The Will to Kill

by Mickey Spillane

  “I miss Mr. Elder,” Chickie said.

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “Mr. Walters makes my lunch now.”

  “Does he?”

  Chickie nodded. “Not as good as Mr. Elder, though. Just Campbell’s soup. Sometimes spaghettiOs.”

  We were at the side door to the carriage house now. The little man let go of me, then turned with great formality and extended his hand for me to shake. I did. It wasn’t much of a shake, but I appreciated the effort.

  Then he went in and I headed back.

  * * *

  I pulled the Galaxie into a metered space just down from the Rialto Theater and just up from Rexall Drugs. Monticello had a typical small-town business district, maybe more prosperous than most cities of 5,000 or so, with occasional indications—Kaplan’s Hebrew National, the Bagel Bakery—that I was smack dab in the middle of the Borscht Belt.

  There was nothing kosher about Dexter Dunbar’s Financial Services. A storefront between a liquor store and a toy shop—something for everybody in downtown Monticello—the business sported an opaque plate-glass window whose greatest distinction was two spider-web-style, irregularly spaced bullet holes. The window was otherwise blank, although the steel-and-glass door to one side bore the “Financial Services” business name in gold-and-black script that tried a little too hard.

  Soon I was entering into a drop-ceilinged, cheaply carpeted space with a few plastic molded chairs along the window wall, facing a vacant metal reception desk. A few decent framed paintings of Monticello landmarks—waterfall, ice caves, stone arch bridge—dressed it up a little. And somebody was keeping it clean, though a certain mustiness lingered. I flipped through the magazines on an end table by the chairs and didn’t see anything less than a couple years old.

  Dex appeared in the open doorway of his inner office, his expensive suitcoat off, his silk tie loose, looking like an Arrow ad only if it had been wadded up. He had a tumbler of reddish-brown liquid that might have been bourbon. It was ten o’clock in the morning.

  “Get you something, Mr. Hammer?” he asked, hefting the tumbler.

  He didn’t look much like he was headed for Wall Street now, unless another Crash was coming and he was after a high window.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I usually wait till noon or so.”

  With his free hand he waved me to follow him, as he stepped back into his office.

  This room was larger but just as empty—a metal desk with chair, a couple of file cabinets, no client chair. A black leather couch against one wall. Other than a phone, the desk was empty, not even a damn blotter; the suitcoat was slung over the back. A radio sat on one of the file cabinets. That was about it. Moving day with one small load left.

  Since there was nowhere else for me to sit, he gestured to the couch, and I sat down. He joined me, sat turned sideways to face me. I leaned back with my arms along the rear cushions.

  “Business has been slow,” he said, by way of explanation.

  I didn’t let him get away with it. “You’re not doing any business here. At least not any more. What happened?”

  He wasn’t drunk yet, but he was on his way in that loose, gentleman-drinker fashion that can be hard to spot. Seeing no sign of a liquor cart, I wondered if he had the bourbon under “B” in one of the file cabinets.

  His smile was a rumpled thing that didn’t remember how to look embarrassed. “I did have a client list for a while. When my father was alive. But I gave some bad advice…” He shrugged, sipped, shrugged again. “…and turns out people just don’t like losing money.”

  “But you still come down here? Every day?”

  “Usually. I do have my investments to look after.”

  I didn’t pursue that, instead saying, “Look, Mr. Dunbar—”

  “Make it Dex. And I’ll call you ‘Mike,’ okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He sipped and smiled. “Everybody knows you, Mike. You’re the famous Mike Hammer.”

  “I used to be. Dex, I need to ask you about your father’s death, and about what happened to Jamison Elder.”

  Another shrug. “Why not?”

  “Let’s start with what may seem like ancient history. You were home the night your father died, weren’t you? All night?”

  He nodded. “From midnight on. But our rooms are at the other end of the hall. We heard nothing, not me or Wake or Dorena.”

  “What about Wake’s wife?”

