The Will to Kill

by Mickey Spillane

  I yanked him to his feet, which, as much as he weighed, was doing something, and with one hand holding onto the front of his tux, I started slapping him with the other. When bloody drool was leaking out the corners of his mouth, I paused to pose a question.

  “You have Dexter Dunbar’s new agreement in that file cabinet over there?”

  He swallowed hard and nodded.

  “All copies?”

  He nodded.

  “How many?”

  “The… the original… and two carbons.”

  “I’m gonna let you walk over there and get them.”

  He nodded.

  “Can you do that without my help, Abe?”

  He nodded.

  I let go of him and he staggered over to the file cabinet.

  As he was just about to pull open the top drawer, I said, “Here’s an idea. If you have a gun hidden in there, make a play. I would be interested to know how many slugs it would take for a rhino like you to go down.”

  He even nodded at that.

  His fireplace was going, and that was the perfect place to get rid of the documents. We were leaning over into its warmth when he got the nerve to say, “Are you crazy, Hammer? Do you know who I’m connected to?”

  “The Evello bunch,” I said. “Be sure to ask them if they want to tangle with Mike Hammer over something as chickenshit as Dexter Dunbar’s gambling losses.”

  He had no comment.

  “As of right now,” I said, “you’re banning Dexter Dunbar from this place. He’ll probably find somewhere else to gamble, but maybe it’ll be at a straight house.”

  I helped him over to his desk, taking time to remove the little .32 from the desk drawer and drop the weapon in my pocket. I told him to call a doctor, a discreet one.

  “I… I don’t need a damn doctor,” he said, gathering what shreds of his pride remained.

  “That’s up to you,” I said, at the door. “But I shot one of your boys in the leg, and the others are in various states of disrepair.”

  He was staring at the phone as if waiting for it to dial itself when I went out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Velda was checked in at the Laurels Motel and Country Club on Sackett Lake, four miles southwest of Monticello. I considered shooing her back to the city, but decided to keep her close at hand.

  Tonight I would stay by her, in case there was any blowback from my Log Cabin visit. She’d listed the motel phone number when filling out her job application there, so a little paranoia was called for.

  And just in case Hazard’s Evello connection might inspire Manhattan retaliation, I gave Pat a quick call and suggested he have a watch put on the apartment building where she and I each had pads.

  Think what you like, but I spent most of the night in that yellow-and-turquoise motel room in a chair with the .45 in my lap, eyes glued on the door, kept company by Jean Shepherd and other late-night radio, at low volume. And when I did stretch out on one of two twin beds, it was to catch some Zs while Velda took her turn in the chair with her Baby Browning .25. That’s the way she was—still in the cute cowgirl outfit—when I woke up just after nine a.m.

  After a shower and a beauty regimen she didn’t really need, Velda changed into a powder-blue blouse and darker blue mini, which the Log Cabin spike-heel boots set off nicely. As for me, I’d need to get back to the Dunbar place to drag a razor across my face and trade in my rumpled clothes for something presentable.

  For now, though, I just tugged on my hat, and Velda and I headed over to the motel coffee shop for some breakfast. Laurels, not quite on a scale with such other Catskills resorts as Kutsher’s and the Concord, was nonetheless a sprawling fifties-modern place with indoor and (not in use just yet) outdoor pools.

  In a turquoise vinyl booth, each side like the back seat of a ’57 Chevy, I scarfed down a lox-and-onion omelet while figure-conscious Velda settled for a fruit cup. Over coffee, we discussed our situation.

  “Hold onto that room,” I said. “I may need it to work out of. Might lose my sleeping privileges at the Dunbar place if Dex holds any sway.”

  “What about our buddy Abe Hazard?” she asked.

  “He would’ve come at us last night,” I said, shrugging it off. “By now he figures you’ve booked it back to Manhattan. No, I put a scare into him and that’s that. What name are you registered under?”

  “Wilma Wykowski.”

  I swallowed a bit of bagel and grinned at her. “You sure don’t look like a Wilma.”

