The Mike Hammer Collection, Volume 3 Page 38

  “Okay, baby, don’t get teed off on me. I have a right to be just a little bit curious, haven’t I? It isn’t very often that you catch somebody jumping as far out of character as you have. Does the old man know about the old life?”

  “Don’t be silly. He’d can me if he did.”

  “I guessed as much. How did you tie up in this place?”

  “Easy. When I finally got wise to the fact that I was getting my brains knocked out in the big city I went to an agency and signed up as a registered nurse. I was one before I got talked into tossing my torso around for two hundred a week. Three days later Mr. York accepted me to take care of his child. That was two years ago. Anything else you want to know?”

  I grinned at her. “Nope. It was just funny meeting you, that’s all.”

  “Then may I leave?”

  I let my grin fade and eased her out through the door. “Look, Roxy, is there somewhere we can go talk?”

  “I don’t play those games anymore, Mike.”

  “Get off my back, will you? I mean talk.”

  She arched her eyebrows and watched me steadily a second, then seeing that I meant it, said, “My room. We can be alone there. But only talk, remember?”

  “Roger, bunny, let’s go.”

  This time we went into the outer foyer and up a stairway that seemed to have been carved out of a solid piece of mahogany. We turned left on the landing and Roxy opened the door for me.

  “In here,” she said.

  While I picked out a comfortable chair she turned on a table lamp then offered me a smoke from a gold box. I took one and lit it. “Nice place you got here.”

  “Thank you. It’s quite comfortable. Mr. York sees that I have every convenience. Now shall we talk?”

  She was making sure I got the point in a hurry. “The kid. What is he like?”

  Roxy smiled a little bit, and the last traces of hardness left her face. She looked almost maternal. “He’s wonderful. A charming boy.”

  “You seem to like him.”

  “I do. You’d like him too.” She paused, then, “Mike . . . do you really think he was kidnapped?”

  “I don’t know, that’s why I want to talk about him. Downstairs I suggested that he might have become temporarily unbalanced and the old man nearly chewed my head off. Hell, it isn’t unreasonable to figure that. He’s supposed to be a genius and that automatically puts him out of the normal class. What do you think?”

  She tossed her hair back and rubbed her forehead with one hand. “I can’t understand it. His room is next door, and I heard nothing although I’m usually a light sleeper. Ruston was perfectly all right up to then. He wouldn’t simply walk out.”

  “No? And why not?”

  “Because he is an intelligent boy. He likes everyone, is satisfied with his environment and has been very happy all the time I’ve known him.”

  “Uh-huh. What about his training? How did he get to be a genius?”

  “That you’ll have to find out from Mr. York. Both he and Miss Grange take care of that department.”

  I squashed the butt into the ashtray. “Nuts, it doesn’t seem likely that a genius can be made. They have to be born. You’ve been around him a lot. Tell me, just how much of a genius is he? I know only what the papers print.”

  “Then you know all I know. It isn’t what he knows that makes him a genius, it’s what he is capable of learning. In one week he mastered every phase of the violin. The next week it was the piano. Oh, I realize that it seems impossible, but it’s quite true. Even the music critics accept him as a master of several instruments. It doesn’t stop there, either. Once he showed an interest in astronomy. A few days later he exhausted every book on the subject. His father and I took him to the observatory where he proceeded to amaze the experts with his uncanny knowledge. He’s a mathematical wizard besides. It doesn’t take him a second to give you the cube root of a six-figure number to three decimal points. What more can I say? There is no field that he doesn’t excel in. He grasps fundamentals at the snap of the fingers and learns in five minutes what would take you or me years of study. That, Mike, is the genius in a nutshell, but that’s omitting the true boy part of him. In all respects he is exactly like other boys.”

  “The old man said that too.”

  “He’s quite right. Ruston loves games, toys and books. He has a pony, a bicycle, skates and a sled. We go for long walks around the estate every once in a while and do nothing but talk. If he wanted to he could expound on nuclear physics in ten-syllable words, but that isn’t his nature. He’d sooner talk football.”

