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

“I wish to stress again,” she told them, as the big car silently got under way, “that we mean no harm to either of you. But it is essential that we find a certain paper. Therefore, Shayne, it is equally essential we search you. And your office is hardly a convenient place. Some of your friends might drop in at an embarrassing moment.”

“What the devil makes you so sure I have it?” the redhead asked.

“Because it hasn’t been found elsewhere,” she replied quietly. “I assure you, our search has been thorough. Had the Malcolms found it, they would not have called you in to help. If Ferrell’s manservant had had it on him, the police would have found it. You were probably dickering over the price with Donald Malcolm when you saw him, a little while ago. Oh, yes, we know about that, too. You had no time to stash it in your office, since I was there. Your car was searched just now.”

“Even if I did have it in my possession,” said the detective, “why are you so sure I couldn’t have disposed of it elsewhere?”

“If you’re thinking of your friend Rourke,” was the devastating reply, “he was easy. I am not the only female member of my organisation.”

For the moment, the detective was stopped cold. He knew Tim’s weakness all too well where attractive women were concerned. No wonder the Malcolms were desperate, he thought. Fighting this woman was like fighting the G-Men and Gestapo combined.

They might have been coursing their way over the palm-lined boulevards of Miami Beach to any of the innumerable early-season cocktail routes just getting under way — pleasure seekers in a world dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure, at the highest possible prices. The chauffeur drove smoothly, elegantly, to match the elegance of his car. They entered the crushed shell driveway of a chateau whose neo-Norman magnificence made the luxury of the Malcolm’s pseudo-Italian villa look, relatively, like something from Tobacco Road.

“If you’re wondering about the servants,” said A. E. Borden, removing her smart green hat and dropping it casually on a mosaic-topped table, “it’s Thursday night.” Then, to Lucy, charmingly, “We might as well wait in here until the men have finished their business.” She added, with a grimace, as though this was a cocktail party, “Men...!”

The two huskies took the redhead into a sort of playroom. It was floored with linoleum in a flagstone design and remarkably free of furniture, save for low, detachable sofa-and-chair units and hassocks. Evidently, the centre of the chamber was reserved for a non-present ping pong table. A curved bar occupied a far corner, a bar well stocked with liquor and glasses.

For once, the detective felt out-flanked and outnumbered. The devil of it was, A. E. Borden — he wondered, briefly, what the initials stood for — had managed the entire affair with a competence that was almost stupefying. Even if he and Lucy — granted they got out of it — went to the police with kidnapping charges, they could never hope to make them stick. It would be their word against that of A. E. Borden and her two young men — and they’d be lucky to escape counter-charges of trying to prove a shakedown of some sort.

But Shayne wasn’t given much time to think. If he had thought, before entering the playroom, that his hostess’s two bully-boys looked like ex-athletes, he had no doubt of it once they went to work on him. There was no violence in their actions — save for the action itself. The redhead felt his fury mounting as, calmly, disinterestedly, they set about removing his clothes. His every muscle, every nerve-end, ached for violent action — but the thought of Lucy under the threat of A. E. Borden’s gold-plated pistol held him in tight rein.

When it was over, the larger of them said, “No hard feelings, Shayne. This was just another job that had to be done.”

“Too bad you went to the trouble,” said the redhead. “As you can see, I haven’t got what your mistress wants.”

“We just had to be sure,” said the other. “No offence.”

The casual, offhand attitude of his captors added the final bit of pressure that blew the cork from his self-control. By this time, he had struggled back into his shirt and trousers. He picked up his coat from the throw-together sofa where they had carefully laid it, then opened it as if to put it on — and threw it over the head of the shorter husky, leaving him temporarily blinded. With every ounce of muscle and anger he could command, he swung a savage one-two against the unprotected chin of the larger of his tormentors.

The big fellow staggered back two paces, a look of surprise on his thick features. The redhead ducked low, weaving under a barrage of counter-blows, and planted another combination, well below the belt. This time, his assailant doubled up, and Shayne swung quickly, just as his other foe, having tossed the jacket clear of his head, came in with both fists swinging.

Mike took a left to the side of the head that made him see lightning, managing to avoid a right hook that slipped past the back of his skull. Then he brought one of his own heels down hard on his attacker’s instep, had the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain and, momentarily, drop his guard. In a lightning judo blow, Shayne drove the edge of his right hand against the left side of this opponent’s neck, momentarily paralysing him. He planted a swinging straight left on the inner point of the other side of the man’s jaw, just below the ear, and watched him drop like a dead deer.

“That’s enough, Shayne — I think the boys have had their quota of exercise for the day,” said a low, amused contralto from the doorway. He looked around, to see A. E. Borden standing there, cigarette in hand, regarding him with a mixture of mockery and admiration in her pale green eyes. “Sometimes,” she added, “I believe I got into the wrong business — I should have been a prize-fight manager. I love to watch men knocking each other’s brains out.”

Shayne advanced on her grimly, keeping a wary eye out for his two defeated opponents. He said, “Now, Borden, if you have done anything to—”

“Your little lady is waiting in the living room,” said A. E. Borden, stepping back to let him pass. “I think you’ll find her comfortable.”

Seconds later, Lucy was in his arms, crying, “Mike, honey — are you all right?”

“You should see the two other guys,” said A. E. Borden drily. “That’s quite a man you’ve got there, my friend. Better take good care of him if you want to keep him.” Then, dropping mockery, to Shayne, “I’m sorry we couldn’t get together, Shayne, because I think we could do business. You’ll understand, I hope, that I had to be sure.” She frowned, her thoughts drifting elsewhere, then added, “By the way, I had your car brought over. You’ll find it waiting outside.”

Shayne didn’t bother saying farewell. He went out with Lucy fast.

The darkness of a late November evening had already mantled the magic city, and the long row of luxury hotels was ablaze with its nocturnal jewellery of neon and electricity, as the detective drove Lucy back to her apartment. He could feel her trembling as she nestled close against him in the front of the sedan. He placed a reassuring hand on her thigh and said, “I’m sorry, angel, but it’s okay now.”

“That woman scares me to death,” Lucy told him.

“Me, too,” he admitted. “She’s the most cold-blooded, efficient human being I’ve ever met in my life — I’m not sure ‘human’ is the word for her.”

“That isn’t what scares me most about her,” Lucy told him in a very small voice. “It’s what she said about you. What if she should decide she wanted you?”