The Mike Hammer Collection Part 60

"Yeah? What for? Ain't she supposed to be drowned?"

"Somebody wants it to look that way, I think. Listen, Billy, you told me before that you heard someone come downstairs between York and me the night of the murder. It wasn't important before except to establish an alibi for you if it was needed, but now what you heard may have a bearing on the case. Go over it again, will you? Do it in as much detail as you can."

"Let's see. I didn't really hear York leave, I just remember a car crunching the gravel. It woke me up. I had a headache and a bad taste in my mouth from something York gave me. Pills, I think."

"It was supposed to keep you asleep. He gave you a sedative."

"Whatever it was I puked up in bed, that's why it didn't do me any good. Anyway, I lay here half awake when I heard somebody come down the last two stairs. They squeak, they do. This room is set funny, see. Any noise outside the room travels right in here. They got a name for it."

"Acoustics."

"Yeah, that's it. That's why n.o.body ever used this room but me. They couldn't stand the noise all the time. Not only loud noises, any kind of noises. This was like whoever it was didn't want to make a sound, but it didn't do any good because I heard it. Only I thought it was one of the family trying to be quiet so they wouldn't wake anyone up and I didn't pay any attention to it. About two or three minutes after that comes this noise like someone coughing with their head under a coat and it died out real slow and that's all. I was just getting back to sleep when there was another car tearing out the drive. That was you, I guess."

"That all?"

"Yeah, that's all, Mike. I went back to sleep after that."

This was the ace. It had its face down so I couldn't tell whether it was red or black, but it was the ace. The bells were going off in my head again, those little tinkles that promised to become the pealing of chimes. The cart was before the horse, but if I could find the right buckle to unloosen I could put them right back.

"Billy, say nothing to n.o.body about this, understand? If the local police question you, say nothing. If Sergeant Price wants to know things, have him see me. If you value your head, keep your mouth shut and your door locked."

His eyes popped wide open. "Geez, Mike, is it that important?"

I nodded. "I have a funny feeling, Billy, that the noises you heard were made by the murderer."

"Good Golly!" It left him breathless. Then, "You . . . you think the killer . . ."-he swallowed-". . . might make a try for me?"

"No, Billy, not the killer. You aren't that important to him. Someone else might, though. I think we have a lot more on our hands than just plain murder."

"What?" It was a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"Kidnapping, for one thing. That comes in somewhere. You sit tight until you hear from me." Before I left I turned with my hand on the k.n.o.b and looked into his scared face again. "Who's Mallory, Billy?"

"Mallory who?"

"Just Mallory."

"Gosh, I don't know."

"Okay, kid, thanks."

Mallory. He might as well be Smith or Jones. So far he was just a word. I navigated the gloom again half consciously, thinking of him. Mallory of the kidnapping; Mallory whose very name turned York white and added a link to the chain of crime. Somewhere Mallory was sitting on his f.a.n.n.y getting a large charge out of the whole filthy mess. York knew who he was, but York was dead. Could that be the reason for his murder? Likely. York, by indirect implication and his peculiar action, intimated that Myra Grange knew of him too, but she was dead or missing. Was that Mallory's doing? Likely. h.e.l.l, I couldn't put my finger on anything more definite than a vague possibility. Something had to blow up, somebody would have to try to take the corners out of one of the angles. I gathered all the facts together, but they didn't make sense. A name spoken, the speaker unseen; someone who came downstairs at night, unseen too, and denying it; a search for a stolen something-or-other, whose theft was laid at the feet of the vanished woman. I muttered a string of curses under my breath and kicked aimlessly at empty air. Where was there to start? Dilwick would have his feelers out for Grange and so would Price. With that many men they could get around much too fast for me. Besides, I had the feeling that she was only part of it all, not the key figure that would unlock the mystery, but more like one whose testimony would cut down a lot of time and work. I still couldn't see her putting the cleaver into York then doing the Dutch afterward. If she was a.s.sociated with him professionally she would have to be brilliant, and great minds either turn at murder or attempt to conceive of a flawless plot. York's death was brutal. It was something you might find committed in a dark alley in a slum section for a few paltry dollars, or in a hotel room when a husband returns to find his woman in the arms of her lover. A pa.s.sion kill, a revenge kill, a crude murder for small money, yes, but did any of these motives fit here? For whom did York hold pa.s.sion . . . or vice versa? Roxy hit it when she said he was too old. Small money? None was gone from his wallet apparently. That kind of kill would take place outside on a lonely road or on a deserted street anyway. Revenge . . . revenge. Grange said he had no enemies. That was now. Could anything have happened in the past? You could almost rule that out too, on the basis of precedent. Revenge murders usually happen soon after the event that caused the desire for revenge. If the would-be murderer has time to think he realizes the penalty for murder and it doesn't happen. Unless, of course, the victim, realizing what might happen, keeps on the move. That accentuates the importance of the event to the killer and spurs him on. Negative. York was a public figure for years. He had lived in the same house almost twenty years. Big money, a motive for anything. Was that it? Grange came into that. Why did she have the will? Those things are kept in a safe-deposit box or lawyer's files. The chief beneficiary rarely ever got to see the doc.u.ment much less have it hidden among her personal effects for so long a time. d.a.m.n, Grange had told me she had a large income aside from what York gave her. She didn't care what he did with his money. What a very pretty att.i.tude to take, especially when you know where it's going. She could afford to be snotty with me. I remembered her face when she said it, aloof, the h.e.l.l-with-it att.i.tude. Why the act if it wasn't important then? What was she trying to put across?

