The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3

by Mickey Spillane

  “He meant a lot to you, didn’t he?”

  “Everything. He taught me so many things, music, art . . . things that it takes people so long to get to know. He was wonderful, the best dad ever.”

  Without speaking I walked him over to the big chair beside the fireplace and sat down on the arm of the chair beside him. “Ruston,” I started, “your father isn’t here anymore, but he wouldn’t want you to grieve about it. I think he’d rather you went on with all those things he was teaching you, and be what he wanted you to be.”

  “I will be, Mike,” he said. His voice lacked color, but it rang earnestly. “Dad wanted me to excel in everything. He often told me that a man never lived long enough to accomplish nearly anything he was capable of because it took too long to learn the fundamentals. That’s why he wanted me to know all these things while I was young. Then when I was a doctor or a scientist maybe I would be ahead of myself, sort of.”

  He was better as long as he could talk. Let him get it out of his system, I thought. It’s the only way. “You’ve done fine, kid. I bet he was proud of you.”

  “Oh, he was. I only wish he could have been able to make his report.”

  “What report?”

  “To the College of Scientists. They meet every five years to turn in reports, then one is selected as being the best one and the winner is elected President of the College for a term. He wanted that awfully badly. His report was going to be on me.”

  “I see,” I said. “Maybe Miss Grange will do it for him.”

  I shouldn’t have said that. He looked up at me woefully. “I don’t think she will, not after the police find her.”

  It hit me right between the eyes. “Who’s been telling you things, kid?”

  “The policemen were here this morning. The big one made us all tell where we were last night and everything. Then he told us about Miss Grange.”

  “What about her?”

  “They found her car down by the creek. They think she drowned herself.”

  I could have tossed a brick through a window right then. “Harvey!” I yelled. “Hey, Harvey.”

  The butler came in on the double. “I thought I asked you to wake me up when the police got here. What the hell happened?”

  “Yes, sir. I meant to, but Officer Dilwick suggested that I let you sleep. I’m sorry, sir, it was more an order than a request.”

  So that was how things stood. I’d get even with that fat slob. “Where is everybody?”

  “After the police took their statements he directed the family to return to their own homes. Miss Malcom and Parks are bringing Mr. York’s car home. Sergeant Price wished me to tell you that he will be at the headquarters on the highway this evening and he would like to see you.”

  “I’m glad someone would like to see me,” I remarked. I turned to Ruston. “I’m going to leave, son. How about you go to your room until Roxy . . . I mean Miss Malcom gets here? Okay?”

  “All right, Mike. Why did you call her Roxy?”

  “I have pet names for everybody.”

  “Do you have one for me?” he asked, little lights dancing in his eyes.

  “You bet.”

  “What?”

  “Sir Lancelot. He was the bravest of the brave.”

  As I walked out of the room I heard him repeat it softly. “Sir Lancelot, the bravest of the brave.”

  I reached the low fieldstone building set back from the road at a little after eight. The sky was threatening again, the air chilly and humid. Little beads of sweat were running down the windshield on the side. A sign across the drive read, STATE POLICE HEADQUARTERS, and I parked beside it.

  Sergeant Price was waiting for me. He nodded when I came in and laid down the sheaf of papers he was examining. I threw my hat on an empty desk and helped myself to a chair. “Harvey gave me your message,” I said. “What’s the story?”

  He leaned back in the swivel seat and tapped the desk with a pencil. “We found Grange’s car.”

  “So I heard. Find her yet?”

  “No. The door was open and her body may have washed out. If it did we won’t find it so easily. The tide was running out and would have taken the body with it. The river runs directly into the bay, you know.”

  “That’s all supposition. She may not have been in the car.”

  He put the pencil between his teeth. “Every indication points to the fact that she was. There are clear tire marks showing where the car was deliberately wrenched off the road before the guardrails to the bridge. The car was going fast, besides. It landed thirty feet out in the water.”

  “That’s not what you wanted to see me about?” I put in.

