The Mike Hammer Collection

The cop on the beat outside Torrence’s house checked my identity before letting me go through. Two reporters were already there talking to a plainclothesman and a fire captain, but not seeming to be getting much out of either one of them.

Geraldine King met me at the door, her face tight and worried.

I said, “What happened?”

“Sue’s place . . . it burned.”

“What about the kid?”

“She’s all right. I have her upstairs in bed. Come on inside.”

“No, let’s see that building first.”

She pulled a sweater on and closed the door behind us. Floodlights on the grounds illuminated the area, the rain slanting through it obliquely.

There wasn’t much left, just charred ruins and the concrete foundation. Fire hoses and the rain had squelched every trace of smoldering except for one tendril of smoke that drifted out of one corner, and I could see the remains of the record player and the lone finger that was her microphone stand. Scattered across the floor were tiny bits of light bouncing back from the shattered mirror that had lined the one wall. But there was nothing else. Whatever had been there was gone now.

I said, “We can go back now.”

When we were inside Geraldine made us both a drink and stood in the den looking out the window. I let her wait until she was ready to talk, finishing half my drink on the way. Finally she said, “This morning Sue came inside. I . . . don’t know what started it, but she came out openly and accused Mr. Torrence of having killed her mother. She kept saying her mother told her.”

“How could she say her mother told her she was murdered when she was alive to tell her?” I interrupted.

“I know, I know, but she insisted her mother wrote something and she was going to find it. You know she kept all her mother’s old personal things out there.”

“Yes, I saw some of them.”

“Mr. Torrence is in the middle of an important campaign. He was quite angry and wanted this thing settled once and for all, so while Sue was in here he went out and went through her things, trying to prove that there was nothing.

“Sue must have seen him from upstairs. She came down crying, ran outside, and told him to leave. Neither one of us could quiet her down. She locked herself inside and wouldn’t come out and as long as she was there we didn’t worry about it. This . . . wasn’t exactly the first time this has happened. We were both used to her outbursts.

“Late this afternoon Mr. Torrence got a call and had to leave for his office on some campaign matter. It was about two hours later that I happened to look out and saw the smoke. The building was burning from the inside and Sue was still there. The record player was going and when I looked in the window she was doing some crazy kind of dance with one of those big stuffed toys that used to belong to her mother.

“She wouldn’t come out, wouldn’t answer me . . . nothing. I . . . guess I started screaming. There was a policeman outside the fence, fortunately. He just happened to be there.”

I shook my head. “No, he wasn’t. This department was cooperating with the requests of the city police. He was there purposely. Go on.”

“He came in and broke down the door. By that time Sue was almost unconscious, lying there on the floor with the flames shooting up the walls. We dragged her out, got her in the house, and I put her to bed. One of the neighbors saw the flames and called the fire department. They came, but there was nothing to do. The damage was not really important . . . except now we’ll never know what Sue had of her mother’s that she was always searching for.”

“Where was Torrence at this time?”

Slowly, she turned around, fingering the drink in her hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but perhaps twenty minutes before that I spoke to him on the phone. He was in the city.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I spoke to two others in his office on some party matters.”

“Where is he now?”

“On the way to Albany with some of his constituents. If you want I’ll see that he’s notified and we’ll get him right back.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. Can I see Sue?

“She’ll be asleep. She was totally worn out. She started the fire, you know.”

“I don’t.”

“But I do.”

“How?”

“She told me. She’ll tell you too when she’s awake.”

“Then we’ll awaken her.”

“All right.”

Sue’s bedroom was a composite of little girl and grown-up. There were framed still pictures of Sally Devon on her dresser and vanity along with some of herself in leotards and ballet costumes. There was another record player here and an almost identical stack of classical L.P.’s. Scattered here and there were toys from another year, mostly fuzzy animals and dolls in dancing clothes.

She lay in bed like a child, her yellow hair spilling around her face, one arm snuggling an oversized animal whose fur had been partially burned off, the face charred so that it was almost unrecognizable for whatever it was. She smiled dreamily, held the toy close to her, and buried her face against it. Some of the straw was sticking out on one side and she pushed it out of the way.