The Mike Hammer Collection

A woman’s quick, sharp scream split the air like a knife and caught me flat-footed. Everything happened at once. Briars ripped at my clothes when I went through the brush and whipped at my face. Lights went on in the house and Harvey’s voice rang out for help. By the time I reached the porch Billy was standing beside the door in his pajamas.

“Upstairs, Mike, it’s Miss Malcom. Somebody shot her!”

Harvey was waving frantically, pointing to her room. I raced inside. Roxy was lying on the floor with blood making a bright red picture on the shoulder of her nightgown. Harvey stood over me, shaking with fear as I ripped the cloth away. I breathed with relief. The bullet had only passed through the flesh under her arm.

I carried her to bed and called to the butler over my shoulder. “Get some hot water and bandages. Get a doctor up here.”

Harvey said, “Yes, sir,” and scurried away.

Billy came in. “Can I do anything, Mike? I . . . I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay, stay with her. I want to see the kid.”

I opened the door to Ruston’s room and turned on the light. He was sitting up, holding himself erect with his hands, his eyes were fixed on the wall in a blank stare, his mouth open. He never saw me. I shook him, he was stiff as a board, every muscle in his body as rigid as a piece of steel. He jerked convulsively once or twice, never taking his eyes from the wall. It took a lot of force to pull his arms up and straighten him out.

“Harvey, did you call that doctor?”

Billy sang out, “He’s doing it now, Mike.”

“Damn it, tell him to hurry. The kid’s having a fit or something.”

He hollered down the stairs to Harvey; I could hear the excited stuttering over the telephone, but it would be awhile before a medic would reach the house. Ruston began to tremble, his eyes rolled back in his head. Leaning over I slapped him sharply across the cheek.

“Ruston, snap out of it.” I slapped him again. “Ruston.”

This time his eyelids flickered, he came back to normal with a sob. His mouth twitched and he covered his face with his hands. Suddenly he sat up in bed and shouted, “Mike!”

“I’m right here, kid,” I said, “take it easy.” His face found mine and he reached for my hand. He was trembling from head to foot, his body bathed in cold sweat.

“Miss Malcom . . . ?”

“Is all right,” I answered. “She just got a good scare, that’s all.” I didn’t want to frighten him any more than he was. “Did someone come in here?”

He squeezed my hand. “No . . . there was a noise, and Miss Malcom screamed. Mike, I’m not very brave at all. I’m scared.”

The kid had a right to be. “It was nothing. Cover up and be still. I’ll be in the next room. Want me to leave the door open?”

“Please, Mike.”

I left the light on and put a rubber wedge under the door to keep it open. Billy was standing by the bed holding a handkerchief to Roxy’s shoulder. I took it away and looked at it. Not much of a wound, the bullet was of small caliber and had gone in and come out clean. Billy poked me and pointed to the window. The pane had spiderwebbed into a thousand cracks with a neat hole at the bottom a few inches above the sill. Tiny glass fragments winked up from the floor. The shot had come in from below, traveling upward. Behind me in the wall was the bullet hole, a small puncture head high. I dug out the slug from the plaster and rolled it over in my hand. A neat piece of lead whose shape had hardly been deformed by the wall, caliber .32. York’s gun had found its way home.

I tucked it in my watch pocket. “Stay here, Billy, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” He didn’t like me to leave.

“I got a friend downstairs.”

Junior was struggling to his feet when I reached him. I helped him with a fist in his collar. This little twerp had a lot of explaining to do. He was a sorry-looking sight. Pieces of gravel were imbedded in the flesh of his face and blood matted the hair of his scalp. One lens of his specs was smashed. I watched him while he detached his lower lip from his teeth, swearing incoherently. The belting he took had left him half dazed, and he didn’t try to resist at all when I walked him toward the house.

When I sat him in a chair he shook his head, touching the cut on his temple. He kept repeating a four-letter word over and over until realization of what had happened hit him. His head came up and I thought he was going to spit at me.

“You got it!” he said accusingly on the verge of tears now.

“Got what?” I leaned forward to get every word. His eyes narrowed.

Junior said sullenly, “Nothing.”

Very deliberately I took his tie in my hand and pulled it. He tried to draw back, but I held him close. “Little chum,” I said, “you are in a bad spot, very bad. You’ve been caught breaking and entering. You stole something from York’s private hideaway and Miss Malcom has been shot. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll talk.”

“Shot . . . killed?”

There was no sense letting him know the truth. “She’s not dead yet. If she dies you’re liable to face a murder charge.”