  “Madeline was… away.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but that was better followed up with Madeline herself.

  I asked, “No one ever looked in on your father, to make sure he was all right? He did have a heart condition.”

  Dex shook his head. “No one checked on Dad, not on a regular basis. He made a point of being self-reliant. Anyway, with medication, he had it under control.”

  “It would have been if he’d got to his pills.”

  “Yes,” Dex said with a frown. “I did wonder about that. I do wonder about that. There were pill bottles within fairly easy reach in two places.”

  “Right. His reading table and the bathroom counter.”

  Dex managed a sad expression. “The attack must have hit him hard and fast.”

  “The morning he was found, were there pills in both bottles?”

  “Yes. Plenty.”

  “Did it occur to you, Dex, that maybe there weren’t?”

  He blinked. “Weren’t what?”

  “Pills in the bottles.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “No, Mr. Hammer, Mike… we checked. There were pills in both.”

  “But if there hadn’t been, your father might have crawled to that reading table, found nothing, and tried to make it to the bathroom. Had he made it, I have a hunch that he wouldn’t have found any help there either.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I think someone emptied both bottles of pills, and then—after your father was dead—replaced them.”

  He squinted, as if trying to bring me into focus. “But that would mean…”

  “Someone in the house did it. Yeah. And that limits the possibilities.”

  “You mean…the suspects.”

  I nodded. “It’s down to you, your brother, his wife, your sister, your stepbrother, and the two live-in staff members, Jamison Elder and Willie Walters. Maybe the day staff, if they had keys, though I can’t imagine what their motive might be.”

  He sat there thinking about that.

  I got out a deck of Luckies and offered him one. He shook his head, his full attention on the subject at hand. And someone who drank that much had to work to do it.

  Finally he said, “Jamison was who found the body, you know.”

  I lit up a Lucky, waved out the match. “I do know. Your sister told me. So what do you think, Dex? Who might have done it?”

  Half a humorless smile appeared. “Well, I can rule me out even though you can’t. Obviously, Wake and Dorena benefitted from Father’s death, because it cleared the way for our inheritances.”

  “Does Chickie inherit anything?”

  His shrug was dismissive even for a shrug. “The same as the rest of us, but it’s tied up. Dorena will look after him, when the time comes.”

  “What if something happens to her?”

  He shrugged again, but just one shoulder. “I don’t know. Wake or me would look after him, I suppose. But she’s the one who has a touch with the little moron. Sorry. That may have sounded a touch cruel.”

  A touch.

  I asked, “How can a moron do the Times crossword?”

  The question obviously bored him. “I don’t know. There are things he’s good at, and things where he’s hopeless. Ask Dorena.”

  “Getting back to a murder motive, wouldn’t Jamison Elder be a candidate? Finding the body, he was in a perfect position to re-fill those nitro bottles. And he had a quarter of a million in the will, right?”

  “Oh, you know about that? Yes, he was in the will, but he had to work ti
ll seventy, taking care of Chickie, for that to kick in. And three years ago, when Elder was, what, sixty? Why would he choose then to get rid of an old man who was already in sketchy health?”

  “Speaking of Jamison Elder, haven’t you all benefitted from his death?”

  His shrug this time was facial. “Sure, another sixty-some grand each got pumped into the family money pool. But none of us get anything till we’re forty. Trust funds.”

  So that was why they were all living together in the mansion.

  “If Elder, for whatever reason,” I said, “killed your father, and one of you found out… revenge might be the motive.”

  “Are we even sure,” Dex said, with a smirk, “that Elder was murdered? I hear the authorities are inclined to call it accidental.”

  “That’s what I’ve been hired to determine,” I said, letting out some smoke. “Anyway, the authorities sometimes take the easiest route.”

  “Well, old Jamison didn’t, plowing into that snow bank.” His glass was empty, and he got up. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Mike?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He went over to the file cabinets, opened the top drawer of one and got out a bottle of Jim Beam Single Barrel. Thought so. He poured himself some and came back over and sat again.