  “You’re on the ball, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Mike. I hate titles.”

  “Okay, Mike. What I want is this kidnapping deal.”

  “Figuring a connection?”

  “There may be one if Grange was murdered.”

  I grinned. “You’re on the ball yourself.” Once again I went over the whole story, starting with Billy’s call when he was arrested. He listened intently without saying a word until I was finished.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Somebody’s going to a lot of trouble.”

  “Do you smell a correlation between the two?”

  I squinted at him. “I don’t know . . . yet. That kidnapping came at the wrong time. A kidnapper wants money. This one never got away with his victim. Generally speaking, it isn’t likely that a second try would be made on the same person, but York wanted the whole affair hushed up ostensibly for fear of the publicity it would bring. That would leave the kid open again. It is possible that the kidnapper, enraged at having his deal busted open, would hang around waiting to get even with York and saw his chance when he took off at that hour of the morning to see Grange.”

  Price shook out a cig from his pack and offered me one. “If that was the case, money would not have been the primary motive. A kidnapper who has muffed his snatch wants to get far away fast.”

  I lit up and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “Sounds screwed up, doesn’t it?” He agreed. “Did you find out that York didn’t have long to live anyway?”

  He seemed startled at the change of subject. “No. Why?”

  “Let’s do it this way,” I said. “York was on the list. He had only a few years at best to live. At the bottom of every crime there’s a motive no matter how remote, and nine times out of ten that motive is cold, hard cash. He’s got a bunch of relations that have been hanging around waiting for him to kick the bucket for a long time. One of them might have known that his condition was so bad that any excitement might knock him off. That one arranges a kidnapping, then when it fails takes direct action by knocking off York, making it look like Grange did it, then kills Grange to further the case by making it appear that she was a suicide in a fit of remorse.”

  Price smiled gently. “Are you testing me? I could shoot holes in that with a popgun. Arranging for a kidnapping means that you invite blackmail and lose everything you tried to get. York comes into it somewhere along the line because he was searching for something in that apartment. Try me again.”

  I laughed. “No good. You got all the answers.”

  He shoved the papers across the desk to me. “There are the statements of everybody in the house. They seem to support each other pretty well. Nobody left the house according to them so nobody had a chance to knock off York. That puts it outside the house again.”

  I looked them over. Not much there. Each sheet was an individual statement and it barely covered a quarter of the page. Besides a brief personal history was the report that once in bed, each person had remained there until I called them into the living room that morning.

  I handed them back. “Somebody’s lying. Is this all you got?”

  “We didn’t press for information although Dilwick wanted to. Who lied?”

  “Somebody. Billy Parks told me he heard someone come downstairs during the night.”

  �
�Could it have been you?”

  “No, it was before I followed York.”

  “He made no mention of it to me.”

  “Probably because he’s afraid somebody will refute it if he does just to blacken him. I half promised him I’d check on it first.”

  “I see. Did York take you into his confidence at any time?”

  “Nope. I didn’t know him that long. After the snatch he hired me to stick around until he was certain his son was safe.”

  Price threw the pencil on the desk. “We’re climbing a tree,” he said tersely. “York was killed for a reason. Myra Grange was killed for the same reason. I think that for the time being we’ll concentrate our efforts on locating Grange’s body. When we’re sure of her death we can have something definite to work on. Meanwhile I’m taking it for granted that she is dead.”

  I stood up to leave. “I’m not taking anything for granted, Sergeant. If she’s dead she’s out of it; if not the finger is still on her. I’m going to play around a little bit and see what happens. What’s Dilwick doing?”

  “Like you. He won’t believe she’s dead until he sees her either.”

  “Don’t underestimate that hulk,” I told him. “He’s had a lot of police work and he’s shrewd. Too shrewd, in fact, that’s why he was booted off the New York force. He’ll be looking out for himself when the time comes. If anything develops I’ll let you know.”

  “Do that. See you later.”

