The Mike Hammer Collection

“Sure,” Cavello told him, “most of the spots that haven’t got room for a booth. Mean anything?”

“I don’t know. It could.”

“Anything I could help with?”

Pat explained the situation and Cavello said he’d try to find anyone who saw Kline making a phone call about that time. He didn’t expect much luck though. People in that neighborhood didn’t talk too freely to the police. It was more likely that they wouldn’t remember anything rather than get themselves involved.

Another plainclothes officer came in then, said hello to Pat, and he introduced me to Lew Nelson. He didn’t have anything to add to the story and so far that day hadn’t found anybody who knew much about Levitt at all.

I tapped his shoulder and said, “How did Kline react when you showed him Levitt’s photo?”

“Well, he jumped a little. He said he couldn’t be sure and I figured he was lying. I got the same reaction from others besides him. That Levitt was a mean son and I don’t think anybody wanted to mess around with him. He wanted to know what he was wanted for and I wouldn’t say anything except that he was dead and he seemed pretty satisfied at that.

“Tell you one thing. That guy was thinking of something. He studied that photo until he was sure he knew him and then told me he never saw him before. Maybe he thought he had an angle somewhere.”

There wasn’t much left there for us. Pat left a few instructions, sent Nelson back on the streets again, and started outside. He stopped for a final word to Cavello so I went on alone and stood on the sidewalk beside the cop on guard there. It wasn’t until he went to answer the radio in the squad car that I saw the thing his position had obscured.

In the window of the bar was a campaign poster and on it a full-face picture of a smiling Torrence, who was running in the primaries for governor, and under it was the slogan, WIN WITH SIM.

CHAPTER 9

I made the call from the drugstore on the corner. I dialed the Torrence estate and waited while the phone rang a half-dozen times, each time feeling the cold go through me deeper and deeper.

Damn, it couldn’t be too late!

Then a sleepy voice said, “Yes?” and there was no worry in it at all.

“Geraldine?”

“Mike, you thing you.”

“Look . . .”

“Why did you leave me? How could you leave me?”

“I’ll tell you later. Has Torrence come home yet?”

My voice startled her into wakefulness. “But . . . no, he’s due here in an hour though. He called this morning from Albany to tell me when he’d be home.”

“Good, now listen. Is Sue all right?”

“Yes . . . she’s still in bed. I gave her another sedative.”

“Well, get her out of it. Both of you hop in a car and get out of there. Now . . . not later, now.”

“But, Mike . . .”

“Damn it, shut up and do what I say. There’s going to be trouble I can’t explain.”

“Where can we go? Mike, I don’t . . .”

I gave her my new address and added, “Go right there and stay there. The super has the key and will let you in. Don’t open that door for anybody until you’re sure it’s me, understand? I can’t tell you any more except that your neck and Sue’s neck are out a mile. We have another dead man on our hands and we don’t need any more. You got that?”

She knew I wasn’t kidding. There was too much stark urgency in my voice. She said she’d leave in a few minutes and when she did I could sense the fear that touched her.

I tapped the receiver cradle down, broke the connection, dropped in a dime, and dialed my own number. Velda came on after the first ring with a guarded hello.

I said, “It’s breaking, baby. How do you feel?”

“Not too bad. I can get around.”

“Swell. You go downstairs and tell the super that a Geraldine King and Sue Devon are to be admitted to my apartment. Nobody else. Let him keep the key. Then you get down to Sim Torrence’s headquarters and check up on his movements all day yesterday. I want every minute of the day spelled out and make it as specific as you can. He got a phone call yesterday. See if it originated from there. I don’t care if he took ten minutes out to go to the can . . . you find out about it. I’m chiefly interested in any time he took off last night.”

“Got it, Mike. Where can I reach you?”

“At the apartment. When I get through I’ll go right there. Shake it up.”

“Chop chop. Love me?”

“What a time to ask.”

“Well?”

“Certainly, you nut.”

She laughed that deep, throaty laugh and hung up on me and I had a quick picture of her sliding out of bed, those beautiful long legs rippling into a body . . . oh hell.

I put the phone back and went back to Pat.

“Where’d you go?” he said.

“We got a killer, buddy.”

He froze for a second. “You didn’t find anything?”

“No? Then make sense out of this.” I pointed to the picture of Sim Torrence in the window.

“Go ahead.”

“Sim’s on the way up. He’s getting where he always wanted to be. He’s got just one bug in his life and that’s the kid, Sue Devon. All her life she’s been on his back about something in their past and there was always that chance she might find it.

“One time he defended a hard case and when he needed one he called on the guy. Basil Levitt. He wanted Sue knocked off. Some instinct told Sue what he intended to do and she ran for it and wound up at Velda’s. She didn’t know it, but it was already too late. Levitt was on her tail all the while, followed her, set up in a place opposite the house, and waited for her to show.

“The trouble was, Velda was in hiding too. She respected the kid’s fears and kept her undercover until she was out of trouble herself, then she would have left the place with her. Hell, Pat, Levitt didn’t come in there for Velda . . . he was after the kid. When he saw me he must have figured Torrence sent somebody else because he was taking too long and he wasn’t about to lose his contract money. That’s why Levitt bust in like that.

“Anyway, when Torrence made the deal he must have met Levitt in this joint here thinking he’d never be recognized. But he forgot that his picture is plastered all over on posters throughout the city. Maybe Kline never gave it a thought if he recognized him then. Maybe Kline only got the full picture when he saw Levitt’s photo. But he put the thing together. First he called your department for information and grew suspicious when nobody gave him anything concrete.

“Right here he saw Torrence over a barrel so yesterday he called him and told him to meet him. Sim must have jumped out of his skin. He dummied an excuse and probably even led into a trip to Albany for further cover . . . this we’ll know about when I see Velda. But he got here all right. He saw Kline and that was the last Kline saw of anything.”

“You think too much, Mike.”

“The last guy that said that is dead.” I grinned.

“We’d better get up there then.”

New York, when the traffic is thick, is a maddening place. From high above the streets the cars look like a winding line of ants, but when you are in the convoy it becomes a raucous noise, a composite of horns and engines and voices cursing at other voices. It’s a heavy smell of exhaust fumes and unburned hydrocarbons and in the desire to compress time and space the distance between cars is infinitesimal.

The running lights designed to keep traffic moving at a steady pace seem to break down then. They all become red. Always, there is a bus or truck ahead, or an out-of-town driver searching for street signs. There are pedestrians who take their time, sometimes deliberately blocking the lights in the never-ceasing battle against the enemy, those who are mounted.

In the city the average speed of a fire truck breaks down to eighteen miles an hour with all its warning devices going, so imagine what happens to time and distance when the end-of-day rush is on. Add to that the rain that fogged the windshields and made every sudden stop hazardous.

Ordinarily from Brooklyn the Torrence place would have been an hour away. But not this night. No, this was a special night of delay and frustration, and if Pat hadn’t been able to swing around two barriers with his badge held out the window it would have been an hour longer still.

It was a quarter to eight when we turned in the street Sim Torrence lived on. Behind the wall and the shrubbery I could see lights on in the house and outside that there was no activity at all. From the end of the street, walking toward us, was the patrolman assigned to the beat on special duty, and when we stopped his pace quickened so that he was there when we got out.

Pat held his badge out again, but the cop recognized me. Pat said, “Everything all right here?”

“Yes, sir. Miss King and the girl left some time ago and Torrence arrived, but there has been no trouble. Anything I can help with?”

“No, just routine. We have to see Torrence.”

“Sure. He left the gate open.”

We left the car on the street and walked in, staying on the grass. I had the .45 in my hand and Pat had his Police Positive out and ready. Sim Torrence’s Cadillac was parked in front of the door and when I felt it the hood was still warm.

Both of us knew what to do. We checked the windows and the back, met again around the front, then I went up to the door while Pat stood by in the shadows.

I touched the buzzer and heard the chime from inside.

Nobody answered so I did it again.

I didn’t bother for a third try. I reached out, leaned against the door latch, and it swung in quietly. I went in first, Pat right behind me covering the blind spots. First I motioned him to be quiet, then to follow me since I knew the layout.

There was a deathly stillness about the house that didn’t belong there. With all the lights that were going there should have been some sort of sound. But there was nothing.

We checked through the downstairs room, opening closets and probing behind the furniture. Pat looked across the room at me, shook his head, and I pointed toward the stairs.

The master bedroom was the first door on the right. The door was partly open and there was a light on there too. We took that one first.

And that was where we found Sim Torrence. He wasn’t winning anymore.

He lay facedown on the floor with a bullet through his head and a puddle of blood running away from him like juice from a stepped-on tomato. We didn’t stop there. We went into every room in the house looking for a killer before we finally came back to Sim.

Pat wrapped the phone in a handkerchief, called the local department, and reported in. When he hung up he said, “You know we’re in a sling, don’t you?”

“Why?”

“We should have called in from Brooklyn and let them cover it from this end.”

“My foot, buddy. Getting in a jam won’t help anything. As far as anyone is concerned we came up here on a social call. I was here last night helping out during an emergency and I came back to check, that’s all.”

“And what about the women?”

“We’ll get to them before anybody else will.”

“You’d better be right.”

“Quit worrying.”

While we waited we checked the area around the body for anything that might tie in with the murder. There were no spent cartridges so we both assumed the killer used a revolver. I prowled around the house looking for a sign of entry, since Geraldine would have locked the door going out and Sim behind him, coming in. The killer must have already been here and made his own entry the easy way through the front door.

The sirens were screaming up the street outside when I found out where he got in. The window in Sue’s room had been neatly jimmied from the trellis outside and was a perfect, quiet entry into the house. Anybody could have come over the walls without being seen by the lone cop on the beat. From there up that solid trellis was as easy as taking the steps.

Sue’s bed was still rumpled. Geraldine must have literally dragged her out of it because the burned stuffed toy was still there crammed under the covers, almost like a body itself.

Then I could see that something new had been added. There was a bullet hole and powder burns on the sheet and when I flipped it back I saw the hole drilled into the huge toy.

Somebody had mistaken that charred ruin for Sue under the covers and tried to put a bullet through her!

Back to Lolita again. Damn, where would it end?

What kind of a person were we dealing with?

I went to put the covers back in their original position before calling Pat in when I saw the stuffed bear up close for the first time. It had been her mother’s and the fire had burned it stiff. The straw sticking out was hard and crisp with age, the ends black from the heat. During the night Sue must have lain on it and her weight split open a seam.

An edge of a letter stuck out of it.

I tugged it loose, didn’t bother to look at it then because they were coming in downstairs now, racing up the stairs. I stuck the letter in my pocket and called for Pat.

He got the import of it right away but didn’t say anything. From all appearances this was a break-in and anybody could have done it. The implications were too big to let the thing out now and he wasn’t going to do much explaining until we had time to go over it.

The reporters had already gathered and were yelling for admittance. Tomorrow this kill would make every headline in the country and the one in Brooklyn would be lucky if it got a squib in any sheet at all. There was going to be some high-level talk before this one broke straight and Pat knew it too.

It was an hour before we got out of there and back in the car. Some of the bigwigs of the political party had arrived and were being pressed by the reporters, but they had nothing to say. They got in on VIP status and were immediately sent into the den to be quizzed by the officers in charge and as long as there was plenty to do we could ride for a while.

Pat didn’t speak until we were halfway back to the city, then all he said was, “One of your theories went out the window today.”

“Which one?”

“If Sim planned to kill Sue, how would he excuse it?”

“I fell into that one with no trouble, Pat,” I said. “You know how many times he has been threatened?”

“I know.”

“So somebody was trying to get even. Revenge motive. They hit the kid.”

“But Sue is still alive.”

“Somebody thought he got her tonight. I’ll tell you this . . . I bet the first shot fired was into that bed. The killer turned on the light to make sure and saw what happened. He didn’t dare let it stand like that so he waited around. Then in came Sim. Now it could be passed off as a burglary attempt while the real motive gets lost in the rush.”

I tapped his arm. “There’s one other thing too. The night of the first try there were two groups. Levitt and Kid Hand. They weren’t working together and they were both after the same thing . . . the kid.”

“All right, sharpie, what’s the answer?”

“I think it’s going to be three million bucks,” I said.

“You have more than that to sell.”

“There’s Blackie Conley.”

“And you think he’s got the money?”

“Want to bet?”

“Name it.”

“A night on the town. A foursome. We’ll find you a broad. Loser picks up all the tabs.”

Pat nodded. “You got it, but forget finding me a broad. I’ll get my own.”

“You’ll probably bring a policewoman.”

“With you around it wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he said.

He let me out in front of my apartment and I promised to call him as soon as I heard from Velda. He was going to run the Torrence thing through higher channels and let them handle this hotcake.

I went upstairs, called through the door, and let Geraldine open it. Velda still hadn’t gotten back. Sue was inside on the couch, awake, but still drowsy from the sedatives she had taken. I made Geraldine sit down next to her, then broke the news.

At first Sue didn’t react. Finally she said, “He’s really dead?”

“Really, sugar.”

Somehow a few years seemed to drape themselves around her. She looked at the floor, made a wry face, and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t feel anything. Just free. I feel free.”

Geraldine looked like she was about to break, but she came through it. There was a stricken expression in her eyes and her mouth hung slackly. She kept repeating, “Oh, no!” over and over again and that was all. When she finally accepted it she asked, “Who, Mike, who did it?”

“We don’t know.”

“This is terrible. The whole political . . .”

“It’s more terrible than that, kid. Politicians can always be replaced. I suggest you contact your office when you feel up to it. There’s going to be hell to pay and if your outfit gets into power this time it’ll be by a miracle . . . and those days, believe me, are over.”

She started asking me something else, but the phone rang and I jumped to answer it. Velda said, “Mike . . . I just heard. Is it true? ”

“He’s had it. What did you come up with?”

“About the time you mentioned . . . nobody could account for Torrence’s whereabouts for almost two hours. Nobody really looked for him and they all supposed he was with somebody else, but nobody could clear him for that time.”

“That does it then. Come on back.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Shake it.”

In a little while I was going to be tied in with this mess and would be getting plenty of visitors and I didn’t want either Geraldine or Sue around. Their time would come, but not right now. I called a hotel, made reservations for them both, dialed for a cab, and told them to get ready. Neither wanted to leave until I told them there was no choice. I wanted them completely out of sight and told Geraldine to stay put again, having her meals sent up until I called for her.

Events had moved too quickly and she couldn’t think for herself any longer. She agreed dumbly, the girls got into their coats, and I walked them out to the cab.

Upstairs I sat at the desk and took the letter out of my pocket. Like the straw, it was crisp with age, but still sealed, and after all these years smelled faintly of some feminine perfume. I slid my finger under the flap and opened it.

The handwriting was the scrawl of a drunk trying hard for sobriety. The lines were uneven and ran to the edge of the page, but it was legible enough.

It read:

Darling Sue:

My husband Sim is the one we called The Snake. Hate him, darling, because he wants us dead. Be careful of him. Someday he will try to kill us both. Sim Torrence could prove I helped deliver narcotics at one time. He could have sent me to prison. We made a deal that I was to be the go-between for him and Sonny Motley and he was going to arrange the robbery. He could do it because he knew every detail of the money exchange. What he really wanted was for Sonny and the rest to be caught so he could boost his career. That happened, didn’t it, darling? He never should have left me out in the cold. After I had you I wanted security for you and knew how to get it. I didn’t love Sim Torrence. He hated me like he hates anybody in his way. I made him do it for you, dearest. I will hide this letter where he won’t find it but you will someday. He searches everything I have to be sure this can’t happen. Be careful my darling. He is The Snake and he will try to kill you if he can. Be careful of accidents. He will have to make it look like one.

All My Love,

Mother

The Snake . . . the one thing they all feared . . . and now he was dead. Dedicated old Win with Sim, an engineer of robberies, hirer of murderers, a killer himself . . . what a candidate for governor. The people would never know how lucky they were.

The Snake. A good name for him. I was right . . . it worked the way I figured it. The votes weren’t all counted yet, but the deck was stacked against Sim Torrence. In death he was going to take a fall bigger than the one he would have taken in life.

Torrence never got the three million. He never gave a damn about it in the first place. All breaking up that robbery did was earn him prestige and some political titles. It was his first step into the big-time and he made it himself. He put everybody’s life on the block including his own and swung it. I wondered what plans he had made for Sally if she hadn’t nipped into him first. In fact, marrying her was even a good deal for him. It gave him a chance to keep her under wraps and lay the groundwork for a murder.

Hell, if I could check back that far with accuracy I knew what I would find. Sim paid the house upstate a visit, found Annette Lee asleep and Sally in a dead drunk. He simply dragged her out into the winter night and the weather did the rest. He couldn’t have done anything with the kid right then without starting an investigation. Sally would have been a tragic accident; the kid too meant trouble.

So he waited. Like a good father, which added to his political image, he adopted her into his house. When it was not expedient for him to have her around any longer he arranged for her execution through Levitt. He sure was a lousy planner there. Levitt talked too much. Enough to die before he could do the job.

In one way Sue forced her own near-death with her crazy behavior. Whatever she couldn’t get out of her mind were the things her mother told her repeatedly in her drunken moods. It had an effect all right. She made it clear to Sim that he was going to have to kill her if he didn’t want her shooting her mouth off.

