The Mike Hammer Collection

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head.

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

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

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

I threw him a straw. “Perhaps.”

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

“It’ll cost you.”

“Very well, how much?”

“How much did you offer Dilwick?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-uh.”

“Why not? I thought . . .”

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

“But the motive . . .”

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

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

“I see. What about the gatekeeper?”

“Henry saw nothing, heard nothing.”

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