Myra Grange. I didn't want it to, but it came back to her every time. Missing the night of the kidnapping; seen on the road, but she said no. Why? I started to grin a little. An unmarried person goes out at night for what reason? Natch . . . a date. Grange had a date, and her kind of dates had to be kept behind closed doors, that's why she was rarely seen about. York wouldn't want it to get around either for fear of criticism, that's why he was nice about it. Grange would deny it for a lot of reasons. It would hurt her professionally, or worse, she might lose a perfectly good girlfriend. It was all supposition, but I bet I was close.

The night air hit me in the face. I hadn't realized I was standing outside the door until a chilly mist ran up the steps and hugged me. I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked down the drive. Behind me the house watched with staring eyes. I wished it could talk. The gravel path encircled the gloomy old place with gray arms and I followed it aimlessly, trying to straighten out my thoughts. When I came to the fork I stood motionless a moment then followed the turn off to the right.

Fifty yards later the colorless bulk of the laboratory grew out of the darkness like a crypt. It was a drab cinder-block building, the only incongruous thing on the estate. No windows broke the contours of the walls on either of the two sides visible, no place where prying eyes might observe what occurred within. At the far end a thirty-foot chimney poked a skinny finger skyward, stretching to clear the treetops. Upon closer inspection a ventilation system showed just under the eaves, screened air intakes and outlets above eye level.

I went around the building once, a hundred-by-fifty-foot structure, but the only opening was the single steel door in the front, a door built to withstand weather or siege. But it was not built to withstand curiosity. The first master key I used turned the lock. It was a laugh. The double tongue had p.r.o.ngs as thick as my thumb, but the tumbler arrangement was as uncomplicated as a gla.s.s of milk.

Fortunately, the light pulls had tiny phosph.o.r.escent tips that cast a greenish glow. I reached up and yanked one. Overhead a hundred-watt bulb flared into daylight brilliance. I checked the door and shut it, then looked about me. Architecturally, the building was a study in simplicity. One long corridor ran the length of it. Off each side were rooms, perhaps sixteen in all. No dirt marred the shining marble floor, no streaks on the enameled white walls. Each door was shut, the bra.s.s of the k.n.o.bs gleaming, the woodwork smiling in varnished austerity. For all its rough exterior, the inside was spotless.

The first room on the one side was an office, fitted with a desk, several filing cabinets, a big chair and a water cooler. The room opposite was its mate. So far so good. I could tell by the pipe rack which had been York's.

