Mike Hammer 09 - The Twisted Thing

by Mickey Spillane

  Chapter Four

  Now it was murder. First it was kidnapping, then murder. There seems to be no end to crime. It starts off as a little thing, then gets bigger and bigger like an over-inflated tire until it busts all to hell and gone.

  I looked at him, the blood running red on his face, seeping out under the clots, dripping from the back of his head to the floor. It was only a guess, but I figured I had been about ten minutes too late. The room was a mess, a topsy-turvy cell of ripped-up furniture and emptied drawers. The carpet was littered with trash and stuffing from the pillows. York still clutched a handful of papers, sitting there on the floor where he had fallen, staring blankly at the wall. If he had found what he was searching for--it wasn't here now. The papers in his hand were only old receipted electric bills made out to Myra Grange. First I went back and got my shoes, then I picked up the phone. "Give me the state police," I told the operator. A Sergeant Price answered. I gave it to him briefly. "This is Mike Hammer, Sergeant," I said. "There's been a murder at the Glenwood Apartments and as far as I can tell it's only a few minutes old. You'd better check the highways. Look for a Ford two-door sedan with a bent radio antenna. Belongs to a woman named Myra Grange. Guy that's been bumped is Rudolph York. She works for him. Around thirty, I'd say, five, six or seven, short hair, well built. Not a bad-looking tomato. No, I don't know what she was wearing. Yeah...yeah, I'll stay here. You want me to inform the city cops?" The sergeant said some nasty things about the city boys and told me to go ahead. I did. The news must have jarred the guy on the desk awake because he started yelling his fool head off all over the place. When he asked for more information I told him to come look for himself, grinned into the mouthpiece and hung up. I had to figure this thing out. Maybe I could have let it go right then, but I didn't think that way. My client was dead, true, but he had overpaid me in the first place. I could still render him a little service gratis. I checked the other rooms, but they were as scrambled as the first one. Nothing was in place anywhere. I had to step over piles of clothes in the bedroom that had been carefully, though hurriedly, turned inside out. The kitchen was the only room not torn apart. The reason for that was easy to see. Dishes and pans crashing against the floor would bring someone running. Here York had felt around, moved articles, but not swept them clear of the shelves. A dumbwaiter door was built into the wall. It was closed and locked. I left it that way. The killer couldn't have left by that exit and still locked it behind him, not with a hook-and-eye clasp. I opened the drawers and peered inside. The fourth one turned up something I hadn't expected to see. A meat cleaver. That's one piece of cutlery that is rarely duplicated in a small apartment. In fact, it's more or less outdated. Now there were two of them. The question was: Who did York surprise in this room? No, it wasn't logical. Rather, who surprised York? It had to be that way. If York had burst in here on Grange there would have been a scene, but at least she would have been here too. It was hard picturing her stepping out to let York smash up the joint. When York came in the place was empty. He came to kill, but finding his intended victim gone, forgot his primary purpose and began his search. Kill. Kill. That was it. I looked at the body again. What I looked for wasn't there anymore. Somebody had swiped the dead man's gun. Why? Damn these murderers anyway, why must they mess things up so? Why the hell can't they just kill and be done with it? York sat there grinning for all he was worth, defying me to find the answer. I said, "Cut it out, pal. I'm on your side." Two cleavers and a grinning dead man. Two cleavers, one in the kitchen and one in his head. What kind of a killer would use a cleaver? It's too big to put in a pocket, too heavy to swing properly unless you had a fairly decent wrist. It would have to be a man, no dame likes to kill when there's a chance of getting spattered with blood. But Myra Grange...the almost woman. She was more half man. Perhaps her sensibilities wouldn't object to crunching a skull or getting smeared with gore. But where the hell did the cleaver come from? York grinned. I grinned back. It was falling into place now. Not the motive, but the action of the crime, and something akin to motive. The killer knew York was on his way here and knew Grange was out. The killer carried the cleaver for several reasons. It might have just been handy. Having aimed and swung it was certain to do the job. It was a weapon to which no definite personality could be attached. Above all things, it was far from being an accidental murder. I hate premeditation. I hate those little thoughts of evil that are suppressed in the mind and are being constantly superimposed upon by other thoughts of even greater evil until they squeeze out over the top and drive a person to the depths of infamy. And this murder was