Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer]

by The Killing Man [lit]

  THE KILLING MAN by Mickey Spillane

  1 Some days hang over Manhattan like a huge pair of unseen pincers, slowly squeezing the city until you can hardly breathe. A low growl of thunder echoed up the cavern of Fifth Avenue and I looked up to where the sky started at the seventy-first floor of the Empire State Building. I could smell the rain. It was the kind that hung above the orderly piles of concrete until it was soaked with dust and debris and when it came down it wasnÒt rain at all, but the sweat of the city. When I reached my corner I crossed against the light and ducked into the ground-level arcade of my office building. It wasnÒt often that I bothered coming in at all on Saturday, but the client couldnÒt make it any other time except noon today, and from what Velda had told me, he was representing some pretty big interests. Two others were waiting for the elevator, one an architect in the penthouse suite and the other a delivery boy from the deli down the street. Both of them looked bored and edgy. The day had gotten to them, too. When the elevator ar-rived, we got in, I punched my button and rode it up to the eighth floor. On an ordinary day the corridor would have been filled with the early lunch crowd, but now the emptiness gave the place an eerie feeling, as though I were a trespasser and hidden eyes were watching me. Except that I was the only one there and the single sign of life was the light behind my office door. I turned the knob, pushed it open and just stood there a second because something was wrong, sure as hell wrong, and the total silence was as loud as a wild scream. I had the .45 in my hand, crouched and edged to one side, listening, waiting, watching. Velda wasnÒt at her desk. Her pocketbook sat there and a paper cup of coffee had spilled over and stained the sheaf of papers before dripping to the floor. And I didnÒt have to move far before I saw her body crumpled up against the wall, half her face a mass of clotted blood that seeped from under her hair. The door to my office was partially open and there was somebody still in there, sitting at my desk, part of his arm clearly visible. I couldnÒt play it smart. I had to explode and rammed through the door in a blind fury ready to blow somebody into a death full of bloody, flying parts ... then stopped, my breath caught in my throat, because it had already been done. The guy sitting there had been taped to my chair, his body immobilized. The wide splash of adhesive tape across his mouth had immobilized his voice too, but all the horror that had happened was still there in his glazed, dead eyes that stared at hands whose fingertips had been amputated at the first knuckle and lay in neat order on the desk top. A dozen knife slashes had cut open the skin of his face and chest and his clothes were a sodden mass of congealed blood. But the thing that killed him was the note spike I had kept my expense receipts on. Somebody had slipped them all off the six-inch steel nail, positioned it squarely in the middle of the guyÒs forehead and pounded it home with the bronze paperweight that held my folders down. And the killer left a note, but I didnÒt stop to read it. VeldaÒs pulse was weak, but it was there, and when I lifted her hair there was a huge hematoma above her ear, the skin split wide from the vicious swelling of it. Her breathing was shallow and her vital signs werenÒt good at all. I grabbed her coat off the rack, draped it around her, stood up and forced the rage to leave me, then found the number in my phone book and dialed it. The nurse said, ÓDr. ReedeyÒs office.Ô ÓMeg, this is Mike Hammer,Ô I told her. ÓBurke in?Ô ÓYes, but×Ó ÓListen, call an ambulance and get a stretcher up here right away and get Burke to come up now. Velda has been hurt badly.Ô ÓAn accident?Ô ÓNo. She was attacked. Somebody tried to smash her skull.Ô While she dialed she said, ÓDonÒt move her. IÒll send the doctor right up. Keep her warm and ...Ô I hung up in midsentence. Pat Chambers wasnÒt at home, but his message service said he could be reached at his office. The sergeant at the switchboard answered, took my name, put me through and when Pat said, ÓCaptain Chambers,Ô I told him to get to my office with a body bag. I wasnÒt about to waste time with explanations while Velda could be dying right beside me. I was helpless, unable to do anything except kneel there, hold her hand and speak to her. Her skin was clammy and her pulse was getting weaker. The frustration I felt was the kind you get in a dream when you canÒt run fast enough to get away from some terror that is chasing you. And now I had to stay here and watch Velda slip away from life while some bastard was out there getting farther and farther away all the time. There were hands around my shoulders that yanked me back away from her and Burke said, ÓCome on, Mike, let me get to her.