The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 1

by Mickey Spillane

  I laughed. She didn’t know what was so funny until I told her. “Mary Bellemy probably propositioned George right on the floor. Guess he’s getting old. She’s a nymphomaniac.”

  “Oh, yes? How did you find out?” The way she said it was with icebergs.

  “Don’t get ideas,” I said. “She tried it on me but I wasn’t in the market.”

  “Right then?”

  “No, never. I like to do some of the work myself, not have it handed to me on a platter.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. I did suspect that Mary was like that, but I never gave it much thought. We were only casual friends. Anyway, when we were leaving, Jack stopped me by the door and asked me to stop back to see him sometime during the week. Before he could say anything further, the gang called me and I had to leave. I never saw him again.”

  “I see.” I tried to mull it over in my mind, but it didn’t work out. So Jack had something bothering him, and so did Myrna. It might have been that they were worried about the same thing. Maybe not. And George. He was upset about something, too.

  “What do you make of it?” Charlotte asked.

  “Nothing, but I’ll think it over.” Charlotte got up from the chair and came over to the sofa and sat down. She laid her hand on mine and our eyes met.

  “Mike, do me a favor. I’m not asking you to stay out of this and let the police handle it, all I want is for you to be careful. Please don’t get hurt.”

  When she spoke like that I felt as if I had known her a lifetime. Her hand was warm and pulsing lightly. I felt myself going fast—and I had seen her only twice.

  “I’ll be careful,” I told her. “Why are you worrying?”

  “Here’s why.” She leaned forward, her lips parted, and kissed me on the mouth. I squeezed her arms so hard my hands hurt, but she never moved. When she drew away her eyes were soft and shining. Inside me a volcano was blazing. Charlotte looked at the marks on her arms where I held her and smiled.

  “You love hard, too, don’t you, Mike?”

  This time I didn’t hurt her. I stood up and drew her toward me. I pressed her to me, closely, so she could feel the fire I had in me. This kiss lasted longer. It was a kiss I’ll never forget. Then I kissed her eyes, and that spot on her throat that looked so delicious. It was better than I expected.

  I turned her around and we faced the windows overlooking the street. She rubbed her head against mine, holding my arms around her waist tightly. “I’m going now,” I said to her. “If I don’t, I’ll never leave. The next time I’ll stay longer. I don’t want to do this wrong. I will if you keep me here.”

  She tilted her head up and I kissed her nose. “I understand,” she said softly. “But whenever you want me, I’ll be here. Just come and get me.”

  I kissed her again, lightly this time, then went to the door. She handed me my hat and pushed my hair back for me. “Good-bye, Mike.”

  I winked at her. “So long, Charlotte. It was a wonderful supper with a wonderful girl.”

  It was a wonder I got downstairs at all. I hardly remember getting to my car. All I could think of was her face and that lovely body. The way she kissed and the intensity in her eyes. I stopped on Broadway and dropped into a bar for a drink to clear my head. It didn’t help so I went home and hit the sack earlier than usual.

  CHAPTER 7

  I woke up before the alarm went off, which is pretty unusual. After a quick shower and shave, I whipped up some scrambled eggs and shoveled them into me. When I was on my second cup of coffee the boy from the tailor shop came in with my suit nicely cleaned and pressed. The pocket was sewed up so that you could never have told it was torn. I dressed leisurely and called the office.

  “Hammer Investigating Agency, good morning.”

  “Good morning yourself, Velda, this is your boss.”

  “Oh.”

  “Aw, come on, honey,” I pleaded, “quit being sore at me. That lipstick came under the line of business. How can I work when you’ve got me by the neck?”

  “You seem to do all right,” her reply came back. “What can I do for you, Mister Hammer?”

  “Any calls?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any mail?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anybody been in?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, so long then.”

  “Marry? Hey ... wait a minute, Mike. MIKE! Hello ... hello....”

