Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 02] Read Online Free PDF

blew some of the mattress stuffing in my face and I walked over to close the window. It faced on a fire escape and the sash had been forced with some kind of tool. It couldn’t have been simpler. On the floor by the sill was a white plastic comb. I picked it up and felt the grease on it. A few dark hairs were tangled around the teeth. I smelled it.
    Hair oil. The kind of hair oil a greaseball would use. I wasn’t sure, but there were ways of finding out. The hag was still in the corridor sweeping when I went down. I told her somebody had crashed the place before I got there and liked to knock it apart. She gave one unearthy shriek and took the steps two at a time until the building shook.
    It was enough for one day. I went home and hit the sack. I didn’t sleep too well, because the redhead would smile, kiss her finger and put it on my cheek and wake me up.
    At half past six the alarm went off with a racket that jerked me out of a wild dream and left me standing on the rug shaking like a kitten in a dog kennel. I shut it off and ducked into a cold shower to wash the sleep out of my eyes, then finish off the morning’s ceremonies with a close shave that left my face raw. I ate in my shorts, then stacked the dishes in the sink and laid out my clothes.
    This had to be a new-suit day. I laid the tweeds on the bed and, for a change, paid a little attention to the things that went with it. By the time I had climbed into everything and ran a brush over my shoes I even began to look dignified. Or at least sharp enough to call on one of the original 400.
    I found Arthur Berin-Grotin’s name in the Long Island directory, a town about sixty miles out on the Island that was a chosen spot for lovers, trapshooters and recluses. Buck had my car greased up and ready for me when I got to the garage, and by the time nine-thirty had rolled around I was tooling the heap along the highway, sniffing the breezes that blew in from the ocean. An hour later I reached a cutoff that sported a sign emblazoned with Old English lettering and an arrow that pointed to Arthur Berin-Grotin’s estate on the beach.
    Under the wheels the road turned to macadam, then packed, crushed gravel, and developed into a long sweep of a drive that took me up to one of the fanciest joints this side of Buckingham Palace. The house was a symbol of luxury, but utterly devoid of any of the garishness that goes with new wealth. From its appearance it was ageless, neither young nor old. It could have stood there a hundred years or ten without a change to its dignity. Choice field stone reached up to the second floor, supporting smooth clapboard walls that gleamed in the sun like bleached bones. The windows must have been imported; those on the south side were all stained glass to filter out the fierce light of the sun, while the others were little lead-rimmed squares arranged in patterns that changed from room to room.
    I drove up under the arched dome of a portico and killed the engine, wondering whether to wait for a major-domo to open the door for me or do it myself. I decided not to wait.
    The bell was the kind you pull; a little brass knob set in the doorframe, and when I gave it a gentle tug I heard the subtle pealing of electric chimes inside. When the door opened I thought it had been done by an electric eye, but it wasn’t. The butler was so little and so old that he scarcely reached above the doorknob and didn’t seem strong enough to hold it open very long, so I stepped in before the wind blew it shut and turned on my best smile.
    “I’d like to see Mr. Berin-Grotin, please.”
    “Yes, sir. Your name please?” His voice crackled like an old hen’s.
    “Michael Hammer, from New York.”
    The old man took my hat and led me to a massive library paneled in dark oak and waved his hand toward a chair. “Would you care to wait here, sir? I’ll inform the master that you have arrived. There are cigars on the table.”
    I thanked him and picked out a huge