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

“Suit yourself,” said the disgusted detective. He looked at the sofa, where Seton was sitting up, beginning to take an interest in the proceedings. Catching Shayne’s regard, the little man rose, unsteadily, and removed himself from the centre of the stage.

Again, it was Lois Malcolm who recovered her self-possession ahead of her husband. She said with a touch of dignity that wrung the redhead’s heart, “Come on, darling, I think we’d better keep out of Mike’s way from now on.”

Seton stepped forward, obsequiously, re-assuming his role of perfect manservant. With an, “Excuse me, Sir,” he crossed in front of the detective, stooped and picked up the hat that Shayne had knocked from Donald Malcolm’s head, picking it up, dusting it off and handing it to the Waldex board chairman.

“Your hat, Mr. Malcolm,” he said.

Malcolm took it automatically, offered Lois his arm and turned toward the doorway. It was then that the detective said, “You might as well stay here, both of you and sit in on the fun.”

“What fun, may I ask?” queried Seton, his eyebrows drawn together to meet in a near-perfect Gothic arch above the bridge of his large beak.

“Take it easy, Seton,” said Shayne, good-humouredly. “You’ve had a hard day, and the night isn’t over yet. There may be more hats to handle.”

Donald Malcolm, still hesitating, finally said, “Shayne, I know you and Lois didn’t discuss your fee this morning. But, if this business works out, you can rest assured of a five-figure cheque.” Even with an incipient black-eye beginning to show, Malcolm’s anxiety was pitiable.

“Thanks,” Shayne dismissed the remark almost curtly. To Seton, he said, “Are you feeling well enough to talk a little? I’ve got a hunch you may be able to help us clear this mess up.” His left thumb and forefinger tugged at the lobe of his ear.

“I was hoping to speak with you, Sir,” said Seton. “I thought perhaps we might...” He let it hang, looked meaningfully at the Malcolms.

“It’s all right,” said the detective. “I was just wondering if you were able to give any help to the police this afternoon.”

Sadly, the little man shook his head. “No sir,” he said. “I fear I proved a great disappointment to Mr. Sturgis. He and his assistants seemed to believe I had knowledge I fear I do not possess. I was very fond of Mr. Ferrell, and I only wish I could name the person who shot him.”

“Of course you do,” said Shayne sympathetically.

Lois Malcolm’s remarkable composure finally cracked. She said, “Mike, please! Don’t torment us. Can’t you see what this is doing to Donald? We can face whatever is going to happen, but we’ve got to know. This suspense...”

“I didn’t know myself,” said Shayne, looking at her intently, “until just a moment ago. Now...”

The soft chime of the doorbell interrupted him. He nodded to Seton, who padded across the thick carpet to open it. Moments later, A. E. Borden strode into the room alone, clad in a shimmering, skin-fitting, green gown that made her resemble a glittering butterfly. The twin wings of her black-ivory brows rose a trifle as she surveyed the company present.

“I hope,” she began quietly, “that this is not a private session.” Then, to Shayne, all business, “Mike, when I learned you and the Malcolms were headed this way, I thought little Alice Edwina had better hop over herself. Have you closed a deal with them yet?” The pronoun was emphasised scathingly.

“Alice Edwina,” mused the redhead. “I was wondering what the A. E. stood for.” Then, shaking his head, “Not yet, Borden. Not quite...”

“Then here’s my offer,” said A. E. Borden, quietly. “I have another cashier’s check here in my bag, made out to you, Shayne. The amount is fifty thousand dollars.” She waited quietly, watching him.

Malcolm, moved forward, pushing back his wife’s restraining hand. “I’ll meet that,” he said hoarsely, realised their importance.

The air was tense, weighted only with the disgust on the detective’s face. He looked from one to the other of them, finally settled on Seton, said, “All right, you — which offer do you prefer? As a man with an interest in his late master’s property?”

Seton met the redhead’s gaze, then his eyes fell away. He said, “I’ll leave that up to you, Sir, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t be a fool, Shayne,” A. E. Borden said sharply. “I can offer you a lot more than cash. Once I have control of the corporation, I can make you a millionaire.” Then, to the Malcolms. “Try to meet that with your old-hat company methods!”

“Mike,” Lois Malcolm said, ah most pitifully, “Mike, don’t listen to her. She’ll promise you the moon and give you nothing. She’ll make a fool of you.”

“Something,” Shayne said acidly, “both you and your husband, as well as Alice Edwina, have been doing an excellent job of to-day.” Then, as all serenity fled her face, “Don’t worry, Lois. I’m not going to take it.”

Shayne turned toward the doorway and said, “For Pete’s sake, come in, Len. You’ve taken your own sweet time getting here. I was beginning to think you’d left the place unguarded.”

“The motor patrol had an eye on it,” the hulking detective growled as he moved into the room. “They only reported the lights on ten minutes ago.” He surveyed the assemblage and said, “What is this — a new hotel opening?”

Shayne said, “Len, for your own good, the less you know about it, the better.” He named the Malcolms and A. E. Borden, had the satisfaction of seeing the huge Homicide sleuth change colour as he realised their importance.

But Sturgis was dogged. He said, “They may be the royal family of England, but I’ve still got a shooting to solve. If they had anything to do with it...”

“They didn’t,” said the detective quietly. For the first time since he had been drawn into the case that morning, Shayne felt in command of the situation. “Take my word for it, they had nothing directly to do with it.”

“Then,” said a bewildered Sturgis, “what in hell are they all doing here — now? Having a camp meeting?”

“Their presence here, like mine, is largely accidental,” said Shayne.

“I’ve had about enough of this, Mike,” Sturgis big, homely face was beginning to darken with anger. “I’m looking for a killer. And, if I find out there’s one here...”

“There’s your killer,” said the redhead, nodding toward Seton. “Why don’t you take him away and dig up some proof?”

“Mr. Shayne...!” The manservant’s face turned ashen with panic. “Mr. Shayne, they’ve already questioned me. So help me, I’d rather have died myself than lay a hand on Mr. Ferrell.”

“You didn’t lay a hand on him,” said Shayne. “You didn’t dare — he’d have beaten you to a pulp. Maybe he did a few times. So you shot him instead.”

“But I didn’t have a weapon!” the manservant bleated. “How could I shoot him without a gun?” His eyes were moving back and forth, between Shayne and Len Sturgis, like the eyes of a man watching a tennis rally.

“You probably heaved it into the Bay,” said Shayne. “When you ran out after shooting him, before coming back to ‘discover’ the body. But I don’t think they’ll need a gun.” He swung on Sturgis, “When you had this little rat downtown to-day, I’ll lay odds you didn’t give him a paraffin test.”

“Hell! No!” said Sturgis. “But we can’t test everybody.”

“Not everybody — just him,” said Shayne, nodding at Seton. “You’ll find he had plenty of reason for hating the Duke. Hell, he must have had, living years with a crumb like that. He’s guilty, all right. Look at him!”