Above all things, it was far from being an accidental murder. I hate premeditation. I hate those little thoughts of evil that are suppressed in the mind and are being constantly superimposed upon by other thoughts of even greater evil until they squeeze out over the top and drive a person to the depths of infamy.
And this murder was premeditated. Perhaps that cleaver was supposed to have come from the kitchen, but no one could have gone past York to the kitchen without his seeing him, and York had a gun. The killer had chosen his weapon, followed York here and caught him in the act of rifling the place. He didn’t even have to be silent about it. In the confusion of tearing the place apart York would never have noticed little sounds . . . until it was too late.
The old man half stooping over the desk, the upraised meat-ax, one stroke and it was over. Not even a hard stroke. With all that potential energy in a three-pound piece of razor-sharp steel, not much force was needed to deliver a killing blow. Instantaneous death, the body twisting as it fell to face the door and grin at the killer.
I got no further. There was a stamping in the hall, the door was pushed open and Dilwick came in like a summer storm. He didn’t waste any time. He walked up to me and stood three inches away, breathing hard. He wasn’t pretty to look at.
“I ought to kill you, Hammer,” he grated.
We stood there in that tableau a moment. “Why don’t you?”
“Maybe I will. The slightest excuse, any excuse. Nobody’s going to pull that on me and get away with it. Not you or anybody.”
I sneered at him. “Whenever you’re ready, Dilwick, here or in the mayor’s office, I don’t care.”
Dilwick would have liked to have said more, but a young giant in the gray and brown leather of the state police strode over to me with his hand out. “You Mike Hammer?” I nodded.
“Sergeant Price,” he smiled. “I’m one of your fans. I had occasion to work with Captain Chambers in New York one time and he spent most of the time talking you up.”
The lad gave me a bone-crushing handshake that was good to feel.
I indicated the body. “Here’s your case, Sergeant.”
Dilwick wasn’t to be ignored like that. “Since when do the state police have jurisdiction over us?”
Price was nice about it. “Ever since you proved yourselves to be inadequately supplied with material . . . and men.” Dilwick flushed with rage. Price continued, addressing his remarks to me. “Nearly a year ago the people of Sidon petitioned the state to assist in all police matters when the town in general and the county in particular was being used as a rendezvous and sporting place by a lot of out-of-state gamblers and crooks.”
The state cop stripped off his leather gloves and took out a pad. He noted a general description of the place, time, then asked me for a statement. Dilwick focused his glare on me, letting every word sink in.
“Mr. York seemed extremely disturbed after his son had been returned to him. He . . .”
“One moment, Mr. Hammer. Where was his son?”
“He had been kidnapped.”
“So? ” Price’s reply was querulous. “It was never reported to us.”
“It was reported to the city police.” I jerked my thumb at Dilwick. “He can tell you that.”
Price didn’t doubt me, he was looking for Dilwick’s reaction. “Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t we hear about it?”
Dilwick almost blew his top. “Because we didn’t feel like telling you, that’s why.” He took a step nearer Price, his fists clenched, but the state trooper never budged. “York wanted it kept quiet and that’s the way we handled it, so what?”
It came back to me again. “Who found the boy?”
“I did.” Dilwick was closer to apoplexy than ever. I guess he wanted that ten grand as badly as I did. “Earlier this evening I found the boy in an abandoned shack near the waterfront. I brought him home. Mr. York decided to keep me handy in case another attempt was made to abduct the kid.”
Dilwick butted in. “How did you know York was here?”
“I didn’t.” I hated to answer him, but he was still the police. “I just thought he might be. The boy had been kicked around and I figured that he wanted Miss Grange in the house.”
The fat cop sneered. “Isn’t York big enough to go out alone anymore?”
“Not in his condition. He had an attack of some sort earlier in the evening.”
Price said, “How did you find out he was gone, Mr. Hammer?”
“Before I went to sleep I decided to look in to see how he was. He hadn’t gone to bed. I knew he’d mentioned Miss Grange and, as I said, figured he had come here.”
Price nodded. “The door . . . ?”
“It was open. I came in and found . . . this.” I swept my hand around. “I called you, then the city police. That’s all.”
Dilwick made a face and bared what was left of his front teeth. “It stinks.”
So it did, but I was the only one who was sure of it.
“Couldn’t it have been like this, Mr. Hammer.” Dilwick emphasized the mister sarcastically. “You find the kid, York doesn’t like to pay out ten thousand for hardly any work, he blows after you threaten him, only you followed him and make good the threat.”
“Sure, it could,” I said, “except that it wasn’t.” I poked a butt in my mouth and held a match to it. “When I kill people I don’t have to use a meat hatchet. If they got a gun, I use a gun. If they don’t I use my mitts.” I shifted my eyes to the body. “I could kill him with my fingers. On bigger guys . . . I’d use both hands. But no cleaver.”
“How did York get here, Mr. Hammer?”
“Drove, I imagine. You better detail a couple of boys to lock up his car. A blue ’64 Caddy sedan.”
Price called a man in plainclothes over with his forefinger and repeated the instructions. The guy nodded and left.
The coroner decided that it was time to get there with the photo guys and the wicker basket. For ten minutes they went around dusting the place and snapping flashes of the remains from all positions until they ran out of bulbs. I showed Price where I’d touched the wall and the switch so there wouldn’t be a confusion of the prints. For the record he asked me if I’d give him a set of impressions. It was all right with me. He took out a cardboard over which had been spread a light paraffin of some sort and I laid both hands on it and pressed. Price wrote my name on the bottom, took the number off my license and stowed it back in his pocket.
Dilwick was busy going through the papers York had scattered about, but finding nothing of importance returned his attention to the body. The coroner had spread the contents of the pockets out on an end table and Price rifled through them. I watched over his shoulder. Just the usual junk: a key ring, some small change, a wallet with two twenties and four ones and membership cards for several organizations. Under the wallet was the envelope with the capsules.
“Anything missing?” Price asked.
I shook my head. “Not that I know of, but then, I never went through his pockets.”
The body was stuffed into a wicker basket, the cleaver wrapped in a towel and the coroner left with his boys. More troopers came in with a few city guys tagging along and I had to repeat my story all over again. Standing outside the crowd was a lone newspaperman, writing like fury in a note pad. If this was New York they’d have to bar the doors to hold back the press. Just wait until the story reached the wires. This town wouldn’t be able to hold them all.
Price called me over to him. “You’ll be where I’ll be able to reach you?”