The Mike Hammer Collection

“Perhaps not,” I laughed. “They’re going to be pretty fed up with me when I bust this case.”

The kid shuddered, his eyes closed tightly for a second. “I keep thinking of that night in the shack. The night you shot one of those men that kidnapped me. It was an awful fight.”

I felt as though a mule had kicked me in the stomach. “What did you say?”

“That night . . . you remember. When you shot that man and . . .”

I cut him off. “You can get off that target, Ruston,” I said softly. “I won’t need you for a decoy after all.”

Roxy twisted toward me, watching the expression in my eyes. “Why, Mike?”

“I just remembered that I shot a guy, that’s why. I had forgotten all about it.” I jammed on my hat and picked up a pack of Roxy’s butts from the dresser. “You two stay here and keep the door locked. I can get the killer, now, by damn, and I won’t have to make him come to me either. Roxy, turn that light off. Give me five minutes after I leave before you turn it on again. Forget you ever saw me up here or Dilwick will have your scalp.”

The urgency in my voice moved her to action. Without a word in reply she reached out for the light and snapped it off. Ruston gasped and moved toward the door, with the slightest tremor of excitement creeping into his breathing. I saw him silhouetted there for an instant, a floor lamp right in front of him. Before I could caution him the shade struck him in the face. His hand went out . . . hit the lamp and it toppled to the floor with the popping of the bulb and the crash of a fallen tree. Or so it seemed.

Downstairs a gruff voice barked out. Before it could call again I threw the window up and went out, groping for the vine. Someplace in the house a whistle shrilled and angry fists beat at the door. Half sliding, half climbing, I went down the side of the building. Another whistle and somebody got nervous and let a shot blast into the confusion. From every side came the shouts and the whistles. Just before I reached the ground a car raced up and two figures leaped out. But I was lucky. The racket was all centered on the inside of the house and the coppers were taking it for granted that I was trapped there.

As fast as I could go, I beat it across the drive to the lawn, then into the trees. Now I knew where I was. One tree ahead formed the perfect ladder over the wall. I had my gun out now in case that patrol was waiting. There would be no command to halt, just a volley of shots until one of us dropped. All right, I was ready. Behind me a window smashed and Roxy screamed. Then there was a loud “There he goes!” and a pair of pistols spit fire. With the trees in the way and the distance opening between us, I wasn’t concerned about getting hit.

The tree was a godsend. I went up its inclined trunk thanking whatever lightning bolt had split it in such a handy fashion, made the top of the wall and jumped for the grass. The sentries weren’t there anymore. Probably trying to be in on the kill.

A siren screamed inside the wall and the chase was on, but it would be a futile chase now. Once in the tree line on the other side of the road I took it easy. They’d be looking for a car and the search would be along the road. So long, suckers!

CHAPTER 11

I slept in my car all night. It wasn’t until noon that I was ready to roll. Now the streets would be packed with traffic and my buggy would be just another vehicle. There were hundreds like it on the road. Superficially it was a five-year-old heap that had seen plenty of service, but the souped-up motor under the hood came out of a limousine that had packed a lot of speed and power. Once on the road nothing the city cops had was going to catch me.

Good old Ruston. If my memory had been working right I wouldn’t have forgotten my little pal I plugged. Guys who are shot need doctors, and need them quick, and in Sidon there wouldn’t be that many medics that I couldn’t run them all down. A crooked doc, that’s what I wanted. If a gunshot had been treated Price would have known about it and told me, but none had been entered in the books. Either a crooked doc or a threatened doc. He was the one to find.

I stripped the branches from the fenders and cleared a path to the road, and then eased out onto the macadam. At the first crossroad a sign pointed to the highway and I took the turn. Two miles down I turned into a stream of traffic, picked out a guy going along at a medium clip and nosed in behind him.

We both turned off into the city, only I parked on a side street and went into a candy store that had a public phone. Fiddling through the Yellow Pages, I ripped out the sheet of doctors listed there, and went through the motions of making a phone call. Nobody bothered to so much as glance at me.

Back in the car I laid out my course and drove to the first on my list. It wasn’t an impressive list. Seven names. Dr. Griffin was stepping out of his car when I pulled in.

“Doctor . . .”

“Yes?”

His eyes went up and down the ruin of my suit. “Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’ve been out all night chasing down the dick that shot that cop. I’m a reporter.”

“Oh, yes, I heard about that. What can I do for you?”

“The police fired several shots at him. There’s a chance that he might have been hit. Have you treated any gunshot wounds lately?”

He drew himself up in indignant pride. “Certainly not! I would have reported it immediately had I done so.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

The next one wasn’t home, but his housekeeper was. Yes, she knew all about the doctor’s affairs. No, there had been no gunshot wounds since Mr. Dillon shot himself in the foot like a silly fool when loading his shotgun. Yes, she was very glad to be of service.

Dr. Pierce ushered me into his very modern office personally. I pulled the same reporter routine on him. “A gunshot wound, you say?”

“Yes. It wasn’t likely that he’d treat it himself.”

He folded his hands across his paunch and leaned back in his chair. “There was one the day before yesterday, but I reported that. Certainly you know about it. A .22-caliber bullet. The man was hit while driving out in the country. Said he didn’t know where it came from.”

I covered up quickly. “Oh, that one. No, this would have been a larger shell. The cops don’t pack .22’s these days.”

“I expect not,” he laughed.

“Well, thanks anyway, Doctor.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Four names left. It was past three o’clock. The next two weren’t home, but the wife of one assured me that her husband would not have treated any wounds of the sort because he had been on a case in the hospital during the entire week.

The other one was in Florida on a vacation.

Dr. Clark had offices a block away from police headquarters, a very unhealthy place right now. Cars drove up and away in a constant procession, but I had to chance it. I parked pointing away from the area, making sure I had plenty of room to pull out, my wheels turned away from the curb. A woman came out of the office holding a baby. Then a man walking on a cane. I didn’t want to enter an office full of people if I could help it, but if he didn’t get rid of his patients in a hurry I was going to have to bust in anyway. A boy went in crying, holding his arm. Damn it, I was losing time!

As I went to reach for the ignition switch another guy came out, a four-inch wide bandage going from the corner of his mouth to his ear. The bells again. They went off all at once inside my skull until I wanted to scream. The bandage. The hell with the gunshot wound, he was probably dead. The bandage. My fingers hooking in a mouth and ripping the skin wide open. Of course, he’d need a doctor too! You wouldn’t find two freak accidents like that happening at once. He was a ratty-looking guy dressed in a sharp gray suit with eyes that were everywhere at once. He went down the steps easily and walked to a car a couple ahead of me. I felt my heart beginning to pound, beating like a heavy hammer, an incredible excitement that made my blood race in my veins like a river about to flood.

He pulled out and I was right behind him, our bumpers almost touching. There was no subtlety about this tail job, maybe that’s why I got away with it so long. He didn’t notice me until we were on the back road six miles out of town ripping off seventy miles an hour. Just the two of us. We had left all other traffic miles behind. I saw his eyes go to the rear-vision mirror and his car spurted ahead. I grinned evilly to myself and stepped down harder on the accelerator until I was pushing him again.

His eyes hardly left the mirror. There was fright in them now. A hand went out and he signaled me to pass. I ignored it. Eighty-five now. A four-store town went by with the wind. I barely heard the whistle of the town cop blast as I passed him. Eighty-seven. The other car was having trouble holding the turns. It leaned until the tires screamed as the driver jerked it around. I grinned again. The frame of my car was rigged for just such emergencies. Ninety. Trees shot by like a huge picket fence. Another town. A rapid parade of identical billboards advertising a casino in Brocton. Ninety-five. A straightaway came up lined with more billboards. A nice flat stretch was ahead, he would have opened up on it if he could have, but his load was doing all it could. At the end of the straightaway was the outline of a town.