premeditated. Perhaps that cleaver was supposed to have come from the kitchen, but no one could have gone past York to the kitchen without his seeing him, and York had a gun. The killer had chosen his weapon, followed York here and caught him in the act of rifling the place. He didn't even have to be silent about it. In the confusion of tearing the place apart York would never have noticed little sounds...until it was too late. The old man half-stooping over the desk, the upraised meat-ax, one stroke and it was over. Not even a hard stroke. With all that potential energy in a three-pound piece of razor-sharp steel, not much force was needed to deliver a killing blow. Instantaneous death, the body twisting as it fell to face the door and grin at the killer. I got no further. There was a stamping in the hall, the door was pushed open and Dilwick came in like a summer storm. He didn't waste any time. He walked up to me and stood three inches away, breathing hard. He wasn't pretty to look at. "I ought to kill you, Hammer," he grated. We stood there in that tableau a moment. "Why don't you?" "Maybe I will. The slightest excuse, any excuse. Nobody's going to pull that on me and get away with it. Not you or anybody." I sneered at him. "Whenever you're ready, Dilwick, here or in the mayor's office, I don't care." Dilwick would have liked to have said more, but a young giant in the gray and brown leather of the state police strode over to me with his hand out. "You Mike Hammer?" I nodded. "Sergeant Price," he smiled. "I'm one of your fans. I had occasion to work with Captain Chambers in New York one time and he spent most of the time talking you up." The lad gave me a bone-crushing handshake that was good to feel. I indicated the body. "Here's your case, Sergeant." Dilwick wasn't to be ignored like that. "Since when do the state police have jurisdiction over us?" Price was nice about it. "Ever since you proved yourselves to be inadequately supplied with material and men." Dilwick flushed with rage. Price continued, addressing his remarks to me. "Nearly a year ago the people of Sidon petitioned the state to assist in all police matters when the town in general and the county in particular was being used as a rendezvous and sporting place by a lot of out-of-state gamblers and crooks." The state cop stripped off his leather gloves and took out a pad. He noted a general description of the place, time, then asked me for a statement. Dilwick focused his glare on me, letting every word sink in. "Mr. York seemed extremely disturbed after his son had been returned to him. He..." "One moment, Mr. Hammer. Where was his son?" "He had been kidnapped." "So?" Price's reply was querulous. "It was never reported to us." "It was reported to the city police." I jerked my thumb at Dilwick. "He can tell you that." Price didn't doubt me, he was looking for Dilwick's reaction. "Is this true?" "Yes..." "Why didn't we hear about it?" Dilwick almost blew his top. "Because we didn't feel like telling you, that's why." He took a step nearer Price, his fists clenched, but the state trooper never budged. "York wanted it kept quiet and that's the way we handled it, so what?" It came back to me again. "Who found the boy?" "I did." Dilwick was closer to apoplexy than ever. I guess he wanted that ten grand as badly as I did. "Earlier this evening I found the boy in an abandoned shack near the waterfront. I brought him home. Mr. York decided to keep me handy in case another attempt was made to abduct the kid." Dilwick butted in. "How did you know York was here?" "I didn't." I hated to answer him, but he was still the police. "I just thought he might be. The boy had been kicked around and I figured that he wanted Miss Grange in the house." The fat cop sneered. "Isn't York big enough to go out alone anymore?" "No
t in his condition. He had an attack of some sort earlier in the evening." Price said, "How did you find out he was gone, Mr. Hammer?" "Before I went to sleep I decided to look in to see how he was. He hadn't gone to bed. I knew he'd mentioned Miss Grange and, as I said, figured he had come here." Price nodded. "The door...?" "It was open. I came in and found...this." I swept my hand around. "I called you, then the city police. That's all." Dilwick made a face and bared what was left of his front teeth. "It stinks." So it did, but I was the only one who was sure of it. "Couldn't it have been like this, Mr. Hammer." Dilwick emphasized the _mister_ sarcastically. "You find the kid, York doesn't like to pay out ten thousand for hardly any work, he blows after you threaten him, only you followed him and make good the threat." "Sure, it could," I said, "except that it wasn't." I poked a butt in my mouth and held a match to it. "When I kill people I don't have to use a meat hatchet. If they got a gun, I use a gun. If they don't I use my mitts." I shifted my eyes to the body. "I could kill him with my fingers. On bigger guys...I'd use both hands. But no cleaver." "How did York get here, Mr. Hammer?" "Drove, I imagine. You better detail a couple of boys to lock up his car. A blue '64 Caddy sedan." Price called a