Sim would have known who The Snake was. Sally had referred to him by that often enough. No wonder he ducked it at the trial. No wonder it seared him silly when Sue kept insisting her mother left something for her to read. No wonder he searched her things. That last time in Sue’s little house was one of desperation. He knew that sooner or later something would come to light and if it happened he was politically dead, which to him was death in toto.

But somebody made a mistake. There was a bigger snake loose than Torrence ever was. There was a snake with three million bucks buried in its hole and that could be the worst kind of snake of all. Hell, Sim wasn’t a snake at all. He was a goddamn worm.

I folded the letter and put it back in my pocket when the bell rang. When I opened the door Velda folded into my arms like a big cat, kicked it shut with her heel, and buried her face against my neck.

“You big slob,” she said.

While she made coffee I told her about it, taking her right through from the beginning. She read the letter twice, getting the full implication of it all.

“Does Pat know all this?”

“Not yet. He’d better take first things first.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Call Art Rickerby.”

I picked the unlisted number out of memory and got Art on the phone. It took a full thirty minutes to rehash the entire situation, but he listened patiently, letting me get it across. It was the political side of it he was more concerned with at the moment, realizing what propaganda ammunition the other side could use against us.

One thing about truth . . . let it shine and you were all right. It was the lies that could hurt you. But there were ways of letting the truth come out so as to nullify the awkward side of it and this was what the striped-pants boys were for.

Art said he’d get into it right away, but only because of my standing as a representative of the agency he was part of.

I said, “Where do I go from here, Art?”

“Now who’s going to tell you, big man?”

“It isn’t over yet.”

“It’s never over, Mike. When this is over there will be something else.”

“There will be some big heat coming my way. I’d hate to lose my pretty little ticket. It’s all I have.”

He was silent for a moment, then he said, “I’ll let you in on a confidence. There are people here who like you. We can’t all operate the same way. Put a football player on the diamond and he’d never get around the bases. A baseball player in the middle of a pileup would never get up. You’ve never been a total unknown and now that you’re back, stay back. When we need you, we’ll yell. Meanwhile nobody’s going to pick up your ticket as long as you stay clean enough. I didn’t say legal . . . I said clean. One day we’ll talk some more about this, but not now. You do what you have to do. Just remember that everybody’s watching so make it good.”

“Great, all I have to do is stay alive.”

“Well, if you do get knocked off, let me repeat a favorite old saying of yours, ‘Kismet, buddy.’ ”

He hung up and left me staring at the phone. I grinned, then put it down and started to laugh. Velda said, “What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know,” I told her. “It’s just funny. Grebb and Charlie Force are going to come at me like tigers when this is over to get my official status changed and if I can make it work they don’t have a chance.”

That big, beautiful thing walked over next to me and slid her arms around my waist and said, “They never did have a chance. You’re the tiger, man.”

I turned around slowly and ran my hands under her sweater, up the warm flesh of her back. She pulled herself closer to me so that every curve of hers matched my own and her breasts became rigid against my chest.

There was a tenderness to her mouth that was only at the beginning, then her lips parted with a gentle searching motion and her tongue flicked at mine with the wordless gestures of love. Somehow the couch was behind us and we sank down on it together. There was no restraint at all, simply the knowledge that it was going to happen here and now at our own time and choosing.

No fumbling motions. Each move was deliberate, inviting, provoking the thing we both wanted so badly. Very slowly there was a release from the clothes that covered us, each in his own way doing what he wanted to do. I kissed her neck, uncovered her shoulders, and ran my mouth along them. When my hands cradled her breasts and caressed them they quivered at my touch, nuzzling my palms for more like a hungry animal.

Her stomach swelled gently against my fingers as I explored her, making her breath come in short, hard gasps. But even then there was no passiveness in her. She was as alive as I was, as demanding and as anxious. Her eyes told me of all the love she had for so long and the dreams she had had of its fulfillment.

The fiery contact of living flesh against living flesh was almost too much to stand and we had gone too far to refuse the demand any longer. She was mine and I was hers and we had to belong to each other.

But it didn’t happen that way.

The doorbell rang like some damn screaming banshee and the suddenness of it wiped the big now right out of existence. I swore under my breath, then grinned at Velda, who swore back the same words and grinned too.

“When will it be, Mike?”

“Someday, kitten.”

Before I could leave she grabbed my hand. “Make it happen.”

“I will. Go get your clothes on.”

The bell rang again, longer this time, and I heard Pat’s voice calling out in the hall.

I yelled, “All right, damn it, hold on a minute.”

He didn’t take his finger off the bell until I had opened the door.

“I was on the phone,” I explained. “Come on in.”

There were four others with him, all men I had seen around the precinct. Two I knew from the old days and nodded to them. The others went through a handshake.

“Velda here?”

“Inside, why?”

“She was down asking questions around the party headquarters. They want an explanation. Charlie Force is pushing everybody around on this.”

“So sit down and I’ll explain.”

Velda came out as they were pulling up chairs, met the officers and perched on the arm of the couch next to me. I laid it out for Pat to save him the time of digging himself, supplied him with Velda’s notes and the names of the persons she spoke to, and wrapped it up with Art’s little speech to me.

When Pat put his book away he said, “That’s one reason why I’m here. We’re going to see what we can get on Howie Green. These officers have been working on it already and have come up with something that might get us started.”

“Like what?”

“The real estate agency Howie Green operated went into the hands of his partner after his death. The guy’s name was Quincy Malek. About a year later he contracted T.B. and died in six months. Now from a nephew we gather that Malek was damn near broke when he kicked off. He had sold out everything and his family picked over what was left. The original records left over from his partnership with Green went into storage somewhere, either private or commercial.

“Right now I have one bunch checking all the warehouses to see what they can dig up. The nephew does remember Malek asking that the records be kept so it’s likely that they were. It wouldn’t take up much room and a few hundred bucks would cover a storage bill on a small package for a long, long time.

“Now that’s a supposition, the commercial angle. Malek and Green had a few other properties still in existence and we’ll go through them too. Until everything is checked out you can’t tell what we’ll find. Meanwhile, we’re taking another angle. We’re checking all property transactions carried out by Green within a certain time of his death. If you’re right something will show up. We’ll check every damn one of them if we have to.”

“You know how long it will take, Pat?”

“That’s what I want to know. You got a better idea in that screwy mind of yours?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Oh no, not you, boy. If you got anything you have it now. You just aren’t the prolonged-thinking type. You got something going this minute and I want to know what it is.”

“Stow it.”

“Like that?”

“Like that. If it proves out I’ll get it to you right away. The only reason I’m slamming it to you like this is because you’re in deep enough as it is. Let me try my way. If there’s trouble I’ll take it alone.”

“Mike . . . I don’t like it. We have a killer running loose.”

“Then let me be the target.”

His eyes drifted to Velda beside me.

I said, “She’ll stay safe. I went through that once before.”

“Watch her,” Pat said softly, and I knew he was never going to change about the way he felt for her.

“How many men you going to put through the files?”

“As many as I can spare.”

“Suppose you get to it first?” I queried.

He smiled crookedly. “Well, with your official status I imagine I can pass on a tip to you. Just make sure it works both ways.”

“Deal. How will we make contact?”

“Keep in touch with my office. If anything looks promising I’ll leave word.”

He got up to go and I reached for my coat. I picked the letter out and handed it to him. “It was in Sue’s teddy bear. It puts a lock on Sim all the way. I don’t advise showing it to the kid though.”

Pat read it through once, shook his head, and put it in his inside coat pocket. “You’re a card, man, a real card. What kind of luck have you got?”

“The best kind.”

“Don’t pull that kind of stunt on Grebb, buddy.”

“You know me.”

“Sure I know you.”

I let them out and went back and stretched out on the couch. Velda made me some coffee and had one with me. I drank mine staring at the ceiling while I tried to visualize the picture from front to back. It was all there except the face. Blackie Conley’s face. I knew I was going to see it soon. It was a feeling I had.

“Mike . . . where are we going?”

“You’re thinking ahead of me, kiddo.”

“Sometimes I have to.”

“You’re not going anyway.”

“Don’t cut me out, Mike.” Her hand touched the side of my jaw, then traced a tingling line down my chin.

“Okay, doll.”

“Want to tell me what you have in your mind?”

“A thought. The only thing that’s wrong with the picture.”

“Oh? What?”

“Why Blackie Conley would want to kill Sim.”

“Mike . . .” She was looking past me, deep in thought. “Since it was Torrence who engineered that robbery and not Conley as you first thought, perhaps Conley suspected what was going to come off. Supposing he outguessed Torrence. In that case, he would have had the whole bundle to himself. He would have made his own getaway plans and broken out at the right time. Don’t forget, Conley was older than Sonny and he was no patsy. There was no love between the pair either. In fact, Conley might even have guessed who the brain was behind the whole thing and had reasons for revenge.”

“You might have something there, kitten.”

“The first try was for Sue,” she went on. “That really was an indirect blow at Sim. The next try was for them both.”

“There’s a possible flaw in your picture too, but I can supply an answer.”

She waited. I said, “It’s hard to picture a guy in his eighties going up that trellis. He’d have to hire it done . . . but that’s why the hoods are in town.”

“I don’t know, Mike. Remember Bernarr Macfadden making his first parachute jump into the river when he was about the same age?”

“Uh-huh. It could be done.”

“Then the answer is still to find Blackie Conley.”

“That’s right.”

“How?”

“If we can restore another old man’s memory we might get the answer.”

“Sonny Motley?”

“Yup.”

“Tonight? ”

“Right now, sugar.”

CHAPTER 10

Finding Sonny Motley’s apartment wasn’t easy. Nobody in the gin mills knew where he lived; the cop on the beat around his store knew him but not his address. I checked the few newsstands that were open and they gave me a negative. It was at the last one that a hackie standing by heard me mention the name and said, “You mean that old con?”

“Yeah, the one who has the shoe shop.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. We need some information about a missing person and he might be able to help us.”

“Ha, I’d like to see those old cons talk. They won’t give nobody the right time.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Sure. Took him home plenty of times. Hop in.”

We climbed in the cab, went angling up to a shoddy section that bordered on the edge of Harlem, and the cabbie pointed out the place. “He’s downstairs there on this side. Probably in bed by now.”

“I’ll get him up.” I gave him a buck tip for his trouble and led the way down the sandstone steps to the iron gate at the bottom. I pushed the bell four or five times before a light came on inside.

A voice said, “Yeah, whatta ya want?”

“Sonny?”

“Who’re you?”

“Mike Hammer.”

“Oh, fer . . .” He came to the door, opened it, and reached for the grilled gate that held us out. He had a faded old robe wrapped around his body and a scowl on his face as black as night. Then he saw Velda and the sky lightened. “Hey . . . how about that.”

“This is Velda, my secretary. Sonny Motley.”

“Hello, Sonny.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in. Hot damn, I ain’t had a broad in my joint since before I went to stir. Hot damn, this is great!” He slammed the gate, locked the door, and led the way down the hall. He pushed his door open and said, “Don’t mind the place, huh? So it’s a crummy place and who comes here? I’m a crummy old man anyway. Sure feels good to have a broad in the joint. Want a drink?”

“I’ll pass,” I said.

“Not me.” He grinned. “A sexy broad comes in like her and I’m gonna have me a drink.”

“I thought you were all over the sex angle, Sonny.”

“Maybe inside I am, but my eyes don’t know it. No, sir. You sit down and let me get dressed. Be right back.”

Sit down? We had a choice of box seats. Egg boxes or apple boxes. There was one old sofa that didn’t look safe and a chair to match that had no cushion in it. The best bet was the arms of the chair so Velda took one side and I took the other.

A choice between living here or a nice comfortable prison would be easy to make. But like the man said, at least he was free. Sonny was back in a minute, hitching suspenders over bony shoulders, a bottle of cheap booze in his hand.

“You sure you don’t want nothing?”

“No, thanks.”

“No need to break out glasses then.” He took a long pull from the bottle, ambled over to the couch, and sat down facing us. “Hot damn,” he said, “those are the prettiest legs I ever saw.”

Velda shifted uncomfortably, but I said, “That’s what I keep telling her.”

“You keep telling her, boy. They love to hear that kind of talk. Right, lady?”

She laughed at the impish look on his face. “I guess we can stand it.”

“Damn right you can. Used to be a real killer with the ladies myself. All gone now though.” He pulled at the bottle again. “’Cept for looking. Guess a man never tires of looking.” He set the bottle down on the floor between his feet and leaned back, his eyes glowing. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m still asking questions, Sonny.”

He waved his hands expansively. “Go ahead. If I can answer ’em it’s all free.”

“I can’t get rid of the idea your old partner’s still alive.”

His shoulders jerked with a silent laugh. “Can’t, eh? Well, you better, because that no-good is gone. Dead. I don’t know where or how, but he’s dead.”

“Let’s make like he isn’t.”

“I got lots of time.”

“And I got news for you.”

“How’s that?”

“Sim Torrence is dead.”

Briefly, his eyes widened. “True?”

“True.”

Then he started to cackle again. “Good. Had it coming, the bugger. He put the screws on enough guys. I hope it wasn’t easy.”

“He was shot.”

“Good. Bring the guy in and I’ll fix his shoes free every time. I mean that. Free shine too.”

“I thought you didn’t care anymore.”

“Hell, I said I didn’t hate him, not that I didn’t care. So he’s dead. I’m glad. Tomorrow I’ll forget he was even alive. So what else is new?”

“Sim Torrence was the big brain who engineered your last job.”

He was reaching for the bottle and stopped bent over. He looked up, not believing me. “Who says?”

“You’ll read about it in the papers.”

He straightened, the bottle entirely forgotten. “You mean . . .”

“Not only that, he engineered it right into a deliberate frame-up. That case made him the D.A. After that coup he was a landslide candidate.”

“This is square, what you’re telling me?”

“On the level, Sonny.”

“The dirty son of a bitch. Sorry, lady.”

“Here’s an added note I want you to think about. If Blackie Conley got wise in time he could have worked the double cross to his own advantage, taking the loot and dumping you guys.”

Sonny sounded almost out of breath. “I’ll be damned,” he said. Some of the old fire was in his voice. “A real switcheroo. How do you like that? Sure, now I get what the score is. Blackie laid out the getaway route. Hell, he never followed through with the plan. He had something else schemed up and got away.” Abruptly he dropped his head and laughed at the floor. “Boy, he was smarter than I figured. How do you like that?” he repeated.

“Sonny . . .”

He looked up, a silly grin on his face. Egg. He couldn’t get over it. I said, “Blackie rented the property you were supposed to hole up in from Howie Green.”

“That’s right.”

“He must have bought another place at the same time for his own purpose using another name.”

“Just like that bastard Green to fall in with him. He’d do anything for a buck. I’m glad Blackie knocked him off!”

“He did?”

“Sure he did. Before the heist. You think we wanted somebody knowing where we was headed?”

I looked at him, puzzled.

He caught the look and said, “Yeah, I know. There ain’t no statute of limitations on murder. So they could still take me for being in it. Hell, you think I really care? Look around here. What do I have? Nothing. That’s what. I already served life. What could they do that’s worse? Maybe at the best I can live ten years, but what can I do with ten years? Live in a crummy rat hole? Beat on shoes all day? No friends? Man, it was better doin’ time. You just don’t know.”

I waved him down. “Look, I don’t care about Green. He asked for it, so he got it. I want Blackie Conley.”

“How you gonna find him?”

“Did you know Green?”

“You kiddin’? Him and me grew up together on the same block. I took more raps for that punk when I was a kid . . . aw, forget it.”

“Okay, now Green was a stickler for detail. He kept records somewhere. He passed on his business to his partner, Quincy Malek.”

“I knew him too.”

“Now Quincy kept the records. Wherever they are, they’ll have a notation of the transactions carried out by the business. It will show the property locations and we can run them down one by one until we get the place Blackie bought from him.”

“You think Blackie’ll still be there?”

“He hasn’t showed up any place else, has he?”

“That just ain’t like Blackie.” He rubbed his hands together and stared at them. “Maybe I didn’t know Blackie so good after all. Now what?”

“Did you know Quincy Malek?”

“Sure. From kids yet. Him too. He was another punk.”

“Where would he put something for safekeeping?”

“Quincy? Man, who knows?” He chuckled and leaned back against the cushions. “He had places all over. You know he operated a couple of houses without paying off? The boys closed him on that one.”

“The records, Sonny. Right now we’re checking up on all of Quincy’s former properties and every commercial warehouse in the city, but if you remember anything about what he had you can cut the time right down.”

“Mister, you’re dragging me back thirty years.”

“What did you have to think about all the time you were in prison, Sonny? Whatever it was belonged back there too because in prison there was nothing to think about.”

“Broads,” he grinned. “Until I was sixty all I thought about was broads. Not the used ones I had before, but ones that didn’t even exist. Maybe after sixty I went back, but it took some time.”

“Now you got something to think about.”

