Mike Hammer 09 - The Twisted Thing Read online

  Mickey Spillane

  THE TWISTED THING

  First Published in 1966

  To Sid Graedon

  who saw the charred edges

  Chapter One

  The little guy's face was a bloody mess. Between the puffballs of blue-black flesh that used to be eyelids, the dull gleam of shock-deadened pupils watched Dilwick uncomprehendingly. His lips were swollen things of lacerated skin, with slow trickles of blood making crooked paths from the corners of his mouth through the stubble of a beard to his chin, dripping onto a stained shirt.

  Dilwick stood just outside the glare of the lamp, dangling like the Sword of Damocles over the guy's head. He was sweating too. His shirt clung to the meaty expanse of his back, the collar wilted into wrinkles around his huge neck. He pushed his beefy hand further into the leather glove and swung. The solid smack of his open hand on the little guy's jaw was nasty. His chair went over backward and his head cracked against the concrete floor of the room like a ripe melon. Dilwick put his hands on his hips and glared down at the caricature that once was human. "Take him out and clean 'im up. Then get 'im back here." Two other cops came out of the darkness and righted the chair. One yanked the guy to his feet and dragged him to the door. Lord, how I hated their guts. Grown men, they were supposed to be. Four of them in there taking turns pounding a confession from a guy who had nothing to say. And I had to watch it. It was supposed to be a warning to me. Be careful, it said, when you try to withhold information from Dilwick you're looking for a broken skull. Take a look at this guy for example, then spill what you know and stick around so I, the Great Dilwick, can get at you when I want you. I worked up a husky mouthful of saliva and spat it as close to his feet as I could. The fat cop spun on his heel and let his lips fold back over his teeth in a sneer. "You gettin' snotty, Hammer?" I stayed slouched in my seat. "Any way you call it, Dilwick," I said insolently. "Just sitting here thinking." Big stuff gave me a dirty grimace. "Thinking...you?" "Yeah. Thinking what you'd look like the next day if you tried that stuff on me." The two cops dragging the little guy out stopped dead still. The other one washing the bloodstains from the seat quit swishing the brush over the wicker and held his breath. Nobody ever spoke that way to Dilwick. Nobody from the biggest politician in the state to the hardest apple that ever stepped out of a pen. Nobody ever did because Dilwick would cut them up into fine pieces with his bare hands and enjoy it. That was Dilwick, the dirtiest, roughest cop who ever walked a beat or swung a nightstick over a skull. Crude, he was. Crude, hard and dirty and afraid of nothing. He'd sooner draw blood from a face than eat and everybody knew it. That's why nobody ever spoke to him that way. That is, nobody except me. Because I'm the same way myself. Dilwick let out his breath with a rush. The next second he was reaching down for me, but I never gave him the chance to hook his hairy paws in my shirt. I stood up in front of him and sneered in his face. Dilwick was too damn big to be used to meeting guys eye to eye. He liked to look down at them. Not this time. "What do you think you'll do?" he snarled. "Try me and see," I said. I saw his shoulder go back and didn't wait. My knee came up and landed in his groin with a, sickening smash. When he doubled over my fist caught him in the mouth and I felt his teeth pop. His face was starting to turn blue by the time he hit the floor. One cop dropped the little guy and went for his gun. "Cut it, stupid," I said, "before I blow your goddamn head off. I still got my rod." He let his hand fall back to his side. I turned and walked out of the room. None of them tried to stop me. Upstairs I passed the desk sergeant still bent over his paper. He looked up in time to see me and let his hand snake under the desk. Right then I had my own hand six inches from my armpit practically inviting him to call me. Maybe he had a family at home. He brought his hand up on top of the desk where I could see it. I've seen eyes like his peering out of a rathole when there was a cat in the room. He still had enough I AM THE LAW in him to bluster it out. "Did Dilwick release you?" he demanded. I snatched the paper from his hand and threw it to the floor, trying to hold my temper. "Dilwick didn't release me," I told him. "He's downstairs vomiting his guts out the same way you'll be doing if you pull a deal like that again. Dilwick doesn't want _me._ He just wanted me to sit in on a cellar s�ce in legal torture to show me how tough he is. I wasn't impressed. But get this, I came to Sidon to legally represent a client who used his one phone call on arrest to contact me, not to be intimidated by a fat louse that was kicked off the New York force and bought his way into the cops in this hick town just to use his position for a rake-off." The sergeant started to interrupt, licking his loose lips nervously, but I cut him short. "Furthermore, I'm going to give you just one hour to get Billy Parks out of here and back to his house. If you don't," and I said it slowly, "I'm going to call the State's Attorney and drop this affair in his lap. After that I'll come back here and mash your damn face to a pulp. Understand now? No habeas corpus, no nothing, Just get him out of here." For a cop he stunk. His lower lip was trembling with fear. I pushed my hat on