  I hung up very gently, laughing to myself. That would fix her. The next time she’d do more than say “nope.” I’d better start watching that stuff. Can’t afford to trip myself up; though with Velda maybe it wouldn’t be so bad at that.

  The police had taken their watchdog away from Jack’s apartment. The door was still sealed pending further investigation and I didn’t want to get in dutch with the D.A.’s office by breaking it, so I looked around a bit.

  I had just about given up when I remembered that the bathroom window bordered on an air shaft, and directly opposite it was another window. I walked around the hall and knocked on a door. A small, middle-aged gent poked his head out and I flashed my badge on him. “Police,” was all I had to say.

  He didn’t bother looking the badge over, but opened the door in haste. A good respectable citizen that believed in law and order. He stood in front of me, clutching a worn smoking jacket around his pot belly and trying to look innocent. Right then he was probably thinking of some red light he ran a month ago, and picturing himself in the line-up.

  “Er ... yes, officer, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m investigating possible entries into the apartment of Mr. Williams. I understand you have a window that faces his. Is that right?”

  His jaw dropped. “Wh-why, yes, but nobody could have gone through our window without us seeing him.”

  “That isn’t the point,” I explained to him. “Somebody could have come down from the roof on a rope. What I want to do is see if that window can be opened from the outside. And I don’t want to shinny down a rope to do it.”

  The guy sighed with relief. “Oh, I see. Well, of course, just come this way.” A mousey-type woman stuck her head from the bedroom door and asked, “John, what is it?”

  “Police,” he told her importantly. “They want me to help them.” He led me to the bathroom and I pushed up the window. It was some job. Those modest folks, fearing somebody might peek, must never have had it open. When it went up, a shower of paint splinters fluttered to the floor.

  There was Jack’s bathroom window, all right. A space of three feet separated the two walls. I worked myself to the outside sill while the little guy held my belt to steady me. Then I let myself fall forward. The guy let out a shriek and his wife came tearing in. But all I did was stick my hands out and lean against the opposite wall. He thought I was a goner.

  The bathroom window went up easily. I pulled myself across the space, thanked the guy and his wife, and slithered inside. Nothing had been moved around much. The fingerprint crew had left powder tracings on most of the objects that could have been handled, and where Jack’s body had lain were the chalk marks outlining the position. His artificial arm was still on the bed where he had put it. The only thing that was gone was his gun, and stuck in the empty holster was a note. I pulled it out and read it. “Mike,” it said, “don’t get excited over the gun. I have it at headquarters.” It was signed, “Pat.”

  How do you like that? He thought I’d find a way to get in. I put the note back with an addition at the bottom. “Thanks, chum,” I wrote, “I won’t.” I scrawled my name underneath it.

  It was easy to see that the police had been over everything in the place. They had gone at it neatly, but completely. Everything was replaced much the same as it had been. There were just a few things not quite in order that made it possible to tell that it had been searched.

  I started in the living room. After I pushed the chairs to the middle of the floor and examined them, I
went around the edges of the carpet. Nothing there but a little dirt. I found three cents under the cushions of the couch, but that was all. The insides of the radio hadn’t been touched for months, as evidenced by the dust that had settled there. What books were around had nothing in them, no envelopes, no bookmarks or paper of any sort. If they had, the police got them.

  When I finished, I replaced everything and tried the bathroom but, except for the usual array of bottles and shaving things in the cabinet, it was empty.

  The bedroom was next. I lifted the mattress and felt along the seams for any possible opening or place where it may have been stitched up. I could have cursed my luck. I stood in the middle of the floor stroking my chin, thinking back. Jack had kept a diary, but he kept it on his dresser. It wasn’t there now. The police again. I even tried the window shades, thinking that a paper might have been rolled up in one of them.

  What got me was that I knew Jack had kept a little pad of notes and addresses ever since he was on the force. If I could find that, it might contain something useful. I tried the dresser. I took every shirt, sock and set of underwear out of the drawers and went through them, but I might as well not have taken the time. Nothing.