Sonny sat there a long moment, then his mouth twisted into a sour grimace. “Tell me, mister. What would it get me? You it would get something. Me? Nothing. Trouble, that’s all it would bring. Right now I ain’t got nothin’ but I ain’t got trouble either. Nope. Don’t think I can help you. I’ve had my belly full of trouble and now it’s over. I don’t want no more.”

“There won’t be trouble, Sonny.”

“No? You think with all the papers down my throat I’d get any peace? You think I’d keep the lease on the shoe shop? It’s bad enough I’m a con and a few people know it, but let everybody know it and I get booted right out of the neighborhood. No business, nothin’. Sorry, mister.”

“There might be a reward in it.”

“No dice. I’d have everybody in the racket chiseling it outa me. I’d wind up a drunk or dead. Somebody’d try to take me for the poke and I’d be out. Not me, Mister Hammer. I’m too old to even worry about it.”

Damn, he was tying me up tight and he was right. There had to be a way. I said, “If I wanted to I could put the heat on you for the Howie Green kill. The way things stand I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we got some quick and total cooperation from the police.”

Sonny stared a second, then grunted. “What a guest you are. You sure want me to fall bad.”

“Not that bad. If you want to push it I’d probably lay back. I’m just trying you, Sonny.”

Once again his eyes caught Velda’s legs. She had swung them out deliberately and the dress had pulled up over her knee. It was enough to make Sonny giggle again. “Oh, hell, why not? So maybe I can feed you something. What’s it they call it? Public duty or some kind of crap like that.”

“Quincy Malek, Sonny.”

He sat back and squinted his eyes shut. “Now let’s see. What would that punk do? He up and died but he never expected to, I bet. He was the kind who’d keep everything for himself if he could. Even if he left something to his family I bet they’d have to dig for it.

“Quincy owned property around town. Tenements, stuff like that. He’d buy cheap and hold. Got plenty in rentals and he seemed to know what was coming down and what was going up. Always had a hot iron in the fire.”

“Would he keep any records there?”

“Nope, don’t think so. Something might happen to ’em. My guess is he’d leave ’em with somebody.”

“Who?”

“Something about old Quincy nobody knew. He kept a pair of sisters in an apartment building he owned. Tricky pair that. Real queer for anything different. I got the word once that he had a double deal with them. They owned the apartment with some papers signed so that he could take it back any time he wanted. He couldn’t get screwed that way. Me, I’d look for those sisters. That building would be the only income they had and they couldn’t dump it so they were stuck with it, but since it was a good deal all around, why not, eh?”

“Who were they, Sonny?”

“Now you got me, mister. I think if you poke around you’ll find out who. I remember the deal, but not the dames. That any help?”

“It’s a lead.”

“Maybe I’ll think of it later. You want me to call if I do?”

I picked a scrap of paper off the table, wrote down the office and home numbers, and gave them to him. “Keep calling these numbers until you get me or Velda here.”

“Sure.” He tucked the paper in his pants pocket. Then he got an idea. “Hey,” he said, “if you find that crumb Blackie, you let me know. Hell, I’d even like a feel of that money. Just a feel. I think I’m entitled. It cost me thirty years.”

“Okay, a feel,” I said kiddingly.

Then Velda swung her leg out again and he grinned. “You know what I’d really like to feel, don’t you?”

With a laugh Velda said, “You’re a dirty old man.”

“You bet, lady. But I’d sure like to see you with your clothes off just once.”

“If you did you’d drop dead,” I told him.

“What a way to go,” he said.

Pat wasn’t bothering to get any sleep either. I reached him at the office and gave him the dope Sonny passed on to me. He thought it had merit enough to start working on and was going to put two men on it right away. Nothing else had paid off yet, although they had come up with a few former properties Malek had owned. They had made a search of the premises, but nothing showed. A team of experts were on a twenty-four-hour detail in the records section digging up old titles, checking possibles, and having no luck at all so far.

Offhand I asked for Quincy’s old address and Pat gave me the location of his home and the building the real estate agency was housed in. He had checked them both personally and they were clean.

I hung up the phone and asked Velda if she wanted something to eat. The Automat was right down the street so she settled for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. We waited for the light, cut over, and ducked inside.

Right at the front table Jersey Toby was having coffee and when he saw me he simply got up and left with his coffee practically untouched.

We fed nickels into the slots, got what we wanted, and picked a table.

Outside the damn rain had started again.

Velda said, “What’s on your mind?”

“How can you tell?”

“Your poker face slipped. You’re trying to think of something.”

I slammed the coffee cup down. “One lousy thing. I can feel it. One simple goddamn thing I can’t put my finger on and it’s right there in front of me. I keep forgetting things.”

“It’ll come back.”

“Now is when I need it.”

“Will talking about it help?”

“No.”

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

“We’re sitting right on top of it, baby. We’re riding three million bucks into the ground and have a killer right in front of us someplace. The damn guy is laughing all the way too.”

“Suppose the money isn’t there?”

“Honey . . . you don’t just lose that kind of capital. You don’t misplace it. You put it someplace for a purpose. Somebody is ready to move in this town and that money is going to buy that person a big piece of action. If that one is as smart as all this, the action is going to be rough and expensive.”

“Why don’t you call Pat again? They might have something.”

“I don’t want to bug him to death.”

“He won’t mind.”

We pushed away from the table and found a phone booth. Pat was still at his desk and it was three a.m. He hadn’t found anything yet. He did have one piece of news for me and I asked what it was.

“We picked up one of the out-of-town boys who came in from Detroit. He was getting ready to mainline one when he got grabbed and lost his fix. He sweated plenty before he talked; now he’s flipping because he’s in trouble. The people who sent him here won’t have anything to do with a junkie and if they know he’s on H he’s dead, Now he’s yelling for protection.”

“Something hot?”

“We know the prime factor behind the move into town. Somebody has spent a lot of time collecting choice items about key men in the Syndicate operation. He’s holding it over their heads and won’t let go. The payoff is for them to send in the best enforcers who are to be the nucleus of something new and for this they’re paying and keeping still about it. None of them wants to be caught in a bind by the Syndicate itself so they go with the demand.”

“Funny he’d know that angle.”

“Not so funny. Their security isn’t that good. Word travels fast in those circles. I bet we’ll get the same story if we can put enough pressure on any of the others.”

“You said they were clean.”

“Maybe we can dirty them up a little. In the interest of justice, that is.”

“Sometimes it’s the only way. But tell me this, Pat . . . who could pull a play like that? You’d need to know the in of the whole operation. That takes some big smarts. You’d have to pinpoint your sucker and concentrate on him. This isn’t a keyhole game.”

“It’s been done.”

“Blackie Conley could have done it,” I suggested. “He could have used a bite of the loot for expenses and he would have had the time and the know-how.”

“That’s what I think too.”

“Anything on Malek’s women?”

“Hold it a minute.” I heard him put the phone down, speak to somebody, then he picked it up again. “Got a note here from a retired officer who was contacted. He remembers the girls Malek used to run with but can’t recall the building. His second wife put in a complaint to have it raided for being a disorderly house at one time and he was on the call. Turned out to be a nuisance complaint and nothing more. He can’t place the building anymore though.”

“Hell,” I said.

“We’ll keep trying. Where will you be?”

“Home. I’ve had it.”

“See you tomorrow,” Pat said.

I hung up and looked at Velda. “Malek,” I said. “Nobody can find where he spent his time.”

“Why don’t you try the Yellow Pages?” Velda kidded.

I paused and nodded. “You just might be right at that, kid.”

“It was a joke, Mike.”

I shook my head. “Pat just told me he had a second wife. That meant he had a first. Let’s look it up.”

There were sixteen Maleks in the directory and I got sixteen dimes to make the calls. Thirteen of them told me everything from drop dead to come on up for a party, but it was the squeaky old voice of the fourteenth that said yes, she was Mrs. Malek who used to be married to Quincy Malek. No, she never used the Quincy or the initial because she never cared for the name. She didn’t think it was the proper time to call, but yes, if it was as important as I said it was, I could come right over.

“We hit something, baby,” I said.

“Pat?”

“Not yet. Let’s check this one out ourselves first.”

The cab let us out on the corner of Eighth and Forty-ninth. Somewhere along the line over one of the storefronts was the home of Mrs. Quincy Malek the first. Velda spotted the number over the darkened hallway and we went in, found the right button, and pushed it. Seconds later a buzzer clicked and I opened the door.

It was only one flight up. The stairs creaked and the place reeked of fish, but the end could be up there.

She was waiting at the top of the landing, a garishly rouged old lady in a feathered wrapper that smelled of the twenties and looked it. Her hair was twisted into cloth curlers with a scarf hurriedly thrown over it and she had that querulous look of all little old ladies suddenly yanked out of bed at a strange hour.

She forced a smile, asked us in after we introduced ourselves, and had us sit at the kitchen table while she made tea. Neither Velda nor I wanted it, but if she was going to put up with us we’d have to go along with her.

Only when the tea was served properly did she ask us what we wanted.

I said, “Mrs. Malek . . . it’s about your husband.”

“Oh, he died a long time ago.”

“I know. We’re looking for something he left behind.”

“He left very little, very little. What he left me ran out years ago. I’m on my pension now.”

“We’re looking for some records he might have kept.”

“My goodness, isn’t that funny?”

“What is?”

“That you should want them too.”

“Who else wanted them, Mrs. Malek?”

She poured another cup of tea for me and put the pot down daintily. “Dear me, I don’t know. I had a call . . . oh, some months ago. They wanted to know if Quincy left any of his business records with me. Seems that they needed something to clear up a title.”

“Did he, Mrs. Malek?”

“Certainly, sir. I was the only one he could ever trust. He left a large box with me years ago and I kept it for him as I said I would in case it was ever needed.”

“This party who called . . .”

“I told him what I’m telling you.”

“Him?”

“Well . . . I really couldn’t say. It was neither a man’s nor a woman’s voice. They offered me one hundred dollars if they could inspect the box and another hundred if I was instrumental in proving their claim.”

“You take it?”

Her pale blue eyes studied me intently. “Mr. Hammer, I am no longer a woman able to fend for herself. At my age two hundred dollars could be quite an asset. And since those records had been sitting there for years untouched, I saw no reason why I shouldn’t let them have them.”

It was like having a tub of ice water dumped over you. Velda sat there, the knuckles of her hand white around the teacup.

“Who did you give it to, Mrs. Malek?”

“A delivery boy. He left me an envelope with one hundred dollars in it.”

“You know the boy?”

“Oh dear no. He was just . . . a boy. Spanish, I think. His English was very bad.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Another cup of tea, Mr. Hammer?”

“No, thanks.” Another cup of tea would just make me sick. I looked at Velda and shook my head.

“The box was returned, of course,” she said suddenly.

“What!”

“With another hundred dollars. Another boy brought it to me.”

“Look, Mrs. Malek . . . if we can take a look at that box and find what we’re looking for, I’ll make a cash grant of five hundred bucks. How does that sound to you?”

“Lovely. More tea?”

I took another cup of tea. This one didn’t make me sick. But she almost did. She sat there until I finished the cup, then excused herself and disappeared a few minutes. When she came back she was carrying a large cardboard carton with the top folded down and wrapped in coarse twine.

“Here you are, Mr. Hammer.”

Velda and I opened the carton carefully, flipped open the top, and looked down at the stacked sheafs of notations that filled the entire thing. Each one was an independent sales record that listed prices, names, and descriptions and there were hundreds of them. I checked the dates and they were spread through the months I wanted.

“Are you satisfied, sir?”

I reached for my wallet and took out five bills. There were three singles left. I laid them on the table but she didn’t touch them.

She said, “One of those pieces of paper is missing, I must tell you.”

All of a sudden I had that sick feeling again. I looked at the five hundred bucks lying on the table and so did Mrs. Malek.

“How do you know?” I asked her.

“Because I counted them. Gracious, when Quincy trusted me with them I wanted to be sure they were always there. Twice a year I used to go through them to make sure the tally was identical with the original one. Then when I got them back I counted them again and one was missing.” She looked at me and nodded firmly. “I’m positive. I counted twice.”

“That was the one we wanted, Mrs. Malek.”

“I may still be of help.” She was smiling at some private secret. “Some years back I was sick. Quite sick. I was here in bed for some months and for lack of something to do I decided to make my own record of Quincy’s papers. I listed each and every piece much as he did.”

She reached into the folds of her wrapper and brought out a thick, cheap note pad and laid it down on the table. “You’ll have to go through them all one by one and find the piece that’s missing, but it’s here, Mr. Hammer.”

I picked up the pad, hefted it, and stuck it in my pocket. “One question, Mrs. Malek. Why are you going so far with us?”

“Because I don’t like to be stolen from. That other party deliberately stole something of value from me. That person was dishonest. Therefore I assume you are honest. Am I wrong?”

“You aren’t wrong, Mrs. Malek. You may get more out of this than you think.”

“This is sufficient for my needs, sir.”

I picked up the box and put on my hat. “You’ll get them all back this time. The police may want to hold them for a while, but eventually they’ll be returned.”

“I’m sure they will. And I thank you, sir.”

I grinned at her. “I could kiss you.”

“That would be a pleasure.” She glanced at Velda. “Do you mind?”

“Be my guest,” Velda said.

So I kissed her.

Damn if the blush didn’t make the rouge spots fade right out. The last three bucks bought a cab ride back to the apartment and two hamburgers apiece. We dumped the contents of the box on the floor, spread them out into piles, opened the notebook, and started to go through them.

At dawn I called Pat without telling him what I had. So far he had nothing. Then we went back to the scoreboard. It could have taken a few days but we got lucky. At three in the afternoon Velda instituted a quick system of cross-checking and we found the missing item.

It was a deed made out to one Carl Sullivan for a piece of property in Ulster County, New York, and the location was accurately described. Beneath it, apparently copied from the original notation, were the initials, B.C. Blackie Conley!

CHAPTER 11

I had to borrow fifty bucks from George over at the Blue Ribbon to get on my way, but he came up with the dough and no questions. Down the street I rented a Ford and Velda got in it for the drive upstate. Instead of taking the Thruway I got on old Route 17 and stopped at Central Valley to see a real estate dealer I knew. It wasn’t easy to keep the glad-handing and old-times talk to a minimum, but we managed. I gave him my property location and he pulled down a wall map and started locating it on the grid.

He found it quickly enough. Then he looked at me strangely and said, “You own this?”

“No, but I’m interested in it.”

“Well, if you’re thinking of buying it, forget it. This is in the area they located those gas wells on and several big companies have been going nuts trying to find the owner. It’s practically jungle up there and they want to take exploration teams in and can’t do it without permission. The taxes have been paid in advance so there’s no squawk from the state and nobody can move an inch until the owner shows up.”

“Tough.”

His face got a little bit hungry. “Mike . . . do you know the owner?”

“I know him.”

“Think we can swing a deal?”

“I doubt it.”

His face fell at the thought of the money he was losing. “Well, if he wants to sell, put in a word for me, okay?”

“I’ll mention it to him.”

That seemed to satisfy him. We shook hands back at the car and took off. An hour and ten minutes later we were at the turnoff that led to the property. The first road was a shale and dirt one that we took for a mile, looking for a stream. We found that too, and the barely visible indentation that showed where another road had been a long time back.

I drove down the road and backed the Ford into the bushes, hiding it from casual observation, then came back to Velda and looked at the jungle we were going into.

The trees were thick and high, pines intermingled with oaks and maples, almost hopelessly tangled at their bases with heavy brush and thorny creepers. Towering overhead was the uneven roll of the mountain range.

It was getting late and we wouldn’t have too much sun left.

“It’s someplace in there,” I said. “I don’t know how he did it, but it was done. He’s in there.”

Animals had made their way in ahead of us. The trail was barely visible and some of the brush was fuzzed with the hair of deer, the earth, where it was soft in spots, showing the print of their hoofs. We made it crawling sometimes, fighting the undergrowth constantly. But little by little we got inside.

The ground slope ranged upward, leveled off, then slanted down again. We saw the remains of a shack and headed toward it, but that was all it was, a vermin-infested building that had long ago fallen into ruin. At one side there was a carton of rusted tins that had spilled over and rotted out, and another wooden crate of cooking utensils, still nested inside each other. The remains of a mattress had been scattered over the floor making permanent nests for thousands of mice.

It didn’t make sense.

We started down the slope and burst through the brush into a clearing that was shaped like a bowl. Nature had somehow started something growing there, a peculiar soft grass that refused to allow anything else to intrude on its domain.

Velda said, “Mike . . .”

I stopped and looked back.

“I’m tired, Mike. Can’t we rest a minute?”

“Sure, honey. This is a good place.”

She sank to the ground with a long sigh and stretched out languidly looking at the sky. The clouds were tinged with a deep red and the shadows were beginning to creep down the mountainside. “This is lovely, Mike.”

“Not much like the city, is it?”

She laughed, said, “No,” and lifted her legs to strip off the ruins of her nylons. She stopped with one leg pointed toward the mountain. “You do it.”

What a broad.

I held her foot against my stomach, unhooked the snaps that held the stockings, and peeled one down, then the other. She said, “Ummm,” and patted the ground beside her. I crossed my legs and sat down, but she grabbed for me, tipped me over toward her, and held my face in her hands. “It’s going to be dark soon, Mike. We can’t go back through that again. Not until morning.” Her smile was impish.