Ô I almost swung on him before I realized who he was and when he saw my face he said, ÓYou all right?Ô After a moment I said, ÓIÒm all right,Ô and moved back out of the way. Burke Reedey was a doctor who had come out of the slaughter of Vietnam with all the expertise needed to handle an emergency like this. He and his nurse moved swiftly and the helpless feeling IÒd had before abated and I moved the desk to give him room, trying not to listen to their comments. There was something in their tone of voice that had a desperate edge to it. Almost on cue the ambulance attendants arrived, visibly glad to see a doctor there ahead of them, and carefully they got Velda onto the stretcher and out of the office, Burke going with them. All that time Meg had very carefully steered me to one side, obscuring my vision purposely, realizing what was going through my mind, and when they had left she handed me a glass of water and offered me a capsule from a plastic container. I shook my head. ÓThanks, but I donÒt need anything.Ô She put the cap back on the container. ÓWhat happened, Mike?Ô ÓI donÒt know yet.Ô I pointed to the door of my office. ÓGo look in there,Ô A worried look touched her eyes and she walked to the door and opened it. I didnÒt think old-time nurses could gasp like that. Her hand went to her mouth and I saw her head shake in horror. ÓMike .. . you didnÒt mention ...Ô ÓHeÒs dead. Velda wasnÒt. The cops will take care of that one.Ô She backed away from the door, turned and looked at me. ÓThatÒs the first ... deliberate murder ... IÒve ever seen.Ô Slowly, very slowly, her eyes widened. I shook my head. ÓNo, I didnÒt do it. Whoever hit Velda did that too.Ô The relief in her expression was plain. ÓDo you know why?Ô ÓNot yet.Ô ÓYou have called the police, havenÒt you?Ô ÓRight after I spoke to you.Ô I nodded toward the door. ÓWhy donÒt you go back to the office. IÒll take care of things here.Ô ÓThe doctor thought I should look after you.Ô ÓIÒm okay. If I werenÒt IÒd tell you. The cops will want to speak to both you and Burke later but thereÒs no use of you getting all tied up with them now.Ô ÓYouÒre sure?Ô I nodded. ÓJust stay with Velda, will you?Ô ÓAs soon as the doctor calls IÒll check in with. you.Ô When she left I walked over to the miniature bar by the window and picked up a glass. Hell, this was no time to take a drink. I put the glass back and went into my office. The dead guy was still looking at his mutilated hands, seemingly ignoring the spike driven into his skull until the ornamental base of it indented his skin. The glaze over his eyes seemed thicker. For the first time I looked at the note on my desk, the large capital letters printed almost triumphantly across a sheet of my letterhead under the logo. It read, YOU DIE FOR KILLING ME. Beneath it, in deliberately fine handwriting, was the signature, Penta. I heard the front door open and Pat shouted my name. I called back, ÓIn here, Pat.Ô Pat was a cop who had seen it all. This one was just another on his list. But the kill wasnÒt what disturbed him. It was where it happened. He turned to the uniform at the door. ÓAnybody outside?Ô ÓOnly our people. TheyÒre shortstopping everybody at the elevators.Ô ÓGood. Keep everybody out for five minutes,Ô he told a cop who stood in the doorway. ÓOur guys too.Ô ÓGot it,Ô the cop said and turned away. ÓLetÒs talk,Ô Pat said. It didnÒt take long. ÓI was to meet a prospective client named Bruce Lewison at noon in my office. Velda went ahead to open up and get some other work out of the way. I walked in a few minutes before twelve and found her on the floor and the guy dead.Ô
ÓAnd you touched nothing?Ô ÓNot in here, Pat. I wasnÒt about to wait for you to show before I got a doctor for Velda.Ô Pat looked at me with that same old look. I could feel a twist in my grin. There was nothing funny about it. ÓOh, IÒll get to the bastard, Pat. Sooner or later.Ô ÓCut that shit, will you?Ô ÓSure.Ô ÓYou know this guy?Ô I shook my head. ÓHeÒs new to me.Ô ÓSomebody thought he was killing you, pal.Ô ÓWe donÒt look alike at all.Ô ÓHe was in your chair.Ô ÓYeah, that he was.Ô He was looking at the note and said, ÓWho did you kill, Mike?Ô I said, ÓCome on Pat. DonÒt play games.Ô ÓThis note mean anything to you?Ô ÓNo. I donÒt know why, but somebody sure was serious about it.Ô ÓOkay,Ô he said. His eyes looked tired. ÓLetÒs get our guys in here.Ô While the photographer shot the corpse from all angles and did closeups on the mutilation, Pat and I went into VeldaÒs office where the plainclothes officers dusted for prints and vacuumed the area for any incidental evidence. Pat had already jotted down what I had told him. Now he said, ÓGive me the entire itinerary of your day, Mike. Start from when you got up this morning and IÒll check everything out while itÒs fresh.