The Mike Hammer Collection

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

“We hit something, baby,” I said.

“Pat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, he died a long time ago.”

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

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

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

“My goodness, isn’t that funny?”

“What is?”

“That you should want them too.”

“Who else wanted them, Mrs. Malek?”

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

“Did he, Mrs. Malek?”

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

“This party who called . . .”

“I told him what I’m telling you.”

“Him?”

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

“You take it?”

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

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

“Who did you give it to, Mrs. Malek?”

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

“You know the boy?”

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

“Damn,” I said.

“Another cup of tea, Mr. Hammer?”

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

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

“What!”

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

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

“Lovely. More tea?”

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

“Here you are, Mr. Hammer.”

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

“Are you satisfied, sir?”

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

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

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

“How do you know?” I asked her.