The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 1

by Mickey Spillane

  “You’ve been here before, sonny. Go ahead up.”

  “Mind if I use your phone first?”

  “Nah, go ahead. Want me to connect you with her room?”

  “Yeah.”

  She fussed with the plugs in the switchboard and triggered her button a few times. There was no answer. The woman shrugged and made a sour face. “She came in and I didn’t see her go out. Maybe she’s in the tub. Them babes is always taking baths anyway. Go on up and pound on her door.”

  I shoved the phone back and went up the stairs. They squeaked, but there was so much noise in the lobby nobody seemed to mind. I found Marion’s room and knocked twice. A little light was seeping out from under the door so I figured the clerk had been right about the bath. I listened, but I didn’t hear any splashing.

  I knocked again, louder.

  Still no answer.

  I tried the door and it opened easily enough.

  It was easy to see why she couldn’t answer the door. Marion Lester was as dead as a person could get. I closed the door quietly and stepped in the room. “Damn,” I said, “damn it all to hell!”

  She had on a pair of red satin pajamas and was sprawled out facedown. You might have thought she was asleep if you didn’t notice the angle of her neck. It had been broken with such force the snapped vertebra was pushed out against the skin. On the opposite side of the neck was a bluish imprint of the weapon. When I put the edge of my palm against the mark it almost fit and the body was stone-cold and stiff.

  The only weapon our killer liked was his strong hands.

  I lifted the phone and when the clerk came on I said, “When did Miss Lester come in?”

  “Hell, she came in this morning drunk as a skunk. She could hardly navigate. Ain’t she there now?”

  “She’s here now, all right. She won’t be going out again very soon either. She’s dead. You better get up here right away.”

  The woman let out a muffled scream and started to run without bothering to break the connection. I heard her feet pounding on the stairs and she wrenched the door open without any formalities. Her face went from white to gray then flushed until the veins of her forehead stood out like pencils. “Lawd! Did you do this?”

  She practically fell into a chair and wiped her hand across her eyes. I said, “She’s been dead for hours. Now take it easy and think. Understand, think. I want to know who was up here today. Who called on her or even asked for her. You ought to know, you’ve been here all day.”

  Her mouth moved, the thick lips hanging limp. “Lawd!” she said.

  I grabbed her shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled. A little life came back into her eyes. “Answer me and stop looking foolish. Who was up here today?”

  Her head wobbled from side to side. “This tears it, sonny. The joint’ll be ruined. Lawd, there goes my job!” She buried her face in her hands and moaned foolishly.

  I slapped her hands away and made her look at me. “Listen. She isn’t the first. The same guy that killed her killed two others and unless he’s stopped there’s going to be more killing. Can you understand that?”

  She nodded dumbly, terror creeping into her eyes.

  “All right, who was up here to see her today?”

  “Nobody. Not nobody atall.”

  “Somebody was here. Somebody killed her.”

  “H-how do I know who killed her?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said somebody was here.”

  She pulled her thick lips together and licked them. “Look, sonny, I don’t take a count of who comes and goes in this place. It’s easy to get in and it’s easy to get out. Lotsa guys come in here.”

  “And you don’t notice them?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I ain’t ... I ain’t supposed to.”

  “So the dump’s a whorehouse. Nothing but a whorehouse.”

  She glared at me indignantly, the terror fading. “I ain’t no madam, sonny. It’s just a place where the babes can stay with no questions asked, is all. I ain’t no madam.”

  “Do you know what’s going to happen around here?” I said. “In ten minutes this place will be crawling with cops. There’s no sense running because they’ll catch up with you. When they find out what’s going on ... and they will ... you’ll be up the creek. Now you can either start thinking and maybe have a little while to get yourself a clear story to offer them or you can take what the cops have to hand out. What will it be?”

  She looked me straight in the eye and told the God’s honest truth. “Sonny,” she said, “if my life depended upon it I couldn’t tell you anything different. I don’t know who was in here today. The place was crawling with people ever since noontime and I read a book most of the day.”