“Any time, any place. You’re crazy.”

“I want you, Mike. Now.”

“It’s going to get cold.”

“Then we’ll suffer.”

I kissed her then, her mouth slippery against mine.

“It’s awfully warm now,” she murmured. She raised her legs and the dress slid down her thighs.

“Stop that.”

Her hand took mine and held it against the roundness of one thigh, keeping it there until she could take hers away and knew mine would stay. Ever so slowly my hand began a movement of its own, sensing the way to love, unable to stop the motion. With an age-old feminine motion she made it easier for me, her entire being trying to bring me into its vortex and I tried to fill the void. There was something I was fighting against, but it wasn’t a fight I knew I could win. There was a bulk between us and Velda’s hand reached inside my coat and pulled out the .45 and laid it on the ground in back of her.

The sun was low now, the rays angling into the trees. One of them picked up a strange color in the brush at the foot of the hill, an odd color that never should have been there. I stared at it, trying to make out what it was.

Then I knew.

The fingers of my hand squeezed involuntarily and Velda let out a little cry, the pain of it shocking her. I said, “Stay here,” and snapped to my feet.

“Mike . . .”

I didn’t take the time to answer her. I ran down the hill toward the color and with each step it took shape and form until it was what I knew it had to be.

A thirty-year-old taxi cab. A yellow and black taxi that had been stolen off the streets back in the thirties.

The tires were rotted shreds now, but the rest of it was intact. Only a few spots of rust showed through the heavy layers of paint that the cab had been coated with to protect it against the destruction of the wind-driven grit in the city.

I looked it over carefully and almost wanted to say that they sure didn’t make them like this anymore. The windows were still rolled shut hard against their rubber cushions so that the stuff fused them right into the body of the car with age. The car had been new when it was stolen, and they made that model to last for years. It was an airtight vault now, a bright yellow, wheeled mausoleum for two people.

At least they had been two people.

Now they were two mummies. The one in the front was slumped across the wheel, hat perched jauntily on a skeletal head covered with drawn, leathery flesh. There wasn’t much to the back of the head. That had been blown away.

The guy who did it was the other mummy in the backseat. He leaned against the other side of the car, his mouth gaping open so that every tooth showed, his clothes hanging from withered limbs. Where his eyes were I could see two little dried bits of things that still had the appearance of watching me.

He still held the rifle across his lap aimed at the door in front of me, fingers clutched around its stock and his right forefinger still on the trigger. There was a black stain of blood on the shirt that could still give it a startlingly white background.

Between his feet were three canvas sacks.

A million dollars in each.

I had finally found Blackie Conley.

She came up on bare feet and I didn’t hear her until her breath hissed with the horror of what she saw. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stop the scream that started to come, her eyes wide open for long moments.

“Mike . . . who . . .?”

“Our killer, Velda. The Target. The one we were after. That’s Blackie Conley in the backseat there. He almost made it. How close can a guy come?”

“Pretty close, Mr. Hammer. Some of us come all the way.”

I didn’t hear him either! He had come up the side of the hill on sneakered feet and stood there with a gun on us and I felt like the biggest fool in the world! My .45 was back there in the love nest and now we were about to be as dead as the others. It was like being right back at the beginning again.

I said, “Hello, Sonny.”

The Snake. The real snake, as deadly as they come. The only one that had real fangs and knew how to use them. His face had lost the tired look and his eyes were bright with the desirous things he saw in his future. There was nothing stooped about him now, nothing of the old man there. Old, yes, but he wasn’t the type who grew old easily. It had all been a pose, a cute game, and he was the winner.

“You scared me, Mr. Hammer. When you got as far as Malek you really scared me. I was taking my time about coming here because I wasn’t ready yet and then I knew it was time to move. You damn near ruined everything.” What I used to call a cackle was a pose too. He did have a laugh. He thought it was funny.

Velda reached for my arm and I knew she was scared. It was too much too fast all over again and she could only take so much.

“Smart,” he said to me. “You’re a clever bastard. If all I had was the cops to worry about it would have been no trouble, but I had to draw you.” His mouth pulled into a semblance of a grin. “Those nice talks we had. You kept me right up to date. Tell me, did you think I had a nice face?”

“I thought you had more sense, Sonny.”

He dropped the grin then. “Get off it, guy. More sense? For what? You think I was going to spend all my life in the cooler without getting some satisfaction? Mister, that’s where you made your mistake. You should have gone a little further into my case history. I always was a mean one because it paid off. If I had to play pretty-face to make it pay off I could do that too.”

“You won’t make it, Sonny.”

“No? Well, just lose that idea. For thirty years I worked this one out. I had all the time in the world to do it too. With the contacts I had in the can I got enough on the big boys to make them jump my way when I was ready. I put together a mob and now I’ll have to move to get it rolling. You think I won’t live big for what little time I have left? Well, you’re making a mistake when you think that. A lot of planning went into this dodge, kid.”

“You still hate, don’t you?”

Sonny Motley nodded slowly, a smile of pure pleasure forming. “You’re goddamn right. I hated that bastard Torrence and tried to get at him through his kid. Mistake there . . . I thought he loved the kid. I would’ve been doin’ him a favor to rub her out, right?”

“He was trying for her too.”

“I got the picture fast enough. When I knocked him off in his house I thought I’d get the kid just for the fun of it. She fooled me. Where was she, mister?”

I shrugged.

“Hell, it don’t matter none now.” He lifted the gun so I could see down the barrel. “I thought sure you’d get on to me sooner. I pulled a boner, you know that, don’t you?”

I knew it now, all right. When Marv Kania tried to nail me with the cab it was because Sonny had called him from the back room when he faked getting me old clippings of his crime and told him where I was going. When Marv almost got me in my apartment it was because Sonny told him my new address and that I’d be there. I made it easy because I told Sonny both times.

I said, “Marv Kania was holed up in your place, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right, dying every minute, and all he wanted was to get that last crack at you. It was the one thing that kept him alive.”

“It was the thing that killed him too, Sonny.”

“Nobody’ll miss him but me. The kid had guts. He knew nobody could help him, but he stuck the job out.”

“You got the guts too, Sonny?”

“I got the guts, Hammer.” He laughed again. “You gave old Blackie credit for having my guts though. That was pretty funny. You were so sure it was him. Never me. Blackie the slob. You know, I figured out that cross when I was in stir. It came through to me and when I put the pieces together bit by bit I knew what I was going to do. I even figured out how Blackie got wise at the last minute and what he’d do to plan a getaway. He wasn’t such a hard guy to second-guess. After all, I had thirty years to do it in. Now it’s the big loot I waited all that time to spend.”

“You won’t do it, Sonny.”

“How you figure to stop me? You got no gun and you’re under one. I can pump a fast one into you both and nobody will hear a sound. Blackie picked this place pretty well. You’re gonna die, you know. I can’t let you two run around.”

Velda’s fingers bit into my arm harder. “See the money in the car, Hammer? It still there? It wasn’t in the shack so it’s gotta be there or around here somewhere.”

“Look for yourself.”

“Step back.”

We moved slowly, two steps, then stood there while Sonny grinned and looked into the window of the cab.

It was hard to tell what was happening to his face. For one second I thought I’d have a chance to jump him but he caught himself in time and swung the gun back on us. His eyes were dancing with the joy of the moment and the laugh in his throat was real.

Sonny Motley was doing what he had wanted to do for so long, meeting Blackie Conley face to face.

“Look at him. It’s him back there! Look at that dirty doublecrosser sitting there just like I shot him. Goddamn, I didn’t miss with that shot. I killed the son of a bitch thirty years ago! See that, Hammer . . . see the guy I killed thirty years ago? Damn, if that isn’t a pretty sight.”

He paused, sucking in his breath, his chest heaving. “Just like he was, still got that rifle he loved. See where I got him, Hammer . . . right in the chest. Right through the open window before he could get his second shot off.

“Hello, Blackie, you dirty bastard!” he shrieked. “How’d you like that shot? How’d it feel to die, Blackie? This is worth waiting all the thirty years for!”

Sonny turned and grimaced at me, his eyes burning. “Always figured to make it, Blackie did. Had the driver pull him into his hidey-hole and shot him in the head. But he never lived through my shot. No chance of that. Man, this is my big day . . . the biggest damn day in my life! Now I got everything!”

He drew himself erect at the thought, a funny expression changing his face. He said, “Only one thing I ain’t got anymore,” and this time he was looking at Velda.

“Take those clothes off, lady.”

Her fingers that were so tight on my arm seemed to relax and I knew she was thinking the same thing as I was. It could be a diversion. If she could step aside and do it so we were split up I might get the chance to jump him.

I didn’t watch her. I couldn’t. I had to watch him. But I could tell from his eyes just what she was doing. I knew when she took the skirt off, then the bra. I watched his eyes follow her hands as she slid the skirt down over her ankles and I knew by the quick intake of his breath and the sudden brightness of his eyes when she had stepped out of the last thing she wore.

She made the slightest motion to one side then, but he was with it. He said, “Just stay there, lady. Stay there close where I can get to you both.”

Not much time was left now. The fire in his eyes was still burning, but it wouldn’t last.

“Real nice, lady,” he said. “I like brunettes. Always have. Now you can die like that, right together.”

No time at all now.

“Too bad you didn’t get the money, Sonny.”

He shook his head at me, surprised that I’d make such a bad attempt. “It’s right on the floor there.”

“You’d better be sure, Sonny. We got here ahead of you.”

If he had trouble opening the door I might be able to make the move. All he had to do was falter once and if I could get past the first shot I could take him even if he caught me with it. Velda would hit the ground the second he pulled the trigger and together we’d have him.

“No good, Hammer. It’s right there and Old Blackie is still guarding it with his rifle. You saw it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay, so you get one last look.” He reached for the door handle and gave it a tentative tug. It didn’t budge. He laughed again, knowing what I was waiting for but not playing it my way at all. The gun never wavered and I knew I’d never get the chance. From where he stood he could kill us both with ease and we all knew it.

The next time he gave the door a sharp jerk and it swung open, the hinges groaning as the rust ground into them. He was watching us with the damndest grin I ever saw and never bothered to see what was happening in the cab. The pull on the door was enough to rock the car and ever so steadily the corpse of Blackie Conley seemed to come to life, sitting up in the seat momentarily. I could see the eyes and the mouth open in a soundless scream with the teeth bared in a grimace of wild hatred.

Sonny knew something was happening and barely turned his head to look . . . just enough to see the man he had killed collapse into dust fragments, and as it did the bony finger touched the trigger that had been filed to react to the smallest of pressures and the rifle squirted a blossom of roaring flame that took Sonny Motley square in the chest and dropped him lifeless four feet away.

While the echo still rumbled across the mountainside, the leather-covered skull of Blackie Conley bounced out of the cab and rolled to a stop face to face with Sonny and lay there grinning at him idiotically.

You can only sustain emotion so long. You can only stay scared so long. It stops and suddenly it’s like nothing happened at all. You don’t shake, you don’t break up. You’re just glad it’s over. You’re a little surprised that your hands aren’t trembling and wonder why it is you feel almost perfectly normal.

Velda said quietly, “It’s finished now, isn’t it?”

Her clothes were in a heap beside her and in the dying rays of the sun she looked like a statuesque wood nymph, a lovely naked wood nymph with beautiful black hair as dark as a raven against a sheen of molded flesh that rose and dipped in curves that were unbelievable.

Up there on the hill the grass was soft where we had lain in the nest. It smelled flowery and green and the night was going to be a warm night. I looked at her, then toward the spot on the hill. Tomorrow it would be something else, but this was now.

I said, “You ready?”

She smiled at me, savoring what was to come. “I’m ready.”

I took her hand, stepped over the bodies, new and old, on the ground, and we started up the slope.

“Then let’s go,” I said.

THET WISTED THING

To Sid Graedon, who saw the charred edges

CHAPTER 1

The little guy’s face was a bloody mess. Between the puffballs of blue-black flesh that used to be eyelids, the dull gleam of shock-deadened pupils watched Dilwick uncomprehendingly. His lips were swollen things of lacerated skin, with slow trickles of blood making crooked paths from the corners of his mouth through the stubble of a beard to his chin, dripping onto a stained shirt.

Dilwick stood just outside the glare of the lamp, dangling like the Sword of Damocles over the guy’s head. He was sweating too. His shirt clung to the meaty expanse of his back, the collar wilted into wrinkles around his huge neck. He pushed his beefy hand further into the leather glove and swung. The solid smack of his open hand on the little guy’s jaw was nasty. His chair went over backward and his head cracked against the concrete floor of the room like a ripe melon. Dilwick put his hands on his hips and glared down at the caricature that once was human.

“Take him out and clean ’im up. Then get ’im back here.” Two other cops came out of the darkness and righted the chair. One yanked the guy to his feet and dragged him to the door.

Lord, how I hated their guts. Grown men, they were supposed to be. Four of them in there taking turns pounding a confession from a guy who had nothing to say. And I had to watch it.

It was supposed to be a warning to me. Be careful, it said, when you try to withhold information from Dilwick you’re looking for a broken skull. Take a look at this guy for example, then spill what you know and stick around so I, the Great Dilwick, can get at you when I want you.

I worked up a husky mouthful of saliva and spat it as close to his feet as I could. The fat cop spun on his heel and let his lips fold back over his teeth in a sneer. “You gettin’ snotty, Hammer?”

I stayed slouched in my seat. “Any way you call it, Dilwick,” I said insolently. “Just sitting here thinking.”

Big stuff gave me a dirty grimace. “Thinking . . . you?”

“Yeah. Thinking what you’d look like the next day if you tried that stuff on me.”

The two cops dragging the little guy out stopped dead still. The other one washing the bloodstains from the seat quit swishing the brush over the wicker and held his breath. Nobody ever spoke that way to Dilwick. Nobody from the biggest politician in the state to the hardest apple that ever stepped out of a pen. Nobody ever did because Dilwick would cut them up into fine pieces with his bare hands and enjoy it. That was Dilwick, the dirtiest, roughest cop who ever walked a beat or swung a nightstick over a skull. Crude, he was. Crude, hard and dirty and afraid of nothing. He’d sooner draw blood from a face than eat and everybody knew it. That’s why nobody ever spoke to him that way. That is, nobody except me.

Because I’m the same way myself.

Dilwick let out his breath with a rush. The next second he was reaching down for me, but I never gave him the chance to hook his hairy paws in my shirt. I stood up in front of him and sneered in his face. Dilwick was too damn big to be used to meeting guys eye to eye. He liked to look down at them. Not this time.

“What do you think you’ll do?” he snarled.

“Try me and see,” I said.

I saw his shoulder go back and didn’t wait. My knee came up and landed in his groin with a sickening smash. When he doubled over my fist caught him in the mouth and I felt his teeth pop. His face was starting to turn blue by the time he hit the floor. One cop dropped the little guy and went for his gun.

“Cut it, stupid,” I said, “before I blow your goddamn head off. I still got my rod.” He let his hand fall back to his side. I turned and walked out of the room. None of them tried to stop me.

Upstairs I passed the desk sergeant still bent over his paper. He looked up in time to see me and let his hand snake under the desk. Right then I had my own hand six inches from my armpit practically inviting him to call me. Maybe he had a family at home. He brought his hand up on top of the desk where I could see it. I’ve seen eyes like his peering out of a rat hole when there was a cat in the room. He still had enough I AM THE LAW in him to bluster it out.

“Did Dilwick release you?” he demanded.

I snatched the paper from his hand and threw it to the floor, trying to hold my temper. “Dilwick didn’t release me,” I told him. “He’s downstairs vomiting his guts out the same way you’ll be doing if you pull a deal like that again. Dilwick doesn’t want me. He just wanted me to sit in on a cellar séance in legal torture to show me how tough he is. I wasn’t impressed. But get this, I came to Sidon to legally represent a client who used his one phone call on arrest to contact me, not to be intimidated by a fat louse that was kicked off the New York force and bought his way into the cops in this hick town just to use his position for a rake-off.”

The sergeant started to interrupt, licking his loose lips nervously, but I cut him short. “Furthermore, I’m going to give you just one hour to get Billy Parks out of here and back to his house. If you don’t,” and I said it slowly, “I’m going to call the State’s Attorney and drop this affair in his lap. After that I’ll come back here and mash your damn face to a pulp. Understand now? No habeas corpus, no nothing. Just get him out of here.”

For a cop he stunk. His lower lip was trembling with fear. I pushed my hat on the back of my head and stamped out of the station house. My heap was parked across the street and I got in and turned it over. Damn, I was mad.

Billy Parks, just a nice little ex-con trying to go straight, but do you think the law would help him out? Hell no. Let one thing off-color pop up and they drag him in to get his brains kicked out because he had a record. Sure, he put in three semesters in the college on the Hudson, and he wasn’t too anxious to do anything that would put him in his senior year where it took a lifetime to matriculate. Ever since he wrangled that chauffeur’s job from Rudolph York I hadn’t heard from him . . . until now, after York’s little genius of a son had been snatched.

Rain started to spatter against the windshield when I turned into the drive. The headlights picked out the roadway and I followed it up to the house. Every light in the place was on as if the occupants were afraid a dark corner might conceal some unseen terror.

