Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“From what I’ve been able to piece together,” said Holly, “from what you told the others, Mamie and her pals rigged his money belt while he slept. He was timed to explode.”

“He was a nice guy, Chief. I liked him.”

“We’ve picked up Doctor Field. He was on his way to Buenos Aires with a suitcase full of money. We missed Mamie and her friends, but we’ll get her some day. She and I are ancient adversaries.”

“I liked Sam, Chief.”

“He was dedicated and perceptive. He knew that someday something like this could happen to him. It’s all down on tape, Desiree. Everything Sam had in his head. And there’s only one person in the world who knows where the tape is.”

She stared up at Holly. “When are you going to get it, Chief?”

“When I leave here.”

“Then I think I’ll sleep. I’m very tired.”

“You do that, kid.”

She slept with an image of Doctor Samuel Herchenfelder, scientist extraordinary, alive in her mind.

Never Too Good — To Die by J. Simmons Scheb

No one can die twice, she told herself. And then, seeking the tight, mad look in his face... Or — can they?

* * *

Myra Saunders was irritated that afternoon. She flicked on the windshield wiper and the headlights, glanced into the rearview mirror and pushed at her dark brown hair.

“Damn!” she said aloud. The one time Antoine had done a halfway decent job, it had to pour down rain before she could get home.

Anyway, she thought as she pulled the car under the carport, she’d remembered to close the windows in the house. Nothing there would be wet if Charles hadn’t been home some time during the day and opened them again.

She switched off the motor and heaved herself out from under the wheel. Myra was a big, bulky woman of thirty-eight in a bright scarlet suit that strained at the seams as she gathered up her packages and clicked her way over to the side door of her house.

The key wasn’t under the mat, but when she tried the door it opened, and she made a mental note to speak to Charles about that. His carelessness was inexcusable,

Immediately, however, she knew it hadn’t been Charles. Her kitchen was a mess. Every cupboard door was flung wide; half-open drawers spilled out dish towels, potholders, recipes. One of her favorite cups lay broken on the floor.

“Is someone here?” she shouted. “Is somebody in my house?