One Lonely Night

by Mickey Spillane

  “No, there wasn’t anything to empty.”

  “Go look if there’s a cigarette pack there. Don’t touch it.”

  She dropped the phone and I heard her heels clicking along the floor. In a moment she was back. “It’s there, Mike.”

  “Swell. Take it out of there without touching it if you can. Put it in a box and have a boy run it down to Pat right away.”

  Pat watched me curiously. When I hung up he said, “What is it?”

  “An almost empty pack of butts. Do me a favor and lift the prints off it. You’ll find a lot of mine on them and if I’m lucky you’ll find some others too.”

  “Whose?”

  “Hell, how do I know? That’s why I want you to get the prints. I need an identification. That is, if we’re still friends.”

  “Still friends, Mike,” he grinned. I socked him on the arm and started for the door again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THAT NIGHT the nation got the report on the 6:15 P.M. news broadcast. There had been a leak in the State Department and the cat was out of the bag. It seemed that we had had a secret. Somebody else was in on it now. The latest development in the process for the annihilation of man had been stolen. Supposedly secret files had been rifled and indications pointed to the duplication of the secret papers. The FBI was making every effort to track down the guilty parties.

  I threw my cigarette against the wall and started swearing until I ran out of words. Then I started over again. The commentator droned on repeating what he had already said and I felt like screaming at him to tell the world who took those damn papers. Tell ’em it was the same outfit who tried to make a mockery of our courts and who squirmed into the government and tried to bring it down around our necks. Tell everybody who did it. You know you want to say it; what are you afraid of?

  There wasn’t any doubt of it now, those documents the general had been so anxious to get hold of were the ones we were looking for ourselves! My guts were all knoted up in a ball and my head felt like a machineshop was going on inside it. Here I had the whole lousy situation right in my hands and I had to keep it there.

  Me. Mike Hammer. I was up in the big leagues now. No more plain and simple murders. I was playing ball with the big boys and they played rough. The end justified the means, that was their theory. Lie, steal, kill, do anything that was necessary to push a political philosophy that would enslave the world if we let it. Great!

  Nice picture, Judge, a beautiful picture of a world in flames. You must be one of the normal people who get the trembles when they read the papers. A philosophy like that must give you the willies. What are you thinking now ... how that same secret that was stolen might be the cause of your death? And what would you say if you knew that I was the only one who might be able to stop it in time? Okay, Judge, sit your fanny in a chair and relax. I have a little philosophy of my own. Like you said, it’s as bad as theirs. I don’t give a damn for a human life any more, even my own. Want to hear that philosophy? It’s simple enough. Go after the big boys. Oh, don’t arrest them, don’t treat them to the dignity of the democratic process of courts and law ... do the same thing to them that they’d do to you! Treat ‘em to the unglorious taste of sudden death. Get the big boys and show them the long road to nowhere and then one of those stinking little people with little minds will want to get big. Death is funny, Judge, people are afraid of it. Kill ’em left and right, show ’em that we aren’t so soft after all. Kill, kill, kill, kill! They’ll keep away from us then!

  Hell, it was no use trying to smoke. I’d light up a butt and take a drag then throw it away because my fingers weren’t steady enough to hold it. I went inside to the bedroom and took my .45 off the top of the dresser to clean it for the second time. It felt good, feeling the cold butt setting up against the palm of my hand. The deadly noses of the slugs showing in the clip looked so nice and efficient.

  They liked to play dirty, I was thinking. Let’s make it real dirty. I thumbed the slugs out, laying them in a neat row, then took a penknife and clipped the ends off the noses. That was real dirty. They wouldn’t make too much of a hole where they went in, but the hole on the other side would be a beaut. You could stick your head in and look around without getting blood on your ears. I put the gun together, shoved the slugs back in the clip and strapped on the sling. I was ready.

