The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [222]
Back in the car I laid out my course and drove to the first on my list. It wasn’t an impressive list. Seven names. Dr. Griffin was stepping out of his car when I pulled in.
“Doctor . . .”
“Yes?”
His eyes went up and down the ruin of my suit. “Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’ve been out all night chasing down the dick that shot that cop. I’m a reporter.”
“Oh, yes, I heard about that. What can I do for you?”
“The police fired several shots at him. There’s a chance that he might have been hit. Have you treated any gunshot wounds lately?”
He drew himself up in indignant pride. “Certainly not! I would have reported it immediately had I done so.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The next one wasn’t home, but his housekeeper was. Yes, she knew all about the doctor’s affairs. No, there had been no gunshot wounds since Mr. Dillon shot himself in the foot like a silly fool when loading his shotgun. Yes, she was very glad to be of service.
Dr. Pierce ushered me into his very modern office personally. I pulled the same reporter routine on him. “A gunshot wound, you say?”
“Yes. It wasn’t likely that he’d treat it himself.”
He folded his hands across his paunch and leaned back in his chair. “There was one the day before yesterday, but I reported that. Certainly you know about it. A .22-caliber bullet. The man was hit while driving out in the country. Said he didn’t know where it came from.”
I covered up quickly. “Oh, that one. No, this would have been a larger shell. The cops don’t pack .22’s these days.”
“I expect not,” he laughed.
“Well, thanks anyway, Doctor.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Four names left. It was past three o’clock. The next two weren’t home, but the wife of one assured me that her husband would not have treated any wounds of the sort because he had been on a case in the hospital during the entire week.
The other one was in Florida on a vacation.
Dr. Clark had offices a block away from police headquarters, a very unhealthy place right now. Cars drove up and away in a constant procession, but I had to chance it. I parked pointing away from the area, making sure I had plenty of room to pull out, my wheels turned away from the curb. A woman came out of the office holding a baby. Then a man walking on a cane. I didn’t want to enter an office full of people if I could help it, but if he didn’t get rid of his patients in a hurry I was going to have to bust in anyway. A boy went in crying, holding his arm. Damn it, I was losing time!
As I went to reach for the ignition switch another guy came out, a four-inch wide bandage going from the corner of his mouth to his ear. The bells again. They went off all at once inside my skull until I wanted to scream. The bandage. The hell with the gunshot wound, he was probably dead. The bandage. My fingers hooking in a mouth and ripping the skin wide open. Of course, he’d need a doctor too! You wouldn’t find two freak accidents like that happening at once. He was a ratty-looking guy dressed in a sharp gray suit with eyes that were everywhere at once. He went down the steps easily and walked to a car a couple ahead of me. I felt my heart beginning to pound, beating like a heavy hammer, an incredible excitement that made my blood race in my veins like a river about to flood.
He pulled out and I was right behind him, our bumpers almost touching. There was no subtlety about this tail job, maybe that’s why I got away with it so long. He didn’t notice me until we were on the back road six miles out of town ripping off seventy miles an hour. Just the two of us. We had left all other traffic miles behind. I saw his eyes go to the rear-vision mirror and his car spurted ahead. I grinned evilly to myself and stepped down harder on the accelerator until I was pushing him again.
His eyes hardly left the mirror. There was fright in them now. A hand went out and he signaled me to pass. I ignored it. Eighty-five