The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  “Don’t keep secrets, Mike, who did it?”

  I threw the butt down, stamped on it. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, Price.”

  “You’ll tell me now, Mike.”

  “Don’t fight me, kid. I appreciate all that you did for me, but I don’t throw anyone to the dogs until I’m sure.”

  “You’ve killed enough people to be sure. Who was it?”

  “It still goes. I have to check one little detail.”

  “What?”

  “Something that makes a noise like a cough.”

  Price thought I was crazy. “You tell me now or I’ll hold you until you do. I can’t stick my neck out any further. I’ll have hot breaths blowing on my back too, and they’ll be a lot hotter if I can’t explain this mix-up!”

  I was tired. I felt like curling up there with Dilwick and going to sleep. “Don’t squeeze, Price. I’ll tell you tomorrow. When you take this little package home . . .” I swept my hand around the room, “. . . you’ll get a commendation.” Over in the corner a trooper was taking the bonds from the girls. Grange was moaning again. “You can get her side of the story anyway, and that will take care of your superiors until you hear from me.”

  The sergeant waited a long moment then shrugged his shoulders. “You win. I’ve waited this long . . . I guess tomorrow will be all right. Let’s get out of here.”

  We carried Grange out together with the other trooper lugging the Cook girl over his shoulder. Myra Grange’s pupils were big black circles, dilated to the utmost. She was hopped up to the ears. We got them into one of the police cars then stood around until the casino gang was manacled to each other and the clientele weeded out. I grinned when I spotted a half-dozen Sidon cops in the group. They had stopped bellowing long ago, and from the worried looks being passed around it was going to be a race to see who could talk the loudest and the fastest. There would be a new police force in Sidon this time next week. The public might be simple enough to let themselves be bullied around and their government rot out from underneath them, but it would only go so far. An indignant public is like a mad bull. It wouldn’t stop until every tainted employee on the payroll was in a cell. Maybe they’d even give me a medal. Yeah, maybe.

  I was sick of watching. I called Price over and told him I was going back. His face changed, but he said nothing. There was a lot he wanted to say, but he could tell how it was with me. Price nodded and let me climb into my car. I backed it up and turned around in the drive. Tomorrow would be a busy day. I’d have to prepare my statements on the whole affair to hand over to a grand jury, then get set to prove it. You don’t simply kill people and walk away from it. Hell, no. Righteous kill or not the law had to be satisfied.

  Yes, tomorrow would be a busy day. Tonight would be even busier. I had to see a killer about a murder.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was ten after eleven when I reached the York estate. Henry came out of his gatehouse, saw me and gaped as though he were looking at a ghost. “Good heavens, Mr. Hammer. The police are searching all over for you! You . . . you killed a man.”

  “So I did,” I said sarcastically. “Open the gates.”

  “No . . . I can’t let you come in here. There’ll be trouble.”

  “There will if you don’t open the gates.” His face seemed to sag and his whole body assumed an air of defeat. Disgust was written in the set of his mouth, disgust at having to look at a man who shot a fellow man. I drove through and stopped.

  “Henry, come here.”

  The gatekeeper shuffled over reluctantly. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m not wanted any longer, Henry. The police have settled the matter up to a certain point.”

  “You mean you didn’t . . .”

  “No, I mean I shot him, but it was justified. I’ve been cleared, understand?”

  He smiled a little, not quite understanding, but he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he knew he wasn’t harboring a fugitive in me. I pulled up the driveway to the house, easing around the turns until the beams of my brights spotlighted the house. Inside I saw Harvey coming to the door. Instead of parking in front of the place I rolled around to the side and nosed into the open door of the garage. A big six-car affair, but now there were only two cars in it, counting mine. A long time ago someone started using it for a storeroom and now one end was cluttered with the junk accumulated over the years. Two boys’ bicycles were hanging from a suspension gadget set in the ceiling and underneath them a newer model with a small one-cylinder engine built into the frame. Hanging from a hook screwed into an upright were roller skates and ice skates, but neither pair had been used much. Quite a childhood Ruston had.

