The Mike Hammer Collection

poised kill-crouch of a cat, all cleverly disguised by clothes and the innocent aspect of rimless bifocals.

Now he was deadly. All too often people have the preconceived notion that a deadly person is a big one, wide in the shoulders with a face full of hard angles and thickset teeth and a jawline that would be a challenge too great for anyone to dare. They’d be wrong. Deadly people aren’t all like that. Deadly people are determined people who will stop at nothing at all, and those who are practiced in the arts of the kill are the most deadly of all. Art Rickerby was one of those.

“That’s not a very official attitude,” I said.

“I’m just trying to impress you,” he suggested.

I nodded. “Okay, kid, I’m impressed.”

“Then what about Cole?”

“There’s another angle.”

“Not with me there isn’t.”

“Easy, Art, I’m not that impressed. I’m a big one too.”

“No more, Hammer.”

“Then you drop dead, too.”

Like a large gray cat, he stood up, still pleasant, still deadly, and said, “I suppose we leave it here?”

“You pushed me, friend.”

“It’s a device you should be familiar with.”

I was getting tired again, but I grinned a little at him. “Cops. Damn cops.”

“You were one once.”

After a while I said, “I never stopped being one.”

“Then cooperate.”

This time I turned my head and looked at him. “The facts are all bollixed up. I need one day and one other little thing you might be able to supply.”

“Go ahead.”

“Get me the hell out of here and get me that day.”

“Then what?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you something, maybe I won’t. Just don’t do me any outsized favors because if you don’t bust me out of here I’ll go out on my own. You can just make it easier. One way or another, I don’t care. Take your pick.”

Rickerby smiled. “I’ll get you out,” he said. “It won’t be hard. And you can have your day.”

“Thanks.”

“Then come to me so I won’t have to start looking for you.”

“Sure, buddy,” I said. “Leave your number at the desk.”

He said something I didn’t quite catch because I was falling asleep again, and when the welcome darkness came in I reached for it eagerly and wrapped it around me like a soft, dark suit of armor.

CHAPTER 4

He let me stay there three days before he moved. He let me have the endless bowls of soup and the bed rest and shot series before the tall thin man showed up with my clothes and a worried nurse whose orders had been countermanded somehow by an authority she neither understood nor could refuse.

When I was dressed he led me downstairs and outside to an unmarked black Ford and I got in without talking. He asked, “Where to?” and I told him anyplace midtown and in fifteen minutes he dropped me in front of the Taft. As I was getting out his hand closed on my arm and very quietly he said, “You have one day. No more.”

I nodded. “Tell Rickerby thanks.”

He handed me a card then, a simple business thing giving the address and phone of Peerage Brokers located on Broadway only two blocks off. “You tell him,” he said, then pulled away from the curb into traffic.

For a few minutes I waited there, looking at the city in a strange sort of light I hadn’t seen for too long. It was morning, and quiet because it was Sunday. Overhead, the sun forced its way through a haze that had rain behind it, making the day sulky, like a woman in a pout.

The first cabby in line glanced up once, ran his eyes up and down me, then went back to his paper. Great picture, I thought. I sure must cut a figure. I grinned, even though nothing was funny, and shoved my hands in my jacket pockets. In the right-hand one somebody had stuck five tens, neatly folded, and I said, “Thanks, Art Rickerby, old buddy,” silently, and waved for the cab first in line to come over.

He didn’t like it, but he came, asked me where to in a surly voice and when I let him simmer a little bit I told him Lex and Forty-ninth. When he dropped me there I let him change the ten, gave him two bits and waited some more to see if anyone had been behind me.

No one had. If Pat or anyone else had been notified I had been released, he wasn’t bothering to stick with me. I gave it another five minutes then turned and walked north.

Old Dewey had held the same corner down for twenty years. During the war, servicemen got their paper free, which was about as much as he could do for the war effort, but there were those of us who never forgot and Old Dewey was a friend we saw often so that we were friends rather than customers. He was in his eighties now and he had to squint through his glasses to make out a face. But the faces of friends, their voices and their few minutes’ conversation were things he treasured and looked forward to. Me? Hell, we were old friends from long ago, and back in the big days I never missed a night picking up my pink editions of the News and Mirror from Old Dewey, even when I had to go out of my way to do it. And there were times when I was in business that he made a good intermediary. He was always there, always dependable, never took a day off, never was on the take for a buck.

But he wasn’t there now.

Duck-Duck Jones, who was an occasional swamper in the Clover Bar, sat inside the booth picking his teeth while he read the latest Cavalier magazine and it was only after I stood there a half minute that he looked up, scowled, then half recognized me and said, “Oh, hello, Mike.”

I said, “Hello, Duck-Duck. What are you doing here?”

He made a big shrug under his sweater and pulled his eyebrows up. “I help Old Dewey out alla time. Like when he eats. You know?”

“Where’s he now?”

Once again, he went into an eloquent shrug. “So he don’t show up yesterday. I take the key and open up for him. Today the same thing.”

“Since when does Old Dewey miss a day?”

“Look, Mike, the guy’s gettin’ old. I take over maybe one day every week when he gets checked. Doc says he got something inside him, like. All this year he’s been hurtin’.”

“You keep the key?”

“Sure. We been friends a long time. He pays good. Better’n swabbing out the bar every night. This ain’t so bad. Plenty of books with pictures. Even got a battery radio.”

“He ever miss two days running?”

Duck-Duck made a face, thought a second and shook his head. “Like this is the first time. You know Old Dewey. He don’t wanna miss nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

“You check his flop?”

“Nah. You think I should? Like he could be sick or somethin’?”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“Sure, Mike. He lives right off Second by the diner, third place down in the basement. You got to—”

I nodded curtly. “I’ve been there.”

“Look, Mike, if he don’t feel good and wants me to stay on a bit I’ll do it. I won’t clip nothin’. You can tell him that.”

“Okay, Duck.”

I started to walk away and his voice caught me. “Hey, Mike.”

“What?”