My little friend, you have had it, I said to myself. I went down on the gas, the car leaped ahead, we rubbed fenders. For a split second I was looking into those eyes and remembering that night, before I cut across his hood. He took to the shoulder, fought the wheel furiously but couldn’t control it. The back end skidded around and the car went over on its side like a pinwheel. I stood on the brake, but his car was still rolling as I stopped.

I backed up and got out without shutting the engine off. The punk was lucky, damn lucky. His car had rolled but never upended, and those steel turret top jobs could take it on a roll in soft earth. He was crawling out of the door reaching under his coat for a rod when I jumped him. When I slapped him across that bandage he screamed and dropped the gun. I straddled him and picked it up, a snub-nosed .38, and thrust it in my waistband.

“Hello, pal,” I said.

Little bubbles of pink foam oozed from the corners of his mouth. “Don’t . . . don’t do nothing . . .”

“Shut up.”

“Please . . .”

“Shut up.” I looked at him, looked at him good. If my face said anything he could read it. “Remember me? Remember that night in the shack? Remember the kid?”

Recognition dawned on him. A terrible, fearful recognition and he shuddered the entire length of his body. “What’re ya gonna do?”

I brought my hand down across his face as hard as I could. He moaned and whimpered, “Don’t!” Blood started to seep through the bandage, bright red now.

“Where’s the guy I shot?”

He breathed, “Dead,” through a mouthful of gore. It ran out his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

“Who’s Mallory?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. All right, don’t talk. Make me make you. This would be fun. I worked my nails under the adhesive of the bandage and ripped it off with one tug. Clotted blood pulled at his skin and he screamed again. A huge half-open tear went from the corner of his mouth up his jawline, giving him a perpetual grin like a clown.

“Open your eyes.” He forced his lids up, his chest heaved for air. Twitches of pain gripped his face. “Now listen to me, chum. I asked you who Mallory was. I’m going to put my fingers in your mouth and rip out those stitches one by one until you tell me. Then I’m going to open you up on the other side. If you’d sooner look like a clam, don’t talk.”

“No! I . . . I don’t know no Mallory.”

I slapped him across the cheek, then did as I promised. More blood welled out of the cut. He screamed once more, a short scream of intolerable agony. “Who’s Mallory?”

“Honest . . . don’t know . . .”

Another stitch went. He passed out cold.

I could wait. He came to groaning senselessly. I shook his head until his eyes opened. “Who do you work for, pal?”

His lips moved, but no sound came forth. I nudged him again. “The boss . . . Nelson . . . at the casino.”

Nelson. I hadn’t heard it before. “Who’s Mallory?”

“No more. I don’t know . . .” His voice faded out to nothing and his eyes shut. Except for the steady flow of blood seeping down his chin he looked as dead as they come.

It was getting dark again. I hadn’t noticed the cars driving up until the lights of one shone on me. People were piling out of the first car and running across the field, shouting at each other and pointing to the overturned car.

The first one was all out of breath when he reached me. “What happened, mister? Is he dead? God, look at his face!”

“He’ll be all right,” I told him. “He just passed out.” By that time the others were crowded around. One guy broke through the ring and flipped his coat open to show a badge.

“Better get him to a hospital. Ain’t none here. Nearest one’s in Sidon.” He yanked a pad out of his pocket and wet the tip of a pencil with his tongue. “What’s your name, mister?”

I almost blurted it out without thinking. If he heard it I’d be under his gun in a second, and there wasn’t much I could do with this mob around. I stood up and motioned him away from the crowd. On the other side of the upturned car I looked him square in the eye.

“This wasn’t an accident,” I said, “I ran him off the road.”

“You what?”

“Keep quiet and listen. This guy is a kidnapper. He may be a killer. I want you to get to the nearest phone and call Sergeant Price of the state police, understand? His headquarters is on the highway outside of Sidon. If you can’t get him, keep trying until you do.”

His hands gripped my lapels. “Say, buster, what are you trying to pull? Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“My name is Mike . . . Mike Hammer. I’m wanted by every crooked cop in this part of the state and if you don’t get your paws off me I’ll break your arm!”

His jaw sagged, but he let go my coat, then his brows wrinkled. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I always did want to meet you. Read all the New York papers y’ know. By damn. Say, you did kill that Sidon cop, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“By damn, that’s good. He put a bullet into one of our local lads one night when he was driving back from the casino. Shot him while he was dead drunk because he didn’t like his looks. He got away with it too, by damn. What was that you wanted me to tell the police?”

I breathed a lot easier. I never thought I’d find a friend this far out. “You call Price and tell him to get out to the casino as fast as his car will bring him. And tell him to take along some boys.”

“Gonna be trouble?”

“There’s liable to be.”

“Maybe I should go.” He pulled at his chin, thinking hard. “I don’t know. The casino is all we got around here. It ain’t doing us no good, but the guy that runs it runs the town.”

“Stay out of it if you can help it. Get an ambulance if you want to for that guy back there, but forget the hospital. Stick him in the cooler. Then get on the phone and call Price.”

“Okay, Mike. I’ll do that for you. Didn’t think you shot that cop in cold blood like the notices said. You didn’t, did you?”

“He was sitting on top of me about to bash my brains out with a billy when I shot the top of his head off.”

“A good thing, by damn.”

I didn’t hang around. Twenty pairs of eyes followed me across the field to my car, but if there was any explaining to be done the cop was making a good job of it. Before I climbed under the wheel he had hands helping to right the car and six people carrying the figure of The Face to the road.

Nelson, the Boss. Another character. Where did he come in? He wasn’t on the level if rat-puss was working for him. Nelson, but no Mallory. I stepped on the starter and ran the engine up. Nelson, but no Mallory. Something cold rolled down my temple and I wiped it away. Sweat. Hell, it couldn’t be true, not what I was thinking, but it made sense! Oh, hell, it was impossible, people just aren’t made that way! The pieces didn’t have to be fitted into place any longer . . . they were being drawn into a pattern of murder as if by a magnet under the board, a pattern of death as complicated as a Persian tapestry, ugly enough to hang in Hitler’s own parlor. Nelson, but no Mallory. The rest would be only incidental, a necessary incidental. I sweated so freely that my shirt was matted to my body.

I didn’t have to look for the killer any longer. I knew who the killer was now.

The early crowd had arrived at the casino in force. Dozens of cars with plates from three states were already falling into neat rows at the direction of the attendant and their occupants in evening dress and rich business clothes were making their way across the lawn to the doors. It was an imposing place built like an old colonial mansion with twenty-foot pillars circling the entire house. From inside came the strains of a decent orchestra and a lot of loud talk from the bar on the west side. Floodlights played about the grounds, lighting up the trees in the back and glancing off the waters of the bay with sparkling fingers. The outlines of a boathouse made a dark blot in the trees, and out in the channel the lights from some moored yachts danced with the roll of the ships.

For five minutes I sat in the car with a butt hanging between my lips, taking in every part of the joint. When I had the layout pretty well in my mind I stepped out and flipped the attendant a buck. The guy’s watery eyes went up and down my clothes, wondering what the hell I was doing there.

“Where’ll I find Nelson, friend?”

He didn’t like my tone, but he didn’t argue about it. “What do you want him for?”

“We got a load of special stuff coming in on a truck and I want to find out what he wants done with it.”

“Booze?”

“Yeah.”

“Hell, ain’t he taking the stuff off Carmen?”

“This is something special, but I’m not jawing about it out here. Where is he?”

