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

Lawrence’s voice rose shrilly. “I had nothing to do with the murder — nothing. I didn’t know about it until later. He—” Lawrence stopped abruptly.

“Go on,” said Corey. “Let’s hear the murderer’s name. Or, would you like me to tell you? While Leland and the others were fooling around in front, somebody entered the store by a side or back door. Now who could that be? Obviously, a person who had a key. There would be only one, right?”

Lawrence was nodding, his body rigid.

“But why would he come to the store at midnight? That question had a ready answer — and a clue. He came because somebody phoned him.” Corey pointed a finger. “Of course, you did. Your story bothered me for quite a while. As a watchman, now, what would you naturally do when Leland entered with all his friends? To avoid trouble, or a chance of losing your job, you’d call a person who was in charge.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lawrence, “I phoned him. And he said he’d be right down. But I never dreamed—”

Corey was shocked by the loud explosion before he saw Lawrence stagger and tumble to the floor. He tugged at his gun and whirled about, his first thought to get away from the open door and the light. He must get out of the small room where he was like a sitting duck. Crouching, he moved through the door toward the safety of the semi-darkness, but at that moment he heard a shot and felt a sharp pain in his arm. His revolver slipped out of his grasp, sliding across the floor. He groped for it without success. Creaking sounds made him aware that he must move away; the murderer knew exactly where he was.

He remained crouched, twisting into the deeper gloom. His shoulder bumped some sort of rack. It fell with a clatter and was followed by the piercing whine of a bullet and the spattering sound of glass. Corey slipped behind a counter and peered about. He was startled for a moment by the figure of a mannequin, poised ahead and above him, one arm extended. He listened again and detected soft footsteps. He kneeled and flattened against a corner of the counter, trying to gaze across the floor. Where was he? His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He noted the other mannequins, the slim figures and gleaming buttons. He was in the women’s clothing section. Now there were no sounds, but Corey knew that the man waited, alert to the slightest movement.

Once more Corey inspected the dummies, their white faces reflecting beams of light. He stiffened. One figure was incongruous. He thought, with a grim humor, that it were almost as though the mannequins, staring anxiously, at him, were on his side. They were exposing the thick, heavy figure, obviously masculine. Corey crawled slowly between the mannequins and then leaped. The man grunted and tried to raise the gun, but Corey had clutched him, pinning his arm. The man jerked violently, and locked together they sprawled on the floor. Corey tore the gun loose, and then, with his free hand, struck hard, once and twice. The man collapsed. Seizing the gun, Corey got to his feet. He stared down at the man and shook his head. The search for the murderer had led to so many blind alleys, that now, he could hardly believe it was over.

Corey, his flesh wound bandaged, sat in his office the next day talking to Gerber. Lawrence, shot in the chest, was in serious condition but expected to pull through. His statement about the murder was finally complete and truthful. Feeling he had made a mistake in admitting Leland to the store, and worried about possible damage, he had called his boss — Martin King, the General Manager. King, instructing him not to interfere with Leland, said he would come there to handle matters.

“Lawrence was playing a dangerous game,” said Corey. “He knew that King had murdered Leland and so he decided that a little blackmail was in order. King made one payment, but he was not the kind of man who would feed a blackmailer. He lay in wait for Lawrence near his home, shot at him and missed. Lawrence had a change of heart; he was scared stiff and now anxious to tell all. The store late at night was an ideal place to eliminate Lawrence and of course, me, since I happened to be there.”

Corey explained what the police had learned from King’s confession. Leland was scheduled to take over the job of general manager. He had taunted King, whom he never liked, jeered at him and promised he would be out on the street. On the night that King came to the store, he had hidden, watching Leland and the others playing with the mannequins. When Eliot and Dana left, he walked to the drapery in back of the window and pulled it aside. He had picked up a heavy statue from a counter. King had not intended to strike at that moment, but Leland, recognizing him, laughed contemptuously. King, losing his temper, swung the statue as Leland was turned toward him.

“King didn’t know that Charlene was still in the store,” Corey said. “He learned a few seconds later when he saw someone walk out and stand in front of the window. Her life might have been in danger, but he soon realized that she couldn’t identify him. His first impulse was to conceal the murder. After waiting until she left, he carried Leland out of the window, placed a dummy on the piano bench, and then removed Leland’s body to a back storeroom. He returned to check, found the original black-haired mannequin on the floor near the window where Leland had left it, and carried that away to the same storeroom. Then he slipped out the back door.”

“This time,” said Gerber, “I believe we have no more surprises coming.” He chuckled. “But I thought there was a bit of news that would interest you. Because of public protest, a new window display has been arranged at the store. It’s a scene from the same murder mystery. A real homey setting, nothing that the people can object to. A woman is playing the piano and a man is standing next to her, turning the pages.”

“Great,” said Corey. He stood up. “I’m invited to Charlene’s tonight and I think I’ll take her down there to watch a pleasant, relaxing scene.”

“You should hear the rest,” said Gerber. “Those who haven’t read the book, don’t know what actually happens. You see, the man turns the page, moistens his finger with his tongue touches a page again moistens his finger...”

Corey groaned. “Poison! Tonight we’ll stay home and watch TV.”

Doctor Waring should have been dead ten seconds after being pushed into the old mine shaft. He expected to die, and wondered why it was taking so long. He could even sense the gradual waning of the light as the blackness below drifted up to meet him.

Oddly, he didn’t think of screaming; instead he told himself calmly, as if speaking of somebody else: I’m done for; this is it.

It was the heavy rains of the last week that saved him. They caused a deep deposit of semi-liquid mud to form at the foot of the shaft; he struck it with a smack that drove all the breath from his body, but the soft mass received his rangy form without breaking a single bone. But he nearly strangled on the ooze before clawing several pounds from his face.

His first thought then was to yell; to call to Rankin for help. He tried it, but produced only a faint wheeze from his battered chest; obviously, his lungs and diaphragm were still briefly out of whack from the fall.

Waring sucked in half a dozen deep breaths, and the dead feeling in his middle diminished. But he didn’t yell, because his brain was working, too. He was now conscious again of the overwhelming fact: Rankin had pushed him. His own colleague, a fellow-surgeon, had tried to kill him. Led him, in fact, like a lamb to the butcher. It had been Rankin’s suggestion that along with a bit of hunting they explore the abandoned mine. He knew very well that Waring couldn’t resist a chance to check out some geology; a mine was a great place for examining strata and hunting fossils.