  I felt like I fell through a manhole. “Okay, lady. Maybe there’s somebody else who would know.”

  “Nobody else. The girls who clean the halls only work in the morning. The guests take care of their own rooms. Everyone who lives here is a regular. No overnighters.”

  “No bellboys?”

  “We ain’t had ‘em for a year. We don’t need ’em.”

  I looked back at the remains of Marion Lester and wanted to vomit. Nobody knew a thing. The killer had no face. Nobody saw him. They felt him and didn’t live to tell about it. Only me. I was lucky, I got away. First the killer tried to shoot me. It didn’t work. Then he tried to lay murder in my lap and that didn’t work either. Then he tried an ambush and slipped up there. I was the most important one in the whole lot.

  And I couldn’t make a target of myself because there wasn’t time to play bait.

  I looked at Marion and talked to the woman who sat there trembling from head to foot. “Go on downstairs and put me through to the police department. I’ll call them from here but I won’t be here when they come. You can tell them the same thing you told me. Go on, beat it.”

  She waddled out, her entire body bearing the weight of the calamity. I held the phone to my ear and heard her call the police. When the connection was through I asked for homicide and got the night man. I said, “This is Mike Hammer. I’m in the Chadwick Hotel with a dead woman. No, I didn’t kill her, she’s been dead for hours. The D.A. will want to hear about it so you better call him and mention my name. Tell him I’ll drop by later. Yeah, yeah. No, I won’t be here. If the D.A. doesn’t like that he can put my name on his butt-kissing list. Tell him I said that, too. Good-by.” I walked downstairs and out the front door with about a minute to spare. I was just starting up my car when the police came up with their sirens wide open, leading a black limousine that skidded to a halt as the D.A. himself jumped out and started slinging orders around.

  When I drove by I beeped the horn twice, but he didn’t hear it because he was too busy directing his army. Another squad car came up and I looked it over hoping to see Pat. He wasn’t with them.

  My watch said twenty minutes to twelve. Velda would be leaving her apartment about now. My hands were shaking when I reached for a Lucky and I had to use the dashboard lighter to get it lit, a match wouldn’t hold still. If there was any fight left inside me it was going fast, draining out with each minute, and in twenty minutes there wouldn’t be a thing left for me, not one damn thing.

  I stopped at a saloon and pulled the phone book from its rack and fingered through the L’s until I came to Lipsek, Anton. The address was right on the fringe of the Village in a section I knew pretty well. I went back to the car and crawled down Broadway.

  Twenty minutes. Fifteen now. Tempus Fugit. Tempus Fugits fast as hell. Twelve minutes. It started to snow harder. The wind picked it up and whipped the stuff into parallel, oblique lines across the multicolored lights that lined the street. Red lights. I made like I was skidding and went through. Cars honked and I cursed back, telling them to be quiet. The gun under my arm was burning a hole in my side and my finger under the glove kept tightening up expectantly.

  Fourteenth Street went by and two cabs were bumper-locked in the middle of t
he road. I followed a pickup truck onto the sidewalk and off again to get around them. A police whistle blew and I muttered for the cop to go to the devil and kept on my way behind the truck.

  Five minutes. My teeth were making harsh, grinding noises I could feel through my jaw. I came to my street and pulled into a parking space. Another minute went by while I oriented myself and followed the numbers in the right direction. Another two minutes went by before I found it.

  Three minutes. She should almost be there by now. The name on the bell read, ANTON LIPSEK, Esq., and some kid had written a word under it. The kid had my sympathy. I felt the same way myself. I pushed the bell and heard it tinkle someplace upstairs.

  Nothing happened. I pushed it again and kept my finger on it. The tinkling went on and on and on and still nothing happened. I pushed one of the other bells and the door clicked open. A voice from the rear of the first floor said, “Who is it?”

  “Me,” I said. “I forgot my key.”