“If he ain’t on the floor he’ll be upstairs in his office.”

I nodded and angled over to the door. Two boys in shabby tuxedos stood on either side throwing greetings to the customers. They didn’t throw any to me. I saw them exchange glances when they both caught the outlines of the rod under my coat. One started drifting toward me and I muttered, “I got a truckload of stuff for the boss. When it comes up get it around the back. We had a police escort all the way out of Jersey until we lost them.”

The pair gave me blank stares wondering what I was talking about, but when I brushed by them they fingered me an okay thinking I was on the in. Bar noises came from my left, noises you couldn’t mistake. They were the same from the crummiest joint in the Bronx to the swankiest supper club uptown. I went in, grabbed a spot at the end and ordered a brew. The punk gave me a five-ounce glass and soaked me six bits for it. When he passed me my change I asked for the boss.

“Just went upstairs a minute ago.” I downed the drink and threaded my way out again. In what had been the main living room at one time were the bobbing heads of the dancers, keeping time to the orchestra on the raised dais at one end. Dozens of white-coated waiters scurried about like ants getting ready for winter, carrying trays loaded to the rims with every size glass there was. A serving bar took up one whole end of the corridor with three bartenders passing out drinks. This place was a gold mine.

I went up the plush-carpeted stairs with traffic. It was mostly male. Big fat guys chewing on three-buck cigars carrying dough in their jeans. An occasional dame with a fortune in jewelry dangling from her extremities. At the top of the landing the whir of the wheels and the click of the dice came clearly over the subdued babble of tense voices seated around the tables. Such a beautiful setup. It would be a shame to spoil it. So this was what Price had referred to. Protected gambling. Even with a hundred-way split to stay covered the boss was getting a million-dollar income.

The crowd went into the game rooms, but I continued down the dimly lit hallway past the rest rooms until I reached another staircase. This one was smaller, less bright, but just as plush and just as well used. Upstairs someone had a spasm of coughing and water splashed in a cooler.

I looked around me, pressing flat against the wall, then ducked around the corner and stood on the first step. The gun was in my hand, fitting into its accustomed spot. One by one I went up the stairs, softly, very softly. At the top, light from a doorway set into the wall threw a yellow light on the paneling opposite it. Three steps from the landing I felt the board drop a fraction of an inch under my foot. That was what I was waiting for.

I hit the door, threw it open and jammed the rod in the face of the monkey in the tux who was about to throw the bolt. “You should have done that sooner,” I sneered at him.

He tried to bluff it out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Shut up and lay down on the floor. Over here away from the door.”

I guess he knew what would happen if he didn’t. His face went white right down into his collar and he fell to his knees then stretched out on the floor like he was told. Before he buried his map in the nap of the carpet he threw me one of those “you’llbe-sorry” looks.

Like hell I’d be sorry. I wasn’t born yesterday. I turned the gun around in my hand and got behind the door. I didn’t have long to wait. The knob turned, a gun poked in with a guy behind it looking for a target, a leer of pure sadistic pleasure on his face. When I brought the butt of the .45 across his head the leer turned to amazement as he spilled forward like a sack of wet cement. The skin on his bald dome was split a good three inches from the thong hook on the handle and pulled apart like a gaping mouth. He would be a long time in sleepy town.

“You ought to get that trip fixed in the stairs,” I said to the fancy boy on the floor. “It drops like a trapdoor.”

He looked back at me through eyes that seemed to pulse every time his heart beat. Both his hands were on the floor, palms down, his body rising and falling with his labored breathing. Under a trim moustache his chin fell away a little, quivering like the rest of him. A hairline that had once swept across his forehead now lay like low tide on the back of his head, graying a little, but not much. There was a scar on one lip and his nose had been twisted out of shape not too long ago, but when you looked hard you could still see through the wear of the years.

He was just what I expected. “Hello, Mallory,” I said, “or should I say Nelson?”

I could hardly hear his voice. “W . . . who are you?”

“Don’t play games, sucker. My name is Mike Hammer. You ought to know me. I bumped one of your boys and made a mess of the other awhile back. You should see him now. I caught up with him again. Get up.”

“What . . . are you going . . . to do?” I looked down at the .45. The safety was off and it was the nastiest-looking weapon in existence at that moment. I pointed it at his belly.

“Maybe I’ll shoot you. There.” I indicated his navel with the muzzle.

“If it’s money you want, I can give it to you, Hammer. Please, get the rod off me.”

Mallory was the tough guy. He edged away from me, holding his hands out in a futile attempt to stop a bullet if it should come. He stopped backing when he hit the edge of the desk. “I don’t want any of your dough, Mallory,” I said, “I want you.” I let him look into the barrel again. “I want to hear something you have to say.”

“I . . .”

“Where’s Miss Grange . . . or should I say Rita Cambell?”

He drew his breath in a great swallow and before I could move swung around, grabbed the pen set from the desk and sent the solid onyx base crashing into my face.

Fingers clawed at my throat and we hit the floor with a tangle of arms and legs. I brought my knee up and missed, then swung with the gun. It landed on the side of his neck and gave me a chance to clear my head. I saw where the next punch was going. I brought it up from the floor and smacked him as hard as I could in the mouth. My knuckles pushed back his lips and his front teeth popped like hollow things under the blow.

The bastard spit them right in my face.

He was trying to reach my eyes. I tossed the rod to one side and laughed long and loud. Only for that one moment did he possess any strength at all, just that once when he was raging mad. I got hold of both his arms and pinned them down, then threw him sideways to the floor. His feet kicked out and kicked again until I got behind him. With his back on the floor I straddled his chest and sat on his stomach, both his hands flat against his sides, held there by my legs. He couldn’t yell without choking on his own blood and he knew it, but he kept trying to spit at me nevertheless.

With my open palm I cracked him across the cheek. Right, left, right, left. His head went sideways with each slap, but my other hand always straightened it up again. I hit him until the palms of my hands were sore and his cheek split in a dozen places from my ring. At first he flopped and moaned for me to stop, then fought bitterly to get away from the blows that were tearing his face to shreds. When he was almost out, I quit.

“Where’s Grange, Mallory?”

“The shed.” He tried to plead with me not to hit him, but I cracked him one anyway.

“Where’s the Cook girl?”

No answer. I reached for my rod and cradled it in my hand.

“Look at me, Mallory.”

His eyes opened halfway. “My hand hurts. Answer me or I use this on you. Maybe you won’t live through it. Where’s the Cook girl?”

“Nobody else. Grange . . . is the . . . only one.”

“You’re lying, Mallory.”

“No . . . just Grange.”

I couldn’t doubt but what he was telling the truth. After what I gave him he was ready to spill his guts. But that still didn’t account for Cook. “Okay, who does have her then?”

Blood bubbled out of his mouth from his split gums. “Don’t know her.”

“She was Grange’s alibi, Mallory. She was with the Cook dame the night York was butchered. She would have given Grange an out.”

His eyes came open all the way. “She’s a bitch,” he mouthed. “She doesn’t deserve an alibi. They kidnapped my kid, that’s what they did!”

“And you kidnapped him back . . . fourteen years later.”

“He was mine, wasn’t he? He didn’t belong to York.”

I gave it to him slowly. “You didn’t really want him, did you? You didn’t give a damn about the kid. All you wanted was to get even with York. Wasn’t that it?”

Mallory turned his head to one side. “Answer me, damn you!”

“Yes.”

“Who killed York?”

I waited for his answer. I had to be sure I was right. This was one time I had to be sure. “It . . . it wasn’t me.”