  I shut the door of the garage and looked up. The rain had started. The tears of the gods. Of laughter or sorrow? Maybe the joke was on me, after all.

  Harvey was his usual, impeccable, unmoving self as he took my hat and ushered me into the living room. He made no mention of the affair whatsoever, nor did his face reveal any curiosity. Even before he announced me, Roxy was on her way down the stairs with Ruston holding her arm. Billy Parks came out of the foyer grinning broadly, his hand outstretched. “Mike! You sure got your nerve. By gosh, you’re supposed to be Public Enemy Number One!”

  “Mike!”

  “Hello, Lancelot. Hello, Roxy. Let me give you a hand.”

  “Oh, I’m no cripple,” she laughed. “The stairs get me a little, but I can get around all right.”

  “What happened, Mike?” Ruston smiled. “The policemen all left this evening after they got a phone call and we haven’t seen them since. Golly, I was afraid you’d been shot or something. We thought they caught you.”

  “Well, they came close, kid, but they never even scratched me. It’s all finished. I’m in the clear and I’m about ready to go home.”

  Billy Parks stopped short in the act of lighting a cigarette. His hands began to tremble slightly and he had trouble finding the tip of the butt.

  Ruston said, “You mean the police don’t want you any longer, Mike?” I shook my head. He gave a little cry of gladness and ran to me, throwing his arms about me in a tight squeeze. “Gee, Mike, I’m so happy.”

  I patted his arm and smiled crookedly. “Yep, I’m almost an honest man again.”

  “Mike . . .”

  Roxy’s voice was the hoarse sound of a rasp on wood. She was clutching the front of her negligee with one hand, trying to push a streamer of hair from her eyes with the other. A little muscle twitched in her cheek. “Who . . . did it, Mike?”

  Billy was waiting. Roxy was waiting. I heard Harvey pause outside the door. Ruston looked from them to me, puzzled. The air in the room was charged, alive. “You’ll hear about it tomorrow,” I said.

  Billy Parks dropped his cigarette.

  “Why not now?” Roxy gasped.

  I took a cigarette from my pocket and stuffed it between my lips. Billy fumbled for his on the floor and held the lit tip to mine. I dragged the smoke in deeply. Roxy was beginning to go white, biting on her lip. “You’d better go to your room, Roxy. You don’t look too good.”

  “Yes . . . yes. I had better. Excuse me. I really don’t feel too well. The stairs . . .” She let it go unfinished. While Ruston helped her up I stood there in silence with Billy. The kid came down again in a minute.

  “Do you think she’ll be all right, Mike?”

  “I think so.”

  Billy crushed his cig out in an ashtray. “I’m going to bed, Mike. This day has been tough enough.”

  I nodded. “You going to bed, too, Ruston?”

  “What’s the matter with everybody, Mike?”

  “Nervous, I guess.”

  “Yes, that’s it, I suppose.” His face brightened. “Let me play for them. I haven’t played since . . . that night. But I want to play, Mike. Will it be all right?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  He grinned and ran out of the room. I heard him arrange the seat, then lift the lid of the piano, and the next moment the heavy melody of a classical pie
ce filled the house. I sat down and listened. It was gay one moment, serious the next. He ran up and down the keys in a fantasy of expression. Good music to think by. I chain-lit another cigarette, wondering how the music was affecting the murderer. Did it give him a creepy feeling? Was every note part of his funeral theme? Three cigarettes gone in thought and still I waited. The music had changed now, it was lilting, rolling in song. I put the butt out and stood up. It was time to see the killer.

  I put my hand on the knob and turned, stepped in the room and locked the door behind me. The killer was smiling at me, a smile that had no meaning I could fathom. It was a smile of neither defeat nor despair, but nearer to triumph. It was no way for a murderer to smile. The bells in my head were rising in a crescendo with the music.

  I said to the murderer, “You can stop playing now, Ruston.”