  It was a night to give you the meemies. Something happened to the sky and a slow, sticky fog was rolling in from the river. The cold was penetrating, indecisive as to whether to stay winter or turn into spring. I turned the collar of my coat up around my ears and started walking down the street. I didn’t lose myself in any thoughts this time. My eyes looked straight ahead, but they saw behind me and to either side. They picked up figures hurrying to wherever it was they were going, and the twin yellow eyes of the cars that rolled in the street, boring holes in the fog. My ears picked up footsteps, timed their pace and direction, then discarded them for other sounds.

  I was waiting for them to try again.

  When I reached the corner I crossed over to my car, passed it, then walked back again. I opened the door, felt for the handle that unlocked the hood and took a quick check of the engine. I wasn’t in the mood to get myself blown all over the neighborhood when I started the car. The engine was clean. So was the rest of the heap.

  A car came by and I drew out behind it, getting in line to start the jaunt downtown to the office. The fog was thicker there and the traffic thinner. The subways were getting a big play. I found a place to park right outside the office and scraped my wheels against the curb then cut the engine. I sat there until a quarter to nine trying to smoke my way through a deck of Luckies. I still had a few to go when I went inside, put my name in the night register and had the elevator operator haul me up to my office floor.

  At exactly nine P.M. a key turned in the lock and Velda came in. I swung my feet off the desk and walked out to the outside office and said hello. She smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Did you catch the news broadcast, kid?”

  Her lips peeled back. “I heard it. I didn’t like it.”

  “Neither did I, Velda. We have to get them back.”

  She opened her coat and perched on the edge of the desk. Her eyes were on the floor, staring at a spot on the carpet. She wasn’t just a woman now. An aura of the jungle hung around her, turning her into a female animal scenting a game run and anxious to be in on the kill. “It can’t stop there, Mike.”

  I dropped my butt and ground it into the carpet. “No, it can’t.” I knew what she was thinking and didn’t like it.

  “The papers aren’t all. As far as they can go is to check-mate us. They’ll try again.”

  “Will they?”

  Her eyes moved up to meet mine, but that was all. “We can stop them, Mike.”

  “I can, sugar. Not you. I’m not shoving you into any front lines.”

  Her eyes still held mine. “There’s somebody in this country who directs operations for them. It isn’t anyone we know or the FBI knows or the party knows. It’s somebody who can go and come like anybody else and not be interfered with. There are others who take orders and are equally dangerous because they represent the top of the chain of command and can back up their orders with force if necessary. How long will it take us to get them all, the known and the unknown?”

  “It might take me a long time. Me, I said.”

  “There’s a better way, Mike. We can get all those we know and any we suspect and the rest will run. They’ll get the hell out of here and be afraid to come back.”

  It was almost funny, the way her reasoning followed mine. “Just me, Velda,” I said.

  Her head came up slowly and all I could think of was a big cat, a great big, luxurious cat leaning against the desk. A cat with gleaming black hair darker than the night and a hidden body of smooth skin that covered a wealth of rippling, deadly muscles that were poised for the kill. The desk light made her teeth an even row of merciless ivory, ready to rip and tear. She was still gr
inning, but a cat looks like it’s grinning until you see its ears laid flat back against its head.

  “Mike, there are men and women in this country. They made it together even when it was worse than now. Women learned how to shoot and shoot straight. They learned fast, and knew how to use a gun or a knife and use it right when the time came. I said we’d do it together. Either that or I take the whole thing to Pat.”

  I waited a long minute before I said, “Okay, it’s us. I want it that way anyhow.”

  Velda slid off the desk and reached for my hand. I squeezed it hard, happy as hell I had the sense to realize that I knew what I wanted at last. She said it very simply. “I love you, Mike.”

  I had her in my arms, searched for her mouth and found it, a warm mouth with full, ripe lips that burned into my soul as they fused with mine. I tasted the love she offered and gave it back with all I had to give, crushing her until her breath came in short, quick jerks.

