The Mike Hammer Collection Part 58

"Last night. Got it with a cleaver."

"Good night! What happens now?"

"The usual routine for a while, I guess. Listen, were you in the sack all this time?"

"h.e.l.l, yes. Wait a minute, Mike, you . . ."

"Can you prove it? I mean did anyone see you there?"

"No. I've been alone. You don't think . . ."

"Quit worrying, Billy. Dilwick will be on this case and he's liable to have it in for you. That skunk will get back at you if he can't at me. He's got what little law there is in this town on his side now. What I want to do is establish some way you can prove you were here. Think of any?"

He put his finger to his mouth. "Yeah, I might at that. Twice last night I thought I heard a car go out."

"That'd be York then me."

"Right after the first car, someone came downstairs. I heard 'em inside, then there was some funny sound like somebody coughing real softly, then it died out. I couldn't figure out what it was."

"That might do it if we can find out who came down. Just forget all about it until you're asked, understand?"

"Sure, Mike. Geez, why did this have to happen? I'll be out on my ear now." His head dropped into his hands. "What'll I do?"

"We'll think of something. If you feel okay you'd better get dressed. York's car is still downtown, and when the cops get done with it you'll have to drive it back."

I handed him the coffee and he drank it gratefully. When he finished I took it away and went into the kitchen. Harvey was there drying his eyes on a handkerchief. He saw me and sniffed, "It's terrible, sir. Miss Malcom just told me. Who could have done such a thing?"

"I don't know, Harvey. Whoever it was will pay for it. Look, I'm going to climb into bed. When the police come, get me up, will you?"

"Of course, sir. Will you eat first?"

"No thanks, later."

I skirted the living room and pushed myself up the stairs. The old legs were tired out. The bedclothes were where I had thrown them, in a heap at the foot of the bed. I didn't even bother to take off my shoes. When I put my head down I didn't care if the house burned to the ground as long as n.o.body awakened me.

The police came and went. Their voices came to me through the veil of sleep, only partially coherent. Voices of insistence, voices of protest and indignation. A woman's voice raised in anger and a meeker man's voice supporting it. n.o.body seemed to care whether I was there or not, so I let the veil swirl into a gray shroud that shut off all sounds and thoughts.

It was the music that woke me. A terrible storm of music that reverberated through the house like a hurricane, shrieking in a wonderful agony. There had never been music like that before. I listened to the composition, wondering. For a s.p.a.ce of seconds it was a song of rage, then it dwindled to a dirge of sorrow. No bar or theme was repeated.

I slipped out of the bed and opened the door, letting the full force of it hit me. It was impossible to conceive that a piano could tell such a story as this one was telling.

He sat there at the keyboard, a pitiful little figure clad in a Prussian blue bathrobe. His head was thrown back, the eyes shut tightly as if in pain, his fingers beating notes of anguish from the keys.

He was torturing himself with it. I sat beside him. "Ruston, don't."

Abruptly, he ceased in the middle of the concert and let his head fall to his chest. The critics were right when they acclaimed him a genius. If only they could have heard his latest recital.

"You have to take it easy, kid. Remember what I told you."

"I know, Mike, I'll try to be better. I just keep thinking of Dad all the time."

"He meant a lot to you, didn't he?"

"Everything. He taught me so many things, music, art . . . things that it takes people so long to get to know. He was wonderful, the best dad ever."

Without speaking I walked him over to the big chair beside the fireplace and sat down on the arm of the chair beside him. "Ruston," I started, "your father isn't here anymore, but he wouldn't want you to grieve about it. I think he'd rather you went on with all those things he was teaching you, and be what he wanted you to be."

"I will be, Mike," he said. His voice lacked color, but it rang earnestly. "Dad wanted me to excel in everything. He often told me that a man never lived long enough to accomplish nearly anything he was capable of because it took too long to learn the fundamentals. That's why he wanted me to know all these things while I was young. Then when I was a doctor or a scientist maybe I would be ahead of myself, sort of."

He was better as long as he could talk. Let him get it out of his system, I thought. It's the only way. "You've done fine, kid. I bet he was proud of you."

"Oh, he was. I only wish he could have been able to make his report."

"What report?"

"To the College of Scientists. They meet every five years to turn in reports, then one is selected as being the best one and the winner is elected President of the College for a term. He wanted that awfully badly. His report was going to be on me."

"I see," I said. "Maybe Miss Grange will do it for him."

I shouldn't have said that. He looked up at me woefully. "I don't think she will, not after the police find her."

It hit me right between the eyes. "Who's been telling you things, kid?"