  The music didn’t halt. It rose in spirit and volume while Ruston York created a symphony from the keyboard, a challenging overture to death, keeping time with my feet as I walked to a chair and sat down. Only when I pulled the .45 from its holster did the music begin to diminish. My eyes never left his face. It died out in a crashing maze of minor chords that resounded from the walls with increased intensity.

  “So you found me out, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Yes.”

  “I rather expected it these last few days.” He crossed his legs with complete nonchalance and barely a glance at the gun in my hand. I felt my temper being drawn to the brink of unreason, my lips tightening.

  “You’re a killer, little buddy,” I said. “You’re a blood-crazy, insane little bastard. It’s so damn inconceivable that I can hardly believe it myself, but it’s so. You had it well planned, chum. Oh, but you would, you’re a genius. I forgot. That’s what everyone forgot. You’re only fourteen but you can sit in with scientists and presidents and never miss a trick.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have a hair-trigger mind, Ruston. You can conceive and coordinate and anticipate beyond all realm of imagination. All the while I was batting my brains out trying to run down a killer you must have held your sides laughing. You knew pretty well what killing York would expose . . . a series of crimes and petty personalities scrambled together to make the dirtiest omelet ever cooked. But you’d never cook for it. Oh, no . . . not you. If . . . if you were found out the worst that could happen would be that you’d face a juvenile court. That’s what you thought, didn’t you? Like hell.

  “Yes, you’re only a child, but you have a man’s mind. That’s why I’m talking to you like I would to a man. That’s why I can kill you like I would a man.”

  He sat there unmoving. If he knew fear he showed it only in the tiny blue vein that throbbed in his forehead. The smile still played around his mouth. “Being a genius, I guess you thought I was stupid,” I continued. With every word my heart beat harder and faster until I was filled with hate. “It was getting so that I thought I was stupid myself. Why wouldn’t I? Every time I turned around something would happen that was so screwy that it didn’t have any place in the plot, yet in a way it was directly related. Junior Ghent and Alice. The Graham boys. Each trying to chop off a slice of cash for themselves. Each one concerned with his own little individual problem and completely unknowing of the rest. It was a beautiful setup for you.

  “But please don’t think I was stupid, Ruston. The only true stupidity I showed was in calling you Lancelot. If I ever meet the good knight somewhere I’ll beg him to forgive me. But I wasn’t so stupid otherwise, Ruston. I found out that Grange had something on York . . . and that something was the fact that she was the only one who knew that he was a kidnapper in a sense. York . . . an aging scientist who wanted an heir badly so he could pass on his learning to his son . . . but his son died. So what did he do? He took a kid who had been born of a criminal father and would have been reared in the gutter, and turned him into a genius. But after a while the genius began to think and hate. Why? Hell, only you know that.

  “But somewhere you got hold of the details concerning your birth. You knew that York had only a few years to live and you knew, too, that Grange had threatened to expose the entire affair if he didn’t leave his money to her. Your father (should I call him that?) was a thinker too. He worked out a proposition with Alice to have an affair with his lesbian assistant and hold that over her head as a club, and it worked, except that Junior Ghent learned of the affair when his sister told him that York had proposed the same deal to her, too, and Junior wanted to hold that over Grange’s head, and Alice’s, too, so that he could come in for part of the property split. Man, what a scramble it was after that. Everybody thought I had the dope when it was lying beside the wall out there. Yeah, the wall. Remember the shot you took at Roxy? You were in your room. You tossed that lariat that was beside your bed around the awning hook outside her window, swung down and shot at her through the glass. She had the light on and couldn’t see out, but she was a perfect target. You missed at that range only because you were swinging. That really threw me off the track. Nice act you put on when I brought the doctor in. You had him fooled too. I didn’t get that until a little while ago.

  “Now I know. You, as an intelligent, emotional man, were in love. What a howl. In love with your nurse.” His face darkened. The vein began to throb harder than ever and his hands clenched into a tight knot. “You shot at her because you saw me and Roxy in a clinch and were jealous. Brother, how happy you must have been when the cops were on my back with orders to shoot to kill. I thought you were simply surprised to see me when I climbed in the window that time. Your face went white, remember? For one second there you thought I came back to get you. That was it, wasn’t it?”

