The Mike Hammer Collection

“Only that she’s supposed to be the quiet type. York told me that she frequents the library a lot, but I doubt if you’ll find her there. I’ll see what I can pick up at the house. If I latch on to anything about her I’ll buzz you.”

I said so long and went downstairs. Right now the most important thing in my life was getting some sleep. I felt like I hadn’t seen a pillow in months. A pair of young troopers leaned against the fender of a blue Caddy sedan parked down further from my heap. They were comparing notes and talking back and forth. I’d better remind Billy to come get it.

The sun was thumbing its nose at the night when I reached the estate. Early-morning trucks that the gas station attendant had spoken of were on the road to town, whizzing by at a good clip. I honked my horn at the gate until Henry came out, still chewing on his breakfast.

He waved. “So it was you. I wondered who opened the gates. Why didn’t you get me up?”

I drove alongside him and waited until he swallowed. “Henry, did you hear me go out last night?”

“Me? Naw, I slept like a log. Ever since the kid was gone I couldn’t sleep thinking that it was all my fault because I sleep so sound, but last night I felt pretty good.”

“You must have. Two cars went out, the first one was your boss.”

“York? Where’d he go?”

“To town.”

He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Do . . . do you think he’ll be sore because I didn’t hear him?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t think he wanted to be heard.”

“When’s he coming back?”

“He won’t. He’s dead.” I left him standing there with his mouth open. The next time he’d be more careful of those gates.

I raced the engine outside the house and cut it. If that didn’t wake everyone in the house the way I slammed the door did. Upstairs I heard a few indignant voices sounding off behind closed doors. I ran up the stairs and met Roxy at the top, holding a quilted robe together at her middle.

She shushed me with her hand. “Be quiet, please. The boy is still asleep.” It was going to be hard on him when he woke up.

“Just get up, Roxy?”

“A moment ago when you made all the noise out front. What are you doing up?”

“Never mind. Everybody still around?”

“How should I know? Why, what’s the matter?”

“York’s been murdered.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. For a long second her breath caught in her throat. “W . . . who did it?” she stammered.

“That’s what I’d like to know, Roxy.”

She bit her lip. “It . . . it was like we were talking about, wasn’t it?”

“Seems to be. The finger’s on Myra Grange now. It happened in her apartment and she took a powder.”

“Well, what will we do?”

“You get the gang up. Don’t tell them anything, just that I want to see them downstairs in the living room. Go ahead.”

Roxy was glad to be doing something. She half ran to the far end of the hall and threw herself into the first room. I walked around to Ruston’s door and tried it. Locked. Roxy’s door was open and I went in that way, closing it behind me, then stepped softly to the door of the adjoining room and went in.

Ruston was fast asleep, a slight smile on his face as he played in his dreams. The covers were pulled up under his chin making him look younger than his fourteen years. I blew a wisp of hair away that had drifted across his brow and shook him lightly. “Ruston.”

I rocked him again. “Ruston.”

His eyes came open slowly. When he saw me he smiled. “Hello, Mr. Hammer.”

“Call me Mike, kid, we’re pals, aren’t we?”

“You bet . . . Mike.” He freed one arm and stretched. “Is it time to get up?”

“No, Ruston, not yet. There’s something I have to tell you.” I wondered how to put it. It wasn’t easy to tell a kid that the father he loved had just been butchered by a blood-crazy killer.

“What is it? You look awfully worried, Mike, is something wrong?”

“Something is very wrong, kid, are you pretty tough?”

Another shy smile. “I’m not tough, not really. I wish I were, like people in stories.”

I decided to give it to him the hard way and get it over with. “Your dad’s dead, son.”

He didn’t grasp the meaning of it at first. He looked at me, puzzled, as though he had misinterpreted what I had said.

“Dead?”

I nodded. Realization came like a flood. The tears started in the corners. One rolled down his cheek. “No . . . he can’t be dead. He can’t be!” I put my arms around him for a second time. He hung on to me and sobbed.

“Oh . . . Dad. What happened to him, Mike? What happened?”

Softly, I stroked his head, trying to remember what my own father did with me when I hurt myself. I couldn’t give him the details. “He’s . . . just dead, Ruston.”

“Something happened, I know.” He tried to fight the tears, but it was no use. He drew away and rubbed his eyes. “What happened, Mike, please tell me?”

I handed him my handkerchief. He’d find out later, and it was better he heard it from me than one of the ghouls. “Someone killed him. Here, blow your nose.” He blew, never taking his eyes from mine. I’ve seen puppies look at me that way when they’ve been kicked and didn’t understand why.