  As I emptied the bottom drawer a tie caught and slipped over the back. I pulled the drawer all the way out and picked up the tie from the plywood bottom. I also picked up something else. I picked up Jack’s little book.

  I didn’t want to go through it right then. It was nearly ten o’clock and there was a chance that either the police might walk in on me or the little guy get suspicious enough of my being away so long he’d call a copper. As quickly as I could, I put the stuff back in the drawers and replaced them in the dresser. The book I stuck in my hip pocket.

  The little guy was waiting for me in his own bathroom. I squeezed out Jack’s window and made a pretense of looking for rope marks along the upper sill. His eyes followed me carefully. “Find anything, officer?” he asked me.

  “Afraid not. No marks around here at all. I checked the other windows and they haven’t even been opened.” I tried to look up to the roof, but I couldn’t get back far enough until I stepped across to his side, then I wormed my way into the bathroom and poked my head out and craned my head to make it look like I was really trying.

  “Well, I guess that’s all. Might as well go out through your door as climb back inside there, okay?”

  “Certainly, officer, right this way.” He steered me to the front room like a seeing-eye dog and opened up for me. “Any time we can be of service, officer,” he called to me as I left, “let us know. Glad to help.”

  I drove back to the office in short order and walked into the reception room, pulling the book from my pocket. Velda stopped typing. “Mike.”

  I turned around. I knew what was coming.

  “What is it, honey?”

  “Please don’t fool with me like that.”

  I gave her a big grin. “I wasn’t fooling,” I said. “If you were on your toes I’d be an engaged man right now. Come on inside a minute.” She trailed in after me and sat down. I swung my feet up on the battered desk and riffled through the book. Velda was interested.

  “What is it?” she asked curiously, leaning over to get a better look.

  “A notebook of Jack’s. I swiped it from his room before the police could get it.”

  “Anything in it?”

  “Maybe. I haven’t looked yet.” Starting at the front was a list of names, all crossed out. Each page was dated, the earliest starting three years ago. Occasionally there were references to departmental cases with possible suspects and the action to take. These, too, were crossed out as having been completed.

  About the middle of the book notes began to appear that apparently were still active or pending, for no black X’s marked them. I jotted these down on a list and Velda checked them against news clippings in my files. When she finished she laid down my notes with the word “solved” after each. Evidently the cases had been cleared up while Jack was still in the army.

  I wasn’t getting much at all from this. Jack had inserted a single page with one word across it. “WHOOPEE!” It was dated the day of his discharge. The next page had a recipe for veal paprika, and at the bottom was a notation to put more salt in than the recipe called for.

  There were two more pages of figures, an itemized account of what he had spent for clothes balanced against what he had in a bank account somewhere. Then came a brief remark: “Eileen Vickers. Family still in Poughkeepsie.”

  She must have been a girl from home. Jack was born in Poughkeepsie and lived there until he went to college. The next few pages had some instructions from the insurance company. Then Eileen Vickers’ name cropped up again. This time it read: “Saw E. V again. Call family.” The date was exactly two weeks before Jack had been killed.

  She turned up again five pages further on. In heavy pencil Jack had: “R. H. Vickers, c/o Halper. Pough. 221. Call after 6.” Then below it: “E. V. al. Mary Wright. No address. Get it later.”

  I tried to puzzle out what it meant. To me it looked like Jack had met a girl from home and had talked to her. She had told him that her family was still in Poughkeepsie. Evidently he tried to call them and found that they were staying with Halper, and in order to get them, called at supper time. Then the next part. E. V, Eileen Vickers, all right, but she was traveling under an alias of Mary Wright and gave no address.

  I thumbed through the pages quickly, and there she was again. “E. V Call family. Bad shape. Trace and raid 36904 the 29th.” And today was the 29th. There was one page left. It was an afterthought, a memo to himself: “Ask C. M. what she can do.” ...