It was a big place, a product of wealth and good engineering, but in spite of its stately appearance and wrought-iron gates, somebody had managed to sneak in, grab the kid and beat it. Hell, the kid was perfect snatch bait. He was more than a son to his father, he was the result of a fourteen-year experiment. Then, that’s what he got for bringing the kid up to be a genius. I bet he’d shell out plenty of his millions to see him safe and sound.

The front door was answered by one of those tailored flunkies who must always count up to fifty before they open up. He gave me a curt nod and allowed me to come in out of the rain anyway.

“I’m Mike Hammer,” I said, handing him a card. “I’d like to see your boss. And right away,” I added.

The flunky barely glanced at the pasteboard. “I’m awfully sorry, sir, but Mr. York is temporarily indisposed.”

When I shoved a cigarette in my mouth and lit it I said, “You tell him it’s about his kid. He’ll un-indispose himself in a hurry.”

I guess I might as well have told him I wanted a ransom payment right then the way he looked at me. I’ve been taken for a lot of things in my life, but this was the first for a snatch artist. He started to stutter, swallowed, then waved his hand in the general direction of the living room. I followed him in.

Have you ever seen a pack of alley cats all set for a midnight brawl when something interrupts them? They spin on a dime with the hair still up their backs and watch the intruder through hostile eye slits as though they were ready to tear him so they could continue their own fight. An intense, watchful stare of mutual hate and fear.

That’s what I ran into, only instead of cats it was people. Their expressions were the same. A few had been sitting, others stopped their quiet pacing and stood poised, ready. A tableau of hate. I looked at them only long enough to make a mental count of a round dozen and tab them as a group of ghouls whose morals had been eaten into by dry rot a long time.

Rudolph York was slumped in a chair gazing blankly into an empty fireplace. The photos in the rags always showed him to be a big man, but he was small and tired-looking this night. He kept muttering to himself, but I couldn’t hear him. The butler handed him my card. He took it, not bothering to look at it.

“A Mr. Hammer, sir.”

No answer.

“It . . . It’s about Master Ruston, sir.”

Rudolph York came to life. His head jerked around and he looked at me with eyes that spat fire. Very slowly he came to his feet, his hands trembling. “Have you got him?”

Two boys who might have been good-looking if it weren’t for the nightclub pallor and the squeegy skin came out of a settee together. One had his fists balled up, the other plunked his highball glass on a coffee table. They came at me together. Saps. All I had to do was look over my shoulder and let them see what was on my face and they called it quits outside of swinging distance.

I turned my attention back to Rudolph York. “No.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Look at my card.”

He read, “Michael Hammer, Private Investigator,” very slowly, then crushed the card in his hand. The contortions in his face were weird. He breathed silent, unspeakable words through tight lips, afraid to let himself be heard. One look at the butler and the flunky withdrew quietly, then he turned back to me. “How did you find out about this?” he charged.

I didn’t like this guy. As brilliant a scientist as he might be, as wealthy and important, I still didn’t like him. I blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. “Not hard,” I answered, “not hard at all. I got a telephone call.”

He kept beating his fist into an open palm. “I don’t want the police involved, do you hear! This is a private matter.”

“Cool off, Doc. I’m not the police. However, if you try to keep me out of this I’ll buzz one of the papers, then your privacy will really be shot to hell.”

“Whom do you represent?” he asked coldly.

“Your chauffeur, Billy Parks.”

“So?”

“So I’d like to know why you put the finger on him when you found out your kid was missing. I’d like to know why you let them mangle him without a formal charge even being lodged, and why you’re keeping all this under your hat. And by damn you better start speaking and pretty loud at that.”

“Please, Mr. Hammer.”

A hand hit my shoulder and spun me, another came up from the side and cracked across my face. The punk said, “How dare you talk to Uncle like that!”

I let him get it out then backhanded him across the mouth with all I had. This time the other one grabbed my coat. He got a short jab in the ribs that bent him over, then the palm of my hand across his puss that straightened him up again. I shoved him away and got the punk’s tie in my hand. When I was breathing in his face I twisted on the tie until the blue started running up his neck, then I smacked him on each side of that whiskey-sodden face until my hand hurt. When I dropped him he lay on the floor crying, trying to cover his face with his hands.

I spoke to the general assembly rather than to him. “In case anyone else has ideas like that, he’d better have more in his hands than a whiskey glass.”

York hadn’t missed a trick. He looked old again. The fire left his eyes and he groped for the arm of his chair. York was having a pretty rough time of it, but after having seen Billy I didn’t feel sorry for him.

I threw my butt in the fireplace and parked in the chair opposite him. He didn’t need any prompting. “Ruston was not in his bed in the morning. It had been slept in, but he was not there. We searched the house and the grounds for him, but found no trace of his presence. I must have become excited. The first thing that entered my head was that I had an ex-convict in my employ. I called the local police and reported what had taken place. They led Parks away. I’ve since regretted the incident.”

“I imagine,” I remarked dryly. “How much is it costing you to keep this quiet?”

He shuddered. “Nothing. I did offer them a reward if they could locate Ruston.”

“Oh, swell. Great. That’s all they needed. Cripes, you got a brain like a fly!” His eyes widened at that. “These local jokers aren’t cops. Sure, they’d be quiet, who wouldn’t? Do you think they’d split the kind of reward money you’d be offering if they could help it?”

I felt like rapping him in the teeth. “Throwing Billy to the wolves was stupid. Suppose he was an ex-con. With three convictions to his credit he wasn’t likely to stick his neck out for that offence. He’d be the first suspect as it was. Damn, I’d angle for Dilwick before I would Billy. He’s more the type.”

York was sweating freely. He buried his face in his hands and swayed from side to side, moaning to himself. He stopped finally, then looked up at me. “What will I do, Mr. Hammer? What can be done?”

I shook my head.

“But something must be done! I must find Ruston. After all these years . . . I can’t call the police. He’s such a sensitive boy . . . I—I’m afraid.”

“I merely represent Billy Parks, Mr. York. He called me because he was in a jam and I’m his friend. What I want from you is to give him back his job. Either that or I call the papers.”

“All right. It really doesn’t matter.” His head dropped again. I put on my hat and stood up, then, “But you? Mr. Hammer, you aren’t the police as you say. Perhaps you could help me, too.”

I threw him a straw. “Perhaps.”

He grabbed at it. “Would you? I need somebody . . . who will keep this matter silent.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“Very well, how much?”

“How much did you offer Dilwick?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

I let out a whistle, then told him, “Okay, ten G’s plus expenses.”

Relief flooded his face like sunlight. The price was plenty steep but he didn’t bat an eye. He had been holding this inside himself too long and was glad to hand it to someone else.

But he still had something to say. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Hammer, and in my position I am forced, more or less, to accept. However, for my own satisfaction I would like to know one thing. How good a detective are you?”

He said it in a brittle tone and I answered him the same way. An answer that made him pull back away from me as though I had a contagious disease. I said, “York, I’ve killed a lot of men. I shot the guts out of two of them in Times Square. Once I let six hundred people in a nightclub see what some crook had for dinner when he tried to gun me. He got it with a steak knife. I remember because I don’t want to remember. They were too nasty. I hate the bastards that make society a thing to be laughed at and preyed upon. I hate them so much I can kill without the slightest compunction. The papers call me dirty names and the kind of rats I monkey with are scared stiff of me, but I don’t give a damn. When I kill I make it legal. The courts accuse me of being too quick on the trigger but they can’t revoke my license because I do it right. I think fast, I shoot fast, I’ve been shot at plenty. And I’m still alive. That’s how good a detective I am.”

For a full ten seconds he stood speechless, staring at me with an undisguised horror. There wasn’t a sound from the room. It isn’t often that I make a speech like that, but when I do it must be convincing. If thoughts could be heard that house would be a babble of fearful confusion. The two punks I biffed looked like they had just missed being bitten by a snake. York was the first one to compose himself. “I suppose you’d like to see the boy’s room?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Why not? I thought . . .”

“The kid’s gone, that’s enough. Seeing the room won’t do any good. I don’t have the equipment to fool around with clues, York. Fingerprints and stuff are for technical men. I deal with motives and people.”

“But the motive . . .”

I shrugged. “Money, probably. That’s what it usually is. Let’s start at the beginning first.” I indicated the chair and York settled back. I drew up closer to him. “When did you discover him to be missing?”

“Yesterday morning. At eight o’clock, his regular rising hour, Miss Malcom, his governess, went into his room. He was not in bed. She looked for him throughout the house, then told me he could not be found. With the aid of the gardener and Parks we searched the grounds. He was not there.”

“I see. What about the gatekeeper?”

“Henry saw nothing, heard nothing.”

“Then you called the police, I suppose?” He nodded. “Why did you think he was kidnapped?”

York gave an involuntary start. “But what other reason could account for his disappearance?”

I leaned forward in my seat. “According to all I’ve ever read about your son, Mr. York, he is the most brilliant thing this side of heaven. Wouldn’t a young genius be inclined to be highly strung?”

He gripped the arms of the chair until the veins stood out on the back of his hands. The fire was in his eyes again. “If you are referring to his mental health, you are mistaken. Ruston was in excellent spirits as he has been all his life. Besides being his father and a scientist, I am also a doctor.”

It was easy to see that he didn’t want any doubts cast upon the mind of one he had conditioned so carefully so long. I let it go for the time being.

“Okay, describe him to me. Everything. I have to start somewhere.”

“Yes. He is fourteen. In appearance he is quite like other boys. By appearance I mean expressions, manners and attitudes. He is five feet one inch tall, light brown hair, ruddy complexion. He weighs one hundred twelve pounds stripped. Eyes, brown, slight scar high on the left side of his forehead as the result of a fall when he was younger.”

“Got a picture of him?” The scientist nodded, reached inside his jacket pocket and came out with a snapshot. I took it. The boy was evidently standing in the yard, hands behind his back in a typically shy-youth manner. He was a good-looking kid at that. A slight smile played around his mouth and he seemed to be pretty self-conscious. He had on shorts and a dark sweater. Romping in the background was a spotted spaniel.

“Mind if I keep it?” I asked.

York waved his hand. “Not at all. If you want them, there are others.”

When I pocketed the snap I lit another cigarette. “Who else is in the house? Give me all the servants, where they sleep, anyone who has been here recently. Friends, enemies, people you work with.”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat and listed the household. “Besides myself, there is Miss Malcom, Parks, Henry, two cooks, two maids and Harvey. Miss Grange works for me as a laboratory assistant, but lives at home in town. As for friends, I have few left that I ever see since I stopped teaching at the university. No enemies I can think of. I believe the only ones who have been inside the gate the past few weeks were tradesmen from town. That is,” he indicated the gang in the room with a thumb, “outside these, my closest relatives. They are here and gone constantly.”

“You are quite wealthy?” The question was unnecessary, but I made my point.

York cast a quick look about him, then a grimace that was half disgust passed over him. “Yes, but my health is still good.”

I let the ghouls hear it. “Too bad for them.”

“The servants all sleep in the north wing. Miss Malcom has a room adjoining Ruston’s and connected to it. I occupy a combination study and bedroom at the front of the house.

“I work with no one and for no one. The nature of my work you must be familiar with; it is that of giving my son a mind capable of greater thought and intelligence than is normally found. He may be a genius to you and others, but to me he is merely one who makes full use of his mind. Naturally, my methods are closely guarded secrets. Miss Grange shares them with me, but I trust her completely. She is as devoted to my son as I am. Since the death of my wife when the child was born, she has aided me in every way. I think that is all?”

“Yeah, I guess that’ll do.”

“May I ask how you will proceed?”

“Sure. Until we get a sign from whoever kidnapped your son I’m going to sit tight. The ones that grabbed the kid must think they know what they’re doing, otherwise they wouldn’t pick someone like your boy who is always in the public eye. If you wanted to you could have every cop in the state beating the bushes. I take it there was no note . . .”

“None at all.”

“. . . so they’re playing it close to see what you’ll do. Call the cops and they’re liable to take a powder. Hold off a bit and they will contact you. Then I’ll go to work . . . that is if it’s really a snatch.”

He bit into his lip and gave me another of those fierce looks. “You say that as though you don’t think he was kidnapped.”

“I say that because I don’t know he was kidnapped. It could be anything. I’ll tell you better when I see a ransom note.”

York didn’t get a chance to answer, for at that moment the butler reappeared, and between him and the luscious redhead they supported a bloody, limp figure. “It’s Parks, sir. Miss Malcom and I found him outside the door!”

We ran to him together. York gasped when he saw Parks’ face then sent the butler scurrying off for some hot water and bandages. Most of the gore had been wiped off, but the swellings were as large as ever. The desk sergeant had done as I told him, the hour wasn’t up yet, but somebody was still going to pay for this. I carried Billy to a chair and sat him down gently.

I stepped back and let York go to work when the butler returned with a first-aid kit. It was the first good chance I had to give Miss Malcom the once-over all the way from a beautiful set of legs through a lot of natural curves to an extraordinarily pretty face. Miss Malcom they called her.

I call her Roxy Coulter. She used to be a strip artist in the flesh circuit of New York and Miami.

CHAPTER 2

But Roxy had missed her profession. Hollywood should have had her. Maybe she didn’t remember Atlantic City or that New Year’s Eve party in Charlie Drew’s apartment. If she did she held a dandy deadpan and all I got in return for my stare was one of those go ahead, peek, but don’t touch looks.

A peek was all I got, because Billy came around with a groan and made an effort to sit up. York put his hand against his chest and forced him down again. “You’ll have to be quiet,” he cautioned him in a professional tone.

“My face,” his eyes rolled in his head, “jeez, what happened to my face?”

I knelt beside him and turned over the cold compress on his forehead. His eyes gleamed when he recognized me. “Hello, Mike. What happened?”

“Hi, Billy. They beat up on you. Feel any better?”

“I feel awful. Oh, that bastard. If only I was bigger, Mike . . . damn, why couldn’t I be big like you? That dirty . . .”

“Forget about him, kid.” I patted his shoulder. “I handed him a little of the same dish. His map’ll never be the same.”

“Cripes! I bet you did! I thought something funny happened down there. Thanks, Mike, thanks a lot.”

“Sure.”

Then his face froze in a frightened grimace. “Suppose . . . suppose they come back again? Mike . . . I—I can’t stand that stuff. I’ll talk, I’ll say anything. I can’t take it, Mike!”

“Ease off. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be around.”

Billy tried to smile and he gripped my arm. “You will?”

“Yup. I’m working for your boss now.”

“Mr. Hammer.” York was making motions from the side of the room. I walked over to him. “It would be better if he didn’t get too excited. I gave him a sedative and he should sleep. Do you think you can manage to carry him to his room? Miss Malcom will show you the way.”

“Certainly,” I nodded. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to do a little prowling afterward. Maybe question the servants.”

“Of course. The house is at your disposal.”

Billy’s eyes had closed and his head had fallen on his chin when I picked him up. He’d had a rough time of it all right. Without a word Miss Malcom indicated that I was to follow her and led me through an arch at the end of the room. After passing through a library, a study and a trophy room that looked like something out of a museum, we wound up in a kitchen. Billy’s room was off an alcove behind the pantry. As gently as I could I laid him under the covers. He was sound asleep.

Then I stood up. “Okay, Roxy, now we can say hello.”

“Hello, Mike.”

“Now why the disguise and the new handle? Hiding out?”

“Not at all. The handle as you call it is my real name. Roxy was something I used on the stage.”

“Really? Don’t tell me you gave up the stage to be a diaper changer. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t like your tone, Mike. You change it or go to hell.”

This was something. The Roxy I knew never had enough self-respect to throw her pride in my face. Might as well play it her way.

“Okay, baby, don’t get teed off on me. I have a right to be just a little bit curious, haven’t I? It isn’t very often that you catch somebody jumping as far out of character as you have. Does the old man know about the old life?”

“Don’t be silly. He’d can me if he did.”

“I guessed as much. How did you tie up in this place?”

“Easy. When I finally got wise to the fact that I was getting my brains knocked out in the big city I went to an agency and signed up as a registered nurse. I was one before I got talked into tossing my torso around for two hundred a week. Three days later Mr. York accepted me to take care of his child. That was two years ago. Anything else you want to know?”

I grinned at her. “Nope. It was just funny meeting you, that’s all.”

“Then may I leave?”

I let my grin fade and eased her out through the door. “Look, Roxy, is there somewhere we can go talk?”

“I don’t play those games anymore, Mike.”

“Get off my back, will you? I mean talk.”

She arched her eyebrows and watched me steadily a second, then seeing that I meant it, said, “My room. We can be alone there. But only talk, remember?”

“Roger, bunny, let’s go.”

This time we went into the outer foyer and up a stairway that seemed to have been carved out of a solid piece of mahogany. We turned left on the landing and Roxy opened the door for me.

“In here,” she said.

While I picked out a comfortable chair she turned on a table lamp then offered me a smoke from a gold box. I took one and lit it. “Nice place you got here.”

“Thank you. It’s quite comfortable. Mr. York sees that I have every convenience. Now shall we talk?”

She was making sure I got the point in a hurry. “The kid. What is he like?”