  The voice said, “Oh ... okay,” and the door closed. Me, the magic password. Me, the sap, the sucker, the target for a killer. Me, the stupid bastard who was going around in circles while a killer watched and laughed. That was me.

  I had to light a match at every door to see where I was. I found Anton’s on the top floor with another Esq. after it. There was no sound and no light, and when I tried the knob it was locked.

  I was too late. I was too late all around. It was five after twelve. Velda would be inside. The door would be closed and the nuptial couch laid. Velda would know all about it the hard way.

  I kicked the door so hard the lock snapped and the door flew open. I kicked it shut the same way and stood there hoping the killer would come at me out of the darkness, hoping he’d run right into the rod I held in my fist. I prayed that he’d come, listened hard hoping to hear him. All I heard was my own breathing.

  My hand groped for the wall switch and found it, bathing the place with a brilliant white light. It was some place. Some joint. The furniture was nothing but wooden porch furniture and the lamps were rigged up from discarded old floodlights. The rug on the floor must have been dragged out of an ash can.

  But the walls were worth a million dollars. They were hung with canvas painted by the Masters and must have been genuine, otherwise their lavish frames and engraved brass nameplates were going to waste. So Anton had money and he didn’t spend it on dames. No, it went into pictures, something with a greater permanent value than money. The inscriptions were all in French and didn’t mean a thing to me. Although the rest of the room was littered with empty glasses and cigarette butts, not a speck of dust nested on the frames or the pictures, and the brass plates had been recently polished.

  Could this be Anton’s reward for wartime collaboration? Or was it his own private enterprise?

  I picked some of the trash out of the way and prowled around the apartment. There was a small studio filled with the usual claptrap of a man who brings his work home with him, and adjoining, a tiny darkroom. The sinks were filled and a small red light burned over a table. That was all there was to it. I would have left, but the red light winked at me from a reflected image in a shiny bit of metal against the wall and I ran my hand over the area.

  It wasn’t a wall, it was a door. It was set flush with the wall and had no knob. Only the scratch on the concealed hinge showed me where it was. Someplace a hidden latch opened it and I didn’t waste time looking for it. I braced my back against the sink and kicked out as hard as I could.

  Part of the wall shook and cracked.

  I kicked again and my foot went through the partition. The third time I had made a hole big enough to crawl into. It was an empty clothes closet that faced into another apartment.

  Here was where Anton Lipsek lived in style. A wall had separated two worlds. There was junk lying around here, just the evidence of a recent and wild party. One side was a bar, stocked to the hilt with the best that money could buy. The rest of the room was the best that money could buy too. There were couches and tables that didn’t come from any department store and they matched the drapes and color scheme perfectly. Someone with an eye for good taste had done a magnificent job of decorating. Someone like an artist-photographer named Anton Lipsek. The only things out of place were the cheap prints that were framed in bamboo. They belonged outside with the junk. Anton was as cracked as the Liberty Bell.

  Maybe.

  There were other rooms, a whole lot of rooms. Apparently he had rented two apartments back to back and used the darkroom as a secret go-between. There was a hall that led into three beautiful bedrooms, each with its own shower stall and toilet. Each bedroom had ash trays filled with cigarette butts, some plain, some stained with lipstick. In one room there were three well-chewed cigar stubs squashed out in a glass coaster beside the bed.

  Something was wrong. There had to be something wrong. I would have seen it if my mind wasn’t twisted and dead. The whole thing was as unnatural as it was possible to be. Why the two apartments? Why the one place crawling with dirt and decorated with a fortune in pictures and the other lavish in furnishings and nothing else?

  Anton was a bachelor. Until recently he didn’t mess with women, so why all the bedrooms? He wasn’t so popular that he was overloaded with guests. I sat on the edge of the bed and shoved my hat back on my head. It was a nice bed, soft, firm and quiet. It made me want to lean back and sleep forever to wash the fatigue from my mind. I lay back and stared at the ceiling.

