Robert Bloch - Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 1. September 1956

Oh well, he decided pragmatically, this too would come to him in time. Malone stood for a moment, shivering on the sidewalk in the damp, chill mist, wondering which direction along the dimly-lighted street would take him most rapidly to a telephone and a taxicab. He began to regret the proffered rides he had spurned.

Then, miraculously, it appeared that he was going to get a ride after all. A big dark car slid up to the curb, and its door opened silently. Mike Medinica’s voice said, “Get in, Malone.”

Malone complied gratefully. Not only was he glad to get out of the damp chill, but a few words with big Mike Medinica seemed entirely in order. He stole a glance at the handsome blonde giant who sat relaxed behind the wheel. Mike was a free and easy spender, who dressed on the sharp and snappy side and was reported to be ardently pursued by whole regiments of females between the ages of six and sixty. His occupation? Malone supposed the word promoter would do as well as any.

The little lawyer sighed nostalgically. Things were different from back in the twenties. The big boys were getting refined. He preffered big shots who wore their true colors outside as well as in. But this, alas, was no longer the way of the world — or the underworld.

He leaned back, lit a fresh cigar, glanced out the window and exclaimed, “Hey! You’re going the wrong way, Mike.”

“No, I’m not,” Mike Medinica said serenely.

“But I’m going downtown,” said Malone.

“No, you’re not,” Mike Medinica told him. “You’re going out to Sam the Finder’s farm.”

Malone thought that over and made no comment. There seemed none to make.

“Just to spend the day,” Mike Medinica added persuasively.

The little lawyer protested mildly. “That’s — kidnapping,” he said.

“Call a cop,” Mike suggested. He sounded amused.

Malone thought that one over, too. There didn’t seem to be any truly practical way of getting out of the car, either.

“Nothing personal,” Mike Medinica said a mile or so further north.

“Now look here...” Malone began, a little feebly. He paused to consider, added, more feebly still, “You can’t do this.”

This time Mike Medinica chuckled. He said, “Sue me.”

Malone was silent for another mile. “Understand,” he said at last, “it’s a lovely night for a drive, and all that. But, Mike, I’ve got an appointment with Sam the Finder himself, tomorrow morning at my office.”

“Changed,” said Mike Medinica, laconic as ever. “Sam’s out at the farm now. Waiting for you.”

“But...” Malone stopped. He had almost added that he also had an appointment with von Flanagan in the morning, to say nothing of his promise to produce Charlie Binkley’s killer by noon — a promise that involved Sam the Finder. Mike Medinica seemed hardly the person to discuss this highly delicate matter with.

However, Sam the Finder was a reasonable man. Malone decided to wait and talks things over with him, get everything straightened out — omitting all mention of the murder, of course — and then get back to town. As for transportation, he’d have to worry about that when the time came. Sam the Finder’s farm was out near Libertyville. Malone hoped he had train fare on him. He wondered if Mike Medinica knew about the murder. He wondered, too, just how he was going to find this out in what had to be apparently casual conversation.

Finally, Malone decided that this was no time for small or other talk, and settled down to being merely miserable. The thin drizzle was still coming down, and Mike Medinica drove his big car carelessly over the slippery roads, without apparent concern for curves or traffic. Malone was tired, he was cross, and he was worried.

All in all, he was heartily relieved when Mike turned in through the ornate gateway that led to Sam the Finder’s simple little twenty-two room country cottage. He felt even better when he was ushered into the cheerful warmth and light of the big living room by Olive Fliegle, Sam the Finder’s highly ornamental red-haired wife.

Sam the Finder sat by a comfortably glowing fire, wearing an old-fashioned blanket bathrobe and a pair of carpet slippers. He didn’t look downright grim, Malone reflected, merely a shade less genial than usual. But he rose to greet Malone with a fine warmth of cordiality, bade him to let Olive hang up his hat and overcoat and showed him to the comfortable chair.

“Now listen, Sam,” Malone began. He paused to rearrange his thoughts once more and reached in his pocket for a cigar.

Sam shoved a handsome humidor across the coffee table. “Be my guest,” he said generously.

In more ways than one, Malone thought bitterly. He tried it again. “Sam, much as I’d enjoy staying overnight, I have a number of things to attend to in town, come morning.”

Sam the Finder shrugged his shoulders and waved a careless hand. “Take care of them by telephone,” he suggested. “Make all the calls you want. Long distance if you want to. Be my guest.”

“But, Sam...” Malone managed, by the thinnest of margins to keep sheer desperation out of his voice.

“Make yourself at home. My house is yours.” Sam the Finder remained inexorably expansive.

Olive smiled at Malone winsomely from her chair and, for a fleeting and tingling moment, Malone wondered exactly how far Sam intended his hospitality to go. Then he reminded himself that this was enforced hospitality, although the ugly fact had not actually been brought into the open — yet.

It was Mike Medinica who finally brought it to the surface, after a long and awkward silence. “We trust you, Malone,” he said, by way of reassurance. “Hell, everybody trusts you. But right now, we don’t want to take no chances. Sammy never should have told you how he got that black eye.”

“A client’s confidences are always sacred,” Malone intoned stiffly, “no matter what their nature.” That, he realized, went for the murder of Charlie Binkley, too, if the conversation touched that highly explosive matter. “So there’s no real necessity for this...” He had been about to say, “outrage,” but hastily changed it to, “invitation.”

“Malone,” said Mike Medinica, “this is positively no reflection on your character in any way, and we do not want you to take it as such. But there is entirely too much money involved to take any chances that some damn fool thing might go wrong.”

The little lawyer was, in a way, relieved that Mike had confined the reason for his genteel snatch to mere money.

“Besides which,” the big promoter added, “there is the very likely possibility that if Sam the Finder should take the stand, certain little incidental items might be mentioned in the questioning, irregardless of the fact that Sam the Finder would naturally keep his trap shut. Certain of the finer points of the deal might be brought to the public attention, points we consider are none of the public’s damn business.” Mike drew a long breath and smiled at Malone with revolting amiability.

Little incidental items, Malone thought, certain of the finer points of the deal — such as protection for fixed fights and vicious gambling activities. He wondered if Mike Medinica even knew what had happened to Charlie Binkley. In any event, John J. Malone wasn’t going to be the one to bring up the subject.

“So,” Sam the Finder put in, “tomorrow night, we will drive you back to town. In the meantime, enjoy yourself, Malone. Have yourself a ball.”

It was no time for argument, Malone decided. Somehow he was going to have to get back to town by morning, but surely something would turn up. Something was going to have to. This was one time he couldn’t afford to let down von Flanagan.