I raised the gun and laid the barrel against his forehead. Mallory was staring into the mouth of hell. “Lie to me, Mallory,” I said, “and I’ll shoot you in the belly, then shoot you again a little higher. Not where you’ll die quick, but where you’ll wish you did. Say it was you and you die fast . . . like you don’t deserve. Say it wasn’t you and I may believe you and I may not . . . only don’t lie to me because I know who killed York.”

Once more his eyes met mine, showing pain and terror. “It . . . wasn’t me. No, it wasn’t me. You’ve got to believe that.” I let the gun stay where it was, right against his forehead. “I didn’t even know he was dead. It was Grange I wanted.”

Even with his shattered mouth the words were coming freely as he begged for his life. “I got the news clipping in the mail. The one about the trouble in the hospital. There was no signature, but the letter said that Grange was Rita Cambell and she was a big shot now and if I kidnapped the kid, instead of ransom I could get positive information from York that his kid was my son. I wouldn’t have snatched him if it wasn’t so easy. The letter said the watchman on the gate would be drugged and the door to the house open on a certain night. All I had to do to get the kid was go in after him. I was still pretty mad at York and the letter made it worse. I wanted Myra Grange more than the old man, that’s why when those crazy lugs I sent after the kid lost him I made a try for her. I followed her from her house to another place then waited for her to come out before I grabbed her. She was in there when York was killed and I was waiting outside. Honest, I didn’t kill him. She didn’t know who I was until I told her. Ever since that time when York stole my kid I used the name Nelson. She started to fight with me in the car and hit me over the head with the heel of her shoes. While I was still dizzy she beat it and got in her car and scrammed. I chased her and forced her off the road by the river and she went in. I thought she was dead . . .”

The footsteps coming up the stairs stopped him. I whipped around and sent a shot crashing through the door. Somebody swore and yelled for reinforcements. I prodded Mallory with the tip of the rod. “The window and be quick.”

He didn’t need any urging. The gun in his back was good incentive. That damn warning trip. Either it went off someplace else or the boys on the doors got suspicious. Egghead was starting to groan on the floor. “Get the window up.”

Mallory opened the catch and pushed. Outside the steel railings of the fire escape were waiting. I thanked the good fathers who passed the law making them compulsory for all three-story buildings. We went out together, then down the metal stairs without trying to conceal our steps. If I had a cowbell around my neck I couldn’t have made more noise. Mallory kept spitting blood over the side, trying to keep his eyes on me and the steps at the same time. Above us heavy bodies were ramming the door. The lock splintered and someone tripped over the mug on the floor, but before they could get to the window we were on the ground.

“The boathouse. Shake it, Mallory, they won’t care who they hit,” I said.

Mallory was panting heavily, but he knew there was wisdom in my words. A shot snapped out that was drowned in a sudden blast from the orchestra, but I saw the gravel kick up almost at my feet. We skirted the edge of cars and out in between the fenders, then picked an opening and went through it to the boathouse. The back of it was padlocked.

“Open it.”

“I . . . I don’t have the key.”

“That’s a quick way to get yourself killed,” I reminded him.

He fumbled for a key in his pocket, brought it out and inserted it in the padlock. His hands were shaking so hard that he couldn’t get it off the hasp. I shoved him away and ripped it loose myself. The door slid sideways, and I thumbed him in, closing the door behind us. With the gun in the small of his back I flicked a match with my fingernail.

Grange and Cook were lying side by side in a pile of dirt at the far end of the boathouse. Both were tied up like Thanksgiving turkeys with a wad of cloth clamped between their jaws. They were out cold. Mallory’s mouth dropped to his chin and he pointed a trembling finger at Cook. “She’s here!”

“What the hell did you expect?”

His face grew livid until blood flowed afresh from his mouth. Mallory might have said something in anger if the match had not scorched my finger. I dropped it and cursed. He pulled away from the gun at the same time and ran for it. I took four steps toward the door, my arms outstretched to grab him, but he wasn’t there. At the other end of the room one of the girls started to moan through her gag. A knob turned and for a second I saw stars in the sky at the side of the wall. My first shot got him in the leg and he fell to the floor screaming. In the half-light of the match I hadn’t seen that side door, but he knew it was there. I ran over and yanked him back by the foot, mad enough to send a bullet into his gut.

I never had the chance. There was a blast of gunfire and my rod was torn from my grasp. The beam of a spotlight hit me in the eyes as Dilwick’s voice said, “Freeze, Hammer. You make one move and I’ll shoot hell out of you.”

The light moved over to the side, never leaving me. Dilwick snapped on the overhead: one dim bulb that barely threw enough light to reach both ends. He was standing there beside the switch with as foul a look as I ever hope to see on a human face and murder in his hands. He was going to kill me.

It might have ended then if Mallory hadn’t said, “You lousy rat. You stinking, lousy rat. You’re the one who’s been bleeding me. You son of a bitch.”

Dilwick grinned at me, showing his teeth. “He’s a wise guy, Hammer. Listen to him bawl.”

I didn’t say a word.

Dilwick went over and got my gun from the floor, using his handkerchief on the butt, never taking his eyes from either of us. He looked at me, then Mallory, and before either of us could move sent a shot smashing into Mallory’s chest from my .45. The guy folded over in a quarter roll and was still. Dilwick tossed the still-smoking gun down. “It was nice while it lasted,” he said, “but now it will be even better.”

I waited.

“The boss had a swell racket here. A perfect racket. He paid us off well, but I’m going to take over now. The hell with being a cop. It’ll make a pretty story, don’t you think? I come in here and see you shoot him, then shoot you. Uh-huh, a very pretty story and nobody will blame me. You’ll be wrapped up cold for a double murder, first that copper and now him.”

“Sure,” I said, “but what are you going to do about Grange and her pal?”

Dilwick showed his teeth again. “She’s wanted for York’s murder, isn’t she? Wouldn’t it be sweet if they were found dead in a love tryst? The papers would love that. Boy, what a front-page story if you don’t crowd them off. Grange and her sweetie doing the double Dutch in the drink instead of her cooking for the York kill. That would put a decent end to this mess. I got damn sick and tired of trying to cover up for the boss anyway, and you got in my hair, Hammer.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t get smart. If I had any sense I would have taken care of you myself instead of letting that dumb bunny of a detective bollix up things when you were tailing me on that back road.”

“You wouldn’t have done any better either,” I spat out.

“No? But I will now.” He raised the gun and took deliberate aim at my head.

While he wasted time thumbing back the hammer I tugged the snub-nosed .38 from my waistband that I had taken from the punk with the wrecked face and triggered one into his stomach. His face froze for an instant, the gun sagged, then with all the hatred of his madness he stumbled forward a step, raising his gun to fire.

The .38 roared again. A little blue spot appeared over the bridge of his nose and he went flat on his face.

Mine wasn’t the only gun to speak. Outside there was a continual roar of bullets; screams from the house and commands being shouted into the dark. A car must have tried to pull away and smashed into another. More shots and the tinkling of broken glass. A man’s voice screamed in agony. A tommy went off in short burps blasting everything in its path. Through the door held open by Mallory’s body the brilliant white light of a spotlight turned the night to day and pairs of feet were circling the boathouse.

I shouted, “Price, it’s me, Mike. I’m in here!”

A light shot in the door as hands slid the other opening back. A state trooper with a riot gun pointed at me slid in and I dropped the .38. Price came in behind him. “Damn, you still alive?”

“I look it, don’t I?” Laughing almost drunkenly I slapped him on the shoulder. “Am I glad to see you! You sure took long enough to get here.” Price’s foot stretched out and pushed the body on the floor.

“That’s . . .”

“Dilwick,” I finished. “The other one over there is Mallory.”

“I thought you were going to keep me informed on how things stood,” he said.

