Mickey Spillane - The twisted thing

“You told him he wasn’t in the will, but if he and his brother found the pictures and gave them to you you’d cut them in for your share?”

She nodded again. I pushed her back. “York made the will,” I said. “It was his dough and I don’t care what he did with it. Take your share and go to hell with it. You probably will anyway. Tell Arthur I’ll be looking for him. When I find him he’s going to look like his brother.”

I left her looking eighty years old. William was moaning through his own blood when I went out the door. Good party. I liked it. There would be no more rides from that enemy camp. The redskins have left, vamoosed, departed.

There was only one angle to the Graham boys that I couldn’t cover. Which one of them took the shot at Roxy and why? I’ll be damned if I heard a shot. They didn’t stop long enough to say boo far less than snap off a quickie. And they certainly would have shot at me, not toward the window. I wasn’t sure of anything, but if there was money on the table I’d say that neither one had used a gun at all that night. It was details like that that creased me up. I had to make a choice one way or the other and follow it to a conclusion. All right, it was made. The Graham boys were out. Someone else fired it.

New York was a dismal sight after the country. I hadn’t thought the grass and the trees with their ugly bilious color of green could have made such an impression on me. Somehow the crowded streets and the endless babble of voices gave me a dirty taste in my mouth. I rolled into a parking lot, pocketed my ticket, then turned into a chain drugstore on the stem. My first call was back to Sidon. Harvey answered and I told him to keep the kid in the room with Roxy and Billy until I got back and take any calls that came for me. My next dime got Pat Chambers, Captain of Homicide.

“Greetings, chum,” I said, “this is Uncle Mike.”

“It’s about time you buzzed me. I was beginning to think you cooled off another citizen and were on the fly. Where are you?”

“Right off Times Square.”

“Coming down?”

“No, Pat. I have some business to attend to. Look, how about meeting me on the steps of the library. West Forty-third Street entrance. It’s important.”

“Okay. Say in about half an hour. Will that do?”

I told him fine and hung up. Pat was tops in my book. A careful, crafty cop, and all cop. He looked more like a gentleman-about-town, but there it ended. Pat had a mind like an adding machine and a talent for police work backed up by the finest department in the world. Ordinarily a city cop has no truck with a private eye, but Pat and I had been buddies a long time with one exception. It was a case of mutual respect, I guess.

At a stand-up-and-eat joint I grabbed a couple dogs and a lemonade then beat it to the library in time to see Pat step out of a prowl car. We shook hands and tossed some remarks back and forth before Pat asked, “What’s the story?”

“Let’s go inside where we can talk.”

We went through the two sets of doors and into the reading room. Holding my voice down I said, “Ever hear of Rudolph York, Pat? ”

“So?” He had.

I gave him the story in brief, adding at the end, “Now I want to see what was attached to the rest of this dateline. It’ll be here somewhere, and it’s liable to turn up something you can help me with.”

“For instance?”

“I don’t know yet, but police records go back pretty far, don’t they? What I want to know may have happened fourteen years ago. My memory isn’t that good.”

“Okay, let’s see what we can dig up.”

Instead of going through the regular library routine, Pat flashed his shield and we got an escort to where the papers were filed. The old gentleman in the faded blue serge went unerringly to the right bin, pulled out a drawer and selected the edition I wanted all on the first try. He pointed to a table and pulled out chairs for us. My hands were trembling with the excitement of it when I opened the paper.

It was there. Two columns right down the side of the page. Two columns about six-inches long with a photo of York when he was a lot younger. Fourteen years younger. A twenty-four-point heading smacked me between the eyes with its implications. FATHER ACCUSES SCIENTIST OF BABY SWITCHHerron Mallory, whose wife gave birth to a seven-pound boy that died two days later, has accused Rudolph York, renowned scientist, of switching babies. Mallory alleged that it was York’s son, not his, who died. His claim is based on the fact that he saw his own child soon after birth, and recognized it again when it was shown to York, his own having been pronounced dead earlier. Authorities denied that such a mistake could have happened. Head Nurse Rita Cambell verified their denials by assuring both York and Mallory that she had been in complete charge during the two days, and recognized both babies by sight, confirming identification by their bracelets. Mrs. York died during childbirth.

I let out a long, low whistle. The ball had moved up to midfield. Pat suggested a follow-up and we brought out the following day’s sheet. On page four was a small, one-column spread. It was stated very simply. Herron Mallory, a small-time petty thief and former bootlegger, had been persuaded to drop the charges against Rudolph York. Apparently it was suspected that he couldn’t make any headway against a solid citizen like York in the face of his previous convictions. That was where it ended. At least for the time being.

York had a damn good reason then to turn green when Mallory’s name was mentioned. Pat tapped the clipping. “What do you think?”

“It might be the real McCoy . . . then again it might be an accident. I can’t see why York would pull a stunt like that.”

“There’re possibilities here. York was no young man when his son was born. He might have wanted an heir awfully bad.”

“I thought of that, Pat, but there’s one strike against it. If York was going to pull a switch, with his knowledge of genetics he certainly would have taken one with a more favorable family history, don’t you think?”

“Yes, if he made the switch himself. But if it were left up to someone else . . . the nurse, for instance, the choice might have been pretty casual.”

“But the nurse stated . . .”

“York was very wealthy, Mike.”

“I get it. But there’s another side too. Mallory, being a cheap chiseler, might have realized the possibilities in setting up a squawk after his own child died, and picked on York. Mallory would figure York would come across with some hard cash just to keep down that kind of publicity. How does that read?”

“Clever, Mike, very clever. But which one do you believe ?”

The picture of York’s face when he heard the name Mallory flashed across my mind. The terror, the stark terror; the hate. York the strong. He wouldn’t budge an inch if Mallory had simply been trying some judicious blackmail. Instead, he would have been the one to bring the matter to the police. I said: “It was a switch, Pat.”

“That puts it on Mallory.”

I nodded. “He must have waited a long time for his chance. Waited until the kid was worth his weight in gold to York and the public, then put the snatch on him. Only he underestimated the kid and bungled the job. When York went to Grange’s place, Mallory followed him, thinking that York might have figured where the kidnapping came from and split his skull.”

“Did you try to trace the cleaver, Mike?”

“No, it was the kind you could buy in any hardware store, and it was well handled, besides. A tool like that would be nearly impossible to trace. There was no sense in my fooling around with it. Price will track it down if it’s possible. Frankly, I don’t think it’ll work. What’s got me now is why someone ripped out this clipping in the Sidon library. Even as a stall it wouldn’t mean much.”