The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [177]
I slipped out of the bed and opened the door, letting the full force of it hit me. It was impossible to conceive that a piano could tell such a story as this one was telling.
He sat there at the keyboard, a pitiful little figure clad in a Prussian blue bathrobe. His head was thrown back, the eyes shut tightly as if in pain, his fingers beating notes of anguish from the keys.
He was torturing himself with it. I sat beside him. “Ruston, don’t.”
Abruptly, he ceased in the middle of the concert and let his head fall to his chest. The critics were right when they acclaimed him a genius. If only they could have heard his latest recital.
“You have to take it easy, kid. Remember what I told you.”
“I know, Mike, I’ll try to be better. I just keep thinking of Dad all the time.”
“He meant a lot to you, didn’t he?”
“Everything. He taught me so many things, music, art . . . things that it takes people so long to get to know. He was wonderful, the best dad ever.”
Without speaking I walked him over to the big chair beside the fireplace and sat down on the arm of the chair beside him. “Ruston,” I started, “your father isn’t here anymore, but he wouldn’t want you to grieve about it. I think he’d rather you went on with all those things he was teaching you, and be what he wanted you to be.”
“I will be, Mike,” he said. His voice lacked color, but it rang earnestly. “Dad wanted me to excel in everything. He often told me that a man never lived long enough to accomplish nearly anything he was capable of because it took too long to learn the fundamentals. That’s why he wanted me to know all these things while I was young. Then when I was a doctor or a scientist maybe I would be ahead of myself, sort of.”
He was better as long as he could talk. Let him get it out of his system, I thought. It’s the only way. “You’ve done fine, kid. I bet he was proud of you.”
“Oh, he was. I only wish he could have been able to make his report.”
“What report?”
“To the College of Scientists. They meet every five years to turn in reports, then one is selected as being the best one and the winner is elected President of the College for a term. He wanted that awfully badly. His report was going to be on me.”
“I see,” I said. “Maybe Miss Grange will do it for him.”
I shouldn’t have said that. He looked up at me woefully. “I don’t think she will, not after the police find her.”
It hit me right between the eyes. “Who’s been telling you things, kid?”
“The policemen were here this morning. The big one made us all tell where we were last night and everything. Then he told us about Miss Grange.”
“What about her?”
“They found her car down by the creek. They think she drowned herself.”
I could have tossed a brick through a window right then. “Harvey!” I yelled. “Hey, Harvey.”
The butler came in on the double. “I thought I asked you to wake me up when the police got here. What the hell happened?”
“Yes, sir. I meant to, but Officer Dilwick suggested that I let you sleep. I’m sorry, sir, it was more an order than a request.”
So that was how things stood. I’d get even with that fat slob. “Where is everybody?”
“After the police took their statements he directed the family to return to their own homes. Miss Malcom and Parks are bringing Mr. York’s car home. Sergeant Price wished me to tell you that he will be at the headquarters on the highway this evening and he would like to see you.”
“I’m glad someone would like to see me,” I remarked. I turned to Ruston. “I’m going to leave, son. How about you go to your room until Roxy . . . I mean Miss Malcom gets here? Okay?”
“All right, Mike. Why did you call her Roxy?”
“I have pet names for everybody.”
“Do you have one for me?” he asked, little lights dancing in his eyes.
“You bet.”
“What?”
“Sir Lancelot. He was the bravest of the brave.”
As I walked out of the room I heard him repeat it softly.