The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3 Read online

  We pushed away from the table and found a phone booth. Pat was still at his desk and it was three a.m. He hadn’t found anything yet. He did have one piece of news for me and I asked what it was.

  “We picked up one of the out-of-town boys who came in from Detroit. He was getting ready to mainline one when he got grabbed and lost his fix. He sweated plenty before he talked; now he’s flipping because he’s in trouble. The people who sent him here won’t have anything to do with a junkie and if they know he’s on H he’s dead, Now he’s yelling for protection.”

  “Something hot?”

  “We know the prime factor behind the move into town. Somebody has spent a lot of time collecting choice items about key men in the Syndicate operation. He’s holding it over their heads and won’t let go. The payoff is for them to send in the best enforcers who are to be the nucleus of something new and for this they’re paying and keeping still about it. None of them wants to be caught in a bind by the Syndicate itself so they go with the demand.”

  “Funny he’d know that angle.”

  “Not so funny. Their security isn’t that good. Word travels fast in those circles. I bet we’ll get the same story if we can put enough pressure on any of the others.”

  “You said they were clean.”

  “Maybe we can dirty them up a little. In the interest of justice, that is.”

  “Sometimes it’s the only way. But tell me this, Pat . . . who could pull a play like that? You’d need to know the in of the whole operation. That takes some big smarts. You’d have to pinpoint your sucker and concentrate on him. This isn’t a keyhole game.”

  “It’s been done.”

  “Blackie Conley could have done it,” I suggested. “He could have used a bite of the loot for expenses and he would have had the time and the know-how.”

  “That’s what I think too.”

  “Anything on Malek’s women?”

  “Hold it a minute.” I heard him put the phone down, speak to somebody, then he picked it up again. “Got a note here from a retired officer who was contacted. He remembers the girls Malek used to run with but can’t recall the building. His second wife put in a complaint to have it raided for being a disorderly house at one time and he was on the call. Turned out to be a nuisance complaint and nothing more. He can’t place the building anymore though.”

  “Hell,” I said.

  “We’ll keep trying. Where will you be?”

  “Home. I’ve had it.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Pat said.

  I hung up and looked at Velda. “Malek,” I said. “Nobody can find where he spent his time.”

  “Why don’t you try the Yellow Pages?” Velda kidded.

  I paused and nodded. “You just might be right at that, kid.”

  “It was a joke, Mike.”

  I shook my head. “Pat just told me he had a second wife. That meant he had a first. Let’s look it up.”

  There were sixteen Maleks in the directory and I got sixteen dimes to make the calls. Thirteen of them told me everything from drop dead to come on up for a party, but it was the squeaky old voice of the fourteenth that said yes, she was Mrs. Malek who used to be married to Quincy Malek. No, she never used the Quincy or the initial because she never cared for the name. She didn’t think it was the proper time to call, but yes, if it was as important as I said it was, I could come right over.

  “We hit something, baby,” I said.

  “Pat?”

  “Not yet. Let’s check this one out ourselves first.”

  The cab let us out on the corner of Eighth and Forty-ninth. Somewhere along the line over one of the storefronts was the home of Mrs. Quincy Malek the first. Velda spotted the number over the darkened hallway and we went in, found the right button, and pushed it. Seconds later a buzzer clicked and I opened the door.

  It was only one flight up. The stairs creaked and the place reeked of fish, but the end could be up there.

  She was waiting at the top of the landing, a garishly rouged old lady in a feathered wrapper that smelled of the twenties and looked it. Her hair was twisted into cloth curlers with a scarf hurriedly thrown over it and she had that querulous look of all little old ladies suddenly yanked out of bed at a strange hour.

  She forced a smile, asked us in after we introduced ourselves, and had us sit at the kitchen table while she made tea. Neither Velda nor I wanted it, but if she was going to put up with us we’d have to go along with her.

  Only when the tea was served properly did she ask us what we wanted.

  I said, “Mrs. Malek . . . it’s about your husband.”

  “Oh, he died a long time ago.”

  “I know. We’re looking for something he left behind.”

  “He left very little, very little. What he left me ran out years ago. I’m on my pension now.”

  “We’re looking for some records he might have kept.”

  “My goodness, isn’t that funny?”

  “What is?”

  “That you should want them too.”

  “Who else wanted them, Mrs. Malek?”

  She poured another cup of tea for me and put the pot down daintily. “Dear me, I don’t know. I had a call . . . oh, some months ago. They wanted to know if Quincy left any of his business records with me. Seems that they needed something to clear up a title.”

  “Did he, Mrs. Malek?”

  “Certainly, sir. I was the only one he could ever trust. He left a large box with me years ago and I kept it for him as I said I would in case it was ever needed.”

  “This party who called . . .”

  “I told him what I’m telling you.”

  “Him?”

  “Well . . . I really couldn’t say. It was neither a man’s nor a woman’s voice. They offered me one hundred dollars if they could inspect the box and another hundred if I was instrumental in proving their claim.”

  “You take it?”

