Jay Carroll - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 4, August 1957 (British Edition)

“And we found that blood out there, too. Those leaves should have been scattered around even, not all bunched up like that in one place.” He waited, watching Henry’s face expectantly.

Henry tightened his grip on the shotgun and said nothing.

The deputy shrugged. “We know just how you did it, Mr. Ferris,” he went on. “We even took the dogs up there to the grove. They knew the scent they was after all right, but they couldn’t come near the house, because the man never did. Once we knew you’d done him in, up there in the trees, and carried him down here to the house, we knew all we had to know.”

The constable’s face was grey. He shook his head slowly. “Henry,” he said softly, “I’ve known you all my life. I’m just thankful I don’t have to take you in.”

The deputy took a short step forward. “It’s my territory out here, Mr. Ferris,” he said. “I’ll ask you not to give me any trouble.”

Henry looked at the deputy, but his vision went through him and beyond him, and he smiled at the play of sunlight on Colleen Kimberley’s curving thighs, as she sat there on the knoll beyond the orchard.

He was still thinking of her, when he put the shotgun barrels in his mouth and pressed both triggers with his toe.

When Hranek got out of San Quentin, his soul held but one purpose — to get even with the man who had ruined his life, although this man was his brother!

He had not looked at himself in a mirror for a long, long time. But now Hranek walked slowly, deliberately, over to the silver-streaked mirror on the hotel room wall and stood in the spotlight of sun which came in the window.

He saw a face that was broken and misshapen, scarred and evil. He gazed at it hard and long — gazed at the old scar which, like a heavy weight, dragged down the left corner of his mouth, gazed at the flat, twisted nostrils, gazed at the deep crescent-shaped heel-gouges in his cheeks and chin.

Hranek felt the hatred for his brother rise fresh and new, stronger than ever. It was almost as if he could feel the pain again, feel his brother’s heels come down again and again.

Hranek let the hatred rise until he could taste it, acid and hot, full in his mouth. And though he wanted to pivot away from the mirror, he forced himself to stay, because, the longer he looked at himself, the easier it was to plan exactly what he would do during the next hour.

He did not recognise the expression in his eyes. Once they had been friendly eyes, full of good things like laughter and kindness and cheerfulness. Now they were deadly eyes, cold-blue and heartless. He filled his lungs with air, watched his big chest swell against the rough tweed of the suit they had given him at San Quentin. Then he let his breath out slowly, angrily, and turned finally away from the mirror.

Across the room, on the bed, lay a flat oblong parcel. Hranek’s large fingers were steady as he broke the string and unwrapped the brown paper. From the box he took a revolver. He turned it over in his hands, examining its blunt newness, rubbing a bit of lint from its oil-gleaming barrel.

Abruptly, he aimed it at the bureau and pulled the trigger three times, four times, hearing the crisp metallic sound of the hammer falling on empty chambers. For an instant, it was not the bureau he was aiming at. It was the ugly, fat figure of his brother, and he felt the hatred again, the hatred which had built up, layer upon layer, for four long years. He wanted to get it over with.

From the pocket of his coat, he drew six clean .38-caliber cartridges, which he slipped into the chambers. Opening his coat, he placed the revolver in the right rear pocket of his trousers, letting the butt protrude, so it would be within easy reach. He left the coat unbuttoned, so the bulging pocket would be less noticeable, then he walked toward the door.

Just before his fingers touched the knob, there was a rap on the door, short and nervous. Hranek halted.

“Sam?” called a woman’s voice. “Are you in there?”

It was Nina’s voice, gentle despite its urgency, and he felt a stab of panic, because he did not want to see her. He stood still, praying his silence would send her away.

She rapped again. “Sam?”

Then she turned the knob, and, before he thought to thrust his shoulder against the door, she came in.

“Sam,” she said, “I thought you were here. Why didn’t you...?”

She saw him then, got a good look at his face, but she controlled herself beautifully. Her large clear eyes widened, only for an instant, and then she went on talking, looking at him as if nothing had changed.

“It’s been a long four years,” she said. “Aren’t you even going to say hello?”

“Beat it!” Hranek said. He gave the words a convict’s toughness.

“Please, Sam.” She stepped closer, shutting the door behind her. “You’ve got it wrong. If you had just read my letters, you’d see that I didn’t have anything to do with it. I tried to—”

“Look at my face,” he said. “Handsome, isn’t it? And you’re as responsible for it as Julius is. It was your phone call that took me downstairs that morning, downstairs where Julius and his buddies were waiting to beat the living hell out of me.”

“No,” she said. “Julius told me to make the phone call. He didn’t tell me why. I never—”

“Shut up!” Hranek said. “Shut up and look at my face. Give it a good look, this time, and make yourself sick!”

She looked at him, unflinching, and he stood there, feeling big and powerless, wanting to hate her the way he hated Julius, but unable to do so. She was prettier, even, than she had been four years ago. She was twenty-eight now and more mature, but her figure was still small and perfect in her smartly-cut navy blue suit.

“Forget about your face, Sam.” she said. “It’s not so bad. A doctor, a plastic surgeon, could do wonders for you.”

He shook his head. “It’s easy for you to talk. You don’t have to live with it, you don’t feel the ridges and the dents every time you run your hand over it.”

“If it were so horrible,” she said, stepping closer to him, “would I—”

It happened very quickly. Her small hands reached up, she drew his face down and kissed him, and her lips stung him with their sweetness. Instinctively, he pulled her close, feeling the longing of four years, feeling the small softness of her. But he remembered she was his brother’s wife, and he felt the hatred again. He turned away from her, feeling his blood race.

After a moment he spoke. “Where’s Julius?” he demanded.

She did not reply.

“Where is he?” His voice rose sharply.

“At his office, over the Spin-A-Line game. But you won’t be able to get in.”

“Why not?”

“His men are with him. He knew you got out of San Quentin yesterday, and he’s taking no chances.”

“I’ll get in,” Hranek said. He walked back to her and placed his large hand hard on her shoulder. “Won’t I, Nina?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the best way to get in, Nina?” He increased the pressure of his fingers. “Will the boys be guarding the stairs?”

She tried to free herself, but he held her tighter.

“There are no stairs,” she said. “Julius had them taken out. There’s only the elevator, and the men will be guarding it.”

“But Julius is smart,” said Hranek. “He’s got another way in, or I don’t know Julius. Am I right?”

“You’re hurting me, Sam.”

He did not slacken the pressure. “Where it is?”

Twisting, she tried to escape, and he didn’t want to hurt her that much, but his hatred for Julius was stronger. He felt her flesh squeezing under his fingers.