The Mike Hammer Collection

“Stay there. I’ll be up in ten minutes.”

“Sure. Bring me a sandwich.”

“A drink too?”

“None of that. Maybe a couple of Blue Ribbons, but nothing else.”

Without answering, he hung up. I glanced at my wrist, but there was no watch there anymore. Somehow, I vaguely remembered hocking it somewhere and called myself a nut because it was a good Rolex and I probably drank up the loot in half a day. Or got rolled for it.

Damn!

From the window I could see the clock on the Paramount Building and it was twenty past six. The street was slick from the drizzle that had finally started to fall and the crosstown traffic was like a giant worm trying to eat into the belly of the city. I opened the window and got supper smells in ten languages from the restaurants below and for the first time in a long time it smelled good. Then I switched on the desk lamp and sat back again.

Rickerby came in, put a wrapped sandwich and two cans of Blue Ribbon in front of me and sat down with a weary smile. It was a very peculiar smile, not of friendliness, but of anticipation. It was one you didn’t smile back at, but rather waited out.

And I made him wait until I had finished the sandwich and a can of beer, then I said, “Thanks for everything.”

Once again, he smiled. “Was it worth it?”

His eyes had that flat calm that was nearly impenetrable. I said, “Possibly. I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Suppose we discuss it.”

I smiled some too. The way his face changed I wondered what I looked like. “It’s all right with me, Rickety.”

“Rickerby.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But let’s do it question-and-answer style. Only I want to go first.”

“You’re not exactly in a position to dictate terms.”

“I think I am. I’ve been put upon. You know?”

He shrugged, and looked at me again, still patient. “It really doesn’t matter. Ask me what you want to.”

“Are you officially on this case?”

Rickerby didn’t take too long putting it in its proper category. It would be easy enough to plot out if you knew how, so he simply made a vague motion with his shoulders. “No. Richie’s death is at this moment a local police matter.”

“Do they know who he was?”

“By now, I assume so.”

“And your department won’t press the matter?”

He smiled, nothing more.

I said, “Suppose I put it this way—if his death resulted in the line of duty he was pursuing—because of the case he was on, then your department would be interested.”

Rickerby looked at me, his silence acknowledging my statement.

“However,” I continued, “if he was the victim of circumstances that could hit anybody, it would remain a local police matter and his other identity would remain concealed from everyone possible. True?”

“You seem familiar enough with the machinations of our department, so draw your own conclusions,” Rickerby told me.

“I will. I’d say that presently it’s up in the air. You’re on detached duty because of a personal interest in this thing. You couldn’t be ordered off it, otherwise you’d resign and pursue it yourself.”

“You know, Mike, for someone who was an alcoholic such a short time ago, your mind is awfully lucid.” He took his glasses off and wiped them carefully before putting them back on. “I’m beginning to be very interested in this aspect of your personality.”

“Let me clue you, buddy. It was shock. I was brought back to my own house fast, and suddenly meeting death in a sober condition really rocked me.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” he said. “Nevertheless, get on with your questions.”

“What was Richie Cole’s job?”

After a moment’s pause he said, “Don’t be silly. I certainly don’t know. If I did I wouldn’t reveal it.”

“Okay, what was his cover?”

All he did was shake his head and smile.

I said, “You told me you’d do anything to get the one who killed him.”

This time a full minute passed before he glanced down at his hands, then back to me again. In that time he had done some rapid mental calculations. “I—don’t see how it could matter now,” he said. When he paused a sadness creased his mouth momentarily, then he went on. “Richie worked as a seaman.”

“Union man?”

“That’s right. He held a full card.”

CHAPTER 5

The elevator operator in the Trib Building looked at me kind of funny like when I told him I wanted to find Hy. But maybe Hy had all kinds of hooples looking for him at odd hours. At one time the guy would never have asked questions, but now was now. The old Mike wasn’t quite there anymore.

In gold, the letters said, HY GARDNER. I knocked, opened the door and there he was, staring until recognition came, and with a subtle restraint he said, “Mike—” It was almost a question.

“A long time, Hy.”

But always the nice guy, this one. Never picking, never choosing. He said, “Been too long. I’ve been wondering.”

“So have a lot of people.”

“But not for the same reasons.”

We shook hands, a couple of old friends saying hello from a long while back; we had both been big, but while he had gone ahead and I had faded, we were still friends, and good ones.