Майкл Бретт: Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 36, No. 6, June, 1975

Shayne waved an arm. “It’s popular now, but I don’t believe a pro would risk that kind of exposure if it was unnecessary — and it was unnecessary since you have a telephone. Why expose yourself making delivery of a ransom note when all you have to do is use the U.S. mail or pick up a telephone?”

“Fear of bugging?” the Mayor suggested.

Shayne snorted. “Not likely. It would be more likely that the homes of the victims,’ parents would be bugged. Not a Civic office.”

“I see your point,” the mayor agreed, eyes squeezed down. “Joe Pierce — it was Joe Pierce who found the note — called me at my home before eight o’clock. Normally, gentlemen, foot traffic in this building is not heavy before nine a.m. So the deliverer didn’t even wait for the heavy flow of people around the building, an hour when he could be just another face in the hundreds of faces that are in and out daily.”

A light on his phone blinked on, the phone buzzed. The mayor frowned, reached, hesitated. “Excuse me. I was not to be disturbed, however there is a substitute for Ms. Jacobson this morning. She phoned me during the night about her missing daughter; I told her not to come in today. But I didn’t think — didn’t realize…”

He lifted the receiver to his ear without finishing his thought. And then his frown deepened and he stared hard at Mike Shayne. “Oh? Just a moment, please.” He cupped the phone. “You know a newspaperman named Tim Rourke with the Daily News?”

Shayne grunted an acknowledgement. Rourke was a veteran reporter, and Shayne and the cadaverous-looking reporter had been friends ever since the redhead arrived in Miami.

The mayor said hesitantly, “Mr. Rourke informs me he has had a telephone call from a man who says that four young people were kidnaped last night and that one is dead. The caller told him I knew the details, and wanted to know why there wasn’t anything in the morning paper.”

Shayne reached across the desk and took the proffered phone from the mayor’s hand. “Tim.”

“Mike! What the devil are you doing—”

“Give it to me, Tim. Just like the guy said it.”

Shayne listened, then snapped, “He mentioned the Littrel boy by name, huh, but none of the others. And said the mayor knew about it?”

“Mike, our overnight police reporter picked up the report on the Littrel kid. He made the final city edition with it, but that’s all. He had trouble getting the facts. Gentry’s boys were dragging their heels here and there. We’ve got it fullblown this morning, of course, but where the hell do these other three fit? Were there four kidnapings last night?”

Shayne ignored the question. “The voice, Tim. Anything distinctive about it?”

“Naw. Youngish, I’d say…” Rourke paused, then said, “Well, hell, Mike the guy actually sounded disappointed because we didn’t have the full story. So give, huh? This nut wants the world to know what he’s done!”

“Okay, Tim, get over here and talk to the mayor. He’ll give you what he has. Then you might want to track down Len Sturgis later. He’s been on top of this from the beginning, at least he was on it last night.”

“Hey, Mike, wait a minute! Can’t you and I meet some—”

“I’m rolling, Tim. Maybe I’ll have something else for you in an hour or two.”

Shayne put the phone together, looked at the mayor. “We’re dealing with a brazen bastard or bastards. He puts a body on the hood of a car in an open parking lot, he walks into a public lavatory in a city building and leaves a demand for one million bucks, and then he calls the newspaper and wants to know why they don’t have a story.

“Whoever these people are, no matter how many of them are in on the plot, there’s one among them who is a kook or a publicity hound. And that’s a scratch on our side, Mayor. Sooner or later, he gets too brazen.”

“We don’t have much time to wait for him,” the Mayor said anxiously. “Not if the city meets the payoff demand. That’s at four this afternoon, just five hours from now.”

“Get it done,” Shayne snapped. “Hit the bank boys, lay it on them, twist arms, necks. Get the cash, Mayor. We may have to actually make that delivery.”

The redhead stood to leave and turned toward the door.

“Mr. Shayne,” the mayor halted him, “About one thing. It is not your time. It is my own and Judge Littrel’s time. Please bill us. Cost is — no object.”

“I’ll think about it,” Shayne growled, heading for the door.

Shayne dialed the central desk at police headquarters from a pay phone. He got Guy Andretti, with whom he had a wave-of-the-hand acquaintance. Andretti checked the records of the overnight trick, gave the detective the information he wanted and the name Alfred Fowler and a street address. Shayne now knew all the police did. And maybe more.

It was purely hunch, Shayne knew. But Phillips’ call to Gentry when Shayne had been at the police station had bothered him. Two old people wanting to report a corpse in a car… Right time, but was it the right place? Or only excitable elders? Shayne determined to find out.

On the way to the Fowler residence, Shayne half listened to radio music until the five-minute newscast came on. He listened intently as the newsman got excited over the murder of Anthony Littrel, son of Municipal Judge and Mrs. Andrew Littrel. The Littrel boy had been found by Michael Shayne, a famed Miami private investigator, whose secretary said he was unavailable for comment.

There was no mention of four kidnapings.

The fowler bungalow tilted slightly and was located in the heart of a retiree, Social Security neighborhood. The street was quiet, the houses small. Most of the area was neat.

Alfred and Martha Fowler were tidy too. Alfred Fowler was bent at the shoulders, but sprite. Martha was birdlike, alert, but obviously had a sight problem. She sat in a deep chair four feet from the television tube; it was easy for her to reach out and turn down the sound.

“Martha,” said Alfred, unable to totally surpress a moment of victory, “this is Mr. Shayne — a detective! Someone at police headquarters finally listened to me!”

Martha squinted at the large redhead from behind thick glasses. “You are not a police detective, Mr. Shayne,” she said. “I heard on the news this morning. You are a private detective.”

“But working with the police, Mrs. Fowler,” Shayne said.

“See, Alfred?” said Martha. She sat stiffly erect in minor triumph. “You and your Chief Gentry, humph! Whatever makes you think you can pick up the phone and talk to the chief of police whenever you want to!”

“Chief Gentry got Mr. Fowler’s message,” Shayne said. “I’m here on Chief Genry’s behalf.”

“Oh?” She seemed to contemplate, then she said, “Are you really a private detective, Mr. Shayne? I thought… I thought…” She fidgeted, then blurted. “Well, I’ve never been sure real private detectives exist!”

“Martha watches a lot of television,” put in Alfred Fowler. “She especially likes private detective shows.”

“Tell me about this cadaver you think you saw last night, Mr. Fowler. Where did you see it, what time?”

A tiny chink in a giant puzzle fell into place. Maybe. The street the Fowlers had been attempting to cross at the time Alfred Fowler saw his cadaver was the same street that fronted the Purple Duck where Shayne and Lucy had dined.

The club was far across the city, but the chauffeur for a stiff could have been cruising, looking for a disposal point. And the time fit. Martha Fowler was trying to get home to catch the beginning of a nine o’clock television program. Twenty minutes by auto from this area to the Purple Duck? No sweat.