the back of my head and stamped out of the station house. My heap was parked across the street and I got in and turned it over. Damn, I was mad. Billy Parks, just a nice little ex-con trying to go straight, but do you think the law would help him out? Hell no. Let one thing off-color pop up and they drag him in to get his brains kicked out because he had a record. Sure, he put in three semesters in the college on the Hudson, and he wasn't too anxious to do anything that would put him in his senior year where it took a lifetime to matriculate. Ever since he wrangled that chauffeur's job from Rudolph York I hadn't heard from him...until now, after York's little genius of a son had been snatched. Rain started to spatter against the windshield when I turned into the drive. The headlights picked out the roadway and I followed it up to the house. Every light in the place was on as if the occupants were afraid a dark corner might conceal some unseen terror. It was a big place, a product of wealth and good engineering, but in spite of its stately appearance and wrought iron gates, somebody had managed to sneak in, grab the kid and beat it. Hell, the kid was perfect snatch bait. He was more than a son to his father, he was the result of a fourteen-year experiment. Then, that's what he got for bringing the kid up to be a genius. I bet he'd shell out plenty of his millions to see him safe and sound. The front door was answered by one of those tailored flunkies who must always count up to fifty before they open up. He gave met a curt nod and allowed me to come in out of the rain anyway. "I'm Mike Hammer," I said, handing him a card. "I'd like to see your boss. And right away," I added. The flunky barely glanced at the pasteboard. "I'm awfully sorry, sir, but Mr. York is temporarily indisposed." When I shoved a cigarette in my mouth and lit it I said, "You tell him it's about his kid. He'll un-indispose himself in a hurry." I guess I might as well have told him I wanted a ransom payment right then the way he looked at me. I've been taken for a lot of things in my life, but this was the first for a snatch artist. He started to stutter, swallowed, then waved his hand in the general direction of the living room. I followed him in. Have you ever seen a pack of alley cats all set for a midnight brawl when something interrupts them? They spin on a dime with the hair still up their backs and watch the intruder through hostile eye slits as though they were ready to tear him so they could continue their own fight. An intense, watchful stare of mutual hate and fear. That's what I ran into, only instead of cats it was people. Their expressions were the same. A few had been sitting, others stopped their quiet pacing and stood poised, ready. A tableau of hate. I looked at them only long enough to make a mental count of a round dozen and tab them as a group of ghouls whose morals had been eaten into by dry rot a long time. Rudolph York was slumped in a chair gazing blankly into an empty fireplace. The photos in the ra
gs always showed him to be a big man, but he was small and tired-looking this night. He kept muttering to himself, but I couldn't hear him. The butler handed him my card. He took it, not bothering to look at it. "A Mr. Hammer, sir." No answer. "It...It's about Master Ruston, sir." Rudolph York came to life. His head jerked around and he looked at me with eyes that spat fire. Very slowly he came to his feet, his hands trembling. "Have you got him?" Two boys who might have been good-looking if it weren't for the nightclub pallor and the squeegy skin came out of a settee together. One had his fists balled up, the other plunked his highball glass on a coffee table. They came at me together. Saps. All I had to do was look over my shoulder and let them see what was on my face and they called it quits outside of swinging distance. I turned my attention back to Rudolph York. "No. " "Then what do you want?" "Look at my card." He read, "Michael Hammer, Private Investigator," very slowly, then crushed the card in his hand. The contortions in his face were weird. He breathed silent, unspeakable words through tight lips, afraid to let himself be heard. One look at the butler and the flunky withdrew quietly, then he turned back to me. "How did you find out about this?" he charged. I didn't like this guy. As brilliant a scientist as he might be, as wealthy and important, I still didn't like him. I blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. "Not hard," I answered, "not hard at all. I got a telephone call." He kept beating his fist into an open palm. "I don't want the police involved, do you hear! This is a private matter." "Cool off, doc. I'm not the police. However, if you try to keep me out of this I'll buzz one of the papers, then your privacy will really be shot to hell." "Whom do you represent?" he asked coldly. "Your chauffeur, Billy Parks." "So?" "So I'd like to, know why you put the finger on him when you found out your kid was missing. I'd like to know why you let them mangle him without a formal charge even being lodged, and why you're keeping all this under your hat. And by damn you better start speaking and pretty loud at that." "Please, Mr. Hammer." A hand hit my shoulder and spun me, another came up from the side and cracked across my face. The punk said, "How dare you talk to Uncle like that!" I let him get it out then backhanded him across the mouth with all I had. This time the other one grabbed my coat. He got a short jab