Next came some sort of supply room. In racks along the walls were hundreds of labeled bottles, chemicals unknown to me. I opened the bins below. Electrical fittings, tubes, meaningless coils of copper tubing lay neatly placed on shelves alongside instruments and parts of unusual design. This time the room opposite was no mate. Crouched in one corner was a generator, snuggling up to a transformer. Wrist-thick power lines came in through the door, pa.s.sed through the two units and into the walls. I had seen affairs like this on portable electric chairs in some of our more rural states. I couldn't figure this one out. If the education of Ruston was York's sole work, why all the gadgets? Or was that merely a shield for something bigger?

The following room turned everything into a c.o.c.keyed mess. Here was a lounge that was sheer luxury. Overstuffed chairs, a seven-foot couch, a chair shaped like a French curve that went down your back, up under your knees and ended in a cushioned foot rest. Handy to everything were magazine racks of popular t.i.tles and some of more obscure t.i.tles. Books in foreign languages rested between costly jade bookends. A combination radio-phonograph sat in the corner, flanked by cabinets of symphonic and pop records. Opposite it at the other end of the room was a grand piano with operatic scores concealed in the seat. Cleverly contrived furniture turned into art boards and reading tables. A miniature refrigerator housed a bottle of ice water and several frosted gla.s.ses. Along the wall several Petri dishes held agar-agar with yellow bacteria cultures mottling the tops. Next to them was a double-lensed microscope of the best manufacture.

What a playpen. Here anyone could relax in comfort with his favorite hobby. Was this where Ruston spent his idle hours? There was nothing here for a boy, but his mind would appreciate it.

It was getting late. I shut the door and moved on, taking quick peeks into each room. A full-scale lab, test tubes, retorts, a room of books, nothing but books, then more electrical equipment. I crossed the corridor and stuck my head in. I had to take a second look to be sure I was right. If that wasn't the hot seat standing in the middle of the floor it was a good imitation.

I didn't get a chance to go over it. Very faintly I heard metal scratching against metal. I pulled the door shut and ran down the corridor, pulling at the light cords as I went. I wasn't the only one that was curious this night.

Just as I closed the door of Grange's office behind me the outside door swung inward. Someone was standing there in the dark waiting. I heard his breath coming hard with an attempt to control it. The door shut, and a sliver of light ran along the floor, shining through the crack onto my shoes. The intruder wasn't bothering with the overheads, he was using a flash.

A hand touched the k.n.o.b. In two shakes I was palming my rod, holding it above my head ready to bring it down the second he stepped in the door. It never opened. He moved to the other side and went into York's office instead.

As slowly as I could I eased the k.n.o.b around, then brought it toward my stomach. An inch, two, then there was room enough to squeeze out. I kept the dark paneling of the door at my back, stood there in the darkness, letting my breath in and out silently while I watched Junior Ghent rifle York's room.

He had the flashlight propped on the top of the desk, working in its beam. He didn't seem to be in a hurry. He pulled out every drawer of the files, scattering their contents on the floor in individual piles. When he finished with one row he moved to another until the empty cabinet gaped like a toothless old man.

For a second I thought he was leaving and faded to one side, but all he did was turn the flash to focus on the other side of the room. Again, he repeated the procedure. I watched.

At the end of twenty minutes his patience began to give out. He yanked things viciously from place and kicked at the chair, then obviously holding himself in check tried to be calm about it. In another fifteen minutes he had circled the room, making it look like a bomb had gone off in there. He hadn't found what he was after.

That came by accident.

The chair got in his way again. He pushed it so hard it skidded along the marble, hit an empty drawer and toppled over. I even noticed it before he did.

The chair had a false bottom.

Very clever. Search a room for hours and you'll push furniture all over the place, but how often will you turn up a chair and inspect it? Junior let out a surprised gasp and went down on his knees, his fingers running over the paneling. When his fingernails didn't work he took a screwdriver from his pocket and forced it into the wood. There was a sharp snap and the bottom was off.

A thick envelope was fastened to a wire clasp. He smacked his lips and wrenched it free. With his forefinger he lifted the flap and drew out a sheaf of papers. These he scanned quickly, let out a sarcastic snort, and discarded them on the floor. He dug into the envelope and brought out something else. He studied it closely, rubbing his hand over his stomach. Twice he adjusted his gla.s.ses and held them closer to the light. I saw his face flush. As though he knew he was being watched he threw a furtive glance toward the door, then shoved the stuff back in the envelope and put it in his side pocket.