  Her pale blue eyes studied me intently. “Mr. Hammer, I am no longer a woman able to fend for herself. At my age two hundred dollars could be quite an asset. And since those records had been sitting there for years untouched, I saw no reason why I shouldn’t let them have them.”

  It was like having a tub of ice water dumped over you. Velda sat there, the knuckles of her hand white around the teacup.

  “Who did you give it to, Mrs. Malek?”

  “A delivery boy. He left me an envelope with one hundred dollars in it.”

  “You know the boy?”

  “Oh dear no. He was just . . . a boy. Spanish, I think. His English was very bad.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Another cup of tea, Mr. Hammer?”

  “No, thanks.” Another cup of tea would just make me sick. I looked at Velda and shook my head.

  “The box was returned, of course,” she said suddenly.

  “What!”

  “With another hundred dollars. Another boy brought it to me.”

  “Look, Mrs. Malek . . . if we can take a look at that box and find what we’re looking for, I’ll make a cash grant of five hundred bucks. How does that sound to you?”

  “Lovely. More tea?”

  I took another cup of tea. This one didn’t make me sick. But she almost did. She sat there until I finished the cup, then excused herself and disappeared a few minutes. When she came back she was carrying a large cardboard carton with the top folded down and wrapped in coarse twine.

  “Here you are, Mr. Hammer.”

  Velda and I opened the carton carefully, flipped open the top, and looked down at the stacked sheafs of notations that filled the entire thing. Each one was an independent sales record that listed prices, names, and descriptions and there were hundreds of them. I checked the dates and they were spread through the months I wanted.

  “Are you satisfied, sir?”

  I reached for my wallet and took out five bills. There were three singles left. I laid them on the table but she didn’t touch them.

  She said, “One of those
pieces of paper is missing, I must tell you.”

  All of a sudden I had that sick feeling again. I looked at the five hundred bucks lying on the table and so did Mrs. Malek.

  “How do you know?” I asked her.

  “Because I counted them. Gracious, when Quincy trusted me with them I wanted to be sure they were always there. Twice a year I used to go through them to make sure the tally was identical with the original one. Then when I got them back I counted them again and one was missing.” She looked at me and nodded firmly. “I’m positive. I counted twice.”

  “That was the one we wanted, Mrs. Malek.”

  “I may still be of help.” She was smiling at some private secret. “Some years back I was sick. Quite sick. I was here in bed for some months and for lack of something to do I decided to make my own record of Quincy’s papers. I listed each and every piece much as he did.”

  She reached into the folds of her wrapper and brought out a thick, cheap note pad and laid it down on the table. “You’ll have to go through them all one by one and find the piece that’s missing, but it’s here, Mr. Hammer.”

  I picked up the pad, hefted it, and stuck it in my pocket. “One question, Mrs. Malek. Why are you going so far with us?”

  “Because I don’t like to be stolen from. That other party deliberately stole something of value from me. That person was dishonest. Therefore I assume you are honest. Am I wrong?”

  “You aren’t wrong, Mrs. Malek. You may get more out of this than you think.”

  “This is sufficient for my needs, sir.”

  I picked up the box and put on my hat. “You’ll get them all back this time. The police may want to hold them for a while, but eventually they’ll be returned.”

  “I’m sure they will. And I thank you, sir.”

  I grinned at her. “I could kiss you.”

  “That would be a pleasure.” She glanced at Velda. “Do you mind?”

  “Be my guest,” Velda said.

  So I kissed her.

  Damn if the blush didn’t make the rouge spots fade right out. The last three bucks bought a cab ride back to the apartment and two hamburgers apiece. We dumped the contents of the box on the floor, spread them out into piles, opened the notebook, and started to go through them.

  At dawn I called Pat without telling him what I had. So far he had nothing. Then we went back to the scoreboard. It could have taken a few days but we got lucky. At three in the afternoon Velda instituted a quick system of cross-checking and we found the missing item.

  It was a deed made out to one Carl Sullivan for a piece of property in Ulster County, New York, and the location was accurately described. Beneath it, apparently copied from the original notation, were the initials, B.C. Blackie Conley!

  CHAPTER 11

  I had to borrow fifty bucks from George over at the Blue Ribbon to get on my way, but he came up with the dough and no questions. Down the street I rented a Ford and Velda got in it for the drive upstate. Instead of taking the Thruway I got on old Route 17 and stopped at Central Valley to see a real estate dealer I knew. It wasn’t easy to keep the glad-handing and old-times talk to a minimum, but we managed. I gave him my property location and he pulled down a wall map and started locating it on the grid.

  He found it quickly enough. Then he looked at me strangely and said, “You own this?”

  “No, but I’m interested in it.”

  “Well, if you’re thinking of buying it, forget it. This is in the area they located those gas wells on and several big companies have been going nuts trying to find the owner. It’s practically jungle up there and they want to take exploration teams in and can’t do it without permission. The taxes have been paid in advance so there’s no squawk from the state and nobody can move an inch until the owner shows up.”

  “Tough.”

  His face got a little bit hungry. “Mike . . . do you know the owner?”

  “I know him.”

  “Think we can swing a deal?”

  “I doubt it.”

  His face fell at the thought of the money he was losing. “Well, if he wants to sell, put in a word for me, okay?”

