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

She was very attractive.

He said, “I take it you are representing the Borden group — a wife, or sister, perhaps?”

A faint smile gave mobility to the full but firmly cut mouth of the woman who held ten thousand dollars in her hand. She said, “From what I have heard of you, Michael Shayne, I thought you’d do better than that. I am the Borden group, lock, stock and barrel.”

The redhead almost said, “Unreliable locks, watered stocks and barrels as clothing for your well-plucked backers” — but he resisted the temptation and told her gravely, “My apologies, Miss Borden, but high finance is hardly my field.”

“ Mrs. Borden,” she said, adding, “Divorced.”

“And just how am I supposed to earn this ten grand?” Shayne inquired.

She sighed softly, shook her lovely head and said, “ Really, Shayne! Do I have to draw you a picture? After your discussions with both the Malcolms, I’m sure you know what I’m seeking.”

“Suppose I do,” said the detective, fencing. “What makes you think I have it?”

She replied, shifting her position ever so slightly in a fascinating display of planes and curves, “I don’t necessarily think you have it, Shayne — but I believe you can get it.”

“What about the police?” he asked, ignoring her implication. “What makes you think I’m ten grand better than they are?”

Again, the faint smile, accompanied by a slight withdrawal of the proffered donation to the Shayne bank account. “It would suit my interests very well to have your friend, Mr. Gentry, and his incorruptible Miami police force find what I am seeking. But” — she leaned forward — “they have not found it yet. Therefore, it seems unlikely, under the circumstances, that they will find it. You understand, Shayne?”

Shayne understood. Among other things, he understood that, perhaps, Will Gentry’s police force was not 100 per cent incorruptible under the pressures an organisation like the Borden group was undoubtedly bringing to bear upon its members. Otherwise, she could scarcely have known whether they had discovered the record or not. He found himself increasingly curious about this woman.

He said, “Tell me, Borden — what makes you tick?”

She allowed her lids to drop modestly over her green eyes, revealing incredibly long and genuine dark lashes in the process. “Shayne,” she said, looking up at him with almost hypnotic intensity, “I’m a businesswoman. A long time ago, I discovered where my true talents lay. I have been called a wrecker of corporations. This is not so. I have never liquidated by choice. Where I have done so, it has been because I have found certain sadly mismanaged corporations as useless to the structure I am creating as dead branches to a tree.

“No, Shayne, what I like to do it take prosperous, profitable businesses and make them more prosperous and more profitable...”

She paused, and Shayne said. “To A. E. Borden, no doubt. And what about power? I don’t suppose you enjoy ordering strong men about at your whim?”

“Let us say,” she said, again dropping her eyes briefly, “that I had to take orders from an awful lot of men before I attained my present position.” Then, again earnestly, “I know you have heard Malcolm’s side of this battle. Suppose you listen to mine...”

“I’m all ears,” he told her. In A. E. Borden, he sensed that he was facing an antagonist worthy of any man’s steel. Lucy, he realised, had been right in more ways than one, when she labelled this woman dangerous.

“I intend to make Waldex the finest corporation of its type in the world. I have the backing and the money to do so, also the contacts and techniques. But, to accomplish this, I must have control of the board of directors. Since there is no chance of gaining such control through negotiation, I have appealed to the stockholders. That’s all there is to it.”

“That’s all?” Shayne inquired, toying with a paper cutter on his desk.

“That’s all,” A. E. Borden replied firmly. “Shayne, there is a rotten apple right at the top of the Waldex barrel. You have met him — so have I. Therefore, you know that, like many rotten apples, the surface still looks rosy. But a man who would steal once, to save his job, should not be chairman of any board of directors.”

“Then why didn’t Waldemar toss him out at the time he discovered the — indiscretion?” the redhead asked.

“Because,” said A. E. Borden, again leaning forward in breath-taking fashion, “he trusted Donald Malcolm absolutely. When he learned what Malcolm had done, it broke him. He died within a few years. That’s why I want that record — that’s why I’m willing to pay for it.” The cheque was thrust toward him a second time.

Shayne arose and ran strong fingers through his red hair. “One question,” he said, not looking at her. “When did you first learn about the rottenness of this apple — before, or after you began your anti-Malcolm campaign?”

“Let’s say,” she conceded, “that I learned of it during the campaign. My research department is most efficient.”

“That I believe,” the redhead told her. “But what makes you think I can put my finger on it so easily?”

“Because I know your reputation for getting whatever you go after,” said A. E. Borden. “In more than ten years, you have never failed. Believe me, you would be both wise and just to accept my fee.”

He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, Borden, but if you know my reputation so well, you know I never sell out a client.”

“In that case” — she shrugged prettily and opened her purse to return the check — “I suppose there is nothing else to be done.”

“Hardly...” the detective began, then stopped, as he found himself gating into the muzzle of a charming, but most efficient looking, gold-plated automatic. Something about the steadiness of the girl’s regard, as about the coolness of her handling of the weapon, told him she was as efficient with firearms as she appeared to be with everything else.

“Believe me,” she told him, rising gracefully, “I sincerely regret the employment of direct coercion — but I have to be sure.” She raised her voice slightly and said, “Young lady, will you please step in here a moment?”

Shayne said, “For Pete’s sake, Borden! You don’t expect to get away—”

“Quiet, please.” The threat was as naked as the gun in her hand.

Lucy appeared in the doorway — and Shayne’s caller at once applied the menace of the weapon to his brown-haired secretary. He said, his scalp suddenly crawling, even as his adrenals decanted cold fury through his veins, “Better not hurt that girl, Borden.”

The green eyes looked amused. “Ah — the Achilles heel of the mighty Shayne!” Then, “What happens to your little friend is entirely up to you. Come along now, like a nice, red-headed fury.”

In spite of his anger and sense of outrage, Shayne felt reluctant admiration for the cool efficiency with which A. E. Borden handled what could only be termed a double kidnapping in broad daylight. She had Lucy lock up the office, then herded her captives efficiently downstairs with a minimum of fuss. The redhead’s every nerve, every muscle, ached for explosive action, but he dared not make a move as long as Lucy was in peril.

Downsairs, it was quickly evident the green-eyed menace had not come alone on her errand. A pair of muscular young men wearing sports jackets and crew-cuts, who looked as if they might have played on the same football field with Malcolm’s guardian, Ben, quickly joined the party and led them to a large and gleaming Cadillac sedan. There, Shayne and Lucy were ensconced on the rear seat, while one of the young men sat on a little seat, after effectively checking the redhead for possible weapons. The other young man slid behind the wheel, and A. E. Borden joined him in front, looking over the back of the seat at the redhead and Lucy.