The Mike Hammer Collection

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.

He tried to cover the grand hiatus of so many years with a cigar stuck in the middle of a smile and made it all the way, without words telling me that nothing had really changed at all since the first time we had played bullets in a bar and he had made a column out of it the next day.

Hell, you’ve read his stuff. You know us.

I sat down, waved the crazy blond bouffant he used as a secretary now out of the room and leaned back enjoying myself. After seven years it was a long time to enjoy anything. Friends.

I still had them.

“You look lousy,” Hy said.

“So I’ve been told.”

“True what I hear about you and Pat?”

“Word gets around fast.”

“You know this business, Mike.”

“Sure, so don’t bother being kind.”

“You’re a nut,” he laughed.

“Aren’t we all. One kind or another.”

“Sure, but you’re on top. You know the word that’s out right now?”

“I can imagine.”

“The hell you can. You don’t even know. What comes in this office you couldn’t imagine. When they picked you up I heard about it. When you were in Pat’s house I knew where you were. If you really want to know, whenever you were in the drunk tank, unidentified, I knew about it.”

“Cripes, why didn’t you get me out?”

“Mike,” he laughed around the stogie, “I got problems of my own. When you can’t solve yours, who can solve anything? Besides, I thought it would be a good experience for you.”

“Thanks.”

“No bother.” He shifted the cigar from one side to the other. “But I was worried.”

“Well, that’s nice anyway,” I said.

“Now it’s worse.”

Hy took the cigar away, studied me intently, snuffed the smoke out in a tray and pulled his eyes up to mine.

“Mike—”

“Say it, Hy.”

He was honest. He pulled no punches. It was like time had never been at all and we were squaring away for the first time. “You’re poison, Mike. The word’s out.”

“To you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “They don’t touch the Fourth Estate, you know that. They tried it with Joe Ungermach and Victor Reisel and look what happened to them. So don’t worry about me.”

“You worried about me?”

Hy grunted, lit another cigar and grinned at me. He had his glasses up on his head and you’d never think he could be anything but an innocuous slob, but then you’d be wrong. When he had it lit, he said, “I gave up worrying about you a long time ago. Now what did you want from me? It has to be big after seven years.”

“Senator Knapp,” I said.

Sure, he was thinking, after seven years who the hell would think you’d come back with a little one? Mike Hammer chasing ambulances? Mike Hammer suddenly a reformer or coming up with a civic problem? Hell, anybody would have guessed. The Mike doesn’t come back without a big one going. This a kill, Mike? What’s the scoop? Story there, isn’t there? You have a killer lined up just like in the old days and don’t lie to me because I’ve seen those tiger eyes before. If they were blue or brown like anybody else’s maybe I couldn’t tell, but you got tiger eyes, friend, and they glint. So tell me. Tell me hard. Tell me now.

He didn’t have to say it. Every word was there in his face, like when he had read it out to me before. I didn’t have to hear it now. Just looking at him was enough.

I said, “Senator Knapp. He died when I was—away.”

Quietly, Hy reminded me, “He didn’t die. He was killed.”

“Okay. The libraries were closed and besides, I forgot my card.”

“He’s been dead three years.”

“More.”

“First why?”

“Because.”

“You come on strong, man.”

“You know another way?”

“Not for you.”

“So how about the Senator?”

“Are we square?” he asked me. “It can be my story?”

“All yours, Hy. I don’t make a buck telling columns.”