"The policemen were here this morning. The big one made us all tell where we were last night and everything. Then he told us about Miss Grange."

"What about her?"

"They found her car down by the creek. They think she drowned herself."

I could have tossed a brick through a window right then. "Harvey!" I yelled. "Hey, Harvey."

The butler came in on the double. "I thought I asked you to wake me up when the police got here. What the h.e.l.l happened?"

"Yes, sir. I meant to, but Officer Dilwick suggested that I let you sleep. I'm sorry, sir, it was more an order than a request."

So that was how things stood. I'd get even with that fat slob. "Where is everybody?"

"After the police took their statements he directed the family to return to their own homes. Miss Malcom and Parks are bringing Mr. York's car home. Sergeant Price wished me to tell you that he will be at the headquarters on the highway this evening and he would like to see you."

"I'm glad someone would like to see me," I remarked. I turned to Ruston. "I'm going to leave, son. How about you go to your room until Roxy . . . I mean Miss Malcom gets here? Okay?"

"All right, Mike. Why did you call her Roxy?"

"I have pet names for everybody."

"Do you have one for me?" he asked, little lights dancing in his eyes.

"You bet."

"What?"

"Sir Lancelot. He was the bravest of the brave."

As I walked out of the room I heard him repeat it softly. "Sir Lancelot, the bravest of the brave."

I reached the low fieldstone building set back from the road at a little after eight. The sky was threatening again, the air chilly and humid. Little beads of sweat were running down the winds.h.i.+eld on the side. A sign across the drive read, STATE POLICE HEADQUARTERS, and I parked beside it.

Sergeant Price was waiting for me. He nodded when I came in and laid down the sheaf of papers he was examining. I threw my hat on an empty desk and helped myself to a chair. "Harvey gave me your message," I said. "What's the story?"

He leaned back in the swivel seat and tapped the desk with a pencil. "We found Grange's car."

"So I heard. Find her yet?"

"No. The door was open and her body may have washed out. If it did we won't find it so easily. The tide was running out and would have taken the body with it. The river runs directly into the bay, you know."

"That's all supposition. She may not have been in the car."

He put the pencil between his teeth. "Every indication points to the fact that she was. There are clear tire marks showing where the car was deliberately wrenched off the road before the guardrails to the bridge. The car was going fast, besides. It landed thirty feet out in the water."

"That's not what you wanted to see me about?" I put in.

"You're on the ball, Mr. Hammer."

"Mike. I hate t.i.tles."

"Okay, Mike. What I want is this kidnapping deal."

"Figuring a connection?"

"There may be one if Grange was murdered."

I grinned. "You're on the ball yourself." Once again I went over the whole story, starting with Billy's call when he was arrested. He listened intently without saying a word until I was finished.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Somebody's going to a lot of trouble."

"Do you smell a correlation between the two?"

I squinted at him. "I don't know . . . yet. That kidnapping came at the wrong time. A kidnapper wants money. This one never got away with his victim. Generally speaking, it isn't likely that a second try would be made on the same person, but York wanted the whole affair hushed up ostensibly for fear of the publicity it would bring. That would leave the kid open again. It is possible that the kidnapper, enraged at having his deal busted open, would hang around waiting to get even with York and saw his chance when he took off at that hour of the morning to see Grange."

Price shook out a cig from his pack and offered me one. "If that was the case, money would not have been the primary motive. A kidnapper who has m.u.f.fed his s.n.a.t.c.h wants to get far away fast."

I lit up and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. "Sounds screwed up, doesn't it?" He agreed. "Did you find out that York didn't have long to live anyway?"

He seemed startled at the change of subject. "No. Why?"

"Let's do it this way," I said. "York was on the list. He had only a few years at best to live. At the bottom of every crime there's a motive no matter how remote, and nine times out of ten that motive is cold, hard cash. He's got a bunch of relations that have been hanging around waiting for him to kick the bucket for a long time. One of them might have known that his condition was so bad that any excitement might knock him off. That one arranges a kidnapping, then when it fails takes direct action by knocking off York, making it look like Grange did it, then kills Grange to further the case by making it appear that she was a suicide in a fit of remorse."

Price smiled gently. "Are you testing me? I could shoot holes in that with a popgun. Arranging for a kidnapping means that you invite blackmail and lose everything you tried to get. York comes into it somewhere along the line because he was searching for something in that apartment. Try me again."

I laughed. "No good. You got all the answers."

He shoved the papers across the desk to me. "There are the statements of everybody in the house. They seem to support each other pretty well. n.o.body left the house according to them so n.o.body had a chance to knock off York. That puts it outside the house again."

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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l. 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 gra.s.s partially m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.sed 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.