  Velda gave me half a smirk and one raised eyebrow. “You should’ve seen her. Wilma Wykowski and I worked Vice together, and was she a knockout.” She heaved a sigh, which challenged the powder-blue blouse. “So… I’ll just nap and watch TV and stay at your beck and call. But what’s on your program?”

  A waitress in pink and white came over and refilled our coffee.

  When she was gone, I said, “I’m going to see whether Dorena Dunbar agrees with her stepbrother that I’m off the payroll. At some point I’ll track Dex down and let him know, if he doesn’t already, that he’s out of debt with Hazard but also persona non grata at the Log Cabin. And I’m hoping to get hold of that lawyer, Hines, again. I have a few dozen more questions for the good counselor.”

  Velda frowned over her coffee cup. “Mike, you really think Madeline Dunbar was framed? You know, if killing Wake was a spur of the moment thing, she might just have acted, well… stupidly. She might’ve simply lost that earring, and also panicked and hid that gun away in her drawer, intending to get rid of it later.”

  I shook my head. “No, Madeline was framed all right. She’s anything but stupid, even under stress. What nags at me is the notion that Wake tried to kill that grown kid Chickie and then turned around and got himself murdered, the same damn night.”

  She smirked. “Seems like murder is catching around here.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not the damn flu. Sure, there’s plenty of money at stake, but… doll, I can feel something going on. There’s a homicidal hand behind all of this. And it’s not some gangster like Abe Hazard, or some gold-digger-in-over-her-head like Madeline Dunbar.”

  “Who, Mike?”

  I shrugged, sipped coffee, said, “I don’t know. That’s a family with more skeletons than closets. But whoever it is, I promise you one thing—I’ll get ’em looking down the barrel of my .45 before this thing is over.”

  Her lips pursed into a smile. “You’re so cute, sometimes.”

  * * *

  I didn’t roll into the Dunbar estate till almost ten o’clock, and half an hour later—after the bathroom rituals and getting into a fresh suit—I found Dorena and Chickie at the big dining room table having a late breakfast. As before, Chickie was down at the far end, working on his New York Times crossword puzzle. Today his kiddie western-style shirt was pink with metal buttons and the usual Lone Ranger patch on the breast pocket.

  Two chairs down from him sat Dorena, her make-up typically light with her trademark coral lipstick, her blonde hair back in a short ponytail, her blouse light yellow and short-sleeved, her denim pedal pushers looking crisp and new. These, I learned later, were her work togs.

  I sat across from her, after risking Dixie taking offense when she heard I’d already had breakfast. Dorena, eating light—toast and a poached egg—looked at me with alarm and some irritation.

  “Where were you last night?” she demanded in an oddly hurt tone.

  I gave her a sheepish grin. “And here I thought I was of age.”

  That embarrassed her. “Sorry. I don’t have a right to…”

  “Sure you do. I should have let you know, and would have, but by the time I knew I wouldn’t make it back, it was too late to call.”

  Her cheeks were flushed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry…”

  “Stop it. My fault entirely. But frankly, I didn’t know if I’d still be welcome.”

  Her eyebrows narrowed but her eyes widened. “Why on earth not?”

  “I had something
of a run-in with Dex last night. At the Log Cabin. My apologies for leaving you behind.”

  She nodded, her expression pained now. “I’ve had my fill of that place.”

  I turned a hand over. “Dex feels I’m interfering with his right to throw his inheritance away. He fired me last night—said the Dunbars would no longer require my services.”

  Down at the other end of the table, Chickie was hunkered over the crossword, working furiously.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Dorena said, some cold anger in her voice. “He had no right to do that. You aren’t working for the family; you’re working for me.”

  “That’s how I viewed it. But perhaps I shouldn’t stay on here—sleeping at the house, I mean. Dex is pretty hostile, and it’ll only be worse when he finds out I closed out his account at the Log Cabin.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean the boss there tore up your stepbrother’s I.O.U.s and also agreed to ban him from the club. I doubt Dex will take the latter kindly.”