“It happened too fast. Besides, I couldn’t be popping in places where I could be recognized.”

“Well, I hope your story’s good, Mike. It had better be. We’re holding people out there with enough influence to swing a state legislature, and if the reason is a phony or even smells like one, you and I are both going to be on the carpet. You for murder.”

“Nuts, what was all the shooting about outside?”

“I got your message such as it was and came up here with three cars of troopers. When we got on the grounds a whole squad of mugs with guns in their hands came ripping around the house. They let go at us before we could get out of the cars and there was hell to pay. The boys came up expecting action and they got it.”

“Those mugs, chum, were after me. I guess they figured I’d try to make a break for it and circled the house. Dilwick was the only one who knew where we’d be. Hell, he should have. I was after Grange and the Cook girl and he had them in here.”

“Now you tell me. Go on and finish it.”

I brought him up to date in a hurry. “Dilwick’s been running cover for Mallory. When you dig up the books on this joint you’re going to see a lot of fancy figures. But our boy Dilwick got ideas. He wanted the place for himself. He shot Mallory with my gun and was going to shoot me, only I got him with the rod I took off the boy whose car I flipped over. Yeah. Dilwick was a good thinker all right. When Grange didn’t show up he did what I did and floated down the river himself and found how the eddies took him to the shore. At that time both he and Mallory were figuring on cutting themselves a nice slice of cash from the York estate. Grange was the only one who knew there was evidence that Ruston wasn’t York’s son and they were going to squeeze it out of her or turn her over to the police for the murder of York.”

Price looked at the body again, then offered me a cigarette. “So Grange really did bump her boss. I’ll be a so-and-so.”

I lit the butt slowly, then blew the smoke through my nostrils. “Grange didn’t bump anybody.”

The sergeant’s face wrinkled. He stared at me queerly.

“This is the aftermath, Price,” I reflected. “It’s what happens when you light the fuse.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I didn’t hear him. I was thinking about a kidnapping. I was thinking about a scientist with a cleaver in his skull and the chase on for his assistant. I was thinking about Junior Ghent rifling York’s office and coming up with some dirty pictures, and then getting beat up. I was thinking about a shot nicking Roxy and a night with Alice Nichols that might have been fun if it hadn’t been planned so my clothes could be searched and my skull cracked afterward. I was thinking about a secret cache in the fireplace, a column in the paper, a cop trying to kill me and some words Mallory told me. I was thinking how all this might have been foreseen by the killer when the killer planned the first kill. I was thinking of the face of the killer.

It was a mess. I had said that a hundred times now, but what a beautiful mess it was. There had never been a mess as nasty as this. Nope, not a dull moment. Every detail seemed to overlap and prod something bigger to happen until you were almost ready to give up, and the original murder was obscured by the craziest details imaginable. Rah, rah, sis boom bah, with a fanfare of trumpets as the police come in and throw bullets all over the place. Was it supposed to end like this? I knew one thing. I was supposed to have died someplace along the line. The killer must be fuming now because I was very much alive. What makes people think they can get away with murder? Some plan it simple, some elaborately extreme, but this killer let things take care of themselves and they wound up better than anyone could have hoped for.

“Don’t keep secrets, Mike, who did it?”

I threw the butt down, stamped on it. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, Price.”

“You’ll tell me now, Mike.”

“Don’t fight me, kid. I appreciate all that you did for me, but I don’t throw anyone to the dogs until I’m sure.”

“You’ve killed enough people to be sure. Who was it?”

“It still goes. I have to check one little detail.”

“What?”

“Something that makes a noise like a cough.”

Price thought I was crazy. “You tell me now or I’ll hold you until you do. I can’t stick my neck out any further. I’ll have hot breaths blowing on my back too, and they’ll be a lot hotter if I can’t explain this mix-up!”

I was tired. I felt like curling up there with Dilwick and going to sleep. “Don’t squeeze, Price. I’ll tell you tomorrow. When you take this little package home . . .” I swept my hand around the room, “. . . you’ll get a commendation.” Over in the corner a trooper was taking the bonds from the girls. Grange was moaning again. “You can get her side of the story anyway, and that will take care of your superiors until you hear from me.”

The sergeant waited a long moment then shrugged his shoulders. “You win. I’ve waited this long . . . I guess tomorrow will be all right. Let’s get out of here.”

We carried Grange out together with the other trooper lugging the Cook girl over his shoulder. Myra Grange’s pupils were big black circles, dilated to the utmost. She was hopped up to the ears. We got them into one of the police cars then stood around until the casino gang was manacled to each other and the clientele weeded out. I grinned when I spotted a half-dozen Sidon cops in the group. They had stopped bellowing long ago, and from the worried looks being passed around it was going to be a race to see who could talk the loudest and the fastest. There would be a new police force in Sidon this time next week. The public might be simple enough to let themselves be bullied around and their government rot out from underneath them, but it would only go so far. An indignant public is like a mad bull. It wouldn’t stop until every tainted employee on the payroll was in a cell. Maybe they’d even give me a medal. Yeah, maybe.

I was sick of watching. I called Price over and told him I was going back. His face changed, but he said nothing. There was a lot he wanted to say, but he could tell how it was with me. Price nodded and let me climb into my car. I backed it up and turned around in the drive. Tomorrow would be a busy day. I’d have to prepare my statements on the whole affair to hand over to a grand jury, then get set to prove it. You don’t simply kill people and walk away from it. Hell, no. Righteous kill or not the law had to be satisfied.

Yes, tomorrow would be a busy day. Tonight would be even busier. I had to see a killer about a murder.

CHAPTER 12

It was ten after eleven when I reached the York estate. Henry came out of his gatehouse, saw me and gaped as though he were looking at a ghost. “Good heavens, Mr. Hammer. The police are searching all over for you! You . . . you killed a man.”

“So I did,” I said sarcastically. “Open the gates.”

“No . . . I can’t let you come in here. There’ll be trouble.”

“There will if you don’t open the gates.” His face seemed to sag and his whole body assumed an air of defeat. Disgust was written in the set of his mouth, disgust at having to look at a man who shot a fellow man. I drove through and stopped.

“Henry, come here.”

The gatekeeper shuffled over reluctantly. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m not wanted any longer, Henry. The police have settled the matter up to a certain point.”

“You mean you didn’t . . .”

“No, I mean I shot him, but it was justified. I’ve been cleared, understand?”

He smiled a little, not quite understanding, but he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he knew he wasn’t harboring a fugitive in me. I pulled up the driveway to the house, easing around the turns until the beams of my brights spotlighted the house. Inside I saw Harvey coming to the door. Instead of parking in front of the place I rolled around to the side and nosed into the open door of the garage. A big six-car affair, but now there were only two cars in it, counting mine. A long time ago someone started using it for a storeroom and now one end was cluttered with the junk accumulated over the years. Two boys’ bicycles were hanging from a suspension gadget set in the ceiling and underneath them a newer model with a small one-cylinder engine built into the frame. Hanging from a hook screwed into an upright were roller skates and ice skates, but neither pair had been used much. Quite a childhood Ruston had.

I shut the door of the garage and looked up. The rain had started. The tears of the gods. Of laughter or sorrow? Maybe the joke was on me, after all.

Harvey was his usual, impeccable, unmoving self as he took my hat and ushered me into the living room. He made no mention of the affair whatsoever, nor did his face reveal any curiosity. Even before he announced me, Roxy was on her way down the stairs with Ruston holding her arm. Billy Parks came out of the foyer grinning broadly, his hand outstretched. “Mike! You sure got your nerve. By gosh, you’re supposed to be Public Enemy Number One!”

“Mike!”

