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

He had not been sure she was lying until he found the wrapper — when her whole story fell apart. He was willing to wager every bit of his hard-won experience in people that Lois Craig Malcolm had not been having an affair with the corpse. It was far more likely, to his present way of thinking, that she might have killed the Duke herself, given what she felt to be a sufficient motive.

When she spoke about her husband, Lois had not been lying — she had radiated an aura of affection. Shayne could think of only one motive sufficient to make Lois falsely confess herself to be an idiotic, faithless female — her love for her husband. This, coupled with the cigar wrapper, suggested to the redhead that Lois might have been lying about his being in New York.

Thus, Shayne wanted to see Donald Malcolm — and to do so, required blasting tactics, like his use of the dead man’s name. Malcolm might not yet know Ferrell was dead, but he must know his wife was dealing — had been dealing — with the Duke. He continued to wait — still whistling through his teeth.

He did not have to wait long. After eleven minutes, by his wristwatch, the detective was approached by a husky looking young man who bore the appearance of having played football in college and played it well. He regarded the red-head speculatively, then said, “Mr. Ferrell? Follow me, please...”

Shayne followed his large guide through a succession of corridors, down three flights in a private elevator, and was finally ushered into a suite overlooking the ocean. On carpet centre, stood a quietly handsome, compact-looking man, who appeared to be about the detective’s own age. He was clad in short-sleeved open shirt and dark-brown slacks. He said, “Beat it, Ben. If I want you, I’ll call.”

When Ben was gone, Malcolm pulled the wrapper of a fresh cigar, without offering Shayne a smoke — by its emblem, the perfecto came from the New York Racquets Club. He lit it deliberately, studying the detective over the flame of his lighter. Then he said, “All right, you swine, I don’t know how you found out I was here — Lois was supposed to take care of you this morning. But since you are here — state your demands and get out!”

Shayne picked up the cigar-wrapper the industrialist had just discarded. He said quietly, “Malcolm, I found one like this in your wife’s guest lavatory this morning. She had called me earlier, asking be to do what I could to keep her name clear of the murder of — Duke Ferrell. She told me you were in New York, but I decided she was lying and—”

“ Duke Ferrell! ” Malcolm exploded. “But — Duke Ferrell murdered? Then who in hell are you, and what do you want of me?” He looked close to the detonation point as he moved a step nearer the redhead.

“I’m Michael Shayne, private detective,” said Shayne. “I’m trying to help your wife — I used to know her slightly, just after the war. To help her, I’ve got to know more about the trouble she’s in. To do that, I’ve got to get the truth out of her — I think she’s fogging things up with the idea of saving your good name. So, I’ve come to you.”

Malcolm, his face white, sat down heavily on a sofa. He said, “Are you levelling about Ferrell being murdered? I haven’t seen a paper or listened to a news broadcast since...” He trailed off.

“Why don’t you call your wife and check with her?” the detective asked. “She’s been beating her brains out to protect you — she even tried to convince me she was having a romance with that gigolo.”

“Thanks,” said Malcolm, again studying the detective for a long moment. He reached for the telephone, got Lois, talked to her briefly, succinctly, then hung up and said, “You seem to be levelling, according to lists. Incidentally, your sleuthing is damned good if you ran me down here so quick. Not many people know where I am.” He paused, then added, frowning. “Do the police know who shot Ferrell?”

“Not unless they’ve moved faster than light,” Shayne told him. “Malcolm, I know you’re a busy man, but I’d like to know what lies behind your wife’s connection with the Duke. I think it may be important. I assure you, I shan’t talk.”

This time, the industrialist did offer Shayne a cigar, which the redhead refused in favour of a cigarette. Malcolm relighted his own perfecto and said, “All right, Shayne, I guess I owe you the truth — Lois tells me you’re one hundred percent — but it’s not going to be easy.”

He paused, but, when Shayne said nothing, went on with, “This is a battle to the death I’m involved in, Shayne. Control of more than a quarter of a billion dollars worth of business is at stake. I have given my life to Waldex, Shayne. Except during the war, when I was in the Navy, I never had a job with any other firm.

“For the last nine years, the directors have voted me their chairman,” he added with a trace of pride. “I believe I have been a good company leader. The figures bear me out. We have never missed a dividend or had a single serious labour dispute. Now the Borden interests are moving in, trying to take control away from my friends and myself and make a financier’s football out of Waldex. Naturally, I’m fighting.”

“Just what are these Borden interests?” the detective asked.

“In my book,” said Malcolm, “the Borden interests are a group of financial sharks and jackals, who use their resources to prey on established corporations. Once they have obtained control, they manipulate stock and lower production quality, make a killing and move on. They leave a corporation sucked hollow, like a fly in a spider’s web.”

“I see,” said Shayne. “What do they say about you?”

Malcolm made a wry face and said, “Well, I suppose ‘stick-in-the-mud’ or ‘fogie’ are about the two kindest things they are saying of me. But that’s only one angle of this situation.”

He paused, then said, “Shayne, I’m placing myself in your hands when I tell you this. Any whisper of scandal before the voting, no matter how unfounded, and I’m through. Unfortunately” — he made the wry face a second time — “this scandal is all too well founded. You see, Shayne, almost a dozen years ago, right after the war, I made use of the company’s reserve fund — quite illegally, I may add.

“I didn’t go to jail for it — on the contrary, the theft was the basis of such subsequent success as I have had. I was impelled to make use of the money because Henry Waldemar, the founder and then president of Waldex, absolutely refused to permit the reserve fund to be used for corporate expansion.

“It was my firm belief that, if we didn’t expand then, we were bound to go under. As it turned out, events proved me right.” He paused to frown and shake his head. “Within three or four years, I was chairman of the board and Henry Waldemar had been put out to stud.

“He never thought I was reliable, after my criminal career of one crime.” Malcolm made a deprecatory gesture. “So he had me write out a record of my technical felony. He never told anyone, but he used to warn me that, if I ever went against company policy, he’d not hesitate to use it.”

“What about the Statute of Limitations?” Shayne asked.

Malcolm shrugged. “Meaningless in this instance,” he said, “Granted, I’m no longer vulnerable to prosecution — but the effect of such a disclosure, coloured by the Borden propaganda machine, would be disastrous. I’d be out like the proverbial lamp. That I could take — what I don’t like is the idea of the Borden group being in.”

“What makes you think they don’t already have this paper?” the redhead asked, dousing his cigarette.