Roxy smiled a little bit, and the last traces of hardness left her face. She looked almost maternal. “He’s wonderful. A charming boy.”

“You seem to like him.”

“I do. You’d like him too.” She paused, then, “Mike . . . do you really think he was kidnapped?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I want to talk about him. Downstairs I suggested that he might have become temporarily unbalanced and the old man nearly chewed my head off. Hell, it isn’t unreasonable to figure that. He’s supposed to be a genius and that automatically puts him out of the normal class. What do you think?”

She tossed her hair back and rubbed her forehead with one hand. “I can’t understand it. His room is next door, and I heard nothing although I’m usually a light sleeper. Ruston was perfectly all right up to then. He wouldn’t simply walk out.”

“No? And why not?”

“Because he is an intelligent boy. He likes everyone, is satisfied with his environment and has been very happy all the time I’ve known him.”

“Uh-huh. What about his training? How did he get to be a genius?”

“That you’ll have to find out from Mr. York. Both he and Miss Grange take care of that department.”

I squashed the butt into the ashtray. “Nuts, it doesn’t seem likely that a genius can be made. They have to be born. You’ve been around him a lot. Tell me, just how much of a genius is he? I know only what the papers print.”

“Then you know all I know. It isn’t what he knows that makes him a genius, it’s what he is capable of learning. In one week he mastered every phase of the violin. The next week it was the piano. Oh, I realize that it seems impossible, but it’s quite true. Even the music critics accept him as a master of several instruments. It doesn’t stop there, either. Once he showed an interest in astronomy. A few days later he exhausted every book on the subject. His father and I took him to the observatory where he proceeded to amaze the experts with his uncanny knowledge. He’s a mathematical wizard besides. It doesn’t take him a second to give you the cube root of a six-figure number to three decimal points. What more can I say? There is no field that he doesn’t excel in. He grasps fundamentals at the snap of the fingers and learns in five minutes what would take you or me years of study. That, Mike, is the genius in a nutshell, but that’s omitting the true boy part of him. In all respects he is exactly like other boys.”

“The old man said that too.”

“He’s quite right. Ruston loves games, toys and books. He has a pony, a bicycle, skates and a sled. We go for long walks around the estate every once in a while and do nothing but talk. If he wanted to he could expound on nuclear physics in ten-syllable words, but that isn’t his nature. He’d sooner talk football.”

I picked another cigarette out of the box and flicked a match with my thumbnail. “That about covers it, I guess. Maybe he didn’t go off his nut at that. Let’s take a look at his room.”

Roxy nodded and stood up. She walked to the end of the room and opened a door. “This is it.” When she clicked on the light switch I walked in. I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it. There were pennants on the walls and pictures tucked into the corners of the dresser mirror. Clothes were scattered in typical boyish confusion over the backs of chairs and the desk.

In one corner was the bed. The covers had been thrown to the foot and the pillow still bore the head print of its occupant. If the kid had really been snatched I felt for him. It was no night to be out in your pajamas, especially when you left the top of them hanging on the bedpost.

I tried the window. It gave easily enough, though it was evident from the dust on the outside of the sill that it hadn’t been opened recently.

“Keep the kid’s door locked at night?” I asked Roxy.

She shook her head. “No. There’s no reason to.”

“Notice any tracks around here, outside the door or window?”

Another negative. “If there were any,” she added, “they would have been wiped out in the excitement.”

I dragged slowly on the cigarette, letting all the facts sink in. It seemed simple enough, but was it? “Who are all the twerps downstairs, bunny?”

“Relatives, mostly.”

“Know ’em?”

Roxy nodded. “Mr. York’s sister and her husband, their son and daughter, and a cousin are his only blood relations. The rest are his wife’s folks. They’ve been hanging around here as long as I’ve been here, just waiting for something to happen to York.”

“Does he know it?”

“I imagine so, but he doesn’t seem bothered by them. They try to outdo each other to get in the old boy’s favor. I suppose there’s a will involved. There usually is.”

“Yeah, but they’re going to have a long wait. York told me his health was perfect.”

Roxy looked at me curiously, then dropped her eyes. She fidgeted with her fingernails a moment and I let her stew a bit before I spoke.

“Say it, kid.”

“Say what?”

“What you have on your mind and almost said.”

She bit her lip, hesitating, then, “This is between you and me, Mike. If Mr. York knew I told you this I’d be out of a job. You won’t mention it, will you?”

“I promise.”

“About the second week I was here I happened to overhear Mr. York and his doctor after an examination. Apparently Mr. York knew what had happened, but called in another doctor to verify it. For some time he had been working with special apparatus in his laboratory and in some way became overexposed to radiation. It was enough to cause some internal complications and shorten his life span. Of course, he isn’t in any immediate danger of dying, but you never can tell. He wasn’t burned seriously, yet considering his age, and the fact that his injury has had a chance to work on him for two years, there’s a possibility that any emotional or physical excitement could be fatal.”

“Now isn’t that nice,” I said. “Do you get what that means, Roxy?” She shook her head. “It might mean that somebody else knows that too and tried to stir the old boy up by kidnapping the one closest to him in the hope that he kicks off during the fun. Great . . . that’s a nice subtle sort of murder.”

“But that’s throwing it right on the doorstep of the beneficiary of his estate.”

“Is it? I bet even a minor beneficiary would get enough of the long green to make murder worthwhile. York has plenty.”

“There are other angles too, Mike.”

“Been giving it some thought, haven’t you?” I grinned at her. “For instance, one of the family might locate the kid and thus become number-one boy to the old man. Or perhaps the kid was the chief beneficiary and one of them wanted to eliminate him to push himself further up the list. Yeah, kid, there’s a lot of angles, and I don’t like any of ’em.”

“It still might be a plain kidnapping.”

“Roger. That it might. It’s just that there’re a lot more possibilities to it that could make it interesting. We’ll know soon enough.” I opened the door and hesitated, looking over my shoulder. “’Night, Roxy.”

“Good night.”

York was back by the fireplace again, still brooding. I would have felt better if he had been pacing the floor. I walked over and threw myself in a big chair. “Where’ll I spend the night?” I asked him.

He turned very slowly. “The guest room. I’ll ring for Harvey.”

“Never mind. I’ll get him myself when I’m ready.”

We sat in silence a few minutes then York began a nervous tapping of his fingers. Finally, “When do you think we’ll have word?”

“Two, three days maybe. Never can tell.”

“But he’s been gone a day already.”

“Tomorrow, then. I don’t know.”

“Perhaps I should call the police again.”

“Go ahead, but you’ll probably be burying the boy after they find him. Those punks aren’t cops, they’re political appointees. You ought to know these small towns. They couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag.”

For the first time he showed a little parental anxiety. His fist came down on the arm of the chair. “Damn it, man, I can’t simply sit here! What do you think it’s like for me? Waiting. Waiting. He may be dead now for all we know.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Kidnapping’s one thing, murder’s another. How about introducing me to those people?”

He nodded. “Very well.” Every eye in the room was on me as we made the rounds. I didn’t suppose there would be anyone too anxious to meet me after the demonstration a little while ago.

The two gladiators were first. They were sitting on the love seat trying not to look shaky. Both of them still had red welts across their cheeks. The introduction was simple enough. York merely pointed in obvious disdain. “My nephews, Arthur and William Graham.”

We moved on. “My niece, Alice Nichols.” A pair of deep brown eyes kissed mine so hard I nearly lost my balance. She swept them up and down the full length of me. It couldn’t have been any better if she did it with a wet paintbrush. She was tall and she had seen thirty, but she saw it with a face and body that were as fresh as a new daisy. Her clothes made no attempt at concealment; they barely covered. On some people skin is skin, but on her it was an invitation to dine. She told me things with a smile that most girls since Eve have been trying to put into words without being obvious or seeming too eager and I gave her my answer the same way. I can run the ball a little myself.

York’s sister and her husband were next. She was a middle-aged woman with “Matron” written all over her. The type that wants to entertain visiting dignitaries and look down at “peepul” through a lorgnette. Her husband was the type you’d find paired off with such a specimen. He was short and bulgy in the middle. His single-breasted gray suit didn’t quite manage to cross the equator without putting a strain on the button. He might have had hair, but you’d never know it now. One point of his collar had jumped the tab and stuck out like an accusing finger.

York said, “My sister, Martha Ghent, her husband, Richard.” Richard went to stick out his hand but the old biddie shot him a hasty frown and he drew back, then she tried to freeze me out. Failing in this she turned to York. “Really, Rudolph, I hardly think we should meet this . . . this person.”

York turned an appealing look my way, in apology. “I’m sorry, Martha, but Mr. Hammer considers it necessary.”

“Nevertheless, I don’t see why the police can’t handle this.”

I sneered at her in my finest manner. “I can’t see why you don’t keep your mouth shut, Mrs. Ghent.”

The way her husband tried to keep the smile back, I thought he’d split a gut. Martha stammered, turned blue and stalked off. York looked at me critically, though approvingly.

A young kid in his early twenties came walking up as though the carpet was made of eggs. He had Ghent in his features, but strictly on his mother’s side. A pipe stuck out of his pocket and he sported a set of thick-lensed glasses. The girl at his side didn’t resemble anyone, but seeing the way she put her arm around Richard I took it that she was the daughter.

She was. Her name was Rhoda, she was friendly and smiled. The boy was Richard, Junior. He raised his eyebrows until they drew his eyes over the rims of his glasses and peered at me disapprovingly. He perched his hands on his hips and “Humphed” at me. One push and he would be over the line that divides a man and a pansy.

The introductions over, I cornered York out of earshot of the others. “Under the circumstances, it might be best if you kept this gang here until things settle down a bit. Think you can put them up?”

“I imagine so. I’ve been doing it at one time or another for the last ten years. I’ll see Harvey and have the rooms made up.”

“When you get them placed, have Harvey bring me a diagram showing where their rooms are. And tell him to keep it under his hat. I want to be able to reach anyone anytime. Now, is there anyone closely connected with the household we’ve missed?”

He thought a moment. “Oh, Miss Grange. She went home this afternoon.”

“Where was she during the kidnapping?”

“Why . . . at home, I suppose. She leaves here between five and six every evening. She is a very reserved woman. Apparently has very little social activity. Generally she furthers her studies in the library rather than go out anywhere.”

“Okay, I’ll get to her. How about the others? Have they alibis?”

“Alibis?”

“Just checking, York. Do you know where they were the night before last?”

“Well . . . I can’t speak for all of them, but Arthur and William were here. Alice Nichols came in about nine o’clock then left about an hour later.”

This part I jotted down on a pad. “How did you collect the family . . . or did they all just drift in?”

“No, I called them. They helped me search, although it did no good. Mr. Hammer, what are we going to do? Please . . .”

Very slowly, York was starting to go to pieces. He’d stood up under this too calmly too long. His face was pale and withered-looking, drawn into a mask of tragedy.

“First of all, you’re going to bed. It won’t do any good for you to be knocking yourself out. That’s what I’m here for.” I reached over his shoulder and pulled a velvet cord. The flunky came in immediately and hurried over to us. “Take him upstairs,” I said.

York gave the butler instructions about putting the family up and Harvey seemed a little surprised and pleased that he’d be allowed in on the conspiracy of the room diagram.

I walked to the middle of the floor and let the funeral buzz down before speaking. I wasn’t nice about it. “You’re all staying here tonight. If it interferes with other plans you’ve made it’s too bad. Anyone that tries to duck out will answer to me. Harvey will give you your rooms and be sure you stay in them. That’s all.”

Lady sex appeal waited until I finished then edged up to me with a grin. “See if you can grab the end bedroom in the north wing,” she said, “and I’ll get the one connected to it.”

I said in mock surprise, “Alice, you can get hurt doing things like that.”

She laughed. “Oh, I bruise easily, but I heal fast as hell.”

Swell girl. I hadn’t been seduced in a long time.

I wormed out through a cross fire of nasty looks to the foyer and winked at Richard Ghent on the way. He winked back; his wife wasn’t looking.

I slung on my coat and hat and went out to the car. When I rolled it through the gate I turned toward town and stepped on the gas. When I picked up to seventy I held it there until I hit the main drag. Just before the city line I pulled up to a gas station and swung in front of a pump. An attendant in his early twenties came out of the miniature Swiss Alpine cottage that served as a service station and automatically began unscrewing the gas cap. “Put in five,” I told him.

He snaked out the hose and shoved the nose in the tank, watching the gauge. “Open all night?” I quizzed.

“Yeah.”

“On duty yourself?”

“Yup. ’Cept on Sundays.”

“Don’t suppose you get much to do at night around here.”

“Not very much.”

This guy was as talkative as a pea pod. “Say, was much traffic along here night before last?”

He shut off the pump, put the cap back on and looked at me coldly. “Mister, I don’t know from nothing,” he said.

It didn’t take me long to catch on to that remark. I handed him a ten-spot and followed him inside while he changed it. I let go a flyer. “So the cops kind of hinted that somebody would be nosing around, huh?”

No answer. He rang the cash register and began counting out bills. “Er . . . did you happen to notice Dilwick’s puss? Or was it one of the others?”

He glanced at me sharply, curiously. “It was Dilwick. I saw his face.”

Instead of replying I held out my right hand. He peered at it and saw where the skin had been peeled back off half the knuckles. This time I got a great big grin.

“Did you do that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, pal, for that we’re buddies. What do you want to know?”

“About traffic along here night before last.”

“Sure, I remember it. Between nine o’clock and dawn the next morning about a dozen cars went past. See, I know most of ’em. A couple was from out of town. All but two belonged to the upcountry farmers making milk runs to the separator at the other end of town.”

“What about the other two?”

“One was a Caddy. I seen it around a few times. Remember it because it had one side dented in. The other was that Grange dame’s two-door sedan. Guess she was out wolfing.” He laughed at that.

“Grange?”

“Yeah, the old bag that works out at York’s place. She’s a stiff one.”

“Thanks for the info, kid.” I slipped him a buck and he grinned. “By the way, did you pass that on to the cops too?”

“Not me. I wouldn’t give them the right time.”

“Why?”

“Lousy bunch of bastards.” He explained it in a nutshell without going into detail.

I hopped in and started up, but before I drove off I stuck my head out the window. “Where’s this Grange babe live?”

“At the Glenwood Apartments. You can’t miss it. It’s the only apartment house in this burg.”

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to drop up and see her anyway. Maybe she had been on her way home from work. I gunned the engine and got back on the main drag, driving slowly past the shaded fronts of the stores. Just outside the business section a large green canopy extended from the curb to the marquee of a modern three-story building. Across the side in small, neat letters was GLENWOOD APARTMENTS. I crawled in behind a black Ford sedan and hopped out.

Grange, Myra, was the second name down. I pushed the bell and waited for the buzzer to unlatch the door. When it didn’t come I pushed it again. This time there was a series of clicks and I shoved the door open. One flight of stairs put me in front of her apartment. Before I could ring, the metal peephole was pulled back and a pair of dark eyes threw insults at me.

“Miss Grange?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to speak to you if you can spare a few moments.”

“Very well, go ahead.” Her voice sounded as if it came out of a tree trunk. This made the third person I didn’t like in Sidon.

“I work for York,” I explained patiently. “I’d like to speak to you about the boy.”

“There’s nothing I care to discuss.”

Why is it that some dames can work me up into a lather so fast with so little is beyond me, but this one did. I quit playing around. I pulled out the .45 and let her get a good look at it. “You open that door or I’ll shoot the lock off,” I said.

She opened it. The insults in her eyes turned to terror until I put the rod back under cover. Then I looked at her. If she was an old bag I was Queen of the May. Almost as tall as I was, nice brown hair cut short enough to be nearly mannish and a figure that seemed to be well molded, except that I couldn’t tell too well because she was wearing slacks and a house jacket. Maybe she was thirty, maybe forty. Her face had a built-in lack of expression like an old painting. Wearing no makeup didn’t help it any, but it didn’t hurt, either.

I tossed my hat on a side table and went inside without being invited. Myra Grange followed me closely, letting her wooden-soled sandals drag along the carpet. It was a nice dump, but small. There was something to it that didn’t sit right, as though the choice of furniture didn’t fit her personality. Hell, maybe she just sublet.

The living room was ultramodern. The chairs and the couch were surrealist dreams of squares and angles. Even the coffee table was balanced precariously on little pyramids that served as legs. Two framed wood nymphs seemed cold in their nudity against the background of the chilled blue walls. I wouldn’t live in a room like this for anything.

Myra held her position in the middle of the floor, legs spread, hands shoved in her side pockets. I picked a leather-covered ottoman and sat down.

She watched every move I made with eyes that scarcely concealed her rage. “Now that you’ve forced your way in here,” she said between tight lips, “perhaps you’ll explain why, or do I call the police?”

“I don’t think the police would bother me much, kiddo.” I pulled my badge from my pocket and let her see it. “I’m a private dick myself.”

“Go on.” She was a cool tomato.

“My name is Hammer. Mike Hammer. York wants me to find the kid. What do you think happened?”

“I believe he was kidnapped, Mr. Hammer. Surely that is evident.”

“Nothing’s evident. You were seen on the road fairly late the night the boy disappeared. Why?”