“Hello, Lancelot. Hello, Roxy. Let me give you a hand.”

“Oh, I’m no cripple,” she laughed. “The stairs get me a little, but I can get around all right.”

“What happened, Mike?” Ruston smiled. “The policemen all left this evening after they got a phone call and we haven’t seen them since. Golly, I was afraid you’d been shot or something. We thought they caught you.”

“Well, they came close, kid, but they never even scratched me. It’s all finished. I’m in the clear and I’m about ready to go home.”

Billy Parks stopped short in the act of lighting a cigarette. His hands began to tremble slightly and he had trouble finding the tip of the butt.

Ruston said, “You mean the police don’t want you any longer, Mike?” I shook my head. He gave a little cry of gladness and ran to me, throwing his arms about me in a tight squeeze. “Gee, Mike, I’m so happy.”

I patted his arm and smiled crookedly. “Yep, I’m almost an honest man again.”

“Mike . . .”

Roxy’s voice was the hoarse sound of a rasp on wood. She was clutching the front of her negligee with one hand, trying to push a streamer of hair from her eyes with the other. A little muscle twitched in her cheek. “Who . . . did it, Mike?”

Billy was waiting. Roxy was waiting. I heard Harvey pause outside the door. Ruston looked from them to me, puzzled. The air in the room was charged, alive. “You’ll hear about it tomorrow,” I said.

Billy Parks dropped his cigarette.

“Why not now?” Roxy gasped.

I took a cigarette from my pocket and stuffed it between my lips. Billy fumbled for his on the floor and held the lit tip to mine. I dragged the smoke in deeply. Roxy was beginning to go white, biting on her lip. “You’d better go to your room, Roxy. You don’t look too good.”

“Yes . . . yes. I had better. Excuse me. I really don’t feel too well. The stairs . . .” She let it go unfinished. While Ruston helped her up I stood there in silence with Billy. The kid came down again in a minute.

“Do you think she’ll be all right, Mike?”

“I think so.”

Billy crushed his cig out in an ashtray. “I’m going to bed, Mike. This day has been tough enough.”

I nodded. “You going to bed, too, Ruston?”

“What’s the matter with everybody, Mike?”

“Nervous, I guess.”

“Yes, that’s it, I suppose.” His face brightened. “Let me play for them. I haven’t played since . . . that night. But I want to play, Mike. Will it be all right?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

He grinned and ran out of the room. I heard him arrange the seat, then lift the lid of the piano, and the next moment the heavy melody of a classical piece filled the house. I sat down and listened. It was gay one moment, serious the next. He ran up and down the keys in a fantasy of expression. Good music to think by. I chain-lit another cigarette, wondering how the music was affecting the murderer. Did it give him a creepy feeling? Was every note part of his funeral theme? Three cigarettes gone in thought and still I waited. The music had changed now, it was lilting, rolling in song. I put the butt out and stood up. It was time to see the killer.

I put my hand on the knob and turned, stepped in the room and locked the door behind me. The killer was smiling at me, a smile that had no meaning I could fathom. It was a smile of neither defeat nor despair, but nearer to triumph. It was no way for a murderer to smile. The bells in my head were rising in a crescendo with the music.

I said to the murderer, “You can stop playing now, Ruston.”

The music didn’t halt. It rose in spirit and volume while Ruston York created a symphony from the keyboard, a challenging overture to death, keeping time with my feet as I walked to a chair and sat down. Only when I pulled the .45 from its holster did the music begin to diminish. My eyes never left his face. It died out in a crashing maze of minor chords that resounded from the walls with increased intensity.

“So you found me out, Mr. Hammer.”

“Yes.”

“I rather expected it these last few days.” He crossed his legs with complete nonchalance and barely a glance at the gun in my hand. I felt my temper being drawn to the brink of unreason, my lips tightening.

“You’re a killer, little buddy,” I said. “You’re a blood-crazy, insane little bastard. It’s so damn inconceivable that I can hardly believe it myself, but it’s so. You had it well planned, chum. Oh, but you would, you’re a genius. I forgot. That’s what everyone forgot. You’re only fourteen but you can sit in with scientists and presidents and never miss a trick.”

“Thank you.”

“You have a hair-trigger mind, Ruston. You can conceive and coordinate and anticipate beyond all realm of imagination. All the while I was batting my brains out trying to run down a killer you must have held your sides laughing. You knew pretty well what killing York would expose . . . a series of crimes and petty personalities scrambled together to make the dirtiest omelet ever cooked. But you’d never cook for it. Oh, no . . . not you. If . . . if you were found out the worst that could happen would be that you’d face a juvenile court. That’s what you thought, didn’t you? Like hell.

“Yes, you’re only a child, but you have a man’s mind. That’s why I’m talking to you like I would to a man. That’s why I can kill you like I would a man.”

He sat there unmoving. If he knew fear he showed it only in the tiny blue vein that throbbed in his forehead. The smile still played around his mouth. “Being a genius, I guess you thought I was stupid,” I continued. With every word my heart beat harder and faster until I was filled with hate. “It was getting so that I thought I was stupid myself. Why wouldn’t I? Every time I turned around something would happen that was so screwy that it didn’t have any place in the plot, yet in a way it was directly related. Junior Ghent and Alice. The Graham boys. Each trying to chop off a slice of cash for themselves. Each one concerned with his own little individual problem and completely unknowing of the rest. It was a beautiful setup for you.

“But please don’t think I was stupid, Ruston. The only true stupidity I showed was in calling you Lancelot. If I ever meet the good knight somewhere I’ll beg him to forgive me. But I wasn’t so stupid otherwise, Ruston. I found out that Grange had something on York . . . and that something was the fact that she was the only one who knew that he was a kidnapper in a sense. York . . . an aging scientist who wanted an heir badly so he could pass on his learning to his son . . . but his son died. So what did he do? He took a kid who had been born of a criminal father and would have been reared in the gutter, and turned him into a genius. But after a while the genius began to think and hate. Why? Hell, only you know that.

“But somewhere you got hold of the details concerning your birth. You knew that York had only a few years to live and you knew, too, that Grange had threatened to expose the entire affair if he didn’t leave his money to her. Your father (should I call him that?) was a thinker too. He worked out a proposition with Alice to have an affair with his lesbian assistant and hold that over her head as a club, and it worked, except that Junior Ghent learned of the affair when his sister told him that York had proposed the same deal to her, too, and Junior wanted to hold that over Grange’s head, and Alice’s, too, so that he could come in for part of the property split. Man, what a scramble it was after that. Everybody thought I had the dope when it was lying beside the wall out there. Yeah, the wall. Remember the shot you took at Roxy? You were in your room. You tossed that lariat that was beside your bed around the awning hook outside her window, swung down and shot at her through the glass. She had the light on and couldn’t see out, but she was a perfect target. You missed at that range only because you were swinging. That really threw me off the track. Nice act you put on when I brought the doctor in. You had him fooled too. I didn’t get that until a little while ago.

“Now I know. You, as an intelligent, emotional man, were in love. What a howl. In love with your nurse.” His face darkened. The vein began to throb harder than ever and his hands clenched into a tight knot. “You shot at her because you saw me and Roxy in a clinch and were jealous. Brother, how happy you must have been when the cops were on my back with orders to shoot to kill. I thought you were simply surprised to see me when I climbed in the window that time. Your face went white, remember? For one second there you thought I came back to get you. That was it, wasn’t it?”

His head nodded faintly, but still he said nothing. “Then you saw your chance of bringing the cops charging up by knocking over the lamp. Brilliant mind again. You knew the bulb breaking would sound like a shot. Too bad I got away, wasn’t it?