I ducked back in the corridor while he went out the door, waited until it closed then snapped the light on and stepped over the junk. One quick look at the papers he had found in the envelope told me what it was. This will was made out only a few months ago, and it left three-quarters of his estate to Ruston and one-quarter to Alice. York had cut the rest out with a single buck.

Junior Ghent had something more important, though. I folded the will into my pocket and ran to the door. I didn't want my little pal to get away.

He didn't. Fifty yards up the drive he was getting the life beat out of him.

I heard his m.u.f.fled screams, and other voices, too. I got the .45 in my hand and thumbed the safety off and made a dash for them.

Maybe I should have stayed on the gra.s.s, but I didn't have that much time. Two figures detached themselves from the one on the ground and broke for the trees. I let one go over their heads that echoed over the grounds like the roiling of thunder, but neither stopped. They went across a clearing and I put on speed to get free of the brush line so I could take aim. Junior stopped that. I tripped over his sprawled figure and went flat on my kisser. The pair scrambled over the wall before I was up. From the ground I tried a snap shot that went wild. On the other side of the wall a car roared into life and shot down the road.

A woman's quick, sharp scream split the air like a knife and caught me flat-footed. Everything happened at once. Briars ripped at my clothes when I went through the brush and whipped at my face. Lights went on in the house and Harvey's voice rang out for help. By the time I reached the porch Billy was standing beside the door in his pajamas.

"Upstairs, Mike, it's Miss Malcom. Somebody shot her!"

Harvey was waving frantically, pointing to her room. I raced inside. Roxy was lying on the floor with blood making a bright red picture on the shoulder of her nightgown. Harvey stood over me, shaking with fear as I ripped the cloth away. I breathed with relief. The bullet had only pa.s.sed through the flesh under her arm.

I carried her to bed and called to the butler over my shoulder. "Get some hot water and bandages. Get a doctor up here."

Harvey said, "Yes, sir," and scurried away.

Billy came in. "Can I do anything, Mike? I . . . I don't want to be alone."

"Okay, stay with her. I want to see the kid."

I opened the door to Ruston's room and turned on the light. He was sitting up, holding himself erect with his hands, his eyes were fixed on the wall in a blank stare, his mouth open. He never saw me. I shook him, he was stiff as a board, every muscle in his body as rigid as a piece of steel. He jerked convulsively once or twice, never taking his eyes from the wall. It took a lot of force to pull his arms up and straighten him out.

"Harvey, did you call that doctor?"

Billy sang out, "He's doing it now, Mike."

"d.a.m.n it, tell him to hurry. The kid's having a fit or something."

He hollered down the stairs to Harvey; I could hear the excited stuttering over the telephone, but it would be awhile before a medic would reach the house. Ruston began to tremble, his eyes rolled back in his head. Leaning over I slapped him sharply across the cheek.

"Ruston, snap out of it." I slapped him again. "Ruston."

This time his eyelids flickered, he came back to normal with a sob. His mouth twitched and he covered his face with his hands. Suddenly he sat up in bed and shouted, "Mike!"

"I'm right here, kid," I said, "take it easy." His face found mine and he reached for my hand. He was trembling from head to foot, his body bathed in cold sweat.

"Miss Malcom . . . ?"

"Is all right," I answered. "She just got a good scare, that's all." I didn't want to frighten him any more than he was. "Did someone come in here?"

He squeezed my hand. "No . . . there was a noise, and Miss Malcom screamed. Mike, I'm not very brave at all. I'm scared."

The kid had a right to be. "It was nothing. Cover up and be still. I'll be in the next room. Want me to leave the door open?"

"Please, Mike."