in the ribs that bent him over, then the palm of my hand across his puss that straightened him up again. I shoved him away and got the punk's tie in my hand. When I was breathing in his face I twisted on the tie until the blue started running up his neck, then I smacked him on each side of that whisky-sodden face until my hand hurt. When I dropped him he lay on the floor crying, trying to cover his face with his hands. I spoke to the general assembly rather than to him. "In case anyone else has ideas like that, he'd better have more in his hands than a whisky glass." York hadn't missed a trick. He looked old again. The fire left his eyes and he groped for the arm of his chair. York was having a pretty rough time of it, but after having seen Billy I didn't feel sorry for him. I threw my butt in the fireplace and parked in the chair opposite him. He didn't need any prompting. "Ruston was not in his bed in the morning. It had been slept in, but he was not there. We searched the house and the grounds for him, but found no trace of his presence. I must have become excited. The first thing that entered my head was that I had an ex-convict in my employ. I called the local police and reported what had taken place. They led Parks away. I've since regretted the incident." "I imagine," I remarked dryly. "How much is it costing you to keep this quiet?" He shuddered. "Nothing. I did offer them a reward if they could locate Ruston." "Oh, swell. Great. That's all they needed. Cripes, you got a brain like a fly!" His eyes widened at that. "These local jokers aren't cops. Sure, they'd be quiet, who wouldn't? Do you think they'd split the kind of reward money you'd be offering if they could help it?" I felt like rapping him in the teeth. "Throwing Billy to the wolves was stupid. Suppose he was an ex-con. With three convictions to his credit he wasn't likely to stick his neck out for that offence. He'd be the first suspect as it was. Damn, I'd angle for Dilwick before I would Billy. He's more the type." York was sweating freely. He buried his face in his hands and swayed from side to side, moaning to himself. He stopped finally, then looked up at me. "What will I do, Mr. Hammer? What _can_ be done?" I shook my head. "But something must be done! I must find Ruston. After all these years...I can't call the police. He's such a sensitive boy...I-I'm afraid." "I merely represent Billy Parks, Mr. York. He called me because he was in a jam and I'm his friend. What I want from you is to give him back his job. Either that or I call the papers." "All right. It really doesn't matter." His head dropped again. I put on my hat and stood up, then, "But you? Mr. Hammer, you aren't the police as you say. Perhaps you could help me, too." I threw him a straw. "Perhaps." He grabbed at it. "Would you? I need somebody...who will keep this matter silent." "It'll cost you." "Very well, how much?" "How much did you offer Dilwick?" "Ten thousand dollars." I let out a whistle, then told him, "Okay, ten G's plus expenses." Relief flooded his face like sunlight. The price was plenty steep but he didn't bat an eye. He had been holding this inside himself too long and was glad to hand it to someone else. But he still had something to say. "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Hammer, and in my position I am forced, more or less, to accept. However, for my own satisfaction I would like to know one thing, how good a detective are you?" He said it in a brittle tone and I answered him the same way. An answer that made him pull back away from me as though I had a contagious disease. I said, "York, I've killed a lot of men. I shot the guts out of two of them in Times Square. Once I let six hundred people in a nightclub see what some crook had for dinner when he tried to gun me. He got it with a steak knife. I remember because I don't want to remember. They were too nasty. I hate the bastards that make society a thing to be laughed at and preyed upon. I hate them so much I can kill without the slightest compunction. The papers call me dirty names and the kind of rats I monkey with are scared stiff of me, but I don't give a damn. When I kill I make it legal. The courts accuse me of being too quick on the trigger but they can't revoke my license because I do it right. I think fast, I shoot fast, I've been shot at plenty. And I'm still alive. That's how good a detective I am." For a full ten seconds he stood speechless, staring at me with an undisguised horror. There wasn't a sound from the room. It isn't often that I make a speech like that, but when I do it must be convincing. If thoughts could be heard that house would be a babble of fearful confusion. The two punks I biffed looked like they had just missed being bitten by a snake. York was the first one to compose himself. "I suppose you'd like to see the boy's room?" "Uh-uh." "Why not? I thought..." "The kid's gone, that's enough. Seeing the room won't do any good. I don't have the equipment to fool around with clues, York. Fingerprints and stuff are for technical men. I deal with motives and people." "But the motive..." I shrugged. "Money, probably. That's what it usually is. Let's start at the beginning first." I indicated the chair and York settled back. I drew up closer to him. "When did you discover him to be missing?" "Yesterday morning. At eight o'clock, his regular rising hour, Miss Malcom, his governess, went into his room. He was not in bed. She looked for him throughout the house, then told me he