The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [168]
When he finished I asked, “How is he?”
“All right, apparently,” he answered, “but it will be difficult to tell for a few days. I’m going to put him to bed now. His physical condition has always been wonderful, thank goodness.”
He wrapped Ruston in a robe and rang for Harvey. I picked up the wreckage that was my coat and slipped into it. The butler came in and at York’s direction, picked the kid up and they left the room. On the way out Ruston smiled a good-night at me over the butler’s shoulder.
York was back in five minutes. Without a word he pointed at the table and I climbed on. By the time he finished with me I felt like I had been in a battle all over again. The open cuts on my face and back stung from iodine, and with a few layers of six-inch tape around my ribs I could hardly breathe. He told me to get up in a voice shaky from suppressed emotion, swallowed a tablet from a bottle in his kit and sat down in a cold sweat.
When I finished getting dressed I said, “Don’t you think you ought to climb into the sack yourself? It’s nearly daybreak.”
He shook his head. “No. I want to hear about it. Everything. Please, if you don’t mind . . . the living room.”
We went in and sat down together. While I ran over the story he poured me a stiff shot of brandy and I put it away neat.
“I don’t understand it. Mr. Hammer . . . it is beyond me.”
“I know. It doesn’t seem civilized, does it?”
“Hardly.” He got up and walked over to a Sheraton secretary, opened it and took out a book. He wrote briefly and returned waving ten thousand dollars in my face. “Your fee, Mr. Hammer. I scarcely need say how grateful I am.”
I tried not to look too eager when I took that check, but ten G’s is ten G’s. As unconcernedly as I could, I shoved it in my wallet. “Of course, I suppose you want me to put a report in to the state police,” I remarked. “They ought to be able to tie into that crew, especially with the boat. A thing like that can’t be hidden very easily.”
“Yes, yes, they will have to be apprehended. I can’t imagine why they chose to abduct Ruston. It’s incredible.”
“You are rich, Mr. York. That is the primary reason.”
“Yes. Wealth does bring disadvantages sometimes, though I have tried to guard against it.”
I stood up. “I’ll call them then. We have one lead that might mean something. One of the kidnappers was called Mallory. Your boy brought that up.”
“What did you say?”
I repeated it.
His voice was barely audible. “Mallory . . . No!”
As if in a trance he hurried to the side of the fireplace. A pressure on some concealed spring-activated hidden mechanism and the side swung outward. He thrust his hand into the opening. Even at this distance I could see him pale. He withdrew his hand empty. A muscular spasm racked his body. He pressed his hands against his chest and sagged forward. I ran over and eased him into a chair.
“Vest . . . pocket.”
I poked my fingers under his coat and brought out a small envelope of capsules. York picked one out with trembling fingers and put it on his tongue. He swallowed it, stared blankly at the wall. Very slowly a line of muscles along his jaw hardened into knots, his lips curled back in an animal-like snarl. “The bitch,” he said, “the dirty man-hating bitch has sold me out.”
“Who, Mr. York? Who was it?”
He suddenly became aware of me standing there. The snarl faded. A hunted-quarry look replaced it. “I said nothing, you understand? Nothing.”
I dropped my hand from his shoulder. I was starting to get a dirty taste in my mouth again. “Go to hell,” I said, “I’m going to report it.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wouldn’t I? York, old boy, that son of yours pulled me out of a nasty mess. I like him. You hear that? I like him more than I do a lot of people. If you want to expose him to more danger that’s your affair, but I’m not going to have it.”
“No . . . that’s not it. This can’t be made public.”
“Listen, York, why don’t you