The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [200]
“Here they are.” She pointed to a tier of shelves, stacked with newspapers, separated by layers of cardboard. Together we located the old Globe editions then began peeling off the layers. In ten minutes we both looked like we had been playing in coal. Legs threw me a pout. “I certainly hope that whatever you’re after is worth all this trouble.”
“It is, honey,” I told her, “it is. Keep your eyes open for October 9.”
Another five minutes, then, “This it?”
I would have kissed her if she didn’t have such a dirty face. “That’s the one. Thanks.”
She handed it over. I glanced at the dateline, then at the one in my hand. They matched. We laid the paper out on a reading desk and pulled on the overhead light. I thumbed through the leaves, turning them over as I scanned each column. Legs couldn’t stand it any longer. “Please . . . what are you looking for?”
I said a nasty word and tapped the bottom of the page.
“But . . .”
“I know. It’s gone. Somebody ripped it out.”
She said the same nasty word, then asked, “What was it?”
“Beats me, honey. Got any duplicates around?”
“No, we only keep one copy. There’s rarely any call for them except from an occasional high school history student who is writing a thesis on something or other.”
“Uh-huh.” Tearing that spot out wasn’t going to do any good. There were other libraries. Somebody was trying to stall me for time. Okay, okay, I have all the time in the world. More time than you have, brother.
I helped her stack the papers back on their shelves before going upstairs. We both ducked into washrooms to get years of dust off our skin, only she beat me out. I half expected it anyway.
When we were walking toward the door I dropped a flyer. “Say, do you know Myra Grange?” Her breath caught and held. “Why . . . no. That is, isn’t she the one . . . I mean with Mr. York?”
I nodded. She had made a good job of covering up, but I didn’t miss that violent blush of emotion that surged into her cheeks at the mention of Grange’s name. So this was why the vanishing lady spent so many hours in the library. “The same,” I said. “Did she ever go down there?”
“No.” A pause. “No, I don’t think so. Oh, yes. She did once. She took the boy . . . Mr. York’s son down there, but that was when I first came here. I went with them. They looked over some old manuscripts, but that was all.”
“When was she here last?”
“Who are you?” She looked scared.
My badge was in my hand. She didn’t have to read it. All she needed was the sight of the shield to start shaking. “She was here . . . about a week ago.”
Very carefully, I looked at her. “No good. That was too long ago. Let’s put it this way. When did you see her last?” Legs got the point. She knew I knew about Myra and guessed as much about her. Another blush, only this one faded with the fear behind it.
“A . . . a week ago, I told you.” I thanked her and went out. Legs was lying through her teeth and I couldn’t blame her.
The water was starting to bubble now. It wouldn’t be long before it started to boil. Two things to do before I went to New York, one just for the pleasure of it. I made my first stop at a drugstore. A short, squat pharmacist came out from behind the glass partition and murmured his greetings. I threw the pills I had taken from Henry’s bottle on the counter in front of me.
“These were being taken for aspirin,” I said. “Can you tell me what they are?”
He looked at me and shrugged, picking up one in his fingers. He touched a cautious tongue to the white surface, then smelled it. “Not aspirin,” he told me. “Have you any idea what they might be?”
“I’d say sleeping pills. One of the barbiturates.” The druggist nodded and went back behind his glass. I waited perhaps five minutes before he came back again.
“You were right,” he said. I threw two five-dollar bills on the counter and scooped up the rest of the pills. Very snazzy, killer, you got a lot of tricks up