could not be found. With the aid of the gardener and Parks we searched the grounds. He was not there." "I see. What about the gatekeeper?" "Henry saw nothing, heard nothing." "Then you called the police, I suppose?" He nodded. "Why did you think he was kidnapped?" York gave an involuntary start. "But what other reason could account for his disappearance?" I leaned forward in my seat. "According to all I've ever read about your son, Mr. York, he is the most brilliant thing this side of heaven. Wouldn't a young genius be inclined to be highly strung?" He gripped the arms of the chair until the veins stood out on the back of his hands. The fire was in his eyes again. "If you are referring to his mental health, you are mistaken. Ruston was in excellent spirits as he has been all his life. Besides being his father and a scientist, I am also a doctor." It was easy to see that he didn't want any doubts cast upon the mind of one he had conditioned so carefully so long. I let it go for the time being. "Okay, describe him to me.
Everything. I have to start somewhere." "Yes. He is fourteen. In appearance he is quite like other boys. By appearance I mean expressions, manners and attitudes. He is five feet one-inch tall, light brown hair, ruddy complexion. He weighs one hundred twelve pounds stripped. Eyes, brown, slight scar high on the left side of his forehead as the result of a fall when he was younger." "Got a picture of him?" The scientist nodded, reached inside his jacket pocket and came out with a snapshot. I took it. The boy was evidently standing in the yard, hands behind his back in a typically shy-youth manner. He was a good-looking kid at that. A slight smile played around his mouth and he seemed to be pretty self-conscious. He had on shorts and a dark sweater. Romping in the background was a spotted spaniel. "Mind if I keep it?" I asked. York waved his hand. "Not at all. If you want them, there are others." When I pocketed the snap I lit another cigarette. "Who else is in the house? Give me all the servants, where they sleep, anyone who has been here recently. Friends, enemies, people you work with." "Of course." He cleared his throat and listed the household. "Besides myself, there is Miss Malcom, Parks, Henry, two cooks, two maids and Harvey. Miss Grange works for me as a laboratory assistant, but lives at home in town. As for friends, I have few left that I ever see since I stopped teaching at the university. No enemies I can think of. I believe the only ones who have been inside the gate the past few weeks were tradesmen from town. That is," he indicated the gang in the room with a thumb, "outside these, my closest relatives. They are here and gone constantly." "You are quite wealthy?" The question was unnecessary, but I made my point. York cast a quick look about him, then a grimace that was half disgust passed over him. "Yes, but my health is still good." I let the ghouls hear it. "Too bad for them." "The servants all sleep in the north wing. Miss Malcom has a room adjoining Ruston's and connected to it. I occupy a combination study and bedroom at the front of the house. "I work with no one and for no one. The nature of my work you must be familiar with; it is that of giving my son a mind capable of greater thought and intelligence than is normally found. He may be a genius to you and others, but to me he is merely one who makes full use of his mind. Naturally, my methods are closely guarded secrets. Miss Grange shares them with me, but I trust her completely. She is as devoted to my son as I am. Since the death of my wife when the child was born, she has aided me in every way. I think that is all?" "Yeah, I guess that'll do." "May I ask how you will proceed?" "Sure. Until we get a sign from whoever kidnapped your son I'm going to sit tight. The ones that grabbed the kid must think they know what they're doing, otherwise they wouldn't pick someone like your boy who is always in the public eye. If you wanted to you could have every cop in the state beating the bushes. I take it there was no note..." "None at all." "...so they're playing it close to see what you'll do. Call the cops and they're liable to take a powder. Hold off a bit and they will contact you. Then I'll go to work...that is if it's really a snatch." He bit into his lip and gave me another of those fierce looks. "You say that as though you don't think he was kidnapped." "I say that because I don't _know_ he was kidnapped. It could be anything. I'll tell you better when I see a ransom note." York didn't get a chance to answer, for at that moment the butler reappeared, and between him and the luscious redhead they supported a bloody, limp figure. "It's Parks, sir. Miss Malcom and I found him outside the door!" We ran to him together. York gasped when he saw Parks' face then sent the butler scurrying off for some hot water and bandages. Most of the gore had been wiped off, but the swellings were as large as ever. The desk sergeant had done as I told him, the hour wasn't up yet, but somebody was still going to pay for this. I carried Billy to a chair and sat him down gently. I stepped back and let York go to work when the butler returned with a first-aid kit. It was the first good chance I had to give Miss Malcom the once-over all the way from a beautiful set of legs through a lot of natural curves to, an extraordinarily pretty face. Miss Malcom they called her. I call her Roxy Coulter. She used to be a strip artist in the flesh circuit of New York and Miami.