“If I wasn’t something of a scientist myself I never would have guessed it. Let me tell you how confounded smart I am. Your time doesn’t matter much anyway. I caught up with one of your play-mates that snatched you. I beat the living hell out of him and would have done worse to make him talk and he knew it. I’m a scientist at that kind of stuff. He would have talked his head off, only he didn’t have anything to say. You know what I asked him? I asked him who Mallory was and he didn’t know any Mallory. Good reason too, because ever since you were yanked out of his hands, your father went by the name of Nelson.

“No, he didn’t know any Mallory, yet you came home after the kidnapping and said . . . you . . . heard . . . the . . . name . . . Mallory . . . mentioned. When I finally got it I knew who the killer was. Then I began to figure how you worked it. Someplace in the house, and I’ll find it later, you have the information and Grange’s proof that you were Mallory’s son. Was it a check that York gave Myra Grange? Somehow you located Mallory and sent him the clipping out of the back issue in the library and the details on how to kidnap you. That was why the clipping was gone. You set yourself up to be snatched hoping that the shock would kill York. It damn near did. You did it well, too, even to the point of switching Henry’s aspirins to sleeping tablets. You set yourself up knowing you could outthink the ordinary mortals on the boat and get away. You came mighty close to failing, pal. I wish you had.

“But when that didn’t do it you resorted to murder . . . and what a murder. No sweeter deal could have been cooked up by anyone. You knew that when York heard Mallory’s name brought into it he’d think Grange had spilled the works and go hunting up his little pet. You thought correctly. York went out there with a gun, but I doubt if he intended to use it. The rod was supposed to be a bluff. Billy heard York leave, and he heard me leave, but how did you reach the apartment? Let me tell you. Out in the garage there’s a motorbike. Properly rigged they can do sixty or seventy any day. The noise like a cough that Billy heard was you, Ruston. The sound of the motorbike, low and throaty. I noticed it had a muffler on it. Yeah, York had a gun, and you had to take along a weapon too. A meat cleaver. When I dreamed up all this I wondered why nobody spotted you going or coming, but it wouldn’t be too hard to take to the back roads.

“Ruston, you were born under an evil, lucky star. Everything that happened after you surprised York in that room and split his skull worked in your favor. Hell seemed to break loose with everybody trying to cut in on York’s dough. Even Dilwick. A crooked copper working for Mallory. Your real father needed that protection and Dilwick fitted right in. Dilwick must have guessed at part of the truth without ever really catching on, and he played it to keep Mallory clear and in a good spot to call for a rake-off, but he got too eager. Dilwick’s dead and the rest of his lousy outfit are where they’re supposed to be, cooling their heels in a cell.

“But where are you? You . . . the killer. You’re sitting here listening to me spiel off everything you already know about and you’re not a bit worried. Why should you be? Three or four years in an institution for the criminally insane . . . then prove yourself normal and go back into the world to kill again. You have ethics like Grange. There was a woman who probably loved her profession. She loved it so much she saw a chance to further her career by aiding York, then using it as a club to gain scientific recognition for herself.

“But you on . . . hell.” I spit the word out. “You banked on getting away scot-free first, then as a second-best choice facing a court. Maybe you’d even get a suspended sentence. Sure, why not? Any psychiatrist would see how that could happen. Under the pressure of your studies your mind snapped. Boy, have you got a brain! No chair, not for you. Maybe a couple of years yanked from your life span, but what did it matter? You were twenty years ahead of yourself anyway. That was it, wasn’t it? Ha!

“Not so, little man. The game just doesn’t go that way. I hate to go ex post facto on you, but simply because you’re nicely covered by the law doesn’t mean you’ll stay that way. I’m making up a new one right now. Know what it is?”

He still smiled, no change of expression. It was almost as if he were watching one of his experiments in the rabbit cage.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll tell you. All little geniuses . . . or is it genii? . . . who kill and try to get away with it get it in the neck anyway.”

Very deliberately I let him see me flick the safety catch on the .45. His eyes were little dark pools that seemed to swim in his head.

I was wondering if I was going to like this.

I never killed a little genius before.

For the first time, Ruston spoke. “About an hour ago I anticipated this,” he smiled. I tightened involuntarily. I didn’t know why, but I almost knew beforehand what he’d say.

“When I threw my arms around you inside there feigning happiness over your miraculous reappearance, I removed the clip from your gun. It’s a wonder you didn’t notice the difference in weight.”

Did you ever feel like screaming?

My hand was shaking with rage. I felt the hollow space where the clip fitted and swore. I was so damn safety conscious I didn’t jack a shell into the chamber earlier either.

And Ruston reached behind the music rack on the piano and came out with the .32.

He smiled again. He knew damn well what I was thinking. Without any trouble I could make the next corpse. He fondled the gun, eyeing the hammer. “Don’t move too quickly, Mike. No. I’m not going to shoot you, not just yet. You see, my little knowledge of sleight of hand was quite useful . . . as handy as to know how to open locks. The Normanic sciences weren’t all I studied. Anything that presented a problem afforded me the pleasure of solving it in my spare time.

“Move your chair a little this way so I can see you to the best advantage. Ah . . . yes. Compliments are in order, I believe. You were very right and very clever in your deductions. Frankly, I didn’t imagine anyone would be able to wade through the tangle that the murder preceded. I thought I did quite well, but I see I failed, up to a certain point. Look at it from my point of view before you invite any impetuous ideas. If you turned me over to the police and proved your case, I would, as you say, stand before a juvenile court. Never would I admit my actual adulthood to them, and I would be sent away for a few years, or perhaps not at all. You see, there’s a side to my story too, one you don’t know about.

“Or, Mike, and this is an important ‘or’ . . . I may kill you and claim self-defense. You came in here and in a state of extreme nervous tension hit me. I picked up a gun that dropped out of your pocket”—he held up the .32—“and shot you. Simple? Who would disbelieve it, especially with your temperament . . . and my tender years. So sit still and I don’t think I’ll shoot you for a little while, at least. Before I do anything, I want to correct some erroneous impressions you seem to have.

“I am not a ‘few’ years ahead of my time . . . the difference is more like thirty. Even that is an understatement. Can you realize what that means? Me. Fourteen years old. Yet I have lived over fifty years! God, what a miserable existence. You saw my little, er, schoolhouse, but what conclusion did you draw? Fool that you were, you saw nothing. You saw no electrical or mechanical contrivances that had been developed by one of the greatest scientific minds of the century. No, you merely saw objects, never realizing what they were for.” He paused, grinning with abject hatred. “Have you ever seen them force-feed ducks to enlarge their livers to make better sausages? Picture that happening to a mind. Imagine having the learning processes accelerated through pain. Torture can make the mind do anything when properly presented.

“Oh, I wasn’t supposed to actually feel any of all that. It was supposed to happen while I was unconscious, with only the subconscious mind reacting to the incredible pressures being put upon it to grasp and retain the fantastic array of details poured into it like feed being forced through a funnel down a duck’s gullet into its belly whether it wants it or not.

“Ah, but who is to say what happens to the mind when such a development takes place? What may happen to the intricate mechanism of the human mind under such stimulation? What new reactions will it develop . . . what new outlets will it seek to repel the monster that is invading it?

“That is how I became what I am . . . but what I learned! I went even farther than was expected of me . . . much farther than the simple sciences and mathematics he wanted me to absorb. I even delved into criminology, Mr. Hammer, going over thousands of case histories of past crimes, and when this little . . . circumstance . . . came to my attention, I knew what I had to do . . . then figured out how I could do it.