  “I’ll mention it to him.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. We shook hands back at the car and took off. An hour and ten minutes later we were at the turnoff that led to the property. The first road was a shale and dirt one that we took for a mile, looking for a stream. We found that too, and the barely visible indentation that showed where another road had been a long time back.

  I drove down the road and backed the Ford into the bushes, hiding it from casual observation, then came back to Velda and looked at the jungle we were going into.

  The trees were thick and high, pines intermingled with oaks and maples, almost hopelessly tangled at their bases with heavy brush and thorny creepers. Towering overhead was the uneven roll of the mountain range.

  It was getting late and we wouldn’t have too much sun left.

  “It’s someplace in there,” I said. “I don’t know how he did it, but it was done. He’s in there.”

  Animals had made their way in ahead of us. The trail was barely visible and some of the brush was fuzzed with the hair of deer, the earth, where it was soft in spots, showing the print of their hoofs. We made it crawling sometimes, fighting the undergrowth constantly. But little by little we got inside.

  The ground slope ranged upward, leveled off, then slanted down again. We saw the remains of a shack and headed toward it, but that was all it was, a vermin-infested building that had long ago fallen into ruin. At one side there was a carton of rusted tins that had spilled over and rotted out, and another wooden crate of cooking utensils, still nested inside each other. The remains of a mattress had been scattered over the floor making permanent nests for thousands of mice.

  It didn’t make sense.

  We started down the slope and burst through the brush into a clearing that was shaped like a bowl. Nature had somehow started something growing there, a peculiar soft grass that refused to allow anything else to intrude on its domain.

  Velda said, “Mike . . .”

  I stopped and looked back.

  “I’m tired, Mike. Can’t we rest a minute?”

  “Sure, honey. This is a good place.”

  She sank to the ground with a long sigh and stretched out languidly looking at the sky. The clouds were tinged with a deep red and the shadows were beginning to creep down the mountainside. “This is lovely, Mike.”

  “Not much like the city, is it?”

  She laughed, said, “No,” and lifted her legs to strip off the ruins of her nylons. She stopped with one leg pointed toward the mountain. “You do it.”

  What a broad.

  I held her foot against my stomach, unhooked the snaps that held the stockings, and peeled one down, then the other. She said, “Ummm,” and patted the ground beside her. I crossed my legs and sat down, but she grabbed for me, tipped me over toward her, and held my face in her hands. “It’s going to be dark soon, Mike. We can’t go back through that again. Not until morning.” Her smile was impish.

  “Any time, any place. You’re crazy.”

  “I want you, Mike. Now.”

  “It’s going to get cold.”

  “Then we’ll suffer.”

  I kissed her then, her mouth slippery against mine.

  “It’s awfully warm now,” she murmured. She raised her legs and the dress slid down her thighs.

  “Stop that.”

  Her hand took mine and held it against the roundness of one thigh, keeping it there until she could take hers away and knew mine would stay. Ever so slowly my hand began a movement of its own, sensing the way to love, unable to stop the motion. With an age-old feminine motion she made it easier for me, her entire being trying to bring me into its vortex and I tried to fill the void. There was something I was fighting against, but it wasn’t a fight I knew I could win. There was a bulk between us and Velda’s hand reached inside my coat and pulled out the .45 and lai
d it on the ground in back of her.

  The sun was low now, the rays angling into the trees. One of them picked up a strange color in the brush at the foot of the hill, an odd color that never should have been there. I stared at it, trying to make out what it was.

  Then I knew.

  The fingers of my hand squeezed involuntarily and Velda let out a little cry, the pain of it shocking her. I said, “Stay here,” and snapped to my feet.

  “Mike . . .”

  I didn’t take the time to answer her. I ran down the hill toward the color and with each step it took shape and form until it was what I knew it had to be.

  A thirty-year-old taxi cab. A yellow and black taxi that had been stolen off the streets back in the thirties.

  The tires were rotted shreds now, but the rest of it was intact. Only a few spots of rust showed through the heavy layers of paint that the cab had been coated with to protect it against the destruction of the wind-driven grit in the city.

  I looked it over carefully and almost wanted to say that they sure didn’t make them like this anymore. The windows were still rolled shut hard against their rubber cushions so that the stuff fused them right into the body of the car with age. The car had been new when it was stolen, and they made that model to last for years. It was an airtight vault now, a bright yellow, wheeled mausoleum for two people.

  At least they had been two people.

  Now they were two mummies. The one in the front was slumped across the wheel, hat perched jauntily on a skeletal head covered with drawn, leathery flesh. There wasn’t much to the back of the head. That had been blown away.

  The guy who did it was the other mummy in the backseat. He leaned against the other side of the car, his mouth gaping open so that every tooth showed, his clothes hanging from withered limbs. Where his eyes were I could see two little dried bits of things that still had the appearance of watching me.

  He still held the rifle across his lap aimed at the door in front of me, fingers clutched around its stock and his right forefinger still on the trigger. There was a black stain of blood on the shirt that could still give it a startlingly white background.

  Between his feet were three canvas sacks.