Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

Her eyes, big and brown and gentle, looked squarely into his.

“Well, didn’t you, Len?” she asked softly.

“Didn’t I what?”

“Marry me because of that.” “Oh, come off it, Gracie. If I wanted to marry somebody for their money, it wouldn’t be some little broad with a house in a small town and five hundred a month income. That’s peanuts. I’m a big, good-looking guy and if that’s what I wanted, I could have found some rich little old lady with a few hundred thousand, at least.”

He walked over to her, put his hand up under the smooth brown fall of her hair.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered. “This doesn’t sound like you. You know I’ve been crazy about you from the first moment we met. Before I even knew you had a nickel. Look, what are we quarreling about? Just because I said I wanted to get even with Bisby? What’s wrong with that?”

She edged away from him, ducking under his hand. “I just don’t want any more trouble, that’s all. What’s over is over.”

“Not always. Anyhow, my idea might not check out, so we’ll skip it for a while, anyhow. Okay?”

It did check out, though. The sample Len took to a testing laboratory in the county seat the next day was certified to be nothing more than common catnip, to be found on the shelves of any market and absolutely did not have any illegal drug content.

Driving back, Len was jubilant, began working on the details of his plan. That night he explained the whole thing to Gracie. When he finished he said: “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a terrible thing to do to that poor man,” she said. “Deliberately misleading him into arresting you again on a marijuana charge and then when the stuff turns out to be nothing but catnip, suing him for false arrest.”

“That poor man?” Len repeated. “That big dumb honky of a cop, you mean! How can you feel sorry for him? So I sue for a hundred grand and maybe I’ll get awarded ten or fifteen. He’s worth a hell of a lot more than that, I understand. He can afford it. And if he loses his job, so what?”

“Well, I just don’t think it’s fair.”

“Yeah, well maybe this will change your mind. Remember I promised you that one day I’d take you on a nice long vacation trip to Europe, to all the places you like to read about?”

She nodded, said resignedly: “Yes, I remember, Len. When you asked me to marry you. You said you had an idea for a great novel and married to me, with no financial problems, you could finally get to writing it. And I was naive enough to believe you. And when the book made a lot of money, you said, we’d take that trip. Yes, I remember. Only we’ve been married for two years now, Len, and you haven’t written line one. I don’t think you ever will.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “So I’ve been putting it off. Only I am going to do it. As soon as we get back from that trip. That’s what’ll really do the trick for me, seeing all those exotic places, the different ways of life. A writer needs to travel. And you’ll be there, sharing it all with me. It’ll be good for you, too. You need to get away from this house, this crummy little town, for a while.”

“Not really, Len. I’m not like you. I like it here. I was born and raised here and I’ll probably spend the rest of my life here. Maybe I’m just a dumb small town girl but I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy a nice trip like that.”

“Maybe it does, if it’s at the expense of someone I know and like, someone like Jim Bisby, who’s been a good friend all my life and in fact a man I once considered marrying.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Len said. “You told me all about that, how if you didn’t have to take care of your sick mother, you might have married him. You also told me that it was just a crush and that you probably weren’t really in love with him.”

She sighed. “I guess so. I’ve often wondered, though, why he hasn’t married somebody else. I’m sure he’s had the chance; he’s not bad-looking and he’s kind and good. He would make a good husband for somebody.”

“Yeah and bore ’em to death. You’d go crazy after a month of being married to that meathead. One thing you can say about me, baby; I’ve never bored you.”

“I guess that’s true, Len. You’ve only made me sad.” She looked at him thoughtfully.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I hate to see a man waste his life. You’re goodlooking and intelligent, Len, and likeable — when you want to be. You could have made something of yourself.”

“I still can,” he said. “All I need is a break. And if I can nail Bisby for a big chunk of bread, maybe that’ll be the break I’ve needed.”

“You’re really going to go through with it, aren’t you, Len? You’ve made up your mind.”

“You’re damned right.”

“Well, you can count me out. I won’t have any part of it.”

“You don’t have to. You won’t even be in the house. You’ll split before it happens. So don’t worry about being involved.”

She didn’t answer. She just shook her head wearily and got up and walked out of the room.

Alone, Len went over the plan in his mind once more. At the same time he told himself that Gracie didn’t have to worry about taking any trip to Europe. In the first place, he wasn’t going. When the court awarded him a nice settlement from Bisby, he was going to leave this town and Gracie, far behind.

He didn’t yet know where he would go. It didn’t matter. He only knew that he’d had it up to here with the town and with her. Who needed her any more, once he had a big chunk of cash? She’d changed in the past six months or so. She was less and less the sweet, loving wife she’d been at first. She was moody a lot and often cold and too critical.

One time when they had a big fight, she’d even mentioned something about a divorce but he’d put her down fast on that one. He’d asked her what grounds she would use? He didn’t fool around with other women, — he didn’t beat her; she’d married him, knowing she would have to support him while he worked on his book and just because he hadn’t yet gotten around to doing that, didn’t really mean anything. And that was the end of that. She never brought the subject up again.

When this was all over and he was gone, he couldn’t care less what she did. Let her get her divorce then, if she wanted to. In the meanwhile — and the false arrest suit could take quite a long time — he still had a good meal ticket.

Two nights later, Len Mason put his plan into effect. Everything went smoothly. He rolled seven catnip cigarettes while Gracie watched him with a sort of moody fascination. A few minutes later, he sent her off to the local movie theater. Next, he smoked two of the cigarettes, walking about the room to make sure the smoke was well distributed. He had already shut all the windows and front door. Then he made his phone call to Constable Bisby’s office.

Holding a handkerchief over the mouthpiece and speaking nasally, to disguise his voice, he said:

“Bisby, this is a neighbor of Len Mason’s. I have reason to believe that rotten no-good is smoking that filthy weed again — and right in his wife’s house this time, while the poor woman is out, somewhere. Isn’t that illegal?”

“What makes you think that’s what he’s doing?” Bisby asked.

“Well, I saw his wife leave and then he shut the front door and all the windows. Why else would he do that on a hot summer night. I think you ought to look into it.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I’ll check it out.”