I left the light on and put a rubber wedge under the door to keep it open. Billy was standing by the bed holding a handkerchief to Roxy's shoulder. I took it away and looked at it. Not much of a wound, the bullet was of small caliber and had gone in and come out clean. Billy poked me and pointed to the window. The pane had spiderwebbed into a thousand cracks with a neat hole at the bottom a few inches above the sill. Tiny gla.s.s fragments winked up from the floor. The shot had come in from below, traveling upward. Behind me in the wall was the bullet hole, a small puncture head high. I dug out the slug from the plaster and rolled it over in my hand. A neat piece of lead whose shape had hardly been deformed by the wall, caliber .32. York's gun had found its way home.

I tucked it in my watch pocket. "Stay here, Billy, I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" He didn't like me to leave.

"I got a friend downstairs."

Junior was struggling to his feet when I reached him. I helped him with a fist in his collar. This little twerp had a lot of explaining to do. He was a sorry-looking sight. Pieces of gravel were imbedded in the flesh of his face and blood matted the hair of his scalp. One lens of his specs was smashed. I watched him while he detached his lower lip from his teeth, swearing incoherently. The belting he took had left him half dazed, and he didn't try to resist at all when I walked him toward the house.

When I sat him in a chair he shook his head, touching the cut on his temple. He kept repeating a four-letter word over and over until realization of what had happened hit him. His head came up and I thought he was going to spit at me.

"You got it!" he said accusingly on the verge of tears now.

"Got what?" I leaned forward to get every word. His eyes narrowed.

Junior said sullenly, "Nothing."

Very deliberately I took his tie in my hand and pulled it. He tried to draw back, but I held him close. "Little chum," I said, "you are in a bad spot, very bad. You've been caught breaking and entering. You stole something from York's private hideaway and Miss Malcom has been shot. If you know what's good for you, you'll talk."

"Shot . . . killed?"

There was no sense letting him know the truth. "She's not dead yet. If she dies you're liable to face a murder charge."

"No. No. I didn't do it. I admit I was in the laboratory, but I didn't shoot her. I . . . I didn't get a chance to. Those men jumped on me. I fought for my life."

"Did you? Were you really unconscious? Maybe. I went after them until I heard Miss Malcom scream. Did she scream because you shot her, then faked being knocked out all the while?"

He turned white. A little vein in his forehead throbbed, his hands tightened until his nails drew blood from the palms. "You can't pin it on me," he said. "I didn't do it, I swear."

"No? What did you take from the room back there?"

A pause, then, "Nothing."

I reached for his pockets, daring him to move. Each one I turned inside out, dumping their contents around the bottom of the chair. A wallet, theater stubs, two old letters, some keys and fifty-five cents in change. That was all.

"So somebody else wanted what you found, didn't they?" He didn't answer. "They got it, too."

"I didn't have anything," he repeated.

He was lying through his teeth. "Then why did they wait for you and beat your brains out? Answer that one." He was quiet. I took the will out and waved it at him. "It went with this. It was more important than this, though. But what would be more important to you than a will? You're stupid, Junior. You aren't in this at all, are you? If you had sense enough to burn it you might have come into big dough when the estate was split up, especially with the kid under age. But no, you didn't care whether the will was found and probated or not, because the other thing was more important. It meant more money. How, Junior, how?"

For my little speech I had a sneer thrown at me. "All right," I told him, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Right now you look like h.e.l.l, but you're beautiful compared to what you'll look like in ten minutes. I'm going to slap the c.r.a.p out of you until you talk. Yell all you want to, it won't do any good."

I pulled back my hand. Junior didn't wait, he started speaking. "Don't. It was nothing. I . . . I stole some money from my uncle once. He caught me and made me sign a statement. I didn't want it to be found or I'd never get a cent. That was it."

"Yes? What made it so important that someone else would want it?"

"I don't know. There was something else attached to the statement that I didn't look at. Maybe they wanted that."

It could have been a lie, but I wasn't sure. What he said made sense. "Did you shoot Miss Malcom?"

"That's silly." I tightened up on the tie again. "Please, you're choking me. I didn't shoot anyone. I never saw her. You can tell, the police have a test haven't they?"

"Yes, a paraffin test. Would you submit to it?"

Relief flooded his face and he nodded. I let him go. If he had pulled the trigger he wouldn't be so d.a.m.n anxious. Besides, I knew for sure that he hadn't been wearing gloves.