  I picked another cigarette out of the box and flicked a match with my thumbnail. “That about covers it, I guess. Maybe he didn’t go off his nut at that. Let’s take a look at his room.”

  Roxy nodded and stood up. She walked to the end of the room and opened a door. “This is it.” When she clicked on the light switch I walked in. I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it. There were pennants on the walls and pictures tucked into the corners of the dresser mirror. Clothes were scattered in typical boyish confusion over the backs of chairs and the desk.

  In one corner was the bed. The covers had been thrown to the foot and the pillow still bore the head print of its occupant. If the kid had really been snatched I felt for him. It was no night to be out in your pajamas, especially when you left the top of them hanging on the bedpost.

  I tried the window. It gave easily enough, though it was evident from the dust on the outside of the sill that it hadn’t been opened recently.

  “Keep the kid’s door locked at night?” I asked Roxy.

  She shook her head. “No. There’s no reason to.”

  “Notice any tracks around here, outside the door or window?”

  Another negative. “If there were any,” she added, “they would have been wiped out in the excitement.”

  I dragged slowly on the cigarette, letting all the facts sink in. It seemed simple enough, but was it? “Who are all the twerps downstairs, bunny?”

  “Relatives, mostly.”

  “Know ’em?”

  Roxy nodded. “Mr. York’s sister and her husband, their son and daughter, and a cousin are his only blood relations. The rest are his wife’s folks. They’ve been hanging around here as long as I’ve been here, just waiting for something to happen to York.”

  “Does he know it?”

  “I imagine so, but he doesn’t seem bothered by them. They try to outdo each other to get in the old boy’s favor. I suppose there’s a will involved. There usually is.”

  “Yeah, but they’re going to have a long wait. York told me his health was perfect.”

  Roxy looked at me curiously, then dropped her eyes. She fidgeted with her fingernails a moment and I let her stew a bit before I spoke.

  “Say it, kid.”

  “Say what?”

  “What you have on your mind and almost said.”

  She bit her lip, hesitating, then, “This is between you and me, Mike. If Mr. York knew I told you this I’d be out of a job. You won’t mention it, will you?”

  “I promise.”

  “About the second week I was here I happened to overhear Mr. York and his doctor after an examination. Apparently Mr. York knew what had happened, but called in another doctor to verify it. For some time he had been working with special apparatus in his laboratory and in some way became overexposed to radiation. It was enough to cause some internal complications and shorten his life span. Of course, he isn’t in any immediate danger of dying, but you never can tell. He wasn’t burned seriously, yet considering his age, and the fact that his injury has had a chance to work on him for two years, there’s a possibility that any emotional or physical excitement could be fatal.”

  “Now isn’t that nice,” I said. “Do you get what that means, Roxy?” She shook her head. “It might mean that somebody else knows that too and tried to stir the old boy up by kidnapping the one closest to him in the hope that he kicks off during the fun. Great
. . . that’s a nice subtle sort of murder.”

  “But that’s throwing it right on the doorstep of the beneficiary of his estate.”

  “Is it? I bet even a minor beneficiary would get enough of the long green to make murder worthwhile. York has plenty.”

  “There are other angles too, Mike.”

  “Been giving it some thought, haven’t you?” I grinned at her. “For instance, one of the family might locate the kid and thus become number-one boy to the old man. Or perhaps the kid was the chief beneficiary and one of them wanted to eliminate him to push himself further up the list. Yeah, kid, there’s a lot of angles, and I don’t like any of ’em.”

  “It still might be a plain kidnapping.”

  “Roger. That it might. It’s just that there’re a lot more possibilities to it that could make it interesting. We’ll know soon enough.” I opened the door and hesitated, looking over my shoulder. “’Night, Roxy.”

  “Good night.”

  York was back by the fireplace again, still brooding. I would have felt better if he had been pacing the floor. I walked over and threw myself in a big chair. “Where’ll I spend the night?” I asked him.

