Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“You must have a reason for not wanting us to pick up the money. What is it?”

“I don’t believe you’d understand. Lieutenant.” Sidney hesitated. “I’d like to see the money again, count it, handle it. After all, it’s the end of a dream for me.”

“And you think you could resist a possible urge to take off for parts unknown?”

“Be reasonable, Lieutenant. If I did that I’d be hounded worse than I am now.”

Kennessy uttered his short, barking laugh. “Brother, this is one I can tell my grandchildren. Suppose I don’t go along with the gag?”

Sidney shrugged. “Then the money stays where it is.” His eyes narrowed: “Be quite a feather in your cap if you could return the quarter of a million to the bank, wouldn’t it, Lieutenant.”

“And all you want is to be left alone for the rest of your life? You’ll pay a quarter of a million dollars for the privilege?”

“Yes. When I return the money here I want you to notify every news service in the city. I want pictures published of me returning the loot. I want the public to know that there’s no longer a reason for anyone to dog my footsteps from now on.”

“Thought it all out, eh?”

“I tried to.”

The lieutenant took a deep breath. He started to speak, checked himself, then stood up. “All right. I don’t seem to have any alternative. You can stay here for the next three days while I pass the word. We’ll rig up some kind of disguise for you. On the morning of the fourth day we’ll turn you loose. On the fifth day I’ll expect you back here with the money. And I warn you — you’d better show.”

“I’ll show,” Sidney said. “You can count on it.” He sighed. “It’ll be worth it to live like a free man, even though I’m broke.”

Three months later, on board the jet liner that was taking him to Europe on the first leg of a luxury world tour, Sidney struck up a speaking acquaintance with his seat companion. The man, whose name was Michael Reaser, was head of an internationally known textile company and was presently on his way to join his wife in the south of France for a short vacation.

“And what’s your line, Mr. Schliff?” he asked with only mild curiosity.

“Stocks,” Sidney answered promptly.

Mr. Reaser’s interest picked up. “Stocks. Ah, yes.” He looked at Sidney fully. “You’ve done pretty well, I presume?”

Sidney shrugged indifferently.

“I guess you could say that.” They made some small talk about business in general and the state of the stock market. Then Mr. Reaser cleared his throat.

“By the way, Mr. Schliff, I happen to have a few thousand dollars lying idle at the moment. I wonder if you could suggest a good buy in the market?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Sidney, smiling, “I can. Ten years ago I took a flier by buying up a quarter of a million dollars worth of stock in Brown Electronics. They were young then, but growing. I investigated them thoroughly before making the purchase. I could see no reason why my investment wasn’t a good one. Well, sir, the gamble paid off. Apparently my money gave the company the shot in the arm it needed. Recently I had to sell part of my holdings to pay a rather large debt to my bank.” Sidney’s smile broadened. “My original investment had increased to more than two million dollars.”

Bribe Money by Frank B. Long

He was a little boy, facing a man’s deadly problem. For he’d seen a gangdom chief — giving hush money to his dad!

* * *

Inspector Peter McGowan looked up quickly from his desk when Lieutenant Detective Dillard walked into his office and shut the door firmly behind him.

“He made a complete statement, sir — with two gold shields present,” Dillard said. “You said you preferred not to be there when we went through the usual routine. About the only thing we didn’t do was take his fingerprints. That can wait. It all seemed so unnecessary—”

“It had to be that way,” Inspector McGowan said. “I’m sure you can understand why.”

“I think I can, sir. But at the same time—”

“It was homicide, justifiable or not,” McGowan said. “Under the circumstances — very personal ones in this case, Lieutenant — I had to insist on the strictest adherence to routine.”

“I can’t see how he had the strength to kill a man weighing a hundred and ninety pounds with an andiron,” Dillard said. “Gierson’s skull was practically crushed. But his story stands up. If he’d changed it in any way—”

Inspector McGowan cut him short with an impatient wave of his hand. He was a handsome man in the prime of life, with keen gray eyes and only slightly graying hair. But now there was a weariness in his every look and gesture, as if most of his customary energy had drained away overnight.

“Where is he now?” he asked.

“He’s just outside, sir. He wanted me to talk to you first.”

“Why?” Inspector McGowan asked.