Ô ÓLook ... when Velda comes around ...Ô I saw the look on PatÒs face and nodded. My stomach was all knotted up and all I wanted was to breathe some fresh, cold air. ÓI got up at seven. I showered, dressed and went down to the deli for some rolls, picked up the paper, went back to the apartment, ate, read the news and took off for the gym.Ô ÓWhich one?Ô ÓBingÒs Gym. You know where it is. I got there at nine thirty, put in a little better than an hour in the exercise room, showered and checked out at eleven thirty. Bing can verify that himself. It was a twenty-minute walk to the office and on the way I saw two people I knew. One was Bill Sheen, the beat cop, the other was Manuel Florio who owns the Pompeii Bar on Sixth Avenue. We walked together for a block, then split. I got to the office a few minutes before twelve and walked into ... this.Ô I waved my hand at the room. ÓBurke Reedey will give you his medical report on Velda and the ME will be able to pinpoint a time of death pretty well, so donÒt get me mixed up in suspect status.Ô Pat finished writing, tore a leaf out of the pad and closed the book. He called one of the detectives over and handed him the slip, telling him to check out all the details of my story. ÓLetÒs just keep straight with the system, buddy. Face it, youÒre not one of its favorite people.Ô The assistant medical examiner was a tubby little guy with light blue eyes that bristled with curiosity. Every detail was a major item and when he was finished with the physical aspect of the examination, he stepped back, walked around the body slowly, seeming to do a psychological analysis of the crime. Pat didnÒt try to interrupt him. This was the MEÒs moment and whatever he could garner from his inspection now would be valuable because the body would never be seen in this position again. Twice he went back to do a close scrutiny of the desk spike in the dead manÒs forehead, then made a satisfied grimace and snapped his bag shut. Pat asked, ÓWhat do you think?Ô ÓAbout the time?Ô ÓYes, for one thing.Ô The ME looked at his watch. ÓI would say that he was killed between ten and eleven oÒclock. Certainly not after eleven. I will be more specific after the postmortem. Has he been identified?Ô ÓNot yet,Ô Pat said. ÓAn interesting death. Those facial and chest cuts seem to have been made with an extremely sharp, short-bladed instrument.Ô ÓPenknife?Ô I asked him. ÓYes, possibly. Some people carry things like that.Ô ÓAny medical reasons for the slashings?Ô ÓWant me to speculate?Ô ÓCertainly,Ô Pat said. ÓThose were made to terrorize the victim. ItÒs amazing what the sight of a blade opening up his own body can do to a personÒs psyche. Those wounds are too deep to be superficial, yet not deep enough to be fatal.Ô ÓAnd that brings us to the hands.Ô ÓA very unusual disfiguration.Ô His bright blue eyes looked at both of us, then settled on Pat. ÓHave you ever seen this before?Ô Pat shook his head. ÓSomeplace I recall hearing of this happening. IÒll do a little research on it when I get back to the office. Frankly, I think itÒs a signature stratagem.Ô ÓA what?Ô ÓSomething a killer leaves to remember him by.Ô I said, ÓThatÒs a pretty complicated way of writing your name.Ô ÓAgreed,Ô the ME nodded, Óbut youÒll never forget it. But the one he was impressing it on was the victim himself. Look, let me show you how he did this.Ô He took the dead manÒs arm, stiff with rigor mortis, forcing the hand with the forefinger out and the other knuckles bent down, against the desk. Where the finger ended you could see the cut of the blade in the wood. ÓImagine having to watch as each finger was cut off at the knuckle and not even being able to scream for relief? The pain must have been incredible, but even then, it could not have been as bad as the final act of hammering that spike into his head.Ô ÓWhat are you saving for last, Doctor?Ô The ME gave Pat a sage little smile. ÓYouÒre wondering how a grown man would let himself be totally immobilized like that?Ô ÓRight on,Ô Pat told him. Swinging the swivel chair around so the back of the corpseÒs head faced us, the ME lifted up the shaggy hair and fingered a small lump over the ear. ÓA tap with the usual blunt instrument, hard enough to render the victim unconscious for ten minutes or so,Ô My mouth went dry and something felt like it was crawling up my back. The one he had laid on Velda wasnÒt to knock her out. That one was a killing blow, one swung with deliberate, murderous intent. I looked at the phone again. Meg still hadnÒt called. Pat bent over and examined the body carefully. His arm brushed the dead manÒs coat and pushed it open. Sticking up out of the shirt pocket was a Con Edison bill folded in half. When Pat straightened it out he looked at the name and said, ÓAnthony Cica.