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

“You’ll freeze too,” he said, “if I don’t put a slug through your guts and sit here and watch you die.”

He was capable of it. I had to move carefully now — and, above all, avoid mention of his father. I said, “There’ll be no one to watch you die. You can’t attract attention up here. Nobody can see you, and we’re too high for shouting to do any good. If you’re going through with this screwball scheme, I’d advise you to keep a bullet in the gun. You’ll want it before midnight.”

“I’ll kick you to pieces!” he screamed, and the mounting, icy wind seemed to pick up his shrill fury and cast it around like an echo. “I’ll make you tell me where that key is.”

I reached down deep and found a smile I didn’t know I had. “So long, kid,” I said.

He pulled his foot back, but after a moment he relaxed, as if he realized there wasn’t any use. He walked around the rooftop — fast, stamping his feet — but I could see his face turning crimson as the cold bit into him. I was already numb. Maybe, I thought, I could stand it another hour. But not much longer than an hour — pretty soon I’d have to begin fighting to stay awake.

You just closed your eyes and fell asleep when you froze to death. Or did you have to be buried alive in a snow bank to earn such solace? I was damned well going to find out pretty soon. The wound in my thigh should have been aching badly, but I didn’t even feel it. I stretched the leg all the way out and wiggled my toes. They moved, but a bit sluggishly, and it took a lot of effort.

The kid was stamping around again. His overcoat was shoddy — it wouldn’t keep out the cold forever. It was a toss-up now — as to who could stand the most cold. I lay back, looking up at the darkening sky while the stars began to come out.

Cold, cold stars — Maybe there was something up there for me. All I had to do to find out was close my eyes and let myself go. It was as easy as that. I was shaking so hard I thought an arm or a leg might break off. The kid was standing there, looking down at me.

“Here it comes,” he said. “I’m sick of fooling around.”

I laughed. I suppose it was an unpleasant laugh, because the kid’s face grew drawn and anguished. I said, “Like father, like son — except he got burned to death, and you’ll freeze to death. But then, you can always jump.”

He shouted his shrill curses. He kicked me half a dozen times. I didn’t even feel it. I closed my eyes again. To hell with him, I thought. Then, far in the back of my mind, I found a small, lurking doubt. What if the kid got away with it! What if I died, and he somehow got off the roof? Nothing, I remembered, was impossible. If he did, he’d get that money — he and his girl friend would cash the check. Right there, the nucleus of a brand-new gang would be formed. What would I be turning loose on this city I had helped to build?

I managed to raise myself on one elbow. “Do you want to listen to me, kid, do you want to shoot me, or do I just lie back and let myself freeze to death?”

“Talk all you want,” he snarled at me. “Words won’t do you no good.”

If he didn’t care, he’d have refused to listen. I said, “What’s it getting you, kid? You said your old man was smart. What would he do in a case of this kind?”

“Blow your goddamn head off,” the kid yelled.

“Then he wouldn’t be smart — like you said he was. Look here, kid, nobody with brains fights what he knows he can’t lick. I can’t get off this roof unless you let me. You can’t get off unless I give you the key — and you know by now that I won’t.”

“If you’re talking a deal, forget it,” he said.

“Sure it’s a deal,” I said. “Why not? So far, you’re guilty of attempted blackmail and attempted murder. That isn’t actual murder. They can’t burn you. The choice is yours, kid. Die here or go to jail for awhile. You’ve got — at the outside — ten or fifteen minutes to make up your mind. I won’t last much longer.”

“How do I know you really got the key?” he asked.

Then I knew I had him.

“What would be the sense to all this if I didn’t have it?”

“It’s not on the roof, it ain’t in your clothes. Where is it, damn you?”

“Give me the gun,” I said.

He stamped his feet some more, flapped his arms, looked colder than ever. I didn’t feel a thing. I was numb from head to foot. All of a sudden, he sobbed. He blubbered like the nasty little embryo he was. Then he threw the gun down on the roof beside me.

I had a lot of will power and a little hope, but hardly any strength. The hardest thing I ever did was to turn over, so I could put my hand around the gun butt. I imagined it felt warm — from his hand.

“Get my clothes,” I told him. “Hurry it up — I’m almost finished.”

He was on the receiving end this time. He was so anxious to save his own life that he helped me into my pants and shirt and even took off his overcoat and put it around me.

I managed to stand up, with his help, but then I pushed him away. It was a weak push — a gnat could have done as well — but all the kid needed was the implication. He stepped away.

I staggered over to the door, let myself slide down. Now came the dangerous part. Once I had the key, he wasn’t going to be easy to handle. My fingers were numb, but I could still feel the metal pencil clipped to the pocket of my coat, and I got it free.

I put the end of the pencil under the door, tilted it, pulled it toward me. After a few hair-raising failures, I saw the key glistening like a diamond as I dragged it from under the door.

He was yelling something. My fingers closed around the key, clumsily, but I’d put my left hand inside the overcoat long enough to get the blood circulating sluggishly, and I could manipulate them. My other hand seemed completely numb and held the gun only because my fingers were frozen around it.

“You shoved it under the door!” he shrilled. “Damn you! Under the door! Under the door! It was there all the time!”

“You’re smart,” I said. “Like your old man, you’re smart. Why didn’t you find it, smart guy?”

He came toward me. I fired the gun. At least it went off, though I had no real sensation of pulling the trigger. The slug missed him, but it straightened things out in his mind. He had no desire to die.

I got the door open, and the warm air that came up felt like the blast from a furnace. I let it fan all around me until my skin started tingling.

“Mr. Landin,” the kid was saying. “Please, Mr. Landin — I’m cold! I’m dying I’m so cold!”

I let him go first, and not out of politeness. My thigh, my whole body, was giving me fits. The wound was beginning to bleed again. We reached the bottom of the stairs and went on out into and corridor.

I picked up one of the bricks that had held the door open, and I smashed it against his skull as hard as I could. A blow with the gun wouldn’t have been as effective.

I let him lie there, because there was nothing else I could do. I moved toward my office down the hall. I knew I had only a few seconds left. I made my legs travel faster. Miracle of miracles — I was inside! I picked up the phone. My finger found the slot for the operator, and I dialed. I thought the end of my finger was going to break off.

Then they came — as I thought they might — the shakes! I began shivering from head to foot. The police understood me, but it took what seemed like a long while to get the words around my chattering teeth.

They fed me whiskey from a bottle in my office — only after they got me to the hospital, was I given hot coffee. The wound wasn’t too bad. I’d be up and out of there in a few days — that’s what they told me.