The Mike Hammer Collection

Before the pair could tell him to shut up, Nat blurted, “Mike—it was old Morris Fleming. He got killed.”

I played it square as I could. “Morris Fleming?”

“Night man, Mike. He started working here after—you left.”

The cop waved him down. “Somebody broke his neck.”

“What for?”

He held up the book. Ordinarily he never would have answered, but I had been around too long in the same business. “He could have been identified. He wanted in the easy way so he signed the book, killed the old man later and ripped the page out when he left.” He let me think it over and added, “Got it figured yet?”

“You don’t kill for fun. Who’s dead upstairs?”

Both of them threw a look back and forth and stared at me again. “Clever boy.”

“Well?”

“No bodies. No reported robberies. No signs of forcible entry. You’re one of the last ones in. Maybe you’d better check your office.”

“I’ll do that,” I told him.

But I didn’t have to bother. My office had already been checked. Again. The door was open, the furniture pushed around, and in my chair behind the desk was Pat, his face cold and demanding, his hands playing with the box of .45 shells he had found in the niche in the desk.

Facing him with her back to me, the light from the window making a silvery halo around the yellow of her hair, was Laura Knapp.

I said, “Having fun?”

Laura turned quickly, saw me and a smile made her mouth beautiful. “Mike!”

“Now how did you get here?”

She took my hand, held it tightly a moment with a grin of pleasure and let me perch on the end of the desk. “Captain Chambers asked me to.” She turned and smiled at Pat, but the smile was lost on him. “He came to see me not long after you did.”

“I told you that would happen.”

“It seems that since you showed some interest in me he did too, so we just reviewed all—the details of what happened—to Leo.” Her smile faded then, her eyes seeming to reflect the hurt she felt.

“What’s the matter, Pat, don’t you keep files anymore?”

“Shut up.”

“The manual says to be nice to the public.” I reached over and picked up the box of .45’s. “Good thing you didn’t find the gun.”

“You’re damn right. You’d be up on a Sullivan charge right now.”

“How’d you get in, Pat?”

“It wasn’t too hard. I know the same tricks you do. And don’t get snotty.” He flipped a paper out of his pocket and tossed it on the desk. “A warrant, mister. When I heard there was a kill in this particular building I took this out first thing.”

I laughed at the rage in his face and rubbed it in a little. “Find what you were looking for?”

Slowly, he got up and walked around the desk, and though he stood there watching me it was to Laura that he spoke. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Knapp, wait out in the other room. And close the door.”

She looked at him, puzzled, so I nodded to her and she stood up with a worried frown creasing her eyes and walked out. The door made a tiny snick as it closed and we had the place all to ourselves. Pat’s face was still streaked with anger, but there were other things in his eyes this time. “I’m fed up, Mike. You’d just better talk.”

“And if I don’t?”

The coldness took all the anger away from his face now. “All right, I’ll tell you the alternative. You’re trying to do something. Time is running against you. Don’t give me any crap because I know you better than you know yourself. This isn’t the first time something like this cropped up. You pull your connections on me, you try to play it smart—okay—I’ll make time run out on you. I’ll use every damn regulation I know to harass you to death. I’ll keep a tail on you all day, and every time you spit I’ll have your ass hauled into the office. I’ll hold you on every pretext possible and if it comes to doing a little high-class framing I can do that too.”

Pat wasn’t lying. Like he knew me, I knew him. He was real ready to do everything he said and time was one thing I didn’t have enough of. I got up and walked around the desk to my chair and sat down again. I pulled out the desk drawer, stowed the .45’s back in the niche without trying to be smug about what I did with the gun. Then I sat there groping back into seven years, knowing that instinct went only so far, realizing that there was no time to relearn and that every line had to be straight across the corners.

I said, “Okay, Pat. Anything you want. But first a favor.”

“No favors.”

“It’s not exactly a favor. It’s an or else.” I felt my face go as cold as his was. “Whether you like it or not I’m ready to take my chances.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was ready to throw his fist at my face again and would have, only he was too far away. Little by little he relaxed until he could speak, then all those years of being a cop took over and he shrugged, but he wasn’t fooling me any. “What is it?”

“Nothing I couldn’t do if I had the time. It’s all a matter of public record.”

He glanced at me shrewdly and waited.

“Look up Velda’s P.I. license.”