Mike Hammer 09 - The Twisted Thing Page 13

  Chapter Eleven

  I slept in my car all night. It wasn't until noon that I was ready to roll. Now the streets would be packed with traffic and my buggy would be just another vehicle. There were hundreds like it on the road. Superficially it was a five-year-old heap that had seen plenty of service, but the souped-up motor under the hood came out of a limousine that had packed a lot of speed and power. Once on the road nothing the city cops had was going to catch me.

  Good old Ruston. If my memory had been, working right I wouldn't have forgotten my little pal I plugged. Guys who are shot need doctors, and need them quick, and in Sidon there wouldn't be that many medics that I couldn't run them all down. A crooked doc, that's what I wanted. If a gunshot had been treated Price would have known about it and told me, but none had been entered in the books. Either a crooked doc or a threatened doc. He was the one to find. I stripped the branches from the fenders and cleared a path to the road, and then eased out onto the macadam. At the first crossroad a sign pointed to the highway and I took the turn. Two miles down I turned into a stream of traffic, picked out a guy going along at a medium clip and nosed in behind him. We both turned off into the city, only I parked on a side street and went into a candy store that had a public phone. Fiddling through the Yellow Pages, I ripped out the sheet of doctors listed there, and went through the motions of making a phone call. Nobody bothered to so much as glance at me. Back in the car I laid out my course and drove to the first on my list. It wasn't an impressive list. Seven names. Dr. Griffin was stepping out of his car when I pulled in. "Doctor..." "Yes?" His eyes went up and down the ruin of my suit. "Don't mind me," I said. "I've been out all night chasing down the dick that shot that cop. I'm a reporter." "Oh, yes, I heard about that. What can I do for you?" "The police fired several shots at him. There's a chance that he might have been hit. Have you treated any gunshot wounds lately?" He drew himself up in Indignant pride. "Certainly, not! I would have reported it immediately had I done so." "Thank you, Doctor." The next one wasn't home, but his housekeeper was. Yes, she knew all about the doctor's affairs. No, there had been no gunshot wounds since Mr. Dillon shot himself in the foot like a silly fool when loading his shotgun. Yes, she was very glad to be of service. Dr. Pierce ushered me into his very modern office personally. I pulled the same reporter routine on him. "A gunshot wound, you say?" "Yes. It wasn't likely that he'd treat it himself." He folded his hands across his paunch and leaned back in his chair. "There was one the day before yesterday, but I reported that. Certainly you know about it. A .22-caliber bullet. The man was hit while driving out in the country. Said he didn't know where it came from." I covered up quickly. "Oh, that one. No, this would have been a larger shell. The cops don't pack .22's these days. " "I expect not," he laughed. "Well, thanks anyway, Doctor." "Don't mention it." Four names left. It was past three o'clock. The next two weren't home, but the wife of one assured me that her husband would not have treated any wounds of the sort because he had been on a case in the hospital during the entire week. The other one was in Florida on a vacation. Dr. Clark had offices a block away from police headquarters, a very unhealthy place right now. Cars drove up and away in a constant procession, but I had to chance it. I parked pointing away from the area, making sure I had plenty of room to pull out, my wheels turned away from the curb. A woman came out of the office holding a baby. Then a man walking on a cane. I didn't want to enter an office full of people if I could help it, but if he didn't get rid of his patients in a hurry I was going to have to bust in anyway. A boy went in crying, holding his arm. Damn it, I was losing time! As I went to reach for the ignition switch another guy came out, a four-inch wide bandage going from the corner of his mouth to his ear. The bells again. They went off all at once inside my skull until I wanted to scream. The bandage. The hell with the gunshot wound, he was probably dead. The bandage. My fingers hooking in a mouth and ripping the skin wide open. Of course, he'd need a doctor tool You wouldn't find two freak accidents like that happening at once. He was a ratty-looking guy dressed in a sharp gray suit with eyes that were everywhere at once. He went down the steps easily and walked to a car a couple ahead of me. I felt my heart beginning to pound, beating like a heavy hammer, an incredible excitement that made my blood race in my veins like a river about to flood. He pulled out and I was right behind him, our bumpers almost touching. There was no subtlety about this tail job, maybe that's why I got away with it so long. He didn't notice me until we were on the back road six miles out of town ripping off seventy miles an hour. Just the two of us. We had left all other traffic miles behind. I saw his eyes go to the rear-vision mirror and his car spurted ahead. I grinned evilly to myself and stepped down harder on the accelerator until I was pushing him again. His eyes hardly left the mirror. There was fright in them now. A hand went out and he signaled me to pass. I ignored it. Eighty-five now. A four-store town went by with the wind. I barely heard the whistle of the town cop blast as I passed him. Eighty-seven. The other car was having trouble holding the turns. It leaned until the tires screamed as the driver jerked it around. I grinned again. The frame of my car was rigged for just such emergencies. Ninety. Trees shot by like a huge picket fence. Another town. A rapid parade of identical billboards advertising a casino in Brocton. Ninety-five. A straightaway came up lined with more billboards. A nice flat stretch was ahead, he would have opened up on it if he could have, but his load was doing all it could. At the end of the straightaway was the outline of a town. My little friend, you have had it, I said to myself. I went down on the gas, the car leaped ahead, we rubbed fenders. For a split second I was looking into those eyes and remembering that night, before I cut across his hood. He took to the shoulder, fought the wheel furiously but couldn't control it. The back end skidded around and the car went over on its side like a pinwheel. I stood on the brake, but his car was still rolling as I stopped. I backed up and got out without