Ô He held it out for me to look at. ÓYou know him, Mike?Ô ÓNever saw him before.Ô His address was on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. ÓYouÒre lucky you had a stand-in.Ô ÓToo bad Velda didnÒt have one.Ô The tightness ran up me again and I began to breathe hard without knowing it. Pat was shaking my arm. ÓCome off it, Mike.Ô I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth and nodded. The ME was pointing toward the note. ÓAnd thatÒs his ego trip, wouldnÒt you say? The dead man canÒt read, so who will? And who is Penta?Ô ÓYouÒre leaving all the fun stuff for us, Doc.Ô ÓKeep me informed. IÒm very interested. YouÒll get my report tomorrow.Ô As he went to pass me he stopped and gave me those blue eyes again. ÓDo I know you, sir?Ô ÓMike Hammer,Ô I told him. ÓIÒve heard mention of you.Ô ÓThis is my office,Ô I said. ÓYes.Ô He looked around, curiously critical. ÓWho is your decorator?Ô ÓThatÒs his sense of humor,Ô Pat said when the ME left. Then he went over and called in two of his people to go over the corpse itself. I went to the phone and called Meg. The answering service said she would be back at six. I called the hospital directly, but there was no report on VeldaÒs condition so far. Nobody would speculate. It was another hour before the specialists finished and the body was carted out in its rubberized shroud. Pat was on the phone and when he hung up he turned to me and said tiredly, ÓThe papers just got wind of it. They still on your side?Ô ÓHell, most of the old guys are buddies, but some of those young ones are weirdos.Ô ÓWait till they read that note.Ô ÓYeah, great.Ô ÓYou still havenÒt told me who you killed, Mike.Ô This time there was a quiet seriousness in his tone. It was a question direct and simple. I turned and faced him, meeting his eyes square on. ÓAnybody I ever took down you know about. The last one was Julius Marco, the son of a bitch who was about to kill that kid when I nailed him, and that was four years ago.Ô ÓHow many have you shot since?Ô ÓA few. None died.Ô ÓYou testified in a couple of Murder One cases, didnÒt you?Ô ÓSure. So did a few other people,Ô ÓRecently?Ô ÓHell, no. The last one was a few years back.Ô ÓThen who would want you dead?Ô ÓNobody I can think of.Ô ÓHell, somebody wants you even better than dead. They want you all chopped up and with a spike through your head. Somebody had a business engagement with you at noon, got here early, took out Velda and didnÒt have to wait for you because there was a guy in your office he thought was you and he nailed that poor bastard instead.Ô ÓIÒve thought of that,Ô I said. ÓAnd weÒre stuck until we get IDs on everybody and a statement from Velda.Ô ÓLooks like that,Ô I told him. ÓYou through here?Ô ÓYeah.Ô ÓSealing the place up?Ô Pat shrugged. ÓNo need to.Ô I picked up the phone
again and called the building super. I told him what had happened and that I needed the place cleaned up. He said heÒd do it personally. I thanked him and hung up. Pat said, ÓLetÒs go get something to eat. YouÒll feel better. Then weÒll go to the hospital.Ô ÓNo sense in that. Velda was unconscious and in critical condition. No visitors. IÒll tell you what you can do though.Ô ÓWhatÒs that?Ô ÓStation a cop at her door. That Penta character missed two of us and he just might want another go at somebody when he finds out what happened.Ô Pat picked up the phone in VeldaÒs office and relayed the message. When he hung up he said to me, ÓWhat are your plans?Ô ÓHell, IÒm going to Anthony CicaÒs apartment with you.Ô ÓListen, Mike ...Ô ÓYou donÒt want me to go alone, do you?Ô ÓMan, youÒre a real pisser,Ô Pat said. Outside it was barely raining. It was more like the sky was spitting at us. It was ending up the way it had started. Bad, real bad. Pat had an unmarked car at the curb and we drove across town and headed south on Second Avenue. The pavements were slick, brightly alive with neon reflections and the broad streaks of dimmed headlights. The weather meant nothing to the people who lived here. They never were out in it long enough to annoy them. Pat didnÒt bother with his red light, simply moving in and out of the stream of yellow cabs and occasional cars with automatic precision. Both of us stayed pretty deep in our thoughts until I mentioned, ÓYou could have had one of the detectives do this.Ô ÓDonÒt get hairy on me, pal. IÒm not letting you alone on any primary investigation.Ô ÓYouÒre investigating a corpse, not a murder suspect. What the hell could I do?Ô The car in front of us hit the brakes and Pat swore at the driver and cut to the left. ÓI donÒt know what you could do, Mike. ThereÒs no telling whatÒs ever going to happen with you. ThereÒs something that hangs over you like a magnet that pulls all the crazies right to your door.Ô ÓNo crazy did this.