  I held her face in my hands and kissed her eyes and her cheeks, listened to her moan softly and press herself closer and closer. I was lucky as hell and I knew it.

  She opened her eyes when I held her off. I dropped my hand in my pocket and took out the box that I had picked up that afternoon. When I pressed the button the lid flew up and the sapphire threw back a perfect star. My fingers felt big and clumsy when I took it out and slipped it over her finger.

  You don’t have to speak at a time like that. Everything has been said and if anything remains it’s written there in a silent promise your heart makes and that’s all there is to it. Velda looked at it with a strange wonder for a long time before she kissed me again.

  It was better than the last time.

  It told her everything she wanted to know and no matter what happened now nothing would ever change.

  “We have to go,” I said.

  She snapped out the lights while I waited at the door and we went down the elevator together. The watchman gave me the okay sign, so I knew nobody had been near my car while I was gone. When we were back in the fog I told her about Pat’s having kept a man on Oscar’s house and she picked it right up.

  “Maybe ... maybe we’ll be the first.”

  “I’m hoping that,” I said.

  “What will they look like?”

  “I don’t know. If Moffit had them in his pocket, then they were in a package or an envelope big enough to fit in there. It may be that we’re barking up the wrong tree. They might have been on microfilm.”

  “Let’s hope we’re right.”

  About two blocks away I ran the car in between a couple of parked trucks and waved her out. “We’re taking the long way around this time.”

  “Through the alley?”

  “Uh-huh. I don’t like the idea of using the front door. When we reach the opening between the buildings duck in and keep on going.”

  Velda felt for my hand and held on to it. For all the world we might have been just a couple of dopes out for a walk. The fog was a white tube all around us, but it could be hiding a lot of things beside us. We crossed the street, came up around the subway kiosk and walked in the protection of the wall, the two of us searching for the narrow passageway that led behind the buildings.

  As it was, we almost passed it. I stepped in holding Velda’s hand and the darkness swallowed us up. For two or three minutes we stood there letting our eyes accustom themselves to this deeper gloom, then edged forward slowly, picking our way through the trash that had accumulated over the years. Animals and people had made a barely perceptible path through the center of the litter and we followed it until we stood behind the building and could feel our way along the alley by sticking close to the rotted planking that formed the wall of the yards behind the houses.

  Velda was fishing in her handbag and I told her, “No lights. Just keep looking for a pile of bottles. There’s a door in the wall behind it and that’s the place.”

  I tried to judge the distance from that other night and found little to remember. Soft furry things would squeal and run across our feet whenever we disturbed the junk lying around. Tiny pairs of eyes would glare at us balefully and retreat when we came closer. A cat moved in the darkness and trapped a pair of eyes that had been paying too much attention to us and the jungle echoed with a mad death cry.

  Velda tugged my hand and pointed to the ground. “Here’re the bottles, Mike.” She dropped my hand to walk around them. “The door is still open.”

  I pushed her through into the yard and we held still, taking in the black shadow of the building. The back door still swung open on one hinge. How many people lived here, I thought. How long ago was it when this dirty pile of brick and mortar was a home besides being a house? I went up the short flight of steps and took the flashlight from my pocket.

  Velda flashed hers on the wall beside the door, illuminating a printed square of cardboard tacked to the framework. It read, THIS BUILDING HAS BEEN CONDEMNED FOR OCCUPANCY. A paragraph explained why and a rubber stamp signature made it official.

  Ha.

  The air had a musty odor of decay that collected in the long hall and clung to the walls. There was a door that led to the cellar, but the stairs were impenetrable, piled high with an unbelievable collection of scrap. Velda opened the door to the room that faced the backyard and threw her spot around the walls. I looked in over her shoulder and saw a black, charred mass and the remains of some furniture. It must have been a year or more since that room had started to burn, and nobody had been in it since. It was amazing to me that the house still stood.

  Halfway down the hall there was a doorframe but no door and the room was stacked with old bedframes, a few mattresses left to the fleas and nothing worth stealing. The next room was, or had been, Oscar’s. I had my hand on the knob when Velda grabbed me and we froze there.

