking with fear as I ripped the cloth away. I breathed with relief. The bullet had only passed through the flesh under her arm.

  I carried her to bed and called to the butler over my shoulder. “Get some hot water and bandages. Get a doctor up here.”

  Harvey said, “Yes, sir,” and scurried away.

  Billy came in. “Can I do anything, Mike? I . . . I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Okay, stay with her. I want to see the kid.”

  I opened the door to Ruston’s room and turned on the light. He was sitting up, holding himself erect with his hands, his eyes were fixed on the wall in a blank stare, his mouth open. He never saw me. I shook him, he was stiff as a board, every muscle in his body as rigid as a piece of steel. He jerked convulsively once or twice, never taking his eyes from the wall. It took a lot of force to pull his arms up and straighten him out.

  “Harvey, did you call that doctor?”

  Billy sang out, “He’s doing it now, Mike.”

  “Damn it, tell him to hurry. The kid’s having a fit or something.”

  He hollered down the stairs to Harvey; I could hear the excited stuttering over the telephone, but it would be awhile before a medic would reach the house. Ruston began to tremble, his eyes rolled back in his head. Leaning over I slapped him sharply across the cheek.

  “Ruston, snap out of it.” I slapped him again. “Ruston.”

  This time his eyelids flickered, he came back to normal with a sob. His mouth twitched and he covered his face with his hands. Suddenly he sat up in bed and shouted, “Mike!”

  “I’m right here, kid,” I said, “take it easy.” His face found mine and he reached for my hand. He was trembling from head to foot, his body bathed in cold sweat.

  “Miss Malcom . . . ?”

  “Is all right,” I answered. “She just got a good scare, that’s all.” I didn’t want to frighten him any more than he was. “Did someone come in here?”

  He squeezed my hand. “No . . . there was a noise, and Miss Malcom screamed. Mike, I’m not very brave at all. I’m scared.”

  The kid had a right to be. “It was nothing. Cover up and be still. I’ll be in the next room. Want me to leave the door open?”

  “Please, Mike.”

  I left the light on and put a rubber wedge under the door to keep it open. Billy was standing by the bed holding a handkerchief to Roxy’s shoulder. I took it away and looked at it. Not much of a wound, the bullet was of small caliber and had gone in and come out clean. Billy poked me and pointed to the window. The pane had spiderwebbed into a thousand cracks with a neat hole at the bottom a few inches above the sill. Tiny glass fragments winked up from the floor. The shot had come in from below, traveling upward. Behind me in the wall was the bullet hole, a small puncture head high. I dug out the slug from the plaster and rolled it over in my hand. A neat piece of lead whose shape had hardly been deformed by the wall, caliber .32. York’s gun had found its way home.

  I tucked it in my watch pocket. “Stay here, Billy, I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?” He didn’t like me to leave.

  “I got a friend downstairs.”

  Junior was struggling to his feet when I reached him. I helped him with a fist in his collar. This little twerp had a lot of explaining to do. He was a sorry-looking sight. Pieces of gravel were imbedded in the flesh of his face and blood matted the hair of his scalp. One lens of his specs was smashed. I watched him while he detached his lower lip from his teeth, swearing incoherently. The belting he took had left him half dazed, and he didn’t try to resist at all when I walked him toward the house.

  When I sat him in a chair he shook his head, touching the cut on his temple. He kept repeating a four-letter word over and over until realization of what had happened hit him. His head came up and I thought he was going to spit at me.

  “You got it!” he said accusingly on the verge of tears now.

  “Got what?” I leaned forward to get every word. His eyes narrowed.

  Junior said sullenly, “Nothing.”

  Very deliberately I took his tie in my hand and pulled it. He tried to draw back, but I held him close. “Little chum,” I said, “you are in a bad spot, very bad. You’ve been caught breaking and entering. You stole something from York’s private hideaway and Miss Malcom has been shot. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll talk.”

  “Shot . . . killed?”

  There was no sense letting him know the truth. “She’s not dead yet. If she dies you’re liable to face a murder charge.”

  “No. No. I didn’t do it. I admit I was in the laboratory, but I didn’t shoot her. I . . . I didn’t get a chance to. Those men jumped on me. I fought for my life.”

  “Did you? Were you really unconscious? Maybe. I went after them until I heard Miss Malcom scream. Did she scream because you shot her, then faked being knocked out all the while?”

  He turned white. A little vein in his forehead throbbed, his hands tightened until his nails drew blood from the palms. “You can’t pin it on me,” he said. “I didn’t do it, I swear.”

  “No? What did you take from the room back there?”

  A pause, then, “Nothing.”

  I reached for his pockets, daring him to move. Each one I turned inside out, dumping their contents around the bottom of the chair. A wallet, theater stubs, two old letters, some keys and fifty-five cents in change. That was all.

  “So somebody else wanted what you found, didn’t they?” He didn’t answer. “They got it, too.”

  “I didn’t have anything,” he repeated.

  He was lying through his teeth. “Then why did they wait for you and beat your brains out? Answer that one.” He was quiet. I took the will out and waved it at him. “It went with this. It was more important than this, though. But what would be more important to you than a will? You’re stupid, Junior. You aren’t in this at all, are you? If you had sense enough to burn it you might have come into big dough when the estate was split up, especially with the kid under age. But no, you didn’t care whether the will was found and probated or not, because the other thing was more important. It meant more money. How, Junior, how?”

  For my little speech I had a sneer thrown at me. “All right,” I told him, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Right now you look like hell, but you’re beautiful compared
to what you’ll look like in ten minutes. I’m going to slap the crap out of you until you talk. Yell all you want to, it won’t do any good.”

  I pulled back my hand. Junior didn’t wait, he started speaking. “Don’t. It was nothing. I . . . I stole some money from my uncle once. He caught me and made me sign a statement. I didn’t want it to be found or I’d never get a cent. That was it.”

  “Yes? What made it so important that someone else would want it?”

  “I don’t know. There was something else attached to the statement that I didn’t look at. Maybe they wanted that.”

  It could have been a lie, but I wasn’t sure. What he said made sense. “Did you shoot Miss Malcom?”

  “That’s silly.” I tightened up on the tie again. “Please, you’re choking me. I didn’t shoot anyone. I never saw her. You can tell, the police have a test haven’t they?”

  “Yes, a paraffin test. Would you submit to it?”

  Relief flooded his face and he nodded. I let him go. If he had pulled the trigger he wouldn’t be so damn anxious. Besides, I knew for sure that he hadn’t been wearing gloves.

  A car pulled up outside and Harvey admitted a short, stout man carrying the bag of his profession. They disappeared upstairs. I turned to Junior. “Get out of here, but stay where you can be reached. If you take a powder I’ll squeeze your skinny neck until you turn blue. Remember one thing, if Miss Malcom dies you’re it, see, so you better start praying.”

  He shot out of the chair and half ran for the door. I heard his feet pounding down the drive. I went upstairs.

  “How is she?” The doctor applied the last of the tape over the compress and turned.

  “Nothing serious. Fainted from shock.” He put his instruments back in his bag and took out a notebook. Roxy stirred and woke up.

  “Of course you know I’ll have to report this. The police must have a record of all gunshot wounds. Her name, please.”

  Roxy watched me from the bed. I passed it to her. She murmured, “Helen Malcom.”