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

When he opened the door, inward, Shayne was waiting beside it. As the mobster appeared in the rectangle of light, the redhead moved swiftly, plucking a heavy automatic from the man’s shoulder holster before he could raise his arms to prevent the move. The man cried, “Louis! Look—”

He had no time to utter another sound. Shayne backhanded him full across the face with the gun and felt flesh and bone tear under the impact. Then he was in the hall, leaping over the falling body and laying the heavy pistol hard against the rocklike skull of the startled Louis. He paused only to strip Louis of his pistol before moving warily, angrily, along the corridor. He walked softly, on the balls of his feet, a gun in either hand, as he made his way out of the mansion. He did not see another living soul.

Outside, the cream-and-blue convertible still waited. The redhead slid behind the wheel, laying his arsenal on the seat beside him. He put the car in gear and got away from there fast. The rage within him was deep. By his watch, it was already past two in the morning, and he felt a sickening sense of time irreparably lost as he burned rubber toward the White Sapphire. He had to find Lucy, and he wanted to be in at the farewell party. There was a chance Lucy might have gone without him, and a possibility Copey Cottrell might be there.

He arrived as the party was breaking up. In one corner, an impromptu quartet was singing Tamiami Trail close to a long service bar, which gave evidence of having seen much service. Men. and women, looking slightly the worse for wear, were gathered in groups and clusters about the large private ballroom. There was a lot of Air Force brass in evidence.

The little publicity man with the large ears, waylaid him as he moved toward the other end of the room, searching for Lucy. Pinky Reach was a trifle unsteady on his feet and grinning amiably. He said, “You must be a whiz, Shayne. How come you’re asking for Jeanie Williams’ picture this afternoon? I saw Jeanie in the city this evening.”

“Where?” the detective asked sharply.

“In town.” The publicity man waved his glass vaguely. “She was with another dame — a real looker. They were coming out of a beauty shop. Antonelli, my assistant, was with me — he can tell you. Hey, Sammy.”

Sam Antonelli ambled up and nodded when the publicity man repeated his question. “It was Jeanie, all right,” he said solemnly. “Good old Jeanie. Talk about your dames.”

“Some other time,” said Shayne. “What did the girl with her look like?” He was getting a hunch, and the lobe of his left ear was itching.

“Beautiful!” said Pinky Reach rhapsodically. But, under deft prodding from Shayne, he managed to give a fairly accurate description of Lucy Hamilton. Then he said, mournfully. “Party’s almost over. Got to get our bags if we’re gonna make Homer’s special plane at three.”

“That’s right,” said Antonelli solemnly. “S’long, Shayne.”

They wandered away, leaving Shayne frowning. So Lucy had found Jeanie-Carol — that was one load off his mind. But he’d have given a case of brandy to know where the women were at that moment. His speculations were broken when Homer Wilde came out of another room, surrounded by a coterie of Air Force and other brass, among whom Shayne spotted Cottrell. He lifted a hand in salute and had the pleasure of seeing the underworld boss look briefly distressed at sight of him. “But not as distressed as you’re going to look,” he told himself grimly.

Homer spotted Shayne and came over to him, hiding his displeasure behind a mask of geniality. “I’d about given you up, Mike,” he said. “And where’s that pretty secretary of yours?”

Monica Mallon, looking sleek and deadly beautiful in a strapless gown of black sequins, slithered through the crowd and slipped a shapely arm inside Homer’s elbow. “Perhaps your adoring little fan isn’t quite so adoring as you thought, darling,” she told Homer.

Homer ignored her and peered closely at the redhead. “Boy!” he said. “Whatever delayed you must have had claws. You look as if you’d been in a battle royal.”

“I was,” Shayne snapped. “Ask Cottrell to tell you about it.”

Homer, with a look of surprise, glanced at his partner, who shook his head slightly. Taking the cue, Homer raised his voice and said, “Come on! Everybody that’s still here, come on out to the airport and see us off. There’ll be champagne, and none of you free loaders will want to miss that.” He moved on toward the exit.

Shayne found himself standing beside a trim, young Air Force brigadier, who shook his head and said to the detective, “I never thought I’d hear old Farquar” — indicating an older man with the three stars of a lieutenant general on his shoulder straps — “called a free-loader and smile. Confidentially, sometimes I think Homer’s a bit rich for the Air Force’s blood. Still, you’ve got to hand it to a guy who can put on a show the way he did last night and log three thousand miles of jet-flying before a late lunch the next day.” Following Homer, while the brigadier kept on talking, Shayne saw patterns resolve and reshape themselves in his mind’s eye. He thought of an Air Force jet blasting out of a cloud bank and all but crashing into a north-bound Constellation as it left Miami — of Jarvis, the writer, complaining that modern scientific development had shattered the unities of the ancient Greek drama. For the first time, what had been mere playwright’s patter, took on new meaning.

He said, to the brigadier, “I had an idea Homer’s reserve commission was strictly an honorary one.”

“That’s what we thought,” was the reply, “until old Homer decided to make it for real. And once Homer makes up his mind...”

Shayne lost the brigadier and got into the back seat of one of a line of rented cars. A man got in beside him and said, “I was hoping you’d show up tonight, Mike. I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you. What held you up? Wilde told me he was expecting you.”

It was Will Gentry, Miami Chief of Police, the redhead’s old friend and occasional antagonist. Shayne said, “A character named Cottrell wanted the same answers you do, Will. And I couldn’t give them to him because I didn’t have them.”

“So he held you?” Gentry asked the question lightly, but there was probing below the surface.

“He tried to,” Shayne told him.

Gentry said, as they swung for the drive to the airport, “Well, after all, Cottrell’s a newcomer around here... Those questions Cottrell asked you — think you’ve got the answers now?”

“Some of them,” the redhead replied slowly. “Not all — not yet.”

“You know, Mike,” Gentry mused, “you disappointed Len Sturgis last night at the airport. We didn’t expect you to come in alone.”

“I hated to disappoint Len,” said Shayne.

“I’m sure you did.”

A girl, in the front seat beside the driver, interrupted their colloquy by offering them drinks from a bottle she was carrying. Shayne was grateful for the interruption. It gave him a chance to work out his startling new theory of Ben Felton’s death.

The champagne send-off was in full cry when they reached the airport. Shayne got out of the car and moved to the fringe of the celebration, following the revelers through the buildings, out to the ramps, where a big plane waited. He lost Gentry in the process, but he had not gone far when his sleeve was plucked and Lucy’s voice said, “Mike! Thank God you’re here!”

Shayne gave her a hug and she put her arms around his neck. He winced as she touched a bruise.

“You’re hurt, Michael. What happened?”

“Not bad,” he replied. “Couple of other people got hurt a lot worse. I hear you ran down Jeanie.”