Том Годвин: Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

But why? Why? Why should Dr. Rankin want to kill him?

At that moment, death passed him by for a second time, and just barely. A heavy object hurtled past him, brushing one shoulder, and spanked into the muck at his feet. He could see a little now, even in the gloom, as his pupils expanded, and recognized the shape. It was his gun, a sporterized 30-’06, now stock-deep in the mud. Clearly, Rankin believing him dead or dying, had tossed the thing after him. It was to be a disappearance, or possibly an accident, and the killer didn’t want the gun up there in plain sight.

Well, Rankin was wrong; he wasn’t dead or even hurt. When he got out of this place there would be an accounting. Rankin would be damned surprised. He’d never dream his victim had survived the fall. Unable to see the bottom, he wouldn’t know about the mud. Even as it was, there were jagged fangs of rotten wood and rusty iron all around the soft patch. If Waring had hit one of them...

He looked up at the distant circle of light far above his head. The shaft was a hundred and fifty feet deep; that’s why they’d decided to bring the rope — the rope! Waring pawed around in the mud. He’d had the coil over one shoulder, and now the rope was vital. Ah! Here it was, right on the edge. The worse for Rankin; he should have carried it himself, to play safe.

Waring peered up at the opening again, and a sudden chill drove into his bones. What good was a rope to a man already on the bottom of a hole? He needed the thing up on top, with a husky friend to lower it, not down here.

Waring’s elation at his miraculous survival began to subside. Unless he could climb out of here, Rankin would still win the game. Quick death or slow, what was the difference? Either his body would not be found for years, if ever; or the murderer would pass the killing off as an accident. He could even claim they separated, one to go after deer, the other to explore the shaft; and that Rankin had no way of knowing what did happen to his colleague. It was all too easy; people respected a reputable doctor, and didn’t think of him as a criminal. Rankin could charm a deaf bird out of a tall tree; talk about a bedside manner. He was good, all right; how else did the man acquire a new Lincoln every year — and that estate in Bel Air — and the big cruiser berthed at Newport?

Waring stopped this line of thought; no time for such reflections. He had to get out of here before it got dark. There were difficulties enough in the light, such as it was.

He examined the walls of the shaft, using his cigarette lighter, but as sparingly as possible. What he saw was not encouraging. The sides were sheer rock, damp and slimy. Undoubtedly the miners had gone up and down in some kind of bucket, but there was no sign of whatever vertical rails it had run on; very likely they had been made of wood, and had long since rotted away. Here and there, at different heights, a few snags of wood or corroded metal could be seen, but as for any feasible way to the top, there just wasn’t one.

Waring felt his heartbeat quicken, and knew that panic was not far away. He mustn’t allow that; it was more deadly than the trap itself. With hands that shook, he lit a cigarette, and sat down, his back against the chill wall, to take stock.

What do I have to work with? he asked himself, beginning to search his pockets. He piled the contents on a fairly dry block of wood that rose above the mud. Coins, cigarettes, lighter, handkerchief, pen-knife, a dozen rifle shells; wallet, and in the largest pocket the gun-cleaning kit. And, of course, the coil of rope and the gun.

He studied the heap with growing dismay. There wasn’t a damned thing there of any use. What good was a wallet, for example? You couldn’t buy your way out of a spot like this. As he riffled through the contents, a pencil-stub fell out. He picked it up absently, then his eyes narrowed. At least he could fix Rankin — send him to the gas chamber. He’d leave a note, telling just how his colleague had planned the murder. That would do it — or would it? How about motive?

Waring knew he was frittering away valuable time with all this introspection, but couldn’t help himself. The air was none too good down here; full of carbon dioxide, probably; and he didn’t seem to have much energy. Yet the puzzle of why Rankin wanted him dead seemed more important than the trap itself.

A vagrant memory came to him then. That magnificent scene in “Monte Cristo” where the Abbe Faria explains, using facts from Dantes’ own lips, all the dark motives behind the boy’s burial in the Chateau d’If. Surely Waring could apply a similar technique.

There was only one clue, if it could be called that. Two weeks ago Waring had returned early from a week-end, made an unexpected stop at the office late at night, and found Rankin busy in one room of the suite. Quietly Waring had paused at the door, assuming his partner had been called down for some emergency, and opened it just a crack for a quick peek. He had glimpsed Rankin, surgical mask on his face, working over a sheeted figure on the operating table, and assisted by a nurse Waring didn’t recognize. Immediately he withdrew; it wasn’t tactful to intrude on a fellow surgeon at such a time; besides, Rankin might ask him to assist, and Waring was tired. But just before he closed the door, two things happened: the nurse saw him, and gasped; and the woman on the table cried out, “Dr. Waring, that hurts so bad...”

Thinking about it now, he wondered about his own blindness. By mentioning the matter to Rankin, he had confirmed the nurse’s testimony about his presence at so awkward a moment. His colleague had come up casually with a plausible explanation, and Waring had accepted it without suspicion. Now, after the murderous shove at the mouth of the shaft, he saw the facts in a new light. Clearly, Rankin had been performing an illegal operation — and not the first, to judge from the sequence of Lincolns and the other expensive toys the man owned. Even worse, he kept his face covered, working through a trusted confederate — the nurse — and called himself Waring. No wonder he had to get rid of his partner after being caught in the act. Hell, the man might even claim that Waring had run off to avoid prison; the women would all say they had been treated by him and not Rankin. The doctor boiled with fury at the thought.

Once more he pawed through the pile of stuff from his pockets. There had to be some way out of this trap. After all, he had enough rope to reach the top; he only had to get it there.

He searched the few dry spots beyond the pool of mud, and found a rusty iron bolt that weighed at least four ounces. He tied one end of the rope to it, and made a few tentative upward tosses. Much too light; by the time the bolt had lifted a few feet of the cord — slender though it was — all the velocity was lost.

He found another hunk of corroded metal, bound the two into one mass of half a pound or more, and tried again. But the rope tangled before the weight rose more than twenty feet. This wasn’t going to work.

Waring thought for a few minutes, and hoped he’d found the flaw. The rope had to be coiled in such a way that the rising weight of metal could lift it without causing any tangles. He invented several arrangements, and came up with one of alternate coils — a figure eight pile — that didn’t knot up. But when he took a mighty heave towards the shining circle far overhead, the results were ludicrously inadequate. It is one thing to throw a ball several hundred feet in an arc, but another one altogether to project it straight up from the bottom of a narrow shaft. Not even the best outfielder in both major leagues could have managed it; of that Waring was certain.

Filled with despair, the doctor sat down again. He looked at his watch. About three more hours of daylight. After that, only the cigarette lighter for illumination, and it wouldn’t last long. More sun tomorrow — if the promised storm didn’t move in, maybe drowning him down here like a rat — but also a day without food. A man needed all his strength to climb a rope one hundred and fifty feet high. No, it had to be now, in these three hours, or never. Of course, he could yell, now that Rankin was gone, but visitors to the old mine were bound to be scarce, especially at this time of year.