Ô ÓAny killer is crazy,Ô he stated. ÓMaybe, but some are more deliberate than others.Ô Pat slowed and turned left, checked the numbers on the buildings when he could find one, then counted down to the tenement he was looking for. Hardly anybody in this area owned a car and whoever did wouldnÒt park it on the street. We parked behind a stripped wreck of an old Buick and got out of the car. A lot of years ago they talked of condemning areas like this but never got around to it. One by one the buildings lost any rental benefits and were abandoned by their owners. Here and there were a few that somebody had renovated enough to warrant having paying tenants as long as they didnÒt mind sharing the space with roaches and rats. We went up the sandstone stoop and pushed through the scarred wooden doors. The vestibule light in the ceiling was protected by a wire cage, a forty-watter that turned everything a sickly yellow. As usual, the brass mailbox doors were all sprung open, each one with a cheap paper circular stuck in it. Scrawled on the top of the brass frame were names in black marker ink. The middle two were half rubbed out. Anthony Cica was the one who had the top floor. The inner vestibule light only went halfway up the stairs, but Pat had a pocket power light with him and lit our way up among the litter that spilled down the stairs. We stepped over a couple of empty beer cans and some half-pint whiskey bottles to get to the first landing. Apparently visitors never got above the top steps. The rest of the way was clear. The door we were looking for had the number four drawn on it in white paint. It was locked. In fact, it had three locks on it. ÓThink a credit card can get them open, Pat?Ô ÓHell no. I have a warrant.Ô ÓThen use it.Ô He kicked the door panel out, reached in and opened the locks, then pushed it open with his foot. Standing to one side, he felt for the light switch beside the jamb, found it and flipped it on. Nothing moved except the roaches. The occupant hadnÒt been a total slob. There were no dirty dishes and the sink was clean. The furniture was old, probably secondhand, the bed wasnÒt made, simply straightened out a little, and the small bathroom had a semblance of order to it. The refrigerator belonged in a museum, but it still worked, the unit on its top humming away. In it were two frozen dinners, half a carton of milk, some butter and a six-pack of beer. I said, ÓWhat do you think?Ô ÓPermanent quarters. Lousy, but fixed.Ô Three suits and a sports jacket hung in the closet, all several years old. Two pairs of shoes, one brown, the other black, were on the floor beside a piece of Samsonite luggage that was open and empty. In the corner, almost out of sight, was a small metal rectangle. I picked it up with a handkerchief. ÓPat ...Ô He came over and I showed him the clip for an automatic. It was loaded with 7.65 millimeter cartridges. ÓNice,Ô he muttered. ÓLetÒs find the rest of it.Ô We looked, but that was all there was. No gun was around to fit the clip. Pat said, ÓThatÒs damned strange.Ô ÓNot necessarily. It was kicked in the corner of the closet. It could have been there before he moved in. I almost missed it.Ô In fifteen minutes we had covered every inch of the place. A cardboard box on one of the shelves held a few dozen receipted bills, some paycheck slips and a stack of old two-dollar betting slips from a Jersey track. It was a stupid souvenir, but at least he could count his losses. The only thing that didnÒt seem to belong there was a handmade toolbox with a collection of chisels, bits and two hammers with well-worn handles. Pat said, ÓThese tools are antiques, all made by Sergeant Hardware back in the twenties.Ô He fondled one of the long, thin blades, feeling the sharpness with a fingertip. ÓSomebody did precision work with these babies. Real sculpture.Ô ÓThink theyÒre stolen?Ô ÓWhat for? No fast cash value in it. Looks more like a keepsake to me.Ô He turned the box upside down. Neatly carved into the bottom were the initials V.D. ÓYouÒd better handle that with rubber gloves.Ô I grinned. ÓIÒll get a penicillin shot later.Ô He gave the place a last look around. ÓAnthony Cica didnÒt leave much of a legacy. I wonder who inherits?Ô I was fitting the broken panel back in the hole PatÒs foot had made. ÓWell, take the toolbox for whoever the relative is. Nothing else is worthwhile.Ô He shut off the light and closed the door. When we felt our way down the stairs and got to the street we stood there a minute, both wondering what would make a guy like Anthony Cica live in a place like this, his only treasure an antique toolbox. Pat finally hunched his shoulders against the rain and we got into the car. Deliberately, he looked across at me. ÓThat killer couldnÒt have wanted Cica, Mike.Ô ÓWhy the hell would he want me?Ô He started the car. ÓGuess weÒll have to find that out.Ô