  She rushed around the table and came over and hugged me, her standing, me sitting. “You are wonderful. So wonderful!”

  “Four out of five housewives agree,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about Dex. I’ll handle him. He didn’t make it home last night, either. Probably went home with that Brenda person.”

  He probably hadn’t, but I didn’t get into that. The way he’d been tying one on, he might be asleep in his Lincoln in the Log Cabin parking lot for all I knew.

  She sat in the chair next to me. “So what now? What next?”

  “I want a look at your father’s will, and I’d like to have a copy made that I can show the attorney I work with back in the city. Hines has been somewhat cooperative, but I still don’t have the full picture. Would you help me make that happen?”

  She shrugged a little. “Well, of course. If I can. I believe he’s in the office on Saturday mornings. You should be able to catch him there. It’s getting late enough, though, that you should call him. Don’t want to miss him.”

  “I don’t,” I agreed.

  She provided me with the number, and I used the phone on the kitchen wall while she returned to the dining room table and her skimpy breakfast, and the company of a precocious man/child in the process of beating the New York Times at its own game.

  Hines himself answered, on the second ring, but I’d barely begun when he cut me off, dripping condescension.

  “Mr. Hammer, you must understand that we’ve been using the term ‘will’ loosely. What Chester Dunbar put in place is more properly termed a living trust. He did this during his lifetime and set me up as the trustee.”

  I’d run into this before. “Which means his financial affairs are kept out of the public record.”

  And away from me, if executor Hines wished.

  “That’s right,” Hines said. “Mr. Dunbar knew, with his heart condition, that he might be incapacitated or worse. And like many wealthy people, he wanted to control what happened to his property after his death.”

  Specifically, through the trust-fund arrangements for his offspring.

  I said, patiently, “I’d like to see the living trust documents. And I may want copies to show the attorney my agency works with.”

  He chuckled softly in my ear. “I’m afraid that’s entirely up to my discretion, Mr. Hammer.”

  I gave the receiver a dirty look. “I can put Dorena Dunbar on the line and she can give her approval. Or she can put it in writing again, if you’d prefer.”

  Now his voice took on an irritating aloofness. “Although I do represent the estate, Miss Dunbar is not technically my client.”

  “Who is your client, Mr. Hines?”

  “Chester Dunbar, of course. And I doubt you can obtain his permission.”

  Shakespeare was right about the lawyers.

  “But I tell you what, Mr. Hammer,” he said placatingly. “Come to my office this afternoon, right after lunch—one o’clock, say? And I will deal with any questions you might still have… and I can judge, on a case-by-case basis, if answering would seem to be in the best interest of the estate.”

  I made the appointment and hung up.

  I returned to the dining room table, sitting next to Dorena, and filled her in on the conversation.

  Frowning in concern, she asked, “Do you suspect Mr. Hines of anything untoward?”

  “With the kind of money at stake here, I suspect everybody but myself. And I’m keeping a close eye on me.”

  That made her smile a little, but concern kept her brow tight.

  Changing the subject, I asked, “Working today? Giving Lillian What’s-Her-Name a run for her money?”

  She nodded. “I’m starting the third act. It’s a modern-day retelling of King Lear.”

  “So,” I said, “not a musical, then?”

  That got a very nice smile out of her. “No, not a musical…”

  “Oh,” I said, “I’ll need the address of Hines & Carroll…”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Didn’t you know? Their offices are right above Dex’s on Main.”

  “Small world,” I said.

  Maybe a little too small.

  “Done!” Chickie blurted, pencil tossed, hands high in victory.

  I whispered to Dorena, “What does Chickie know about Wake?”

  Sotto voce, she said, “Just that he died. No details. And certainly nothing about Wake’s attempt on… you know.”

  I nodded.

  Chickie backed up his chair, its legs scraping like fingernails on a blackboard, and got to his feet. He looked at me with that boyish face blue with beard and said, “Walk me back, Mike?”