  His head nodded faintly, but still he said nothing. “Then you saw your chance of bringing the cops charging up by knocking over the lamp. Brilliant mind again. You knew the bulb breaking would sound like a shot. Too bad I got away, wasn’t it?

  “If I wasn’t something of a scientist myself I never would have guessed it. Let me tell you how confounded smart I am. Your time doesn’t matter much anyway. I caught up with one of your play-mates that snatched you. I beat the living hell out of him and would have done worse to make him talk and he knew it. I’m a scientist at that kind of stuff. He would have talked his head off, only he didn’t have anything to say. You know what I asked him? I asked him who Mallory was and he didn’t know any Mallory. Good reason too, because ever since you were yanked out of his hands, your father went by the name of Nelson.

  “No, he didn’t know any Mallory, yet you came home after the kidnapping and said . . . you . . . heard . . . the . . . name . . . Mallory . . . mentioned. When I finally got it I knew who the killer was. Then I began to figure how you worked it. Someplace in the house, and I’ll find it later, you have the information and Grange’s proof that you were Mallory’s son. Was it a check that York gave Myra Grange? Somehow you located Mallory and sent him the clipping out of the back issue in the library and the details on how to kidnap you. That was why the clipping was gone. You set yourself up to be snatched hoping that the shock would kill York. It damn near did. You did it well, too, even to the point of switching Henry’s aspirins to sleeping tablets. You set yourself up knowing you could outthink the ordinary mortals on the boat and get away. You came mighty close to failing, pal. I wish you had.

  “But when that didn’t do it you resorted to murder . . . and what a murder. No sweeter deal could have been cooked up by anyone. You knew that when York heard Mallory’s name brought into it he’d think Grange had spilled the works and go hunting up his little pet. You thought correctly. York went out there with a gun, but I doubt if he intended to use it. The rod was supposed to be a bluff. Billy heard York leave, and he heard me leave, but how did you reach the apartment? Let me tell you. Out in the garage there’s a motorbike. Properly rigged they can do sixty or seventy any day. The noise like a cough that Billy heard was you, Ruston. The sound of the motorbike, low and throaty. I noticed it had a muffler on it. Yeah, Y
ork had a gun, and you had to take along a weapon too. A meat cleaver. When I dreamed up all this I wondered why nobody spotted you going or coming, but it wouldn’t be too hard to take to the back roads.

  “Ruston, you were born under an evil, lucky star. Everything that happened after you surprised York in that room and split his skull worked in your favor. Hell seemed to break loose with everybody trying to cut in on York’s dough. Even Dilwick. A crooked copper working for Mallory. Your real father needed that protection and Dilwick fitted right in. Dilwick must have guessed at part of the truth without ever really catching on, and he played it to keep Mallory clear and in a good spot to call for a rake-off, but he got too eager. Dilwick’s dead and the rest of his lousy outfit are where they’re supposed to be, cooling their heels in a cell.

  “But where are you? You . . . the killer. You’re sitting here listening to me spiel off everything you already know about and you’re not a bit worried. Why should you be? Three or four years in an institution for the criminally insane . . . then prove yourself normal and go back into the world to kill again. You have ethics like Grange. There was a woman who probably loved her profession. She loved it so much she saw a chance to further her career by aiding York, then using it as a club to gain scientific recognition for herself.

  “But you on . . . hell.” I spit the word out. “You banked on getting away scot-free first, then as a second-best choice facing a court. Maybe you’d even get a suspended sentence. Sure, why not? Any psychiatrist would see how that could happen. Under the pressure of your studies your mind snapped. Boy, have you got a brain! No chair, not for you. Maybe a couple of years yanked from your life span, but what did it matter? You were twenty years ahead of yourself anyway. That was it, wasn’t it? Ha!