  That ended the visit. I went out to the car and sat behind the wheel a while, thinking. Kidnapping, murder, a disappearance. A house full of black sheep. One nice kid, an ex-stripper for a nurse and a chauffeur with a record. The butler, maybe the butler did it. Someday a butler would do it for a change. A distraught father who stuck his hand in a hole in the fireplace and found something gone. He sets out to kill and gets killed instead. The one he wanted to kill is gone, perhaps dead too. Mallory. That was the name that started the ball of murder rolling. But Mallory figured in the kidnapping.

  Okay, first things first. The kidnapping was first and I’d take it that way. It was a hell of a mess. The only thing that could make it any worse was to have Grange show up with an airtight alibi. I hated to hold out on Price about Mallory, but if he had it Dilwick would have to get it too, and that would put the kibosh on me. Like hell. I promised the kid.

  I shoved the car in gear and spun out on the highway. Initial clue, the cops call it, the hand that puts the hound on the trail, that’s what I had to have. York thought it was in Grange’s apartment. Find what he was searching for and you had the answer. Swell, let’s find it.

  This time I parked around the block. The rain had started again, a light mist that you breathed into your lungs and that dampened matches in your pocket. From the back of the car I pulled a slicker and climbed into it, turning the collar up high. I walked back to Main Street, crossed over to the side of the street opposite the apartment and joined the few late workers in their dash toward home.

  I saw what I was looking for, a black, unmarked sedan occupied by a pair of cigar-smoking gentlemen who were trying their best to remain unnoticed. They did a lousy job. I circled the block until I was behind the apartment. A row of modest one-family houses faced me, their windows lighted with gaiety and cheer. Each house was flanked by a driveway.

  Without waiting I picked the right one and turned down the cinder drive, staying to the side in the shadow of a hedgerow where the grass partially muffled my feet. Somehow I slipped between the garage and the hedges to the back fence without making too much of a racket. For ten minutes I stood that way, motionless. It wasn’t a new experience for me. I remembered other pits of blackness where little brown men waited and threw jeers into our faces to draw us out. That was a real test of patience. This guy was easier. When another ten minutes passed the match lit his face briefly, then subsided into the ill-concealed glow of a cigarette tip.

  Dilwick wasn’t taking any chances on Myra Grange slipping back to her apartment. Or anyone else for that matter.

  Once I had him spotted I kept my eyes a few feet to the side of him so I wouldn’t lose him. Look directly at an object in the dark and you draw a blank spot. I went over the fence easily enough, then flanked the lookout by staying in the shadows again. By the time I reached the apartment building I had him silhouetted against the lights of another house. The janitor had very conveniently left a row of ash barrels stacked by the cellar entrance. I got up that close, at least. Six feet away on the other side of the gaping cavern of the entrance the law stood on flat feet, breathing heavily, cursing the rain under his breath.

  My fingers snaked over the lip of a barrel, came away with a piece of ash the size of a marble. I balanced it on my thumb, then flipped it. I heard nothing, but he heard it and turned his head, that was all. I tried again with the same results. The next time I used a bigger piece. I got better results, too. He dropped the butt, ground it under his heel and walked away from the spot.

  As soon as he moved I ducked around the barrels and down the stairs, then waited again, flattened against the wall. Finding nothing, the cop resumed his post. I went on tiptoes down the corridor, my hand out in front like a sleepwalker.

  This part was going to take clever thinking. If they had both exits covered it was a sure bet that the apartment door was covered, too. I came to a bend in the tunnel and found myself in the furnace room. Overhead a dim bulb struggled against dust and cobwebs to send out a feeble glow. On the other side of the room a flight of metal steps led to the floor above. Sweet, but not practical. If I could make the roof I might be able to come down the fire escape, but that meant a racket or being seen by the occupants.

  Right then I was grateful to the inventor of the dumbwaiter. The empty box yawned at me with a sleepy invitation. The smell was bad, but it was worth it. I climbed aboard and gave the rope a tentative pull to see if the pulleys squealed. They were well oiled. Danke schön, janitor. You get an A.

