The Mike Hammer Collection

I looked them over. Not much there. Each sheet was an individual statement and it barely covered a quarter of the page. Besides a brief personal history was the report that once in bed, each person had remained there until I called them into the living room that morning.

I handed them back. “Somebody’s lying. Is this all you got?”

“We didn’t press for information although Dilwick wanted to. Who lied?”

“Somebody. Billy Parks told me he heard someone come downstairs during the night.”

“Could it have been you?”

“No, it was before I followed York.”

“He made no mention of it to me.”

“Probably because he’s afraid somebody will refute it if he does just to blacken him. I half promised him I’d check on it first.”

“I see. Did York take you into his confidence at any time?”

“Nope. I didn’t know him that long. After the snatch he hired me to stick around until he was certain his son was safe.”

Price threw the pencil on the desk. “We’re climbing a tree,” he said tersely. “York was killed for a reason. Myra Grange was killed for the same reason. I think that for the time being we’ll concentrate our efforts on locating Grange’s body. When we’re sure of her death we can have something definite to work on. Meanwhile I’m taking it for granted that she is dead.”

I stood up to leave. “I’m not taking anything for granted, Sergeant. If she’s dead she’s out of it; if not the finger is still on her. I’m going to play around a little bit and see what happens. What’s Dilwick doing?”

“Like you. He won’t believe she’s dead until he sees her either.”

“Don’t underestimate that hulk,” I told him. “He’s had a lot of police work and he’s shrewd. Too shrewd, in fact, that’s why he was booted off the New York force. He’ll be looking out for himself when the time comes. If anything develops I’ll let you know.”

“Do that. See you later.”

That ended the visit. I went out to the car and sat behind the wheel a while, thinking. Kidnapping, murder, a disappearance. A house full of black sheep. One nice kid, an ex-stripper for a nurse and a chauffeur with a record. The butler, maybe the butler did it. Someday a butler would do it for a change. A distraught father who stuck his hand in a hole in the fireplace and found something gone. He sets out to kill and gets killed instead. The one he wanted to kill is gone, perhaps dead too. Mallory. That was the name that started the ball of murder rolling. But Mallory figured in the kidnapping.

Okay, first things first. The kidnapping was first and I’d take it that way. It was a hell of a mess. The only thing that could make it any worse was to have Grange show up with an airtight alibi. I hated to hold out on Price about Mallory, but if he had it Dilwick would have to get it too, and that would put the kibosh on me. Like hell. I promised the kid.

I shoved the car in gear and spun out on the highway. Initial clue, the cops call it, the hand that puts the hound on the trail, that’s what I had to have. York thought it was in Grange’s apartment. Find what he was searching for and you had the answer. Swell, let’s find it.

This time I parked around the block. The rain had started again, a light mist that you breathed into your lungs and that dampened matches in your pocket. From the back of the car I pulled a slicker and climbed into it, turning the collar up high. I walked back to Main Street, crossed over to the side of the street opposite the apartment and joined the few late workers in their dash toward home.

I saw what I was looking for, a black, unmarked sedan occupied by a pair of cigar-smoking gentlemen who were trying their best to remain unnoticed. They did a lousy job. I circled the block until I was behind the apartment. A row of modest one-family houses faced me, their windows lighted with gaiety and cheer. Each house was flanked by a driveway.

Without waiting I picked the right one and turned down the cinder drive, staying to the side in the shadow of a hedgerow where the grass partially muffled my feet. Somehow I slipped between the garage and the hedges to the back fence without making too much of a racket. For ten minutes I stood that way, motionless. It wasn’t a new experience for me. I remembered other pits of blackness where little brown men waited and threw jeers into our faces to draw us out. That was a real test of patience. This guy was easier. When another ten minutes passed the match lit his face briefly, then subsided into the ill-concealed glow of a cigarette tip.

Dilwick wasn’t taking any chances on Myra Grange slipping back to her apartment. Or anyone else for that matter.