“I researched, studied and very unobtrusively collected my data, putting myself not ahead of you in the commission and solution of criminal actions, but on an approximate level. With your mind highly tuned to absorb, analyze and reconstruct criminal ways, your close association with the police and past experience, you have been able to run a parallel course with me and arrive at the destination at the same time.”

He gave me a wry grin. “Or should I say a little behind me?” With his head he indicated the gun in his hand, “. . . seeing that at present I hold the most advantageous position.”

I started to rise, but his gun came up. “Remain seated, please. I only said I didn’t think I would shoot you. Hear me out.”

I sat down again.

“Yes, Mr. Hammer, if I had but given it a few days more study your case would have been a hopeless one. Yet you did find me out with all my elaborate precautions, but I still have a marvelous chance to retain my life and liberty. Don’t you think?”

I nodded. He certainly would.

“But what good would it do me? Answer me that? What good would it do me? Would I ever have the girl I love . . . or would she have me? She would vomit at the thought. Me, a boy with an adult mind, but still a boy’s body. What woman would have me? As the years passed my body would become mature, but the power of my mind would have increased tenfold. Then I would be an old man within the physical shell of a boy. And what of society? You know what society would do . . . it would treat me as a freak. Perhaps I could get a position as a lightning calculator in a circus. That’s what that man did to me! That’s what he did with his machines and brilliant thoughts. He crumpled my life into a little ball and threw it in the jaws of science. How I hated him. How I wish I could have made him suffer the way he made me suffer!

“To be twisted on the rack is trivial compared to the way one can be tortured through the mind. Has your brain ever been on fire? Have you ever had your skull probed with bolts of electrical energy while strapped to a chair? Of course not! You can remain smug and commonplace in your normal life and track down criminals and murderers. Your one fear is that of dying. Mine was of not dying soon enough!

“You can’t understand how much the human body can suffer punishment. It’s like a giant machine that can feed itself and heal its own wounds, but the mind is even greater. That simple piece of sickly gray matter that twists itself into gentle shapes under a thin layer of bone and looks so disarming lying in a bottle of formaldehyde is a colossus beyond conception. It thinks pain! Imagine it . . . it thinks pain and the body screams with the torture of it, yet there is nothing you can call physical in the process. It can conceive of things beyond normal imagination if it is stirred to do so. That is what mine did. Things were forced into it. Learning, he called it, but it might as well have been squeezed into my brain with a compressor, for it felt that way. I knew pain that was not known by any martyr . . . it was a pain that will probably never be known again.

“Your expression changes, Mr. Hammer. I see you believe what I say. You should . . . it is true. You may believe it, but you will never understand it. Right now I can see you change your mind. You condone my actions. I condone them. But would a jury if they knew? Would a judge . . . or the public? No, they couldn’t visualize what I have undergone.”

Something was happening to Ruston York even as he was speaking. The little-boy look was gone from his face, replaced by some strange metamorphosis that gave him the facial demeanor I had seen during the wild mouthings of dictators. Every muscle was tense, veins and tendons danced under the delicate texture of his skin and his eyes shone with the inward fury that was gnawing at his heart.

He paused momentarily, staring at me, yet somehow I knew he wasn’t really seeing me at all. “You were right, Mr. Hammer,” he said, a new, distant note in his voice now. “I was in love with my nurse. Or better . . . I am in love with . . . Miss Malcom. From the moment she arrived here I have been in love with her.”

The hard, tight expression seemed to diminish at the thought and a smile tugged faintly at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, Mr. Hammer, love. Not the love a child would give a woman, but a man’s love. The kind of love you can give a woman . . . or any other normal man.”

Suddenly the half smile vanished and the vacant look came back again. “That’s what that man did to me. He made an error in his calculations, or never expected his experiment to reach such a conclusion, but that man did more than make me a mental giant. He not only increased my intellectual capacity to the point of genius . . . but in the process he developed my emotional status until I was no longer a boy.

“I am a man, Mr. Hammer. In every respect except this outer shell, and my chronological age, I am a man. And I am a man in love, trapped inside the body of a child. Can you imagine it? Can you think of me presenting my love to a woman like Roxy Malcom? Oh, she might understand, but never could she return that love. All I would get would be pity. Think of that . . . pity. That’s what that bastard did to me!”

He was spitting the words out now, his face back in the contours of frustration and hatred, his eyes blankly looking at me, yet through me. It had to be like this, I thought, when he was on the brink of the deep end. It was the only chance I had. Slowly, I tucked my feet under me, the movement subtle so as not to distract him. I’d probably take a slug or two, but I’d lived through them before and if I managed it right I might be able to get my hands on his gun before he could squeeze off a fatal one. It was the only chance I had. My fingers were tight on the arms of the chair, the muscles in my shoulders bunched to throw myself forward . . . and all the time my guts were churning because I knew what I could expect before I could get all the way across that room to where he was sitting.

“I have to live in a world of my own, Mr. Hammer. No other world would accept me. As great a thing, a twisted thing that I am, I have no world to live in.”

The blankness suddenly left his eyes. He was seeing me now, seeing what I was doing and knowing what I was thinking. His thumb pulled back the hammer on the .32 to make it that much easier to trigger off. Behind the now almost colorless pupils of his eyes some crazy thought was etching itself into his mind.

Ruston York looked at me, suddenly with his boy face again. He even smiled a tired little smile and the gun moved in his hand. “Yes,” he repeated, “as great as I am, I am useless.”

Even while he had talked, he had done something he had never done before. He exposed himself to himself and for the first time saw the futility that was Ruston York. Once again he smiled, the gun still on me.

There was no time left at all. It had to be now, now! Only a second, perhaps, to do it in.

He saw me and smiled, knowing I was going to do it. “Sir Lancelot,” he said wistfully.

Then, before I could even get out of the chair, Ruston York turned the gun around in his hand, jammed the muzzle of it into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

About the Author

A bartender’s son, Mickey Spillane was born in Brooklyn, New York, on March 9, 1918. An only child who swam and played football as a youth, Spillane got a taste for storytelling by scaring other kids around the campfire. After a truncated college career, Spillane—already selling stories to pulps and slicks under pseudonyms—became a writer in the burgeoning comic-book field, a career cut short by World War II. Spillane, who had learned to fly at airstrips as a boy, became an instructor of fighter pilots.

After the war, Spillane converted an unsold comic-book project—“Mike Danger, Private Eye”—into a hard-hitting, sexy novel. The thousand-dollar advance was just what the writer needed to buy materials for a house he wanted to build for himself and his young wife on a patch of land in New Jersey.

The 1948 Signet reprint of his 1947 E. P. Dutton hardcover novel I, the Jury sold in the millions, as did the six tough mysteries that soon followed; all but one featured hard-as-nails P.I. Mike Hammer. The Hammer thriller Kiss Me, Deadly (1952) was the first private eye novel to make the New York Times bestseller list.

Mike Hammer’s creator claimed to write only when he needed the money, and in periods of little or no publishing, Spillane occupied himselft with other pursuits: flying, traveling with the circus, appearing in motion pictures, and nearly twenty years spoofing himself and Hammer in a lucrative series of Miller Lite beer commercials.

The controversial Hammer has been the subject of a radio show, a comic strip, two television series, and numerous gritty movies, notably director Robert Aldrich’s seminal film noir Kiss Me Deadly (1955), and The Girl Hunters (1963), starring Spillane as his famous hero.

Spillane was honored by the Mystery Writers of America with the Grand Master Award, and with the Private Eye Writers of America “Eye” Lifetime Achievement Award; he was also a Shamus Award winner. The creator of Mike Hammer died in 2006. His wife, Jane, and his friend and collaborator Max Allan Collins are working together to bring Mickey Spillane’s unpublished (and at times unfinished) fiction to fruition.