  It was a white ceiling with faint lines crisscrossing in the calcimine. My eyes followed the lines to the wall where they disappeared into the molding. Those lines were like the tracks the killer made. They started at no place and went everywhere, disappearing just as effectively. A killer who was strong as he was vicious.

  I stared at the molding some more then picked out the pictures that hung over the bed and stared at them. They were funny little pictures painted on glass, seascapes, with the water a shimmering silver. The water had tiny palms. I got up off that bed slowly and looked at the lines crisscrossing it too, reflecting the cracks in the ceiling.

  My breath was hot in my throat and my eyes must have been little slits. I could feel my nails bite into my palms. The water was shiny and silver because the water part was a mirror. It made a lovely, decorative picture.

  Lovely, but very practical. I tried to wrench the frames loose, but they were screwed into the wall. All I could do was swear and claw at the damn things and it didn’t do any good. I ran back through the living room, opened the door of the closet and wiggled through the hole in the wall. The splinters grasped at my coat and held me back until I smacked at them with my hand.

  The pictures. Those beautiful canvases by the Old Masters. They were worth a million as they stood and they had another million dollars’ worth behind them. I grabbed the one with the two nudes playing in the forest and lifted it from the hook. It came away easily and I had what I was looking for.

  On the other side a hole had been cut into the wall and I saw the little seascape in its frame on the other side. The shore line and the sky were opaque under the paint, but where the glass had been silvered you could see everything that went on in the room.

  What a blackmail setup that was! One-way glass set above a bed! Oh, brother!

  It took me about ten seconds to locate the camera Anton used. It was a fancy affair that would take shots without missing a single detail of expression. It had been tucked in a cabinet along with a tripod whose legs were still set at the proper level to focus the camera into the bedroom.

  I threw it all on the floor and hauled out everything else that was in that cabinet. I was looking for pictures, direct evidence that would be hanging evidence. Something that would give me the big excuse when I pumped a slug into his guts.

  It was simple as hell now, as simple as it could ever get. Anton Lipsek was using some of the girls to bait the big boys into the bedroom. He took pictures that set him up for life. It was the best kind of blackmail I could t
hink of. The public could excuse anything else, but coarse infidelity, no.

  Even Chester Wheeler fitted it. He was money, big money. He was in town alone and a little bit drunk. He walked into the trap, but he made one mistake that cost him his life. He recognized the girl. He recognized her as a girl that went to school with his daughter. The girl got scared and told Anton so Anton had to see to it that Wheeler died. But the girl was still scared and eloped, grabbing the first guy who was handy. She did fine until the killer caught up with her again and didn’t take any chances with her getting so scared she would talk.

  Yeah, it all was so simple now. Even Marion. Anton was afraid of me. The papers had it down that I was a cop and my ticket had been lifted. If I had never shown my face around neither Jean nor Marion would have died, but it was too late to think of that now. Anton made Marion pick up the story and say she was the one who went out with Wheeler, but she gave it an innocent touch that couldn’t be tracked down. It should have stopped there.

  What happened? Did Marion get too big for her pants and want a pay-off for the story she told? Sure, why not? She was in this thing. When those pictures turned up her face would be there. All she could lose would be her character and her job, but if she had something on somebody too, she didn’t stand to lose a thing. So she died. Pretty? You bet your life it was!

  I started to grin and my breath came fast through my teeth. Even right back to the beginning it checked. It didn’t start from the night Wheeler died, it started a few days before, long enough to give the killer time to register in the hotel and take Wheeler at a convenient moment. I was just there by accident. I was a witness who didn’t matter because I was out cold, and if I had been anybody else but me it made the killing so much the better. Whisky-drunk and out like a light with no memory of what happened. The cops would have tagged me and I would have tagged myself.

  All the killer forgot was my habit of keeping that .45 loaded with six shots. He took back the extra slug and shell case and overlooked that one little item. If the killer had had sense enough to go through my pockets he would have found a handful of loose shells and replaced that one bullet that went into the mattress.