  When I passed the first floor I was beginning to doubt whether I could make it all the way. Crouching there like that I had no leverage to bear on the ropes. It was all wrist motion. I took a hitch in the rope around the catch on the sliding door and rested a second, then began hauling away again. Somewhere above me voices passed back and forth. Someone yelled, “Put it on the dumbwaiter.”

  I held my breath. Let them catch me here and I was sunk. Dilwick would like nothing better than to get me on attempted burglary and work me over with a few of his boys.

  A moment went by, two, then, “Later, honey, it’s only half full.”

  Thanks, pal. Remind me to scratch your back. I got another grip on the rope and pulled away. By the time I reached Myra’s door I was exhausted. Fortunately, one of the cops had forgotten to lock it after taking a peek down the well, not that it mattered. I didn’t care whether anyone was inside or not. I shoved the two-bit door open and tumbled to the floor. I was lucky. The house was quiet as a tomb. If I ever see that trick pulled in a movie and the hero steps out looking fresh as a daisy I’ll throw rocks at the screen. I lay there until I got my wind back.

  The flash I used had the lens taped, so the only light it shed was a round disk the size of a quarter. I poked around the kitchen a bit taking it all in. Nobody had cleaned up since the murder as far as I could see. I went into the living room, avoiding the litter on the floor. The place was even worse than it was before. The police had finished what York had started, pulling drawers open further, tearing the pictures from the walls and scuffling up the rug.

  But they hadn’t found it. If they had I wouldn’t’ve had to use the dumbwaiter to get in. Dilwick was better than shrewd. He was waiting for Grange to come back and find it for him.

  Which meant that he was pretty certain Grange was alive. Dilwick knew something that Price and I didn’t know, in that case.

  In the first half hour I went through every piece of junk that had been dragged out without coming across anything worthwhile. I kicked at the pile and tried the drawers in the d
esk again. My luck stunk; Grange didn’t go in for false bottoms or double walls. I thought of every place a dame hides things, but the cops had thought of them too. Every corner had been poked into, every closet emptied out. Women think of cute places like the hollows of bedposts and the inside of lamps, but the bedposts turned out to be solid and the lamps of modern transparent glass.

  Hell, she had to have important things around. College degrees, insurance policies and that sort of stuff. I finally realized what was wrong. My psychology. Or hers. She only resembled a woman. She looked like one and dressed like one, physically, she was one, but Myra Grange had one of those twisted complexes. If she thought it was like a man. That was better. Being partially a woman she would want to secrete things; being part man she would hide them in a place not easily accessible, where it would take force, and not deduction, to locate the cache.

  I started grinning then. I pulled the cabinets away from the walls and tried the sills of the doors. When I found a hollow behind the radiator I felt better. It was dust-filled and hadn’t been used for some time, mainly because a hand reaching in there could be burned if the heat was on, but I knew I was on the right track.

  It took time, but I found it when I was on my hands and knees, shooting light along the baseboards under the bed. It wasn’t even a good job of concealment. I saw where a claw hammer had probably knocked a hole in the plaster behind it.

  A package of envelopes held together by a large rubber band was the treasure. It was four inches thick, at least, with corners of stock certificates showing in the middle. A nice little pile.

  I didn’t waste time going through them then. I stuck the package inside my coat and buttoned the slicker over it. I had one end of the baseboard in place when I thought what a fine joke it would be to pull on slobbermouth to leave a calling card. With a wrench I pulled it loose, laid it on the floor where it couldn’t be missed and got out to the kitchen. Let my fat friend figure that one out. He’d have the jokers at the doors shaking in their shoes by the time he was done with them.

  The trip down was better. All I had to do was hang on and let the rope slide through my hands. Between the first floor and the basement I tightened up on the hemp and cut down the descent. It was a good landing, just a slight jar and I walked away from there. Getting out was easier than coming in. I poked my head out the cellar window on the side where the walk led around to the back and the concrete stared me in the face, gave a short whistle and called, “Hey, Mac.”