man in plain clothes over with his forefinger and repeated the instructions. The guy nodded and left. The coroner decided that it was time to get there with the photo guys and the wicker basket. For ten minutes they went around dusting the place and snapping flashes of the remains from all positions until they ran out of bulbs. I showed Price where I'd touched the wall and the switch so there wouldn't be a confusion of the prints. For the record he asked me if I'd give him a set of impressions. It was all right with me. He took out a cardboard over which had been spread a light paraffin of some sort and I laid both hands on it and pressed. Price wrote my name on the bottom, took the number off my license and stowed it back in his pocket. Dilwick was busy going through the papers York had scattered about, but finding nothing of importance returned his attention to the body. The coroner had spread the contents of the pockets out on an end table and Price rifled through them. I watched over his shoulder. Just the usual junk: a key ring, some small change, a wallet with two twenties and four threes and membership cards in several organizations. Under the wallet was, the envelope with the capsules. "Anything missing?" Price asked. I shook my head. "Not that I know of, but then, I never went through his pockets." The body was stuffed into a wicker basket, the cleaver wrapped in a towel and the coroner left with his boys. More troopers came in with a few city guys tagging along and I had to repeat my story all over again. Standing outside the crowd was a lone newspaperman, writing like fury in a note pad. If this was New York they'd have to bar the doors to hold back the press. Just wait until the story reached the wires. This town wouldn't be able to hold them all. Price called me over to him. "You'll be where I'll be able to reach you?" "Yeah, at York's estate." "Good enough. I'll be out sometime this morning." "I'll be with him," Dilwick cut in. "You keep your nose out of things, too, understand?" "Blow it," I said. "I know my legal rights." I shoved my hat on and stamped my butt out in an ashtray. There was nothing for me here. I walked to the door, but before I could leave Price hurried after me. "Mr. Hammer." "Yeah, Sergeant?" "Will I be able to expect some cooperation from you?" I broke out a smile. "You mean, if I uncover anything will I let you in on it, don't you?" "That covers it pretty well." He was quite serious. "Okay," I agreed, "but on one condition." "Name it." "If I come across something that demands immediate action, I'm going to go ahead on it. You can have it too as soon as I can get it to you, but I won't sacrifice a chance to follow a lead to put it in your hands." He thought a moment, then, "That sounds fair enough. You realize, of course, that this isn't a permit to do as you choose. The reason I'm willing to let you help out is because of your reputation. You've been in this racket longer than I have, you've had the benefit of wide experience and are familiar with New York police methods. I know your history, otherwise you'd be shut out of this case entirely. Shorthanded as we are, I'm personally glad to have you help out." "Thanks, Sergeant. If I can help, I will. But you'd better not let Dilwick get wise. He'd do anything to stymie you if he heard about this." "That pig," Price grunted. "Tell me, what are you going to do?" "The same thing you are. See what became of the Grange dame. She seems to be the key figure right now. You putting out a dragnet?" "When you called, a roadblock was thrown across the highways. A seven-state alarm is on the Teletype this minute. She won't get far. Do you know anything of her personally?" "Only that she's supposed to be the quiet type. York told me that she frequents the library a lot, but I doubt if you'll find her there. I'll see what I can pick up at the house. If I latch on to anything about her I'll buzz you." I said so long and went downstairs. Right now the most important thing in my life was getting some sleep. I felt like I hadn't seen a pillow in months. A pair of young troopers leaned against the fender of a blue Caddy sedan parked down further from my heap. They were comparing notes and talking back and forth. I'd better remind Billy to come get it. The sun was thumbing its nose at the night when I reached the estate. Early-morning trucks that the gas station attendant had spoken of were on the road to town, whizzing by at a good clip. I honked my horn at the gate until Henry came out, still chewing on his breakfast. He waved. "So it was you. I wondered who opened the gates. Why didn't you get me up?" I drove alongside him and waited until he swallowed. "Henry, did you hear me go out last night?" "Me? Naw, I slept like a log. Ever since the kid was gone I couldn't sleep thinking that it was all my fault because I sleep so sound, but last night I felt pretty good." "You must have. Two cars went out, the first one was your boss." "York? Where'd he go?" "To town." He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "Do...do you think he'll be sore because I didn't hear him?" I shook my head. "I don't think