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

Three issues of MIKE SHAYNE MYSTERY MAGAZINE have been published at the moment of writing this fourth editorial. It is thus much too early to have a full picture of how the redhead’s own magazine is going, but first reports indicate that you like Mike almost as well as I do And Shayne has been my alter-ego for lo, these many years

Especially heartening are the letters of commendation and the requests for subscriptions that are arriving with every mail. One of you, who wants her MSMM every month, expressed a hope that hers was not the letter that would “break the mailman’s back” We have, of course, no wish to cause any slipped discs among faithful letter-carriers. The most we hope for. in this line, is to cause, perhaps, a few temporary spinal curvatures, and it begins to look, with your co-operation, as if we are on the road whose ending will find MSMM at the top of its class

Once more, in his fourth issue, Shayne finds himself amid company calculated to keep any self-respecting private operative on his toes. His companion-novelette. To Anita — with Murder, by Vic Rodell, is a brilliant, unusual long story. Leading the shorts, we find famed science-fiction author Theodore Sturgeon trying his deft hand at murder with a most unexpected twist in The Deadly Innocent, as well as crime-master Jonathan Craig, topping a star-studded list Shayne joins me in a heartfelt salute to you and the mailman for making his success possible

Brett Halliday

The red-headed detective should never have taken on the job of running down “Duke” Ferrell’s killer. But two of Miami’s most glamorous ladies were desperate to beat the police to the solution. So it was Shayne’s assignment to find out—

The lady on the telephone had a warm, pleasant, genteel-sexy voice, despite overtones of strain. Her name, she said, was Lois Malcolm, and Shayne didn’t know her from Eve. Then she added, “I used to be Lois Craig. Perhaps you remember me?”

Shayne remembered her. There had been a time, some years earlier, when Lois Craig was as well known around Miami as, say, Jinx Falkenberg in New York, or Marilyn Monroe in Hollywood. Not that Lois Craig was an actress or a radio-television commentator, though she had made her share of appearances, in various functions, before both live and living-room audiences.

Lois Craig was one of those comely, healthy American girls of good background who is universally liked and gets into every sort of social activity, from beauty contests and tennis tourneys, to amateur theatricals and benefit drives. During, and immediately after, the war, Lois Craig had been almost a Miami fixture. As such, Shayne had known her, as such, she had known him.

He said, “It s been quite a while. What can I do for you, Lo — Mrs. Malcolm?” Though they had moved through the same world for a while, their orbits were far different.

She said, “Mr. Shayne, I’m in momentary expectation of becoming involved in what I’m very much afraid is murder. And, right now, I simply can’t be mixed up in anything of the sort.”

Shayne whistled softly to himself. The idea of Lois Craig — even of a much older Lois Malcolm — getting mixed up in anything like murder was a little like learning that Princess Margaret of England had been arrested on a vagrancy charge.

He said, “Mrs. Malcolm, if the police are already at work, I don’t know that there’s much to be done. I assure you, the wisest course is to give them the fullest possible cooperation.”

“That’s just it, Mike,” said Lois Malcolm, the trouble deep in her voice. “I don’t know whether the police know about it yet. I had an appointment to go swimming with this — with a certain gentleman, at ten this morning. I was to pick him up at his cottage. But when I got there...” Shayne could almost visualise her shudder.

He looked up at brown-haired, warmly attractive Lucy Hamilton, who had wandered in from her monitor-board in the outer office. His heavy, red brows went up a notch, and he frowned briefly at the telephone in his hand, said, “Yes, Mrs. Malcolm...?” into the mouthpiece.

She said, “Sorry...” and laughed, nervously and without mirth. Then, “My — date was lying on the living-room carpet, shot through the head.”

“Could it have been suicide?” asked Shayne.

“I... didn’t... see... a... weapon,” she replied slowly, wretchedly.

“ Hmmph!” Shayne’s thumb and forefinger tugged at the lobe of his left ear. “What do you want me to do?” he asked bluntly.

“I don’t know,” she said, a note of despair shaking the control of her voice. “My husband is in New York. If he finds out...”

“Did anyone see you enter or leave your friend’s apartment?” the redhead asked.

“I don’t know — I’ve been trying to remember,” said Lois Malcolm. “I wasn’t expecting to encounter anything like it when I went in, so I didn’t notice. Afterward, I was too upset, I’m afraid.”

“And you haven’t notified the police?” Shayne inquired. He didn’t like the sound of it — most of all, he found himself disliking the idea of the Lois Craig he remembered so pleasantly, and so vividly, being mixed up in such a mess. He added, “Let me have the name and address — I’d better get out there and see if there is anything I can do. Where can I reach you afterward?”

She told him, then said, simply and sincerely, “Thanks, Michael Shayne. You don’t know what this means to me. I’ll see to it that you’re well paid. It’s worth everything to me!”

“It may be worth exactly nothing,” the detective told her frankly. “I’ll try to see you within an hour. We can talk it over then. Until I get there, don’t talk to anyone — not even the police. Do you understand?”

“I understand — thanks again.” She hung up.

Shayne pushed the telephone away and said to Lucy, “Where have I heard the name Malcolm lately — any ideas, angel?”

She stood there in the doorway, a Christmas-calendar figure, and tapped a full lower lip with the eraser and a pencil. “It does sound familiar, Mike. Malcolm — something about a big business deal...”

The redhead snapped his fingers and got to his feet. He gave her a quick, grateful, half-embrace, then said, “It’s that big proxy fight for control of the Waldex Corporation, angel. A character named Malcolm — Donald Malcolm — is chairman of the board for Waldex. One of these corporation cannibals — name of Borden — is out to take it away from him through the stockholders. I read about it in the Sunday papers only last week.”

“I saw the headlines.” Lucy didn’t appear especially interested. Then, with a nod toward the ’phone, “What was that all about, Mike?”

“I don’t know — yet,” said the redhead, “but unless Lois Malcolm is a honey-voiced liar, she’s in a hell of a mess. She cut quite a swathe in Miami before you got here, angel. Used to be a swell kid. So hold the fort till I get back, okay?”

He reached for his hat.

Harlan Ferrell, known to intimates as “the Duke,” did not belie the èlegance of his nickname, even in death. His cottage over-looked a superb sweep of emerald palms, of coral-white winter mansions, silver beach and sapphire-blue water. His oriental, silk-brocaded dressing gown must have cost high in three figures. Even the bathing trunks worn underneath it were of some gaudy, de luxe material. He lay on his back on the softest of deep-blue Turkish carpets, and his head rested between an armchair and a sofa of oyster-white leather, held in place by nails with golden heads.