  He turned very slowly. “The guest room. I’ll ring for Harvey.”

  “Never mind. I’ll get him myself when I’m ready.”

  We sat in silence a few minutes then York began a nervous tapping of his fingers. Finally, “When do you think we’ll have word?”

  “Two, three days maybe. Never can tell.”

  “But he’s been gone a day already.”

  “Tomorrow, then. I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps I should call the police again.”

  “Go ahead, but you’ll probably be burying the boy after they find him. Those punks aren’t cops, they’re political appointees. You ought to know these small towns. They couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag.”

  For the first time he showed a little parental anxiety. His fist came down on the arm of the chair. “Damn it, man, I can’t simply sit here! What do you think it’s like for me? Waiting. Waiting. He may be dead now for all we know.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Kidnapping’s one thing, murder’s another. How about introducing me to those people?”

  He nodded. “Very well.” Every eye in the room was on me as we made the rounds. I didn’t suppose there would be anyone too anxious to meet me after the demonstration a little while ago.

  The two gladiators were first. They were sitting on the love seat trying not to look shaky. Both of them still had red welts across their cheeks. The introduction was simple enough. York merely pointed in obvious disdain. “My nephews, Arthur and William Graham.”

  We moved on. “My niece, Alice Nichols.” A pair of deep brown eyes kissed mine so hard I nearly lost my balance. She swept them up and down the full length of me. It couldn’t have been any better if she did it with a wet paintbrush. She was tall and she had seen thirty, but she saw it with a face and body that were as fresh as a new daisy. Her clothes made no attempt at concealment; they barely covered. On some people skin is skin, but on her it was an invitation to dine. She told me things with a smile that most girls since Eve have been trying to put into words without being obvious or seeming too eager and I gave her my answer the same way. I can run the ball a little myself.

  York’s sister and her husband were next. She was a middle-aged woman with “Matron” written all over her. The type that wants to entertain visiting dignitaries and look down at “peepul” through a lorgnette. Her husband was the type you’d find paired off with such a specimen. He was short and bulgy in the middle. His single-breasted gray suit didn’t quite manage to cross the equator without putting a strain on the button. He might have had hair, but you’d never know it now. One point of his collar had jumped the tab and stuck out like an accusing finger.

  York said, “My sister, Martha Ghent, her husband, Richard.” Richard went to stick out his hand but the old biddie shot him a hasty frown and he drew back, then she tried to freeze me out. Failing in this she turned to York. “Really, Rudolph, I hardly think we should meet this . . . this person.”

  York turned an appealing look my way, in apology. “I’m sorry, Martha, but Mr. Hammer considers it necessary.”

  “Nevertheless, I don’t see why the police can’t handle this.”

  I sneered at her in my finest manner. “I can’t see why you don’t keep your mouth shut, Mrs. Ghent.”

  The way her husband tried to keep the smile back, I thought he’d split a gut. Martha stammered, turned blue and stalked off. York looked at me critically, though approvingly.

  A young kid in his early twenties came walking up as though the carpet was made of eggs. He had Ghent in his features, but strictly on his mother’s side. A pipe stuck out of his pocket and he sported a set of thick-lensed glasses. The girl at his side didn’t resemble anyone, but seeing the way she put her arm around Richard I took it that she was the daughter.

  She was. Her name was Rhoda, she was friendly and smiled. The boy was Richard, Junior. He raised his eyebrows until they drew his eyes over the rims of his glasses and peered at me disapprovingly. He perched his hands on his hips and “Humphed” at me. One push and he would be over the line that divides a man and a pansy.

  The introductions over, I cornered York out of earshot of the others. “Under the circumstances, it might be best if you kept this gang here until things settle down a bit. Think you can put them up?”

  “I imagine so. I’ve been doing it at one time or another for the last ten years. I’ll see Harvey and have the rooms made up.”