  His expression turned chummy. “Listen, Mike, I agreed to talk to you… in fact, agreed to go along with your investigation, even when I don’t think there’s anything to investigate… because I have a little matter of my own I could use some help with.”

  “That right?”

  “Oh yes.” He sipped, savored, swallowed. “Is my sister paying you enough, or would I have to kick in something extra to get your help?”

  “Run it by me and we’ll see.”

  “It’s just… I’m a little short right now. In fact, that’s the problem.”

  “You can owe me, if need be.”

  “I’d rather not owe anybody anything. That is the problem!” He sat forward, his eyes sober, even if he wasn’t. “Mike… have you ever heard of a slimy weasel called Abe Hazard?”

  I nodded. “Fat little hood who used to run smalltime gambling operations for Luciano in Queens and the Bronx. Floating crap games, mostly. Why, is he still alive?”

  “All too. He has this establishment, a rather nice one actually, called the Log Cabin. It’s in the countryside, in a lovely wooded area, providing easy access to the folks staying at the various Catskills resorts. The law stays away from him. The idea is, he’s not hurting anyone, and this is a vacation area, and why not let the visiting yokels have a good time.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’ve been having a good time, too.”

  He sighed. Deep. “Not lately. I’ve hit a streak of bad luck.”

  “How long has it lasted?”

  “About… three years.”

  Since his stepfather died, I’d bet. If I were a betting man. But it was a safe one that Daddy hadn’t put up with Sonny Boy’s drinking and gambling. Another motive?

  He spoke softly, as if someone in the otherwise empty office might hear. “I’m into Hazard for a goodly sum…”

  “How goodly?”

  “Just over one-hundred grand.”

  “Damn.”

  He made a defensive face. “Well, it was gradual. I’m not some dope who gambles tens of thousands at a go.”

  “No, I’m sure you aren’t. You probably lost a thousand or so at a time.”

  “That’s right. Sometimes only hundreds. Well, Abe ran me a line of credit for a long time, and then recently he hit me up for what I owe. He knew, I’d already told him, in clear plain English, that until I turned forty, I wouldn’t have that kind of money. He’d have to cover me till then. And, before, he always said he would!”

  “But he’s changed his mind?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. He hasn’t exactly said.”

  I frowned. “Well, then, why—”

  “He told me he wanted me to sign something that turned half of my inheritance over to him. Half! And for no further line of credit. He says I should consider it interest on the one-hundred grand.”

  “He’s probably getting pressured by whoever he works for to balance the books. Likely he’s controlled by the Evello crowd back in the city.”

  Dex almost whispered now: “Did you… did you happen to see those bullet holes out front?”

  “I noticed.”

  “Few days ago, somebody across the street, from behind a parked car, shot at me! It echoed off the pavement like goddamn thunder! Whether it was to scare me or… or kill me, I don’t know.”

  I grunted a laugh. “Ever hear of the Golden Goose? Killing you makes no sense.”

  “Not necessarily. Hazard might be able to hit the estate up for what I’m into him for. He’s got it in writing.”

  This guy.

  I asked, “Did you call the police?”

  “No. It was late, nobody around. I’d been sleeping one off here on the couch, and it was, oh, maybe midnight. There aren’t any bars on this block, so nobody was around. I didn’t figure going to the cops was a good option.”

  “Maybe not. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “See if it is Hazard who made that attempt on me, or made it happen.”

  “You staying away from there?”

  Now he finally got embarrassed. “No. I’m not totally broke. I have an income. And the Log Cabin’s the only casino around.”

  “Well, a man has to have his fun.”

  He put his hand on my coat sleeve. “Look. You’re Mike Hammer.”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “If you… what’s the word? Roust him? Maybe Abe’ll back off. Or maybe you can get him to admit he did it or had it done, or even convince you he didn’t. Of course, he has some bullyboys you may have to wade through. What do you say?”

