The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 2

by Mickey Spillane

  He came away from the door frame with a scowl. “Goddamn it, Mike, play it straight if you have to play it at all!”

  I said a couple of words.

  “You’ve had it, Mike,” he told me. He put it flat and simple as if I knew just what he meant.

  “You could tell me about it.”

  “Look, Mike, I’m a cop. You were my friend and all that, but I’m not getting down on my knees to anybody. I did everything but threaten you to lay off and what happened? You did it your way anyhow. It doesn’t go, feller. It’s finished, washed up. I hated to see it happen, but it was just a matter of time. I thought you were smart enough to understand. I was wrong.

  “That isn’t telling me about it.”

  “Cut it, Mike. Toady’s dead. He was shot with a .45,” he said.

  “And I’m tagged.”

  “That’s right,” Pat nodded. “You’re tagged.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Sometimes you get mad and sometimes you don’t. If there was any of that crazy anger in me it had all been drained out up there in Ellen’s apartment. Now it’s making sense, I thought. Now it’s where it should be.

  Pat dropped my gun in his pocket. “Let’s go, Mike.”

  So I went as far as the front door and watched the rain wash through under the sill. Before Pat opened the door I said, “You’re sure about this, aren’t you?”

  He was sure. Two minutes ago he had been as sure of it as the day he was born and now he wasn’t sure of it at all. His mouth hardened into a gash that pushed his eyes halfway shut with some uncontrollable emotion until they seemed to focus on something right behind me.

  I didn’t want him to answer me before he knew. “I didn’t kill him, Pat. I was hoping I would, but somebody beat me to it.”

  “The M.E. sets the time of death around four o‘clock last night.” His voice asked for an explanation.

  I said, “You should have told me, Pat. I was real busy then. Real busy.”

  His hand came away from the door. “You mean you can prove it?”

  “I mean just that.”

  “Mike ... if you’re lying ...”

  “I’ve never been that stupid. You ought to know that.”

  “I ought to know a lot of things. I ought to know where you were every minute of last night.”

  “You know how to find out.”

  “Show me.”

  I didn’t like the way he was looking at me at all. Maybe I’m not so good at lying any more, and I was lying my head off. Last night I was busy as hell sleeping and there wasn’t one single way I could prove it. If I tried to tell him the truth it would take a month to talk my way clear.

  I said, “Come on,” and headed for the phone in the lobby. I shoved a dime in the slot and dialed a number, hoping that I could put enough across with a few words to say what I wanted. He stood right there at my elbow ready to take the phone away as soon as I got my party and ask the question himself.

  I couldn’t mistake her voice. It was like seeing her again with the lava green of her dress flowing from her waist.

  “This is Mike, Marsha. A policeman ... wants to ask you something. Mind?”

  That was as far as I could get. Pat had the phone while she was still trying to figure it out. He gave me a hard smile and turned to the phone. “Captain Chambers speaking. I understand you can account for Mr. Hammer’s whereabouts last night. Is that correct?”

  Her voice was music pouring out of the receiver. Pat glanced at me sharply, curiously, then muttered his thanks and hung up. He still didn’t quite know what to make of it. “So you spent the night with the lady.”

  I said a beautiful thanks to Marsha under my breath. “That’s not for publication, Pat.”

  “You better stop tomcatting around when Velda gets back, friend.”

  “It makes a good alibi.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to see the guy who’d sooner kill Toady than sleep with a chick like that. Okay, Mike, you got yourself an alibi. I have a screwy notion that I shouldn’t believe it, but Link isn’t Decker and if you’re in this there’ll be hell to pay and I’ll find out about it soon enough.”

  I handed him a butt and flipped a light with my thumbnail. “Can I hear about the deal or is it secret info like everything else?”

  “There’s not much to it. Somebody walked in and killed him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “He was in bed asleep. He got it right through the head and whoever killed him went through the place like a cyclone. I’m going back there now if you want to come along.”

