The Mike Hammer Collection

“I think so.”

Billy crushed his cig out in an ashtray. “I’m going to bed, Mike. This day has been tough enough.”

I nodded. “You going to bed, too, Ruston?”

“What’s the matter with everybody, Mike?”

“Nervous, I guess.”

“Yes, that’s it, I suppose.” His face brightened. “Let me play for them. I haven’t played since . . . that night. But I want to play, Mike. Will it be all right?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

He grinned and ran out of the room. I heard him arrange the seat, then lift the lid of the piano, and the next moment the heavy melody of a classical piece filled the house. I sat down and listened. It was gay one moment, serious the next. He ran up and down the keys in a fantasy of expression. Good music to think by. I chain-lit another cigarette, wondering how the music was affecting the murderer. Did it give him a creepy feeling? Was every note part of his funeral theme? Three cigarettes gone in thought and still I waited. The music had changed now, it was lilting, rolling in song. I put the butt out and stood up. It was time to see the killer.

I put my hand on the knob and turned, stepped in the room and locked the door behind me. The killer was smiling at me, a smile that had no meaning I could fathom. It was a smile of neither defeat nor despair, but nearer to triumph. It was no way for a murderer to smile. The bells in my head were rising in a crescendo with the music.

I said to the murderer, “You can stop playing now, Ruston.”

The music didn’t halt. It rose in spirit and volume while Ruston York created a symphony from the keyboard, a challenging overture to death, keeping time with my feet as I walked to a chair and sat down. Only when I pulled the .45 from its holster did the music begin to diminish. My eyes never left his face. It died out in a crashing maze of minor chords that resounded from the walls with increased intensity.

“So you found me out, Mr. Hammer.”

“Yes.”

“I rather expected it these last few days.” He crossed his legs with complete nonchalance and barely a glance at the gun in my hand. I felt my temper being drawn to the brink of unreason, my lips tightening.

“You’re a killer, little buddy,” I said. “You’re a blood-crazy, insane little bastard. It’s so damn inconceivable that I can hardly believe it myself, but it’s so. You had it well planned, chum. Oh, but you would, you’re a genius. I forgot. That’s what everyone forgot. You’re only fourteen but you can sit in with scientists and presidents and never miss a trick.”

“Thank you.”

“You have a hair-trigger mind, Ruston. You can conceive and coordinate and anticipate beyond all realm of imagination. All the while I was batting my brains out trying to run down a killer you must have held your sides laughing. You knew pretty well what killing York would expose . . . a series of crimes and petty personalities scrambled together to make the dirtiest omelet ever cooked. But you’d never cook for it. Oh, no . . . not you. If . . . if you were found out the worst that could happen would be that you’d face a juvenile court. That’s what you thought, didn’t you? Like hell.

“Yes, you’re only a child, but you have a man’s mind. That’s why I’m talking to you like I would to a man. That’s why I can kill you like I would a man.”

He sat there unmoving. If he knew fear he showed it only in the tiny blue vein that throbbed in his forehead. The smile still played around his mouth. “Being a genius, I guess you thought I was stupid,” I continued. With every word my heart beat harder and faster until I was filled with hate. “It was getting so that I thought I was stupid myself. Why wouldn’t I? Every time I turned around something would happen that was so screwy that it didn’t have any place in the plot, yet in a way it was directly related. Junior Ghent and Alice. The Graham boys. Each trying to chop off a slice of cash for themselves. Each one concerned with his own little individual problem and completely unknowing of the rest. It was a beautiful setup for you.

“But please don’t think I was stupid, Ruston. The only true stupidity I showed was in calling you Lancelot. If I ever meet the good knight somewhere I’ll beg him to forgive me. But I wasn’t so stupid otherwise, Ruston. I found out that Grange had something on York . . . and that something was the fact that she was the only one who knew that he was a kidnapper in a sense. York . . . an aging scientist who wanted an heir badly so he could pass on his learning to his son . . . but his son died. So what did he do? He took a kid who had been born of a criminal father and would have been reared in the gutter, and turned him into a genius. But after a while the genius began to think and hate. Why? Hell, only you know that.