  “Sure, champ.”

  So once again, I walked him back, over the fieldstone path, his hand in mine, tight. The ground was getting soft and messy, hardly any patches of snow left. He was being careful to stay on the stones.

  Right when we got to the side door leading into the carriage house rec room, he looked at me with childish directness and said, “Is Wake in heaven, too? Like Mr. Elder?”

  “Sure he is.”

  “Is heaven crowded?”

  Not as crowded as Hell.

  “No,” I said, “there’s plenty of room for Wake and Mr. Elder both. And your dad, too. Do you remember your dad?”

  His brow knit just slightly. “I guess. I can’t see his face any more. Why do people’s faces disappear in your head after they die?”

  “They don’t always. Do you have a picture of him?”

  “No. Could I get one?”

  “I’m sure your sister would give you one, if you asked her. That would help you remember him.”

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  Then he gave me a hug and slipped inside.

  * * *

  I parked on the street just down from Dexter’s Financial Services, where a door between it and the adjacent business led to a tiny alcove with a flight of narrow stairs yawning before me. I went up to a small landing—the building was only two stories—and went through the HINES & CARROLL LAW OFFICES door into an empty outer office. Nothing fancy, but not shabby—half a dozen chairs, a table of old magazines, an empty reception desk.

  This was Saturday morning and apparently nobody was working but Hines. To confirm this I took the liberty of peeking into the office whose door said LEONARD CARROLL, PRIVATE. Nobody at that desk, either.

  I knocked at the similar door saying CLARENCE HINES, PRIVATE, and announced myself.

  No answer.

  I went in and almost stumbled over him—not Hines, but Dexter Dunbar. Still in last night’s now-not-so-crisp blazer, he was in a heap, face down, with a .38 Colt Cobra in his right hand—not in a tight grip, more a caress. Breathing but otherwise not making a move or a sound, he lay with his head near the door, his feet at the edge of a throw rug that covered much of the wooden floor, the fabric bunched up. I knelt to examine the damp spot on the back of his head and my fingers found a decent-sized lump.

  The poor bastard had been bashe
d a good one from behind.

  In front of me, perched on that throw rug, was a big, oak file-folder-stacked desk with phone and family photos, but no one sitting there; at left a wall of law books and at right a row of file cabinets. From where I stood, no chair was visible behind the desk, so I went around for a closer look.

  Hines was on the floor and so was his chair, both of them toppled by a gunshot, though only the attorney had been hit. His head and body were tilted slightly to my left and he was staring past me with three eyes, two that used to see and another that was a black hole between, welling a teardrop of blood.

  I knelt and felt the attorney’s throat, not checking for a pulse—not with that bullet hole in the head—but for body warmth. There was some. The glop of blood and brains that had splashed onto the headrest of the fallen chair glistened.

  This was a fairly fresh corpse.

  With .45 in hand, I made sure I was alone but for Dex and the dead man, searching the place, including the closets in the outer office and those of both attorneys; there were men’s and ladies’ rooms to check, too, down a hallway between the two legal offices. It led to a rear exit and wooden steps down to a graveled parking recession between buildings. Nobody on the little porch and no sign of anyone below.

  Dex was starting to come around; the way he was moaning, he had a headache going that would top any of his many hangovers.

  With a handkerchief, I plucked the .38 from his flaccid fingers, then helped him into a sitting position there on the floor. While he collected himself, I sniffed the gun barrel—recently fired.

  He squinted at me through his head pain. “Hammer… what… what the hell… Why are you here?”

  “Let’s start with what you’re doing here, Dex.”

  For someone who had just woken up, he looked like he might fall asleep any moment, eyelids droopy, head weaving. “Hines called down… called down and asked me to come up here. He had something important… something important he wanted to discuss. Didn’t say what.”

  “You’re sure it was Hines? Could it have been someone trying to sound like him?”

  He started to shake his head, then thought better of it. “No, no, it was him, all right. I was downstairs in my office, sacked out on the couch.”