The Mike Hammer Collection

Flames were licking the top of their sooty cavern. Dante’s own inferno, hot, roasting, destroying. It would have been so nice if I could only have known what York had hidden in the pillar of the fireplace. York’s secret hiding place, that and the chair bottom. Why two places unless he didn’t want to have all his eggs in one basket? Or was it another ease of first things first? He could have put something in the fireplace years ago and not cared to change it.

With a show of impatience I flipped the remains of the butt into the flames, then stretched my legs out toward the fireplace. Secrets, secrets, so damn many secrets. I moved my head to one side so I could see the brick posts on the end of the smoke-blackened pit. It was well concealed, that cache. Curiosity again. I got up and looked it over more closely. Not a brick out of line, not a seam visible. Unless you saw it open you would never guess it to be there.

I went over every inch of it, rapping the bricks with my bare knuckles, but unlike wood, they gave off no sound. There had to be a trip for it somewhere. I looked again where the stone joined the wall. One place shoulder-high was smudged. I pressed.

The tiny door clicked and swung open.

Nice. It was faced with whole brick that joined with a fit in a recess of the concrete that the eye couldn’t discern. To get my hand in I had to hold the door open against the force of a spring. I fished around, but felt nothing except cold masonry until I went to take my hand out. A piece of paper caught in the hinge mechanism brushed my fingers. I worked it out slowly, because at the first attempt to dislodge it, part of the paper crumbled to dust. When I let the door go it snapped shut, and I was holding a piece of an ancient newspaper.

It was brown with age, ready to fall apart at the slightest pressure. The print was faded, but legible. It bore the dateline of a New York edition, one that was on the stands October 9, fourteen years ago. What happened fourteen years ago? The rest of the paper had been stolen, this was a piece torn off when it was lifted from the well in the fireplace. A dateline, nothing but a fourteen-year-old dateline.

I’m getting old, I thought. These things ought to make an impression sooner. Fourteen years ago Ruston had been born.

CHAPTER 8

Somehow, the library had an unused look. An ageless caretaker shuffled up the aisle carrying a broom and a dustpan, looking for something to sweep. The librarian, untrue to type, was busy painting her mouth an unholy red, and never looked up until I rapped on the desk. That got me a quick smile, a fast once-over, then an even bigger smile.

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Maybe. Do you keep back copies of New York papers?”

She stood up and smoothed out her dress around her hips where it didn’t need smoothing at all. “This way, please.”

I followed her at a six-foot interval, enough so I could watch her legs that so obviously wanted watching. They were pretty nice legs. I couldn’t blame her a bit for wanting to show them off. We angled around behind ceiling-high bookcases until we came to a stairwell. Legs threw a light switch and took me downstairs. A musty odor of old leather and paper hit me on the last step. Little trickles of moisture beaded the metal bins and left dark stains on the concrete walls. A hell of a place for books.

“Here they are.” She pointed to a tier of shelves, stacked with newspapers, separated by layers of cardboard. Together we located the old Globe editions then began peeling off the layers. In ten minutes we both looked like we had been playing in coal. Legs threw me a pout. “I certainly hope that whatever you’re after is worth all this trouble.”

“It is, honey,” I told her, “it is. Keep your eyes open for October 9.”

Another five minutes, then, “This it?”

I would have kissed her if she didn’t have such a dirty face. “That’s the one. Thanks.”

She handed it over. I glanced at the dateline, then at the one in my hand. They matched. We laid the paper out on a reading desk and pulled on the overhead light. I thumbed through the leaves, turning them over as I scanned each column. Legs couldn’t stand it any longer. “Please . . . what are you looking for?”

I said a nasty word and tapped the bottom of the page.

“But . . .”

“I know. It’s gone. Somebody ripped it out.”

She said the same nasty word, then asked, “What was it?”

“Beats me, honey. Got any duplicates around?”

“No, we only keep one copy. There’s rarely any call for them except from an occasional high school history student who is writing a thesis on something or other.”

“Uh-huh.” Tearing that spot out wasn’t going to do any good. There were other libraries. Somebody was trying to stall me for time. Okay, okay, I have all the time in the world. More time than you have, brother.

I helped her stack the papers back on their shelves before going upstairs. We both ducked into washrooms to get years of dust off our skin, only she beat me out. I half expected it anyway.