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

Yes, look at yourself, Johnny Martin. You don’t need any mirror to see yourself now.

A figure came out of the shadows, as he braked. It was Rusty — Rusty coming over to the car — Rusty saying, “I got to give you credit, Johnny. It’s a beaut.” And then Johnny finding himself saying, “You were right the first time. I’m so chicken.”

Rusty had a hand on the car door. He sucked in a deep breath. “What d’ya mean? So chicken?”

Johnny was surprised how easy it was to answer. He felt sure of himself, with all the confusion washed away. “Just that I’m taking the car back where I got it.”

He heard the sudden wrench of metal, and then Rusty had the door open and his hand flashed out, stinging the side of Johnny’s face.

“Oh, no, not this time!” Rusty said. His voice was low and menacing. “Not after you fooled around with my woman. Besides, I need the dough.”

Johnny swallowed hard. His head was ringing from the blow. He bent forward, trying to get the motor started.

But Rusty slammed him hard against the side of the car. He knew a sudden fear that brought a cramp to his stomach. He remembered, with stunning vividness, the time Rusty had given Joe Levis a going over. The way the blood had looked, smeared over Joe’s face, as he lay crumpled on the sidewalk afterwards. Joe had gone to the hospital. He had been Rusty’s boy ever since. It could happen the same way to him.

Rusty had grabbed his shoulders, was pulling him across the seat, out from behind the wheel. Johnny tried to tear himself away.

“You no-good punk!” Rusty said between tight teeth.

Johnny doubled up a knee, straightened his leg, jamming it at Rusty. Rusty grunted and tugged at him. Johnny felt himself slide over smooth leather. He went down, sprawling, beside the car, banging his head against the pavement.

He struggled to his feet, a blazing light bursting inside his skull, a kind of crazy madness flooding through him, so that he didn’t care what happened to himself, as long as he showed Rusty he had meant what he said.

He jerked his body sideways, just as Rusty drove a fist at him again. Bone crunched sickeningly against metal. He heard Rusty cry out, saw him back off, bring up his battered fist and shake it, as if he was trying to understand what had happened.

“‘Let’s call it quits,” Johnny said. “You hurt your hand.”

For reply, Rusty cursed thickly. He charged Johnny like a wounded bull.

They were trading blows, then, the two of them — smashing, harm mering blows that tore flesh and bruised muscles.

He jammed his teeth together and lashed out, knowing now a desperate urgency, because he couldn’t last much longer. He thought Rusty was tiring. He knew his raw knuckles connected, ah though he felt nothing. The impact sent him staggering back. The convertible broke his fall. He stood leaning against the car, panting, hearing the soft thud as Rusty’s body crumped against the pavement. He thought, There lies the old Johnny Martin — beaten, finished, out like a light.

He said, “So long, Rusty. It had to be this way.”

They sat in the parked convertible, he and Lois. Out over the water, the clouds had disappeared, and a rising moon was making the whitecaps glisten.

“Johnny,” she said after a while, “I had a feeling you’d be back.”

He didn’t say anything. He rubbed a hand over his swollen jaw. He must look a mess. But he didn’t care. He’d break that mirror when he got home. It didn’t show him what was important — what sort of a guy he was inside.

Then he said, “Still scared of me?”

“Not any more.”

“Even after what I did?”

“If you hadn’t tried,” she told him, “you wouldn’t even be worth my contempt. You came close, Johnny — closer than you knew. But you aren’t anything — you aren’t even weak enough! Shall I drive you to the subway?”

It was the slap of courtesy that got him. She was right — he was nothing, going nowhere. On impulse, he got out of the car. He said, “No, thanks, I’m sorry.”

Wherever he was going, he was going to have to walk.

Was it murder that had changed the State Trooper’s friends?

Bill Corey stood very straight in the well-fitted, grey uniform. He made no move toward the pistol on his hip. “Go ahead, shoot!” he said quietly. “You tanned my britches when I was a kid. If it hadn’t been for you, bringin’ me up, I wouldn’t be standin’ here now in a state trooper’s uniform. I don’t aim to draw, Jess.”

The older man scowled. His shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair was uncombed, his fierce eyes deep in their sockets. “I never thought you was a coward, Bill.” His sharp voice was edged with steel. “I’m proud you ain’t real flesh an’ blood of mine. A man thet—”

“Quit stallin,’ Jess. If you’re gonna shoot me, get it over. You’ve got a choice. Either you go back to Warrington to stand trial for murder or you shoot me down right now. I take you back alive — or not at all.”

Bill saw the gun waver. The hard grey eyes went soft. “Why’d they had to send you?” the old man said with annoyance.

“ ’Twould have been better iffen it had been somebody we didn’t know.” He put the rifle back on its hooks over the fireplace.

“I asked to come,” Bill said. “You’re my people. A stranger might make a mistake. I knew Will Tubbman as good as you. From the time he was a kid, he was a slimy snake. But killin’ is a crime against the law, and Will was stabbed to death — not even given a fair chance to defend him-himself. Down in Warrington we call that murder.”

He let the stiffness go out of his back, relaxed into the cane-bottomed chair. “They sent a trooper by the name of Evan McGirr up here in civilian clothes. Day before yesterday his body came back express collect. He’d been stabbed to death with a thin-bladed knife. We took it as a warning that troopers weren’t welcome in Black Gum. We didn’t like it. The Commissioner thinks there’s no law here, at all.”

Halfway expecting the old man to jump for the gun, Bill loosed his final bolt. “Express company says you were the shipper, Jess.”

“That’s a lie. I never saw no stranger. You c’n ask Mary Lou.”

The girl came out of the corner where she had huddled in fright. She was a slim girl, with timid eyes and a birdlike way of moving her head and hands.

“Dad’s right,” Mary Lou said. “There’s been nobody here by the name of Evan McGirr. He’s sent no package at the express company, either.”

Bill said. “Thanks, Mary Lou.” He shot a quick, admiring glance at the faded, neat dress, the bare, brown legs. “You’ve grown considerable since the last time I saw you. Still go around with Peg Tyler?”

“Nope.” She looked askance at her father, then plunged on. “Peg got in trouble with a man. She wouldn’t tell me who it was.”

Bill pricked up his ears, giving no sign of his interest. “Too bad. Reckon Watt Tyler is plenty mad.” He changed the subject swiftly. “If Jess won’t object, I’d kind of like to go walkin-up the mountain before we go back to Warrington. No use to hurry—”

Jess Tatum interrupted harshly, “Mary Lou won’t go walkin’ with a man that’s yeller. I forbid it.” He made a quick motion toward the gun over the fireplace. “If you’re gonna take me back, you’d best get started. A man thet comes back to trade on his home folks’ affection—”

“Wait a minute, Jess.” Bill fidgeted uncomfortably. “Costs the state a lot of money to try a man for murder. I got to be sure you killed Will Tubbman. I got to know why you did it.”