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

“Isn’t it wonderful?” he repeated, and cold shock ran through her at the knell of his voice. “Poor, poor little bird!”

“What? Why do you say that, why?”

“Dear little Furilla, don’t you know that true love doesn’t come like a storm? It grows like a flower, unseen, until suddenly it’s there, blooming.”

She recoiled from him. “I... I thought you’d be glad for me, for Harald and me. I love him, love him, do you hear? And I’m glad, glad!”

Lance deMarcopolo sat quite still, his eyes on the manuscript but not doing anything. He remembered the scene, but that was not the way it had happened in the book.

He uttered a soft, pulled grunt and turned the page. Under it, lay a pink flimsy with some single-spaced typescript on it. He knew that Ellie used pink second-sheets for her correspondence, white for her work. This must be the copy of a letter to somebody, and perhaps he — but before he could have any doubts about it, his quick eye had taken it in.

Hennigar, Hennigar. Hobart Hennigar — it’s like music. Oh Hobie, Hobie, I’ve been thinking of you, missing you, though it’s been only an hour now, thinking about the wonderful love we have, the wonderful life we shall share. Hurry back to me, my darling. I do love you so.

I do love you so. A numb place existed suddenly in the pit of Lance’s stomach. He did not permit himself to think. He went on to the next sheet — an original, typed with a heavy hand and a pale ribbon on a piece of business stationery with the letterhead torn off.

Got your note. Been thinking, too, especially since I got it. You can’t be serious, Ellie. Don’t tell me you fell for that guff I was handing you. I don’t know what you thought, but I thought I was kidding, talking like those knights-in-armour in your lousy novel. Charades, you know. As for what else happened, why not? Fun’s fun.

I’m sorry if this hurts you, but I can’t get myself tangled up in anything like this right now, or ever, and it’s only right to tell you so, once and for all. I have to say it again — you can’t be serious! Or — do you really believe people do things like in your book? H.

I shouldn’t , thought deMarcopolo in panic. This has nothing to do with ... But he went on to the next one — another pink carbon.

Brill, dear, I’ll just leave this where you’ll find it when you get there, I can’t face you now. I’m going back to town. I wish I were dead. I needn’t be dead, I’ve been killed, killed! Last night, while you were in the city, Hobart Hennigar did what you tried to warn me about — now I know, now I understand, when it’s too late, I found out this afternoon.

Brill, he talked to me the way I’ve always dreamed a man should talk to a woman. He was... I thought he was so wonderful, and before I knew it, it was too late. And now I know what he really is, it was all a game to him, and he tells me he thought it was all a game to me, too. I despise myself, Brill, dear, but Hennigar — oh! If I were a man, I’d kill him, for he’s murdered a most precious part of me. Ellie.

Next was an imprinted office memo, headed Office of the Publisher. Typed by a firm, even hand, were a few lines, which deMarcopolo read without hesitation.

Ellie, come back. I’ve got to talk to you about this. Don’t worry. It will be all right. But come back — you worry me.

DeMarcopolo shook his head rapidly, like a man swimming up out of unconsciousness, and then went back to his reading. Again, it was manuscript. Same scene, but — oh...!

She rose, trembling, and ran to the mirror. A dream, a dream, surely it was a terrible, terrible dream! But no — there in the smooth hollow between shoulder and neck, lay the mark of the beast. Oh! she cried, herself to her heart. Oh beast, wicked, brutal beast!

“Maserac!” she screamed.

The sound of her own voice frightened her. She cast about wildly, like a frightened animal, then ran to the wardrobe and threw on the gold lame hostess gown. When the old man opened the door, she stood like a pillar of fire, her hair, her eyes aflame .

“Maserac, Maserac, he’s killed me!”

And she told him, told him all of it, each syllable tom from her, agonising, yet strangely eager, for each syllable brought her closer to the comfort, the strength, protection — all wrongs avenged — which she knew her dear friend would have for her. And, when at last she had finished, she ran to him, blind with tears, and grasped his shoulders.

“He ought to be killed, killed, for what he’s done!”

“It’s terrible, terrible!” Cold shock ran through her at the sound of his voice, for here was no anger, no protecting arm. Here was only an uneasy laugh. He said, “But — perhaps it isn’t so bad.”

“What? Why do you say that, why?”

“Dear little Furilla, I know it hurts — but it always hurts to learn something important. You have been safe with me — only when you turned away from me, did anything hurt you. How you know — now, thanks to him, you can turn to me, be with me, be safe forever, with never a new temptation or hurt.”

“Killed!” she cried, “he has to be killed for what he did to me!”

“My dear child,” said Maserac, as slowly his arms came about her. “My dear, my dear...”

“No, no!” and she pushed away from him. “He must be punished, he must be destroyed, or there can be no more Furilla, no more for you, no more, even, for me ...”

The next one was another hand-written note on the Office of the Publisher memo paper. “What did she keep them for?” Lance asked himself in amazement. Reluctantly, he admitted he knew the answer. He read—

Ellie, for heaven’s sake answer your ’phone, or, better still, let me see you. You know I would do anything on earth for you, but this — honey, to ask for such a thing, even to want it, is insane. Revenge is childish, anyway. Snap out of it, lamb. Get to work again and sweat it out of your system.

Your own

Another pink carbon read—

Work? How can I work? He has to be punished, Brill, destroyed. Revenge has nothing to do with it, and I’m surprised you should think of such a thing. It’s just that, when someone helpless is hurt, someone strong punishes the wrongdoer for it. It’s the way things are. And I thought you were the man strong enough. He has to be destroyed, Brill, or there can be no more Furilla, no more for you, no more, even, for us.

So neat, thought deMarcopolo, so orderly. All in sequence — carbon and second sheets, in moments of passion. He picked up another publisher’s memo.

He read—

Ellie, this has gone on long enough. I haven’t seen you for weeks, and I’m frantic. Don’t you know the Book Club contract deadline is almost on top of us now? You’ve just got to have the first draft of Furilla’s Rose by contract time, or we’ll lose the whole deal. Your own career is at stake. If you don’t care about that, think about me.

A pink carbon followed.

Everything I had to say to you I said in my last note. If you have it, read it again. If not, I’ll send you a copy.

And—

Ellie, you’re not keeping copies! Burn them, now. Oh, you’re innocent, you’ve got to wake up and live in a real world, Ellie. I mean it!

Now, listen, honey, I hadn’t meant to tell you this, but I’m at the end of my rope. Everything I own is tied up in this business and, for years, I’ve been holding it together with my bare hands and a big, bright smile, hoping against hope that the big best seller would come along. Well, it did — To Bed, To Bed was it, and you wrote it.