  C. M., Charlotte Manning. He had reference to what Charlotte told me about. He wanted her to stop back during the week, but never got the chance to see her.

  I reached for the phone and dialed operator. When she cut in I asked for the Poughkeepsie number. There were some clicks as the connection was completed, then a timid voice answered.

  “Hello,” I said. “Is this Mr. Vickers?”

  “No,” the voice replied, “this is Mr. Halper. Mr. Vickers is still at work. Can you leave a message?”

  “Well, I wanted to find out if he had a daughter in the city. Do you know...”

  The voice interrupted me. “I’m sorry, but it would be better if you didn’t mention that to Mr. Vickers. Who is calling, please?”

  “This is Michael Hammer, investigator. I’m working with the police on a murder and I’m trying to run down what might be a lead. Now, can you tell me what the story is here?”

  Halper hesitated a moment, then said, “Very well. Mr. Vickers hasn’t seen his daughter since she went to college. She became enmeshed in a sinful life with a young man. Mr. Vickers is a very stern gentleman, and as far as he is concerned, she might as well be dead. He’ll have nothing to do with her.”

  “I see, thank you.” I hung up and turned to Velda. She was staring at the number I had jotted down. 36904.

  “Mike.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know what this is?” I looked at the number. It could have been a reference to a police file, but when I glanced at it a third time, I felt as though I had seen it before.

  “Uh-uh. I should know it, I think. Something vaguely familiar about it.”

  Velda took a pencil from her pocket and swung the pad around. “Suppose you write it this way,” she said. She put the numbers down to read: XX3-6904.

  “Well, I’ll be damned! A phone number.”

  “Roger, pal. Now fill in the first two letters of an exchange for the X’s and you’ll have it.”

  I jumped to my feet and went to the files. Now I remembered where I had seen that number before. It was on the back of a card I had taken from a pimp. The little runt had tried to sell me a deal and I slapped him silly for it. I came back with a folder of note paper, cards, and numbers, scratched on the back of menus.

  I picked one out of the file. “LEARN TO DANCE” it read, “TWE
NTY BEAUTIFUL GIRLS.” On the back of it was a number. I compared it to the one from Jack’s book. The same. Only this one had an exchange, LO, for Loellen. That was the number, all right, LO3- 6904. Velda took it from my hand and read it.

  “What is it, Mike?”

  “It’s the telephone number of a call house. If I’m not mistaken, that’s where I’m going to find the Vickers girl.” I reached for the phone, but Velda put her hand out to stop me.

  “You’re not actually going there, are you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Mike!” Her voice was indignant, hurt.

  “For Pete’s sake, honey, do I look like a dope? I’m not going to buy anything. After all those pictures the army showed me of what happens to good little boys who go out with bad little girls, I’m even afraid to kiss my own mother.”

  “Okay, go ahead, but watch your step, by damn, or you’re going to have to get a new secretary.” I ran my fingers through her hair and dialed the number.

  The voice I got this time had a little life in it. Behind the “hello” I could see a frowsy blonde about fifty in a gaudy dress dangling a butt from her lips.

  “Hello,” I said, “you booked for the night?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Pete Sterling. Got your number from a little guy downtown.”

  “All right. Come up before nine or you won’t make the beginning of the entertainment. Want to stay all night?”

  “Maybe. I’ll know better then. Book me for the night anyway. Guess I can get away from home.” I winked at Velda when I said it, but she didn’t wink back.

  “You’re down. Bring cash. Ring three longs and a short when you come.”

  “I got it.” I cradled the phone.

  There were tears in Velda’s eyes. She was trying to remain grim, but she couldn’t hold them back.

  I put my arms around her and hugged her gently. “Aw, look, honey,” I whispered, “I have to take a realistic approach to this case. Otherwise, how the hell am I going to get anywhere?”

  “You don’t have to go that far,” she sniffled.