so. In fact, I don't think he wanted to be heard." "When's he coming back?" "He won't. He's dead." I left him standing there with his mouth open. The next time he'd be more careful of those gates. I raced the engine outside the house and cut it. If that didn't wake everyone in the house the way I slammed the door did. Upstairs I heard a few indignant voices sounding off behind closed doors. I ran up the stairs and met Roxy at the top, holding a quilted robe together at her middle. She shushed me with her hand. "Be quiet, please. The boy is still asleep." It was going to be hard on him when he woke up. "Just get up, Roxy?" "A moment ago when you made all the noise out front. What are you doing up?" "Never mind. Everybody still around?" "How should I know? Why, what's the matter?" "York's been murdered." Her hand flew to her mouth. For a long second her breath caught in her throat. "W...who did it?" she stammered. "That's what I'd like to know, Roxy." She bit her lip. "It...it was like we were talking about, wasn't it?" "Seems to be. The finger's on Myra Grange now. It happened in her apartment and she took a powder." "Well, what will we do?" "You get the gang up. Don't tell them anything, just that I want to see them downstairs in the living room. Go ahead." Roxy was glad to be doing something. She half ran to the far end of the hall and threw herself into the first room. I walked around to Ruston's door and tried it. Locked. Roxy's door was open and I went in that way, closing it behind me, then stepped softly to the door of the adjoining room and went in. Ruston was fast asleep, a slight smile on his face as he played in his dreams. The covers were pulled up under his chin making him look younger than his fourteen years. I blew a wisp of hair away that had drifted across his brow and shook him lightly. "Ruston." I rocked him again. "Ruston." His eyes came open slowly. When he saw me he smiled. "Hello, Mr. Hammer." "Call me Mike, kid, we're pals, aren't we?" "You bet...Mike." He freed one arm and stretched. "Is it time to get up?" "No, Ruston, not yet. There's something I have to tell you." I wondered how to put it. It wasn't easy to tell a kid that the father he loved had just been butchered by a blood-crazy killer. "What is it? You look awfully worried, Mike, is something wrong?" "Something is very wrong, kid, are you pretty tough?" Another shy smile. "I'm not tough, not really. I wish I were, like people in stories." I decided to give it to him the hard way and get
it over with. "Your dad's dead, son." He didn't grasp the meaning of it at first. He looked at me, puzzled, as though he had misinterpreted what I had said. "Dead?" I nodded. Realization came like a flood. The tears started in the corners. One rolled down his cheek. "No...he can't be dead. He can't be!" I put my arms around him for a second time. He hung on to me and sobbed. "Oh...Dad. What happened to him, Mike? What happened?" Softly, I stroked his head, trying to remember what my own father did with me when I hurt myself. I couldn't give him the details. "He's...just dead, Ruston." "Something happened, I know." He tried to fight the tears, but it was no use. He drew away and rubbed his eyes. "What happened, Mike, please tell me?" I handed him my handkerchief. He'd find out later, and it was better he heard it from me than one of the ghouls. "Someone killed him. Here, blow your nose." He blew, never taking his eyes from mine. I've seen puppies look at me that way when they've been kicked and didn't understand why. "Killed? No...nobody would kill Dad...not my dad." I didn't say a word after that. I let it sink in and watched his face contort with the pain of the thought until I began to hurt in the chest myself. For maybe ten minutes we sat like that, quietly, before the kid dried his eyes. He seemed older now. A thing like that will age anyone. His hand went to my arm. I patted his shoulder. "Mike?" "Yes, Ruston?" "Do you think you can find the one who did it?" "I'm going to try, kid." His lips tightened fiercely. "I want you to. I wish I were big enough to. I'd shoot him, that's what I'd do!" He broke into tears again after that outburst. "Oh...Mike." "You lay there, kid. Get a little rest, then when you feel better get dressed and come downstairs and we'll have a little talk. Think of something, only don't think of...that. It takes time to get over these things, but you will. Right now it hurts worse than anything in the world, but time will fix it up. You're tough, Ruston. After last night I'd say that you were the toughest kid that ever lived. Be tough now and don't cry anymore. Okay?" "I'll try, Mike, honest, I'll try." He rolled over in the bed and buried his face in the pillow. I unlocked his door to the hall and went out. I had to stick around now whether I wanted to or not. I promised the kid. And it was a promise I meant to keep. Once before I made a promise, and I kept it. It killed my soul, but I kept it. I thought of all the blood that had run in the war, all that I had seen and had dripped on me, but none was redder or more repulsive than that blood I had seen when I kept my last promise.