Instead of answering me she said, “I didn’t think the time of his disappearance was established.”

“As far as I’m concerned it is. It happened that night. Where were you?”

She began to raise herself up and down on her toes like a British major. “I was right here. If anyone said he saw me that night he was mistaken.”

“I don’t think he was.” I watched her intently. “He’s got sharp eyes.”

“He was mistaken,” she repeated.

“All right, we’ll let it drop there. What time did you leave York’s house?”

“Six o’clock, as usual. I came straight home.” She began to kick at the rug impatiently, then pulled a cigarette from a pocket and stuck it in her mouth. Damn it, every time she moved she did something that was familiar to me but I couldn’t place it. When she lit the cigarette she sat down on the couch and watched me some more.

“Let’s quit the cat and mouse, Miss Grange. York said you were like a mother to the kid and I should suppose you’d like to see him safe. I’m only trying to do what I can to locate him.”

“Then don’t classify me as a suspect, Mr. Hammer.”

“It’s strictly temporary. You’re a suspect until you alibi yourself satisfactorily then I won’t have to waste my time and yours fooling around.”

“Am I alibied?”

“Sure,” I lied. “Now can you answer some questions civilly?”

“Ask them.”

“Number one. Suspicious characters loitering about the house anytime preceding the disappearance.”

She thought a moment, furrowing her eyebrows. “None that I can recall. Then again, I am inside all day working in the lab. I wouldn’t see anyone.”

“York’s enemies. Do you know them?”

“Rudolph . . . Mr. York has no enemies I know of. Certain persons working in the same field have expressed what you might call professional jealousy, but that is all.”

“To what extent?”

She leaned back against the cushions and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Oh, the usual bantering at the clubs. Making light of his work. You know.”

I didn’t know anything of the kind, but I nodded. “Anything serious?”

“Nothing that would incite a kidnapping. There were heated discussions, yes, but few and far between. Mr. York was loath to discuss his work. Besides, a scientist is not a person who would resort to violence.”

“That’s on the outside. Let’s hear a little bit about his family. You’ve been connected with York long enough to pick up a little something on his relatives.”

“I’d rather not discuss them, Mr. Hammer. They are none of my affair.”

“Don’t be cute. We’re talking about a kidnapping.”

“I still don’t see where they could possibly enter into it.”

“Damn it,” I exploded, “you’re not supposed to. I want information and everybody wants to play repartee. Before long I’m going to start choking it out of people like you.”

“Please, Mr. Hammer, that isn’t necessary.”

“So I’ve been told. Then give.”

“I’ve met the family very often. I know nothing about them although they all try to press me for details of our work. I’ve told them nothing. Needless to say, I like none of them. Perhaps that is a biased opinion but it is my only one.”

“Do they feel the same toward you?”

“I imagine they are very jealous of anyone so closely connected with Mr. York as I am,” she answered with a caustic grimace. “You might surmise that of any rich man’s relatives. However, for your information and unknown to them, I enjoy a personal income outside the salary Mr. York pays me and I am quite unconcerned with the disposition of his fortune in the event that anything should happen to him. The only possession he has that I am interested in is the boy. I have been with him all his life, and as you say, he is like a son to me. Is there anything else?”

“Just what is York’s work . . . and yours?”

“If he hasn’t told you, I’m not at liberty to. Naturally, you realize that it centered around the child.”

“Naturally.” I stood up and looked at my watch. It was nine fifteen. “I think that covers it, Miss Grange. Sorry to set you on your ear to get in, but maybe I can make it up sometime. What do you do nights around here?”

Her eyebrows went up and she smiled for the first time. It was more of a stifled laugh than a smile and I had the silly feeling that the joke was on me. “Nothing you’d care to do with me,” she said.

I got sore again and didn’t know why. I fought a battle with the look, stuck my hat on and got out of there. Behind me I heard a muffled chuckle.

The first thing I did was make a quick trip back to the filling station. I waited until a car pulled out then drove up to the door. The kid recognized me and waved. “Any luck?” he grinned.

“Yeah, I saw her. Thought she was an old bag?”

“Well, she’s a stuffy thing. Hardly ever speaks.”

“Listen,” I said, “are you sure you saw her the other night?”

“Natch, why?”

“She said no. Think hard now. Did you see her or the car?”

“Well, it was her car. I know that. She’s the only one that ever drives it.”

“How would you know it?”

“The aerial. It’s got a bend in it so it can only be telescoped down halfway. Been like that ever since she got the heap.”

“Then you can’t be certain she was in it. You wouldn’t swear to it?”

“Well . . . no. Guess not when you put it that way. But it was her car,” he insisted.

“Thanks a lot.” I shoved another buck at him. “Forget I was around, will you?”

“Never saw you in my life,” he grinned. Nice kid.

This time I took off rather aimlessly. It was only to pacify York that I left the house in the first place. The rain had let up and I shut off the windshield wipers while I turned onto the highway and cruised north toward the estate. If the snatch ran true to form there would be a letter or a call sometime soon. All I could do would be to advise York to follow through to get the kid back again then go after the ones that had him.

If it weren’t for York’s damn craving for secrecy I could buzz the state police and have a seven-state alarm sent out, but that meant the house would crawl with cops. Let a spotter get a load of that and they’d dump the kid and that’d be the end of it until some campers came across his remains sometime. As long as the local police had a sizable reward to shoot for they wouldn’t let it slip. Not after York told them not to.

I wasn’t underestimating Dilwick any. I’d bet my bottom dollar he’d had York’s lines tapped already, ready to go to town the moment a call came through. Unless I got that call at the same time I was liable to get scratched. Not me, brother. Ten G’s was a lot of mazuma in any language.

The lights were still on en masse when I breezed by the estate. It was still too early to go back, and as long as I could keep the old boy happy by doing a little snooping I figured I was earning my keep, at least. About ten miles down the highway the town of Bayview squatted along the water’s edge waiting for summer to liven things up.

A kidnap car could have gone in either direction, although this route was unlikely. Outside Bayview the highway petered off into a tar road that completely disappeared under drifting winter sands. Anything was worth trying, though. I dodged an old flivver that was standing in the middle of the road and swerved into the gravel parking place of a two-bit honky-tonk. The place was badly rundown at the heels and sadly in need of a paint job. A good deodorant would have helped, too. I no sooner got my foot on the rail when a frowsy blonde sidled up to me and I got a quick once-over. “You’re new around here, ain’t you?”

“Just passing through.”

“Through to where? That road outside winds up in the drink.”

“Maybe that’s where I’m going.”

“Aw now, Buster, that ain’t no way to feel. We all got our troubles but you don’t wanna do nothing like that. Lemme buy you a drink, it’ll make you feel better.”

She whistled through her teeth and when that got no response, cupped her hands and yelled to the bartender who was busy shooting trap on the bar. “Hey, Andy, get your tail over here and serve your customers.”

Andy took his time. “What’ll you have, pal?”

“Beer.”

“Me too.”

“You too nothing. Beat it, Janie, you had too much already.”

“Say, see here, I can pay my own way.”

“Not in my joint.”

I grinned at the two of them and chimed in. “Give her a beer why don’t you?”

“Listen, pal, you don’t know her. She’s half tanked already. One more and she’ll be making like a Copa cutie. Not that I don’t like the Copa, but the dames there are one thing and she’s another, just like night and day. Instead of watching, my customers all get the dry heaves and trot down to Charlie’s on the waterfront.”

“Well, I like that!” Janie hit an indignant pose and waved her finger in Andy’s face. “You give me my beer right now or I’ll make better’n the Copa. I’ll make like . . . like . . .”

“Okay, okay, Janie, one more and that’s all.”

The bartender drew two beers, took my dough instead of Janie’s and rang it up. I put mine away in one gulp. Janie never reached completely around her glass. Before Andy could pick out the change Janie had spilled hers halfway down the bar.

Andy said something under his breath, took the glass away then fished around under the counter for a rag. He started to mop up the mess.

I watched. In my head the little bells were going off, slowly at first like chimes on a cold night. They got louder and louder, playing another scrambled, soundless symphony. A muscle in my neck twitched. I could almost feel that ten grand in my pocket already. Very deliberately I reached out across the bar and gathered a handful of Andy’s stained apron in my fist. With my other hand I yanked out the .45 and held it an inch away from his eye. He was staring death in the face and knew it.

I had trouble keeping my voice down. “Where did you get that bar rag, Andy?”

His eyes shifted to the blue-striped pajama bottoms that he held in his hand, beer soaked now, but recognizable. The other half to them were in Ruston York’s bedroom hanging on the foot of the bed.

Janie’s mouth was open to scream. I pointed the gun at her and said, “Shut up.” The scream died before it was born. She held the edge of the bar with both hands, shaking like a leaf. Ours was a play offstage; no one saw it, no one cared. “Where, Andy?”

“. . . Don’t know, mister. Honest . . .”

I thumbed the hammer back. He saw me do it. “Only one more chance, Andy. Think hard.”

His breath came in little jerks, fright thickened his tongue. “Some . . . guy. He brought it in. Wanted to know . . . if they were mine. It . . . was supposed to be a joke. Honest, I just use it for a bar rag, that’s all.”

“When?”

“. . . ’s afternoon.”

“Who, Andy?”

“Bill. Bill Cuddy. He’s a clam digger. Lives in a shack on the bay.”

I put the safety back on, but I still held his apron. “Andy,” I told him, “if you’re leveling with me it’s okay, but if you’re not, I’m going to shoot your head off. You know that, don’t you?”

His eyes rolled in his head then came back to meet mine. “Yeah, mister. I know. I’m not kidding. Honest, I got two kids . . .”

“And Janie here. I think maybe you better keep her with you for a while. I wouldn’t want anyone to hear about this, understand?”

Andy understood, all right. He didn’t miss a word. I let him go and he had to hang on to his bar to keep from crumbling. I slid the rod back under my coat, wrung out the pajamas and folded them into a square.

When I straightened my hat and tie I said, “Where is Cuddy’s place?”

Andy’s voice was so weak I could hardly hear it. “Straight . . . down the road to the water. Turn left. It’s the deck . . . deckhouse of an old boat pulled up on the . . . beach.”

I left them standing there like Hansel and Gretel in the woods, scared right down to their toes. Poor Andy. He didn’t have anymore to do with it than I did, but in this game it’s best not to take any chances.

As Janie had said, the road led right to the drink. I parked the car beside a boarded-up house and waded through the wet sand on foot. Ten feet from the water I turned left and faced a line of broken-down shacks that were rudely constructed from the junk that comes in on the tide. Some of them had tin roofs, with the advertisements for soft drinks and hot dogs still showing through.

Every once in a while the moon would shine through a rift in the clouds, and I took advantage of it to get a better look at the homemade village.

Cuddy’s place was easier to find than I expected. It was the only dump that ever had seen paint, and on the south side hung a ship’s nameplate with CARMINE spelled out in large block letters. It was a deckhouse, all right, probably washed off during a storm. I edged up to a window and looked in. All I could see were a few vague outlines. I tried the door. It opened outward noiselessly. From one corner of the room came the raspy snore of a back-sleeper with a load under his belt.

A match lit the place up. Cuddy never moved, even when I put the match to the ship’s lantern swinging from the center of the ceiling. It was a one-room affair with a few chairs, a table and a double-decker bed along the side. He had rigged up a kerosene stove with the pipe shooting through the roof and used two wooden crates for a larder. Beside the stove was a barrel of clams.

Lots of stuff, but no kid.

Bill Cuddy was a hard man to awaken. He twitched a few times, pawed the covers and grunted. When I shook him some more his eyelids flickered, went up. No pupils. They came down ten seconds later. A pair of bleary, bloodshot eyes moved separately until they came to an accidental focus on me.

Bill sat up. “Who’re you?”

I gave him a few seconds to study me, then palmed my badge in front of his face. “Cop. Get up.”

His legs swung to the floor, he grabbed my arm. “What’s the matter, officer? I ain’t been poachin’. All I got is clams, go look.” He pointed to the barrel. “See?”

“I’m no game warden,” I told him.

“Then whatcha want of me?”

“I want you for kidnapping. Murder maybe.”

“Oh . . . No!” His voice was a hoarse croak. “But . . . I ain’t killed nobody atall. I wouldn’t do that.”

He didn’t have to tell me that. There are types that kill and he wasn’t one of them. I didn’t let him know I thought so.

“You brought a set of pajamas into Andy’s place this afternoon. Where did you get them?”

He wrinkled his nose, trying to understand what I was talking about. “Pajamas?”

“You heard me.”

He remembered then. His face relaxed into a relieved grin. “Oh, that. Sure, I found ’em lying on Shore Road. Thought I’d kid Andy with ’em.”

“You almost kidded him to death. Put on your pants. I want you to show me the spot.”

He stuck his feet into a pair of dungarees and pulled the suspenders over his bony shoulders, then dragged a pair of boots out from under the bed. A faded denim shirt and a battered hat and he was dressed. He kept shooting me sidewise glances, trying to figure it out but wasn’t getting anyplace.

“You won’t throw me in the jug, will you?”

“Not if you tell the truth.”

“But I did.”

“We’ll see. Come on.” I let him lead the way. The sand had drifted too deep along the road to take the car so we plodded along slowly, keeping away from the other shacks. Shore Road was a road in name only. It was a strip of wet Sahara that separated the tree line from the water. A hundred yards up and the shacks had more room between them. Bill Cuddy pointed ahead.

“Up there is the cove where I bring the boat in. I was coming down there and where the old cistern is I see the pants lying right in the middle of the road.”

I nodded. A few minutes later we had reached the cistern, a huge, barrel-shaped thing lying on its side. It was big enough to make a two-car garage. Evidently it, like everything else around here, had been picked up during a storm and deposited along the shore. Bill indicated a spot on the ground with a gnarled forefinger.

“Right here’s the spot, officer, they was lying right here.”

“Fine. See anyone?”

“Naw. Who would be out here? They was washed up, I guess.”

I looked at him, then the water. Although the tide was high the water was a good forty yards from the spot. He saw what I meant and he shifted uneasily.

“Maybe they blew up.”

“Bill?”

“Huh?”

“Did you ever see wet clothes blow along the ground? Dry clothes, maybe, but wet?”

He paused. “Nope.”

“Then they didn’t blow up or wash up. Somebody dropped them there.”

He got jittery then, his face was worried. “But I didn’t do it. No kidding, I just found them there. They was new-looking so I brung ’em to Andy’s. You won’t jug me, will you? I . . .”

“Forget it, Bill. I believe you. If you want to keep your nose clean turn around and trot home. Remember this, though. Keep your mouth shut, you hear?”

“Gee, yeah. Thanks . . . thanks, officer. I won’t say nothing to nobody.” Bill broke into a fast shuffle and disappeared into the night.

Alone like that you can see that what you mistook for silence was really a jungle of undertones, subdued, foreign, but distinct. The wind whispering over the sand, the waves keeping time with a steady lap, lap. Tree sounds, for which there is no word to describe bark rubbing against bark, and the things that lived in the trees. The watch on my wrist made an audible tick.

Somewhere oars dipped into the water and scraped in the oar-locks. There was no telling how far away it was. Sounds over water carry far on the wind.

I tried to see into the night, wondering how the pajamas got there. A road that came from the cove and went nowhere. The trees and the bay. A couple of shacks and a cistern.

The open end faced away from me, making it necessary to push through yards of saw grass to reach it. Two rats ran out making ugly squeaking noises. When I lit a match I seemed to be in a hall of green slime. Droplets of water ran down the curved sides of the cistern and collected in a stinking pool of scum in the middle. Some papers had blown in, but that was all. The only things that left their footprints in the muck had tails. When I couldn’t hold my breath any longer I backed out and followed the path I had made to the road.

Right back where I started. Twenty-five yards away was the remains of a shack. The roof had fallen in, the sides bulged out like it had been squeezed by a giant hand. Further down was another. I took the first one. The closer I came to it the worse it looked. Holes in the side passed for windows, the door hung open on one hinge and was wedged that way by a pile of sand that had blown around the corner. No tracks, no nothing. It was as empty as the cistern.

Or so I thought.

Just then someone whimpered inside. The .45 leaped into my hand. I took a few wooden matches, lit them all together and threw them inside and went in after them.

I didn’t need my gun. Ruston York was all alone, trussed up like a Christmas turkey over in the corner, his naked body covered with bruises.

In a moment I was on my knees beside him, working the knots loose. I took it easy on the adhesive tape that covered his mouth so I wouldn’t tear the skin off. His body shook with sobs. Tears of fright and relief filled his large, expressive eyes, and when he had his arms free he threw them around my neck. “Go ahead and cry, kid,” I said.

He did, then. Hard, body-racking gasps that must have hurt. I wiggled out of my jacket and put it around him, talking quickly and low to comfort him. The poor kid was a mess.

It came with jarring suddenness, that sound. I shoved the kid on his back and pivoted on my heels. I was shooting before I completed the turn. Someone let out a short scream. A heavy body crashed into my chest and slammed my back against the wall. I kicked out with both feet and we spilled to the floor. Before I could get my gun up a heavy boot ripped it out of my hand.