shutting the engine off. The punk was lucky, damn lucky. His car had rolled but never up-ended, and those steel turret top jobs could take it on a roll in soft earth. He was crawling out of the door reaching under his coat for a rod when I jumped him. When I slapped him across that bandage he screamed and dropped the gun. I straddled him and picked it up, a snub-nosed .38, and thrust it in my waistband. "Hello, pal," I said. Little bubbles of pink foam oozed from the corners of his mouth. "Don't...don't do nothing..." "Shut up." "Please..." "Shut up." I looked at him, looked at him good. If my face said anything he could read it. "Remember me? Remember that night in the shack? Remember the kid?" Recognition dawned on him. A terrible, fearful recognition and he shuddered the entire length of his body. "What're ya gonna do?" I brought my hand down across his face as hard as I could. He moaned and whimpered, "Don't!" Blood started to seep through the bandage, bright red now. "Where's the guy I shot?" He breathed, "Dead," through a mouthful of gore. It ran out his mouth and dribbled down his chin. "Who's Mallory?" He closed his eyes and shook his head. All right, don't talk. Make me make you. This would be fun. I worked my nails under the adhesive of the bandage and ripped it off with one tug. Clotted blood pulled at his skin and he screamed again. A huge half-open tear went from the corner of his mouth up his jawline, giving him a perpetual grin like a clown. "Open your eyes." He forced his lids up, his chest heaved for air. Twitches of pain gripped his face. "Now listen to me, chum. I asked you who Mallory was. I'm going to put my fingers in your mouth and rip out those stitches one by one until you tell me. Then I'm going to open you up on the other side. If you'd sooner look like a clam, don't talk." "No! I...I don't know no Mallory." I slapped him across the cheek, then did as I promised. More blood welled out of the cut. He screamed once more, a short scream of intolerable agony. "Who's Mallory?" "Honest...don't know..." Another stitch went. He passed out cold. I could wait. He came to groaning senselessly. I shook his head until his eyes opened. "Who do you work for, pal?" His lips moved, but no sound came forth. I nudged him again. "The boss...Nelson...at the casino." Nelson. I hadn't heard it before. "Who's Mallory?" "No
more. I don't know..." His voice faded out to nothing and his eyes shut. Except for the steady flow of blood seeping down his chin he looked as dead as they come. It was getting dark again. I hadn't noticed the cars driving up until the lights of one shone on me. People were piling out of the first car and running across the field, shouting at each other and pointing to the overturned car. The first one was all out of breath when he reached me. "What happened, mister? Is he dead? God, look at his face!" "He'll be all right," I told him. "He just passed out." By that time the others were crowded around. One guy broke through the ring and flipped his coat open to show a badge. "Better get him to a hospital. Ain't none here. Nearest one's in Sidon." He yanked a pad out of his pocket and wet the tip of a pencil with his tongue. "What's your name, mister?" I almost blurted it out without thinking. If he heard it I'd be under his gun in a second, and there wasn't much I could do with this mob around. I stood up and motioned him away from the crowd. On the other side of the upturned car I looked him square in the eye. "This wasn't an accident," I said "I ran him off the road." "You what?" "Keep quiet and listen. This guy is a kidnapper. He may be a killer. I want you to get to the nearest phone and call Sergeant Price of the state police, understand? His headquarters is on the highway outside of Sidon. If you can't get him, keep trying until you do." His hands gripped my lapels. "Say, buster, what are you trying to pull? Who the hell are you, anyway?" "My name is Mike...Mike Hammer. I'm wanted by every crooked cop in this part of the state and if you don't get your paws off me I'll break your arm!" His jaw sagged, but he let go my coat, then his brows wrinkled. "I'll be damned," he said. "I always did want to meet you. Read all the New York papers y' know. By damn. Say, you _did_ kill that Sidon cop, didn't you?" "Yes, I did." "By damn, that's good. He put a bullet into one of our local lads one night when he was driving back from the casino. Shot him while he was dead drunk because he didn't like his looks. He got away with it too, by damn. What was that you wanted me to tell the police?" I breathed a lot easier. I never thought I'd find a friend this far out. "You call Price and tell him to get out to the casino as fast as his car will bring him. And tell him to take along some boys." "Gonna be trouble?" "There's liable to be." "Maybe I should go." He pulled at his chin, thinking hard. "I don't know. The casino is all we got around here. It ain't doing us no good, but the guy that runs it runs the town." "Stay out of it if you can help it. Get an ambulance if you want to for that guy back there, but forget the hospital. Stick him in the cooler. Then get on the phone and call Price." "Okay, Mike. I'll do that for you. Didn't think you shot that cop in cold blood like the notices said. You didn't, did you?" "He was sitting on top of me about to bash my brains out with a billy when I shot the top of his head off." "A good thing, by damn." I didn't hang around. Twenty pairs of eyes followed me across the field to my car, but if there was any explaining to be done the cop was making a good job of it. Before I climbed under the wheel he had hands helping to right the car and six people carrying the figure of The Face to the road. Nelson, the Boss. Another character. Where did he come in? He wasn't on the level if rat-puss was working for him. Nelson, but no Mallory. I stepped on the starter and ran the engine up. Nelson, but no Mallory. Something cold rolled down my temple and I wiped it away. Sweat. Hell, it couldn't be true, not what I was thinking, but it made sense! Oh, hell, it was impossible, people just aren't made that way! The pieces didn't have to be fitted into place any longer...they were being drawn into a pattern of murder as if by a magnet under the board, a pattern of death as complicated as a Persian tapestry, ugly enough to hang in Hitler's own parlor. Nelson, but no Mallory. The rest would be only incidental, a necessary incidental. I sweated so freely that my shirt was matted to my body. I didn't have to look for the killer any longer. I knew who the killer was now.