  “When you get them placed, have Harvey bring me a diagram showing where their rooms are. And tell him to keep it under his hat. I want to be able to reach anyone anytime. Now, is there anyone closely connected with the household we’ve missed?”

  He thought a moment. “Oh, Miss Grange. She went home this afternoon.”

  “Where was she during the kidnapping?”

  “Why . . . at home, I suppose. She leaves here between five and six every evening. She is a very reserved woman. Apparently has very little social activity. Generally she furthers her studies in the library rather than go out anywhere.”

  “Okay, I’ll get to her. How about the others? Have they alibis?”

  “Alibis?”

  “Just checking, York. Do you know where they were the night before last?”

  “Well . . . I can’t speak for all of them, but Arthur and William were here. Alice Nichols came in about nine o’clock then left about an hour later.”

  This part I jotted down on a pad. “How did you collect the family . . . or did they all just drift in?”

  “No, I called them. They helped me search, although it did no good. Mr. Hammer, what are we going to do? Please . . .”

  Very slowly, York was starting to go to pieces. He’d stood up under this too calmly too long. His face was pale and withered-looking, drawn into a mask of tragedy.

  “First of all, you’re going to bed. It won’t do any good for you to be knocking yourself out. That’s what I’m here for.” I reached over his shoulder and pulled a velvet cord. The flunky came in immediately and hurried over to us. “Take him upstairs,” I said.

  York gave the butler instructions about putting the family up and Harvey seemed a little surprised and pleased that he’d be allowed in on the conspiracy of the room diagram.

  I walked to the middle of the floor and let the funeral buzz down before speaking. I wasn’t nice about it. “You’re all staying here tonight. If it interferes with other plans you’ve made it’s too bad. Anyone that tries to duck out will answer to me. Harvey will give you your rooms and be sure you stay in them. That’s all.”

  Lady sex appeal waited until I finished then edged up to me with a grin. “See if you can grab the end bedroom in the north wing,” she said, “and I’ll get the one connected to it.”

  I said in mock surprise, “Alice, you can get hurt doing things like that.”


  She laughed. “Oh, I bruise easily, but I heal fast as hell.”

  Swell girl. I hadn’t been seduced in a long time.

  I wormed out through a cross fire of nasty looks to the foyer and winked at Richard Ghent on the way. He winked back; his wife wasn’t looking.

  I slung on my coat and hat and went out to the car. When I rolled it through the gate I turned toward town and stepped on the gas. When I picked up to seventy I held it there until I hit the main drag. Just before the city line I pulled up to a gas station and swung in front of a pump. An attendant in his early twenties came out of the miniature Swiss Alpine cottage that served as a service station and automatically began unscrewing the gas cap. “Put in five,” I told him.

  He snaked out the hose and shoved the nose in the tank, watching the gauge. “Open all night?” I quizzed.

  “Yeah.”

  “On duty yourself?”

  “Yup. ’Cept on Sundays.”

  “Don’t suppose you get much to do at night around here.”

  “Not very much.”

  This guy was as talkative as a pea pod. “Say, was much traffic along here night before last?”

  He shut off the pump, put the cap back on and looked at me coldly. “Mister, I don’t know from nothing,” he said.

  It didn’t take me long to catch on to that remark. I handed him a ten-spot and followed him inside while he changed it. I let go a flyer. “So the cops kind of hinted that somebody would be nosing around, huh?”

  No answer. He rang the cash register and began counting out bills. “Er . . . did you happen to notice Dilwick’s puss? Or was it one of the others?”

  He glanced at me sharply, curiously. “It was Dilwick. I saw his face.”

  Instead of replying I held out my right hand. He peered at it and saw where the skin had been peeled back off half the knuckles. This time I got a great big grin.

  “Did you do that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, pal, for that we’re buddies. What do you want to know?”

  “About traffic along here night before last.”

  “Sure, I remember it. Between nine o’clock and dawn the next morning about a dozen cars went past. See, I know most of ’em. A couple was from out of town. All but two belonged to the upcountry farmers making milk runs to the separator at the other end of town.”