They were all over me. I gave it everything I had, feet, fingernails and teeth, there wasn’t enough room to swing. Somehow I managed to hook my first two fingers in a mouth and yank, and I felt a cheek rip clear to the ear.

There was no more for me. Something smashed down on my skull and I stopped fighting. It was a peaceful feeling, as if I were completely adrift from my body. Feet thudded into my ribs and pounded my back raw, but there was no pain, merely vague impressions. Then even the impressions began to fade.

CHAPTER 3

I came back together like a squadron of flak-eaten bombers reforming. I heard the din of their motors, a deafening, pulsating roar that grew louder and louder. Pieces of their skin, fragments of their armor drifted to earth and imbedded themselves in my flesh until I thought I was on fire.

Bombs thudded into the earth and threw great flashes of flame into my face and rocked my body back and forth, back and forth. I opened my eyes with an effort.

It was the kid shaking me. “Mister. Can you get up? They all ran away looking for me. If you don’t get up they’ll be back and find us. Hurry, please hurry.”

I tried to stand up, but I didn’t do too good a job. Ruston York got his arms around me and boosted. Between the two of us I got my feet in position where I could shove with my legs and raise myself. He still had on my coat, but that was all.

I patted his shoulder. “Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.”

It was enough talk for a while. He steered me outside and up into the bushes along the trees where we melted into the darkness. The sand muffled our footsteps well. For once I was grateful for the steady drip of rain from the trees; it covered any other noises we made.

“I found your gun on the floor. Here, do you want it?” He held the .45 out gingerly by the handle. I took it in a shaking hand and stowed it in the holster. “I think you shot somebody. There’s an awful lot of blood by the door.”

“Maybe it’s mine,” I grunted.

“No, I don’t think so. It’s on the wall, too, and there’s a big hole in the wall where it looks like a bullet went through.”

I prayed that he was right. Right now I half hoped they’d show again so I could have a chance to really place a few where they’d hurt.

I don’t know how long it took to reach the car, but it seemed like hours. Every once in a while I thought I could discern shouts and guarded words of caution. By the time Ruston helped slide me under the wheel I felt as though I had been on the Death March.

We sat there in silence a few moments while I fumbled for a cigarette. The first drag was worth a million dollars. “There’s a robe in the back,” I told the kid. He knelt on the seat, got it and draped it over his legs.

“What happened?”

“Gosh, mister, I hardly know. When you pushed me away I ran out the door. The man I think you shot nearly grabbed me, but he didn’t. I hid behind the door for a while. They must have thought I ran off because when they followed me out one man told the others to scatter and search the beach, then he went away too. That’s when I came in and got you.”

I turned the key and reached for the starter. It hurt. “Before that. What happened then?”

“You mean the other night?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I woke up when the door opened. I thought maybe it was Miss Malcom. She always looks in before she goes to bed, but it wasn’t her. It was a man. I wanted to ask him who he was when he hit me. Right here.” Ruston rubbed the top of his head and winced.

“Which door did he come in?”

“The one off the hall, I think. I was pretty sleepy.”

Cute. Someone sneaks past the guard at the gate, through a houseful of people and puts the slug on the kid and walks off with him.

“Go on.” While he spoke I let in the clutch and swung around, then headed the car toward the estate.

“I woke up in a boat. They had me in a little room and the door was locked. I could hear the men talking in the stern and one called the man who was steering Mallory. That’s the only time I heard a name at all.”

The name didn’t strike any responsive chord as far as I was concerned, so I let him continue.

“Then I picked the lock and . . .”

“Wait a second, son.” I looked at him hard. “Say that again.”

“I picked the lock. Why?”

“Just like that you picked the lock. No trouble to it or anything?”

“Uh-uh.” He flashed a boyish grin at me, shyly. “I learned all about locks when I was little. This one was just a plain lock.”

He must be a genius. It takes me an hour with respectable burglar tools to open a closet door.

“. . . and as soon as I got out I opened a little hatch and crawled up on the deck. I saw the lights from shore and jumped overboard. Boy, was that water cold. They never even heard me at all. I nearly made it at that. After I jumped the boat kept right on going and disappeared, but I guess they found the door open down below. I should have locked it again but I was sort of scared and forgot. Just when I got up on the shore some man came running at me and they had me again. He said he’d figured I’d head for the lights, then he slapped me. He was waiting for the others to come and he made me go into the shack with him. Seems like they tied up in the cove and had to wait awhile before they could take me back to the boat.

“He had a bottle and started drinking from it, and pretty soon he was almost asleep. I waited until he was sort of dopey then threw my pajama pants out the window with a rock in them hoping someone would find them. He never noticed what I did. But he did know he was getting drunk, and he didn’t have any more in the bottle. He hit me a few times and I tried to get away. Then he really gave it to me. When he got done he took some rope and tied me up and went down the beach after the others. That was when you came in.”

“And I went out,” I added.

“Gee, mister, I hope you didn’t get hurt too badly.” His face was anxious, truly anxious. It’s been a long time since someone worried about me getting hurt. I ran my fingers through his hair and shook his head gently.

“It isn’t too bad, kid,” I said. He grinned again, pulled the robe tighter and moved closer to me. Every few seconds he’d throw me a searching glance, half curious, half serious.

“What’s your name?”

“Mike Hammer.”

“Why do you carry a gun?”

“I’m a detective, Ruston. A private detective.”

A sigh of relief escaped him. He probably figured me for one of the mob who didn’t like the game, I guess.

“How did you happen to find me?”

“I was looking for you.”

“I’m . . . I’m glad it was you, Mr. Hammer, and not somebody else. I don’t think anyone would have been brave enough to do what you did.”

I laughed at that. He was a good kid. If any bravery was involved he had it all. Coming back in after me took plenty of nerve. I told him so, but he chuckled and blushed. Damn, you couldn’t help but like him. In spite of a face full of bruises and all the hell he had been through he could still smile. He sat there beside me completely at ease, watching me out of the corner of his eye as though I was a tin god or something.

For a change some of the lights were off in the house. Henry, the gatekeeper, poked a flashlight in the car and his mouth fell open. All he got out was, “M . . . Master Ruston!”

“Yeah, it’s him. Open the gates.” He pulled a bar at the side and the iron grillwork rolled back. I pushed the buggy through, but by the time I reached the house Henry’s call had the whole family waiting on the porch.

York didn’t even wait until I stopped. He yanked the door open and reached for his son. Ruston’s arms went around his neck and he kept repeating, “Dad . . . Dad.”

I wormed out of the car and limped around to the other side. The family was shooting questions at the kid a mile a minute and completely ignored me, not that it mattered. I shoved them aside and took York by the arm. “Get the kid in the house and away from this mob. He’s had enough excitement for a while.”

The scientist nodded. Ruston said, “I can walk, Dad.” He held the robe around himself and we went in together.

Before the others could follow, York turned. “If you don’t mind, please go to your rooms. You will hear what happened in the morning.”

There was no disputing who was master in that house. They looked at one another then slouched off in a huff. I drew a few nasty looks myself.

I slammed the door on the whole pack of them and started for the living room, but Harvey interrupted me en route. Having once disrupted his composure, events weren’t likely to do it a second time. When he handed me the tray with the diagram of the bedroom layout neatly worked up he was the perfect flunky.

“The guest plan, sir,” he said. “I trust it is satisfactory?”

I took it without looking at it and thanked him, then stuck it in my pocket.

York was in an anteroom with his son. The kid was stretched out on a table while his father went over each bruise carefully, searching for abrasions. Those he daubed with antiseptic and applied small bandages. This done he began a thorough examination in the most professional manner.

When he finished I asked, “How is he?”

“All right, apparently,” he answered, “but it will be difficult to tell for a few days. I’m going to put him to bed now. His physical condition has always been wonderful, thank goodness.”

He wrapped Ruston in a robe and rang for Harvey. I picked up the wreckage that was my coat and slipped into it. The butler came in and at York’s direction, picked the kid up and they left the room. On the way out Ruston smiled a good-night at me over the butler’s shoulder.

York was back in five minutes. Without a word he pointed at the table and I climbed on. By the time he finished with me I felt like I had been in a battle all over again. The open cuts on my face and back stung from iodine, and with a few layers of six-inch tape around my ribs I could hardly breathe. He told me to get up in a voice shaky from suppressed emotion, swallowed a tablet from a bottle in his kit and sat down in a cold sweat.

When I finished getting dressed I said, “Don’t you think you ought to climb into the sack yourself? It’s nearly daybreak.”

He shook his head. “No. I want to hear about it. Everything. Please, if you don’t mind . . . the living room.”

We went in and sat down together. While I ran over the story he poured me a stiff shot of brandy and I put it away neat.

“I don’t understand it. Mr. Hammer . . . it is beyond me.”

“I know. It doesn’t seem civilized, does it?”

“Hardly.” He got up and walked over to a Sheraton secretary, opened it and took out a book. He wrote briefly and returned waving ten thousand dollars in my face. “Your fee, Mr. Hammer. I scarcely need say how grateful I am.”

I tried not to look too eager when I took that check, but ten G’s is ten G’s. As unconcernedly as I could, I shoved it in my wallet. “Of course, I suppose you want me to put a report in to the state police,” I remarked. “They ought to be able to tie into that crew, especially with the boat. A thing like that can’t be hidden very easily.”

“Yes, yes, they will have to be apprehended. I can’t imagine why they chose to abduct Ruston. It’s incredible.”

“You are rich, Mr. York. That is the primary reason.”

“Yes. Wealth does bring disadvantages sometimes, though I have tried to guard against it.”

I stood up. “I’ll call them then. We have one lead that might mean something. One of the kidnappers was called Mallory. Your boy brought that up.”

“What did you say?”

I repeated it.

His voice was barely audible. “Mallory . . . No!”

As if in a trance he hurried to the side of the fireplace. A pressure on some concealed spring-activated hidden mechanism and the side swung outward. He thrust his hand into the opening. Even at this distance I could see him pale. He withdrew his hand empty. A muscular spasm racked his body. He pressed his hands against his chest and sagged forward. I ran over and eased him into a chair.

“Vest . . . pocket.”

I poked my fingers under his coat and brought out a small envelope of capsules. York picked one out with trembling fingers and put it on his tongue. He swallowed it, stared blankly at the wall. Very slowly a line of muscles along his jaw hardened into knots, his lips curled back in an animal-like snarl. “The bitch,” he said, “the dirty man-hating bitch has sold me out.”

“Who, Mr. York? Who was it?”

He suddenly became aware of me standing there. The snarl faded. A hunted-quarry look replaced it. “I said nothing, you understand? Nothing.”

I dropped my hand from his shoulder. I was starting to get a dirty taste in my mouth again. “Go to hell,” I said, “I’m going to report it.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I? York, old boy, that son of yours pulled me out of a nasty mess. I like him. You hear that? I like him more than I do a lot of people. If you want to expose him to more danger that’s your affair, but I’m not going to have it.”

“No . . . that’s not it. This can’t be made public.”

“Listen, York, why don’t you stow that publicity stuff and think of your kid for a change? Keep this under your hat and you’ll invite another snatch and maybe you won’t be so lucky. Especially,” I added, “since somebody in your household has sold you out.”

York shuddered from head to foot.

“Who was it, York? Who’s got the bull on you?”

“I . . . have nothing to say.”

“No? Who else knows you’re counting your hours because of those radiation burns? What’s going to happen to the kid when you kick off?”

That did it. He turned a sick color. “How did you find out about that?”

“It doesn’t matter. If I know it others probably do. You still didn’t tell me who’s putting the squeeze on you.”

“Sit down, Mr. Hammer. Please.”

I pulled up a chair and parked.

“Could I,” he began, “retain you as sort of a guardian instead of reporting this incident? It would be much simpler for me. You see, there are certain scientific aspects of my son’s training that you, as a layman, would not understand, but if brought to light under the merciless scrutiny of the newspapers and a police investigation might completely ruin the chances of a successful result.

“I’m not asking you to understand, I’m merely asking that you cooperate. You will be well paid, I assure you. I realize that my son is in danger, but it will be better if we can repel any danger rather than prevent it at its source. Will you do this for me?”

Very deliberately I leaned back in my chair and thought it over. Something stunk. It smelled like Rudolph York. But I still owed the kid a debt.

“I’ll take it, York, but if there’s going to be trouble I’d like to know where it will come from. Who’s the man-hating turnip that has you in a brace?”

His lips tightened. “I’m afraid I cannot reveal that, either. You need not do any investigating. Simply protect my interests, and my son.”

“Okay,” I said as I rose. “Have it your own way. I’ll play dummy. But right now I’m going to beat the sheet. It’s been a tough day. You’d better hit it yourself.”

“I’ll call Harvey.”

“Never mind, I’ll find it.” I walked out. In the foyer I pulled the diagram out of my pocket and checked it. The directions were clear enough. I went upstairs, turned left at the landing and followed the hand-carved balustrade to the other side. My room was next to last and my name was on white cardboard, neatly typed, and framed in a small brass holder on the door. I turned the knob, reached for the light and flicked it on.

“You took long enough getting here.”

I grinned. I wondered what Alice Nichols had used as a bribe to get Harvey to put me in next to her. “Hello, kitten.”

Alice smiled through a cloud of smoke. “You were better-looking the last time I saw you.”

“So? Do I need a shave?”

“You need a new face. But I’ll take you like you are.” She shrugged her shoulders and the spiderweb of a negligee fell down to her waist. What she had on under it wasn’t worth mentioning. It looked like spun moonbeams with a weave as big as chicken wire. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Scram, kitten. Get back in your own hive.”

“That’s a corny line, Mike, don’t play hard to get.”

I started to climb out of my clothes. “It’s not a line, kitten, I’m beat.”

“Not that much.”

I draped my shirt and pants over the back of the chair and flopped in the sack. Alice stood up slowly. No, that’s not the word. It was more like a low-pressure spring unwinding. The negligee was all the way off now. She was a concert of savage beauty.

“Still tired?”

“Turn off the light when you go out, honey.” Before I rolled over she gave me a malicious grin. It told me that there were other nights. The lights went out. Before I corked off one thought hit me. It couldn’t have been Alice Nichols he had meant when he called some babe a man-hating bitch.

Going to sleep with a thought like that is a funny thing. It sticks with you. I could see Alice over and over again, getting up out of that chair and walking across the room, only this time she didn’t even wear moonbeams. Her body was lithe, seductive. She did a little dance. Then someone else came into my dream, too. Another dame. This one was familiar, but I couldn’t place her. She did a dance too, but a different kind. There was none of that animal grace, no fluid motion. She took off her clothes and moved about stiffly, ill at ease. The two of them started dancing together, stark naked, and this new one was leading. They came closer, the mist about their faces parted and I got a fleeting glimpse of the one I couldn’t see before.

I sat bolt upright in bed. No wonder Miss Grange did things that bothered me. It wasn’t the woman I recognized in her apartment, it was her motions. Even to striking a match toward her the way a man would. Sure, she’d be a man-hater, why not? She was a lesbian.

“Damn!”

I hopped out of bed and climbed into my pants. I picked out York’s room from the diagram and tiptoed to the other side of the house. His door was partly opened. I tapped gently. No answer.

I went in and felt for the switch. Light flooded the room, but it didn’t do me any good. York’s bed had never been slept in. One drawer of his desk was half open and the contents pushed aside. I looked at the oil blot on the bottom of the drawer. I didn’t need a second look at the hastily opened box of .32 cartridges to tell me what had been in there. York was out to do murder.

Time, time, there wasn’t enough of it. I finished dressing on the way out. If anyone heard the door slam after me or the motor start up they didn’t care much. No lights came on at all. I slowed up by the gates, but they were gaping open. From inside the house I could hear a steady snore. Henry was a fine gatekeeper.

I didn’t know how much of a lead he had. Sometime hours ago my watch had stopped and I didn’t reset it. It could have been too long ago. The night was fast fading away. I don’t think I had been in bed a full hour.

On that race to town I didn’t pass a car. The lights of the kid’s filling station showed briefly and swept by. The unlit headlamps of parked cars glared in the reflection of my own brights and went back to sleep.

I pulled in behind a line of cars outside the Glenwood Apartments, switched off the engine and climbed out. There wasn’t a sign of life anywhere. When this town went to bed it did a good job.

It was one time I couldn’t ring doorbells to get in. If Ruston had been with me it wouldn’t have taken so long; the set of skeleton keys I had didn’t come up with the right answer until I tried two dozen of them.

The .45 was in my fist. I flicked the safety off as I ran up the stairs. Miss Grange’s door was closed, but it wasn’t locked; it gave when I turned the knob.

No light flared out the door when I kicked it open. No sound broke the funeral quiet of the hall. I stepped in and eased the door shut behind me.

Very slowly I bent down and unlaced my shoes, then put them beside the wall. There was no sense sending in an invitation. With my hand I felt along the wall until I came to the end of the hall. A switch was to the right. Cautiously, I reached around and threw it up, ready for anything.

I needn’t have been so quiet. Nobody would have yelled. I found York, all right. He sat there grinning at me like a blooming idiot with the top of his head holding up a meat cleaver.

CHAPTER 4

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 overinflated 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?”

“Not 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 plainclothes 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 ones and membership cards for 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.