  “I think I’ll have a glass of that Jim Beam,” I said.

  * * *

  When I got back to the Dunbar place, I found Dorena in the library again, waling away at her typewriter. With her chin-length hair back in a cute stubby ponytail, and wearing a light blue turtleneck pullover and navy stretch pants, she looked very collegiate. She didn’t hear me come in—no doors to these main downstairs rooms—so I waited till she got to a stopping place.

  “How go the Broadway wars?” I asked.

  She turned in her swivel desk chair to smile at me. Her make-up was light, no Cleopatra eyes, but the lips glowed coral.

  “Lillian Hellman has nothing to worry about, I’m afraid,” she said. “But a girl has to try.”

  “Hey, it worked for Agatha Christie. I never saw that Witness for the Prosecution twist coming.”

  That made her smile even more. “Maybe I’ll try a mystery next. Do you need something from me?”

  She put it sweetly, but I was interrupting.

  “No,” I said, “I just wondered if your brother Wake was around. Or did he finally get around to going in to the city to identify Jamison Elder’s body?”

  Half of it, anyway.

  “Oh,” she said, “Wake didn’t have to go in. Pat called and said the sister was coming in from Delaware to do that, and make arrangements for the return of the, uh…”

  “Her brother’s remains, yeah. So is Wake around, then? I need to talk to him.”

  She made a little face. “He’s where he always is, when he’s not off gallivanting. His studio.”

  “Where’s that?”

  She pointed vaguely. “It’s over the garage. He fixed it up special for himself, after Daddy died. Before that he just painted out on the back porch.”

  “How does he feel about being disturbed?”

  “Who cares? The side door into the garage will be unlocked. You’ll find pull-down stairs at the back up to the studio.”

  “Thanks, kid.”

  Her mouth twisted prettily. “You make me sound so young.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  Her answer was a smirk and she returned to
her typing as I went out.

  The four-car garage boasted quite an automotive array: a white Jaguar, vintage ’56 or so, already a classic; a dark blue Lincoln; a red Thunderbird; and a dark green Triumph TR4. The detective in me couldn’t help making deductions—the Jag would be Wake’s, the Lincoln Dex’s, the Thunderbird Dorena’s, and the Triumph Madeline’s. The latter might be a little small for the long-legged gal, but green flattered redheads, so that one was hers.

  But I must be wrong about the Lincoln, because Dex was presumably still at Financial Services back in Monticello, and he’d had to get there somehow. I shrugged to myself.

  At the back of the neatly kept garage, I pulled down collapsible wooden stairs up to what had been a loft before Wake made a studio out of it. The steps were old white-washed wood, though the third-from-the-top one was unpainted fresh pine.

  I emerged into an impressive space whose north-side glass wall rose to a skylight.

  “That would be Mr. Hammer, I’d wager,” Wake said.

  He was seated at a medium-sized canvas, his back to me, in a paint-spattered smock and chinos.

  I said, “I thought your brother was the betting man in the family.”

  “Odds are he is.”

  I immediately recognized the painting in progress as nearly identical to that of the stone arch bridge I’d seen on a wall of his brother’s dreary reception area. Craning around, I noticed several twins of the current painting leaned against the non-glass walls as well as multiples of the other two I’d seen at Financial Services, a waterfall and ice caves. Several other Monticello landmarks were represented, including the local synagogue and Kutsher’s (where I’d almost stayed) in all its neon glory.

  These representational paintings were very good, but what struck me were their companions—much larger canvases that were a kind of modern art variation on Impressionism. At first glance they seemed abstract, geometric shapes, but on closer look they took form, and figures could be discerned.

  “You’re good,” I told him, at his side.

  “Thanks.” He still didn’t look at me. “Which do you dig? The corn-ball landscapes or the way-out stuff?”

  “Let’s just say,” I said, “the ones that make me go, ‘Crazy, man, crazy.’”