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

“If they’d had it, they’d have used it,” Malcolm said simply. “We’ve been showing real progress the last month or so. That’s why I agreed to let Lois handle things as soon as we got a tip that Ferrell was willing to market that damned document.”

Shayne said, frowning, “Here’s one of the several things that are bothering me — how did a gigolo like Duke Ferrell ever get his hooks on an item like this confession of yours?”

“A pure fluke!” exclaimed Malcolm, slapping the desk against which he was leaning. “A damned unlucky fluke for me. Ferrell was Henry Waldemar’s chauffeur, the last four years of his life. Like a number of lonely, wealthy old men, Waldemar grew to lean on him. He trusted him and evidently confided in him. In fact, it was the legacy the old man left him that enabled Duke to set himself up as a squire of dames.”

He paused, added unhappily, “Duke wasn’t quite as trustworthy as Henry Waldemar thought. Apparently, in the confusion following his death, Duke took the opportunity to go through the old man’s documents — for all I know, he might have been looking up the will, to see if he was mentioned. No matter — he got hold of my confession and hung on to it. When it didn’t turn up, I took it for granted Henry Waldemar had destroyed it, and heaved a sigh of relief. It wasn’t worth peanuts until this proxy fight came up. Now...” He shook his head slowly and looked out the window at the blue Atlantic.

“And now,” said Shayne drily, “Duke Ferrell has been murdered. Do you suppose this paper of yours lay behind that?”

“I don’t know — I just don’t know!” Malcolm exploded, betraying the nervousness that was consuming him. He began to pace the carpet, saying, “Who knows why a man like Ferrell is slain? He was asking for trouble.”

“And your wife,” the detective reminded him, “is in it up to her neck — on your behalf.”

“That’s the most sickening angle to the whole stinking mess!” said the industrialist, throwing his dead cigar into the wastebasket.

“It’s bad enough, my being in a jam like this — but to have Lois involved...” He stopped in front of the detective, his lips working. “Shayne, I’m glad Lois got you into this. I want you working for me, as well as for her. I’m all tied up with this proxy battle — it’s a madhouse around here, and will be until the stockholders’ meeting next month. I want you to protect Lois, where I can’t.”

He slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “But that damned confession is still on the loose,” he added, “and, with a murder involved, it’s more dangerous than ever. It hasn’t turned up yet, but it will. And, Shayne, I want you to get it for me — otherwise, I’m a ruined man. You get it, and you can write your own ticket, understand? But I want you on the job!”

“You don’t know me,” said Shayne, smiling faintly.

“Maybe I don’t know you,” said Malcolm, extending a hand, “but I know men. And I’ve heard about you.”

“Okay,” The redhead took the proffered grip. “One question you haven’t answered, Malcolm — why all the secrecy about your being in Miami?”

“Just window-dressing,” said the tycoon. “Just watercress. My fellows seem to feel it’s sound tactics to keep the Borden bunch guessing. If they don’t know where I am, they may get worried that I’m somewhere else. What they don’t know won’t hurt you — that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” said the redhead. “Can I reach you here if I have to?”

Malcolm nodded. “I’ll tell Elsie, upstairs,” he said. Then, with rising eyebrows, “What are your plans, Shayne?”

“The way I look at this case,” the detective replied, “there are three items to concentrate on. One — keep your wife out of the murder. Two — keep the story of your felony out of the public prints. Three — find out who shot the Duke. Among other things, I’ll want to talk to your wife again, Malcolm.”

The industrialist nodded, then said, “Go as easy as you can on Lois, will you? I know this is murder, but I worship my wife. So...” He let it hang.

“I’ll go as easy as I can,” said Shayne.

His next step was a return visit to Lois Malcolm. Under the pressure of concealing so much of the truth, she might well have omitted, or failed to understand, some vital facet of her visit to the scene of the murder.

But, before he talked to her again, he decided on a trip back to the office, where he could check on Lucy and do some judicious telephoning, to find out the extent of police progress on the murder.

As he drove back over the Causeway, he thought again about the Malcolms. There was no denying the fact that he liked them both — superficially, at least. For this very reason, he bent over backwards, in order not to find himself playing the professional sucker because of an emotional attachment.

It was easy to understand why the Malcolms had been so pleasant to him — under the circumstances, neither of them could afford to be anything else. Lois could have called him in, as she claimed, to keep her own name out of the case or, as he suspected, to keep her husband clear of it.

But there remained two other possibilities where Lois Malcolm was concerned. She might have summoned him to protect her, because she had killed the Duke herself — or she might have called him, in a panic over the death and collapse of her deal for the record of her husband’s indiscretion, planning ultimately to use Shayne to renew the negotiations. All of these were possibilities.

Nor was Donald Malcolm himself above suspicion. Certainly, he had good motive for the murder of Duke Ferrell. Also, there was the matter of his pretense of being in New York, while he was really in Miami, plus the fact that he had visited Lois, shortly before the murder.

A totally alien factor remained — the thus-far mysterious Borden group. If Ferrell had been playing both ends against the middle, if Malcolm’s rivals had so much as sniffed out the existence of such a damaging record, the field was widened. The ramifications of the case were widening like ripples on the surface of a still pond, into which a stone had been thrown.

He walked into his office abstractedly, still seeking to sift and weigh the elements of the puzzling mystery Lois Malcolm’s phone call had plunged him into, nodded to Lucy and hung up his hat on the hanger. She had to rise and repeat, “Oh, Mr. Shayne, I’m so glad you got back early.”

That brought him out of it — Lucy hadn’t called him Mr. Shayne in years, unless there was a purpose behind it. He stopped and looked at her, wondering what she was trying to convey.

“I didn’t want to ask anyone to wait,” Lucy said, “since I knew your plans were indefinite.” Then, in a whisper, “Watch out, Mike, she looks dangerous.”

He was thus prepared to find someone in his inner office — though hardly prepared for the sort of danger Lucy was hinting at — flashing, brunette danger, with a magnificent willowy figure, simply and subtly set off by an ecru linen dress that hid nothing while deprecating all, topped by a large, green hat that brought out the soft gleam of pale emerald eyes.

Nor was he prepared for the greeting he received as his caller looked up at him directly and said in low, liquid tones, “Michael Shayne — my name is Borden — A. E. Borden. I have with me a cashier’s check made out in your name, for ten thousand dollars.”

Shayne looked at his visitor with undisguised interest. It occurred to him that both sides in the proxy battle were not hesitating to employ attractive women in their efforts to obtain what was beginning to look like a decisive bit of paper — the record of Donald Malcolm’s daring and highly illegal move to save the Waldex Corporation from the postwar doldrums.