  From somewhere in the upper recesses of the house came a harsh, racking cough and the sound of someone vomiting.

  I heard Velda take a deep breath of relief. “Drunk,” she said.

  “Yeah.” I went back to the door. A plain skeleton key unlocked it and we stepped inside, locking it again behind us. Velda went to the windows, and tucked the shade in so there would be no chance of our lights being seen from the outside. Then we started to take that room apart.

  Oscar’s effects were collecting dust in the police storeroom, but it was unlikely that they had been in his bag or among his clothes. If they had been I would have found them the first time. We peeled the covers off the bed, found nothing and put them back. We felt in the corners and under things. I even tore the molding off the wall and shoved my hand behind it. There was nothing there, either.

  Velda was working her way along the rear wall. She called softly, “Mike, come here a minute.”

  I followed the track of light to where she was fiddling with some aged draperies that had been tacked to the wall in a vain attempt to give a tapestry effect. She had one side pulled away and was pointing to it. “There used to be a door here. It led to that storeroom on the other side.”

  “Umm. This house was a one-family job at one time.”

  “Do you suppose....”

  “That it’s in there?” I finished. She nodded. “We better look. This room is as bare as a baby’s spanked tail.”

  The two of us wormed out into the hall and shut the door. Velda led the way with her light and took a cautious step over the sill into the room beyond. From upstairs the coughing came again. I banged my shin against an iron bed-post and swore softly.

  It only took ten minutes to go over that room, but it was long enough to see that nothing had been put in or taken out in months. A layer of dust covered everything; the junk was attached to the walls with thousands of spider webs. The only prints in the grime on the floor were those we had made ourselves.

  I hated to say it; Velda hated to hear it. “Not a damn thing. Oscar never had those papers.”

  “Oh, Mike!” There was a sob in her voice.

  “Come on, kid, we’re only wasting time now.”


  The flashlight hung in her hand, the penny-sized beam a small, lonely spot on the floor, listlessly trying to add a bit of brightness to a night that was darker than ever now.

  “All right, Mike,” she said. “There must be other places for it to be.”

  The guy upstairs coughed again. We would have paid no attention to him except that we heard the thump of his feet hitting the floor then the heavy thud as he fell. The guy started cursing then was still.

  It wasn’t a conscious thing that held us back; we just stood there and listened, not scared, not worried, just curious and cautious. If we hadn’t stopped where we were at the moment we did we would have walked right into the mouth of hell.

  The front door opened and for a brief interval the Trench Coats were dimly silhouetted against the gray of the fog outside. Then the door closed and they were inside, motionless against the wall.

  I did two things fast. I grabbed Velda and pulled out the .45.

  Why did I breathe so fast? I hadn’t done a thing and yet I wanted to pant my lungs out. They were on fire, my throat was on fire, my brain was on fire. The gun that I used to be able to hold so still was shaking hard and Velda felt it too. She slid her hand over mine, the one that squeezed her arm so hard it must have hurt, and I felt some of the tension leave me.

  Velda wasn’t shaking at all. Trench Coats moved and I heard a whispered voice. Something Velda did made a metallic snap. My brain was telling me that now it had come, the moment I had waited for. Trench Coats. Gladow and Company. The hammer and sickle backed up with guns. The general’s boys.

  They came for me! Even in the fog they had managed to follow me here and now they were ready to try again. The third time they won’t miss. That was the common superstition, wasn’t it? It was to be at close quarters and a crossfire with me in the middle.

  I could feel my teeth grinding together. A hot wave of hate, so violent that it shook me from top to bottom, swept through my body. Who the hell were they supposed to be? Did they expect to come in and find me with my back to the door? Was I supposed to be another sap ... the kind of guy who’d give people like them the old fighting chance ... a gesture of sportsmanship? I should take a chance on dying like that?