The Mike Hammer Collection

“Well, she’s a stuffy thing. Hardly ever speaks.”

“Listen,” I said, “are you sure you saw her the other night?”

“Natch, why?”

“She said no. Think hard now. Did you see her or the car?”

“Well, it was her car. I know that. She’s the only one that ever drives it.”

“How would you know it?”

“The aerial. It’s got a bend in it so it can only be telescoped down halfway. Been like that ever since she got the heap.”

“Then you can’t be certain she was in it. You wouldn’t swear to it?”

“Well . . . no. Guess not when you put it that way. But it was her car,” he insisted.

“Thanks a lot.” I shoved another buck at him. “Forget I was around, will you?”

“Never saw you in my life,” he grinned. Nice kid.

This time I took off rather aimlessly. It was only to pacify York that I left the house in the first place. The rain had let up and I shut off the windshield wipers while I turned onto the highway and cruised north toward the estate. If the snatch ran true to form there would be a letter or a call sometime soon. All I could do would be to advise York to follow through to get the kid back again then go after the ones that had him.

If it weren’t for York’s damn craving for secrecy I could buzz the state police and have a seven-state alarm sent out, but that meant the house would crawl with cops. Let a spotter get a load of that and they’d dump the kid and that’d be the end of it until some campers came across his remains sometime. As long as the local police had a sizable reward to shoot for they wouldn’t let it slip. Not after York told them not to.

I wasn’t underestimating Dilwick any. I’d bet my bottom dollar he’d had York’s lines tapped already, ready to go to town the moment a call came through. Unless I got that call at the same time I was liable to get scratched. Not me, brother. Ten G’s was a lot of mazuma in any language.

The lights were still on en masse when I breezed by the estate. It was still too early to go back, and as long as I could keep the old boy happy by doing a little snooping I figured I was earning my keep, at least. About ten miles down the highway the town of Bayview squatted along the water’s edge waiting for summer to liven things up.

A kidnap car could have gone in either direction, although this route was unlikely. Outside Bayview the highway petered off into a tar road that completely disappeared under drifting winter sands. Anything was worth trying, though. I dodged an old flivver that was standing in the middle of the road and swerved into the gravel parking place of a two-bit honky-tonk. The place was badly rundown at the heels and sadly in need of a paint job. A good deodorant would have helped, too. I no sooner got my foot on the rail when a frowsy blonde sidled up to me and I got a quick once-over. “You’re new around here, ain’t you?”

“Just passing through.”

“Through to where? That road outside winds up in the drink.”

“Maybe that’s where I’m going.”

“Aw now, Buster, that ain’t no way to feel. We all got our troubles but you don’t wanna do nothing like that. Lemme buy you a drink, it’ll make you feel better.”

She whistled through her teeth and when that got no response, cupped her hands and yelled to the bartender who was busy shooting trap on the bar. “Hey, Andy, get your tail over here and serve your customers.”

Andy took his time. “What’ll you have, pal?”

“Beer.”

“Me too.”

“You too nothing. Beat it, Janie, you had too much already.”

“Say, see here, I can pay my own way.”

“Not in my joint.”

I grinned at the two of them and chimed in. “Give her a beer why don’t you?”

“Listen, pal, you don’t know her. She’s half tanked already. One more and she’ll be making like a Copa cutie. Not that I don’t like the Copa, but the dames there are one thing and she’s another, just like night and day. Instead of watching, my customers all get the dry heaves and trot down to Charlie’s on the waterfront.”

“Well, I like that!” Janie hit an indignant pose and waved her finger in Andy’s face. “You give me my beer right now or I’ll make better’n the Copa. I’ll make like . . . like . . .”

“Okay, okay, Janie, one more and that’s all.”

The bartender drew two beers, took my dough instead of Janie’s and rang it up. I put mine away in one gulp. Janie never reached completely around her glass. Before Andy could pick out the change Janie had spilled hers halfway down the bar.

Andy said something under his breath, took the glass away then fished around under the counter for a rag. He started to mop up the mess.

I watched. In my head the little bells were going off, slowly at first like chimes on a cold night. They got louder and louder, playing another scrambled, soundless symphony. A muscle in my neck twitched. I could almost feel that ten grand in my pocket already. Very deliberately I reached out across the bar and gathered a handful of Andy’s stained apron in my fist. With my other hand I yanked out the .45 and held it an inch away from his eye. He was staring death in the face and knew it.