  “Blue boy there?”

  “The D.A. doesn’t know about it yet. He’s out with the vice squad again,” Pat said tiredly.

  “You checked the bullet, didn’t you?”

  Pat squirmed a little. “I didn’t wait for the report. I was so goddamned positive it was you that I came right over. Besides, you could have switched barrels if you felt like it. I’ve seen the extras you have.”

  “Thanks. I’m a real great guy.”

  “Quit rubbing it in.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “As far as we know, the police were the first on the scene. A telegraph boy with a message for Toady saw the door open and went to shut it. Enough stuff was kicked around inside to give him the idea there was a robbery. He was sure of it when he rang the bell and nobody answered. He called the police and they found the body.”

  “Got any idea what they were looking for ... or if they found it?”

  Pat threw the butt at the floor. “No. Come on, take a look at it yourself. Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

  What was left of Toady wouldn’t make anybody feel better. Death had taken the roundness from his body and made an oblong slab of it. He lay there on his back with his eyes closed and his mouth open, a huge, fat frog as unlovely dead as he was alive. Right in the center of his forehead was the hole. It was a purplish-black hole with scorched edges flecked by powder burns. Whoever held the gun held it mighty close. If there was a back to his head it was smashed into the pillow.

  Outside on the street a couple more prowl cars screamed to a stop and feet came pounding into the house. A lone newshawk was sounding off about the rights of the press and being told to shut up. Pat left me there with a plain-clothesman while he got things organized and started the cops going through the rooms in a methodical search for anything that might be a lead.

  When I had enough of Toady I went downstairs and followed Pat around, watching him paw through the wreckage of the living room. “Somebody didn’t make a lot of noise, did they?”

  I got a sharp grin. “Brother, this place was really searched.”

  I picked up a maple armchair and looked at it closely. There wasn’t a scratch on it. There weren’t any scratches on anything for that matter. For all the jumble that it seemed to be, the room had been carefully and methodically torn apart and the pieces put down nice and gently. You could even see some order in the way it was done. The slits in the seat cushions were evenly cut all in the same place. Anything that could be unscrewed or pulled out was unscrewed or pulled out. Books were scattered all over the floor, some with the back linings ripped right out of them.

  Pat had one in his hand and waved it at me. “It wasn’t very big if they went looking for it here.”

  I thought I said something to myself, but I said it out loud and Pat’s head swiveled around at me. “What?”

  I didn’t tell him the second time. I shook my head, knowing the leer I was wearing had pulled my face out of shape and if Pat had good eyes he could read what I was thinking without looking any farther than my eyes. He might have done it if a cop hadn’t come up to tell him about the junk in the basement, and he left me standing in the middle of the room right where Toady had made me stand, only this time I wasn’t after Toady’s hide any more because he wasn’t the end at all.

  Another cop came in looking for Pat. I told him he was downstairs and would be right back. The cop spread out the stuff in his hand
and flashed it at me. “Look at the pin-ups I found.” He gave a short laugh. “I guess he didn’t go for this new stuff. Don’t blame him. I like the pre-war crop better myself.”

  “Let’s see them.”

  He handed them over to me as he looked through them.

  Half of them were regular studio stills and the rest were enlargements of snapshots taken during stage shows. Every one of them was personally autographed to Charlie Fallon with love and sometimes kisses from some of the biggest stars in Hollywood.

  When he was done with the pictures the cop let me look at a couple of loose-leaf pads that had scrawled notations of appointments to be made for more photos of more lovelies and the list of private phone numbers he had accumulated would have made any Broadway columnist drool. Every so often there was a reminder after a name ... introduction to F.

  And there it was again. Fallon. No matter where I turned the name came up. Fallon, Fallon, Fallon. Arnold Basil was an old Fallon boy. All the dames knew Fallon, Toady had some connection with Fallon. Damn it, the guy was supposed to be dead!

  I didn’t wait for Pat to come back. I told the cop to tell him I’d left and would call up tomorrow. Before I got to the door the reporter who was trying to make the most of being first on the scene tried to corner me for a story and I shook my head no. He dropped me for the cop and got the same story.

  Something had gentled the rain, taking the madness out of it. The curious were there in a tight knot at the gate shrinking together under umbrellas and raincoats to gape at the death place and speculate among themselves. I managed to push myself through to the outer fringes of the crowd with about a minute to spare. Just as I broke clear the D.A. came in from the other side with his boys doing the blocking. His face was blacker than the night itself and I knew right away that somebody had crossed him up on another deal. His boat still had a hole in the bottom and if it leaked any more he was going to get swamped.

  If it hadn’t been so late I would have called Marsha to kiss her hand for pulling me out of a spot, but tonight I didn’t want to see anybody or speak to anybody. I wanted to stretch out in bed and think. I wanted to start at the beginning and chew my way through it slowly until I found the tough hunk that didn’t chew so easily and put it through the grinder.

  Then I’d have my killer.

  Two blocks down a hackie tooted his horn at me and I ran for the door he held open. I gave him my address and settled back into the seat. The guy was one of those Dodger fans who couldn’t keep quiet about how the bums were doing and talked my ear off until I climbed out in front of my apartment and handed over a couple of bucks.

  I got all the way upstairs and there they were again. Two of them this time. One was big as a house and the other wasn’t much smaller. The little guy closed in with a badge flashing in his palm while the other one stood by ready to take me if I didn’t act right. Both of them kept one hand in their pockets just to let me know that the play was theirs all the way.

  The guy said, “Police, buddy” and stowed the badge back in his pants.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “You’ll find out. Get moving.”

  The other one said, “Wait a minute,” and yanked my gun out of the holster. Under his flat smile his teeth were yellowed from too much smoking. “You’re supposed to have a bad temper. Guns and guys with bad tempers don’t go together.”

  “Neither do badges without those leather wallets a cop keeps them in.”

  I caught the quick look that passed between them, but I caught the nose of a gun in my back at the same time. The big guy smiled again. “Wise guy. You wanta do it the hard way.”

  “That rod’ll make a big boom in here. A nice quiet joint like this people’ll want to know what all the noise is about.”

  The gun pressed in a little deeper. “Maybe. You won’t hear it, buddy. Move.”

  Those two were real pros. Not the kind of hoods who pick up some extra change with nickel-plated rods either. These were delivery boys, the real McCoy. They knew just where to stand so I couldn’t move in and just how to look so nobody would get the pitch. One had a pint bottle of whisky outlined in his inside jacket pocket to pour over me so I’d smell like a drunk in case they had to carry me out. And they had that look. Somebody had given the orders to bump me fast if I tried to get rough.

  That look was enough for me. Besides, I was curious myself.

  We got downstairs and big boy said, “Where’s your car?”

  I pointed it out. He snapped his fingers for my keys and got them. The other one did something with his hand and a car down the block pulled away from the curb and shot by us without looking over.

  It didn’t take much to see what was going to happen. I was getting a one-way ride in my own car. After I was delivered someplace first. I wasn’t supposed to know about it. I was supposed to be a real good boy and act nice and polite so they wouldn’t have any trouble with me. I was supposed to be a goddamn fool and let myself get killed with no fuss at all while a couple of pros congratulated themselves on their technique.

  My head started banging with that insane music that was all kettle-drums and shrill flutes blended together in wild discord until my hands shook with the madness of it. What kind of a simple jerk did they take me for? Maybe they thought they were the only ones who were pros in this game. Maybe they thought this had never happened before and if it had I wouldn’t be ready for it to happen again.

  By God, if they played this the way a pro would play it they were going to get one hell of a jolt. I had a .32 hammerless automatic in a boot between the seat and the door right where I could get at it if I had to.

  They played it that way too. Big boy said, “You drive, shamus. Take it nice and easy or we’ll take it for you.” He held the door open so I could get in and was right there beside me when I slid under the wheel. He didn’t crowd me. Not him, he was an old-timer. He kept plenty of room between us, sitting jammed into the corner with his arm on the sill. His other arm was in his lap pointing my own gun at me. The little guy didn’t say much. He climbed in back and leaned on the seat behind my head like he was talking to me confidentially. But it was the gun he had pressed against my neck that was doing all the talking.

  We took a long ride that night. We were three happy people taking a cruise out to the shore. To keep everybody happy I switched on the radio and picked up a disk jockey and made a habit of lighting my cigarettes from the dashboard lighter so they’d get used to seeing my arms move around.

  My pal beside me was calling the turns and someplace before we came to Islip he said, “Slow down.” Up ahead a macadam road intersected the highway. “Go right until I tell you to turn.”

  I swung around the corner and followed the black strip of road. It lasted a half-mile, butting against an oiled-top dirt road that went the rest of the way. We made a few more turns after that and I started to smell the ocean coming in strong with the wind. The houses had thinned out until they were only black shapes on spindly legs every quarter-mile or so. The road curved gently away from the shore line, threading its way through the knee-high sawgrass that bent with the breeze and whisked against the fender of the car with an insidious hissing sound.

  Nobody had to tell me to stop. I saw the shaded lights of the house and the bulk of the sedan against its side and I eased on the brakes. Big boy looked pleased with himself and the pressure of the gun on my neck relaxed. The guy behind me got out and stood by the door while the other one tucked the keys in his pocket and came up stepping on my shadow.

  “You got the idea good,” he told me. “Let’s keep it that way. Inside and take it slow.”

  I practically crawled. The boys stayed behind me and to the right and left, beautiful spots in case I tried to run for it. Either one of them could have cut me down before I got two feet. I picked the last smoke out of my pack and dropped the empty wrapper. Shortie was even smart enough to pick that up. I didn’t have a match and nobody offered me one, so I let it droop there between my lip
s. It was a little too soon to start worrying. This wasn’t the time nor the place. A body doesn’t hide so easy and neither does a car. When we went we’d go together. I could almost draw a picture of the way it would happen.

  The door opened and the guy was a thin dark shadow against the light. I said, “Hello, scrimey.”

  I should have kept my mouth shut. Lou Grindle backhanded me across the mouth so that my teeth went right through my lips. Two guns hit me in the spine at the same time ramming me right into him and I couldn’t have gotten away with it in a million years but I tried anyway. I hooked him down as low as I could then felt my knuckles rip open when I got him in the mouth.

  Neither of the guys behind me dared risk a shot, but they did just as well. One of them brought a gun barrel around as hard as he could. There wasn’t even any pain to it, just a loud click that grew into a thunderous wave of sound that threw me flat on the floor and rolled over me.

  The pain didn’t come until later. It wasn’t there in my head where I thought it would be. It was all over, a hundred agonizing points of torture where the toe of a shoe had ripped through my clothes and torn into the skin. Something dripped slowly and steadily like a leaky faucet. Every movement sent the pain shooting up from my feet and if screaming wouldn’t have only made it worse I would have screamed. I got one eye open. The other was covered by a puffy mass of flesh on my cheek-bone that kept it shut.

  Somebody said, “He’s awake.”

  “He’ll get it worse this time.”

  “I’ll tell you when.” The voice was so decisive that nobody gave it to me worse.

  I managed to focus the one good eye then. It was pointed at the floor looking at my feet. They were together at attention strapped to the rungs of a chair. My arms weren’t there at all so I guess that they were tied someplace behind the same chair. And the drip wasn’t from the faucet at all.

  It was from something on my face that used to be a nose.

  Somehow, I dragged myself straight up. It didn’t hurt so bad then. When the fuzziness went away I squinted my one good eye against the light and saw them sitting around like vultures waiting for the victim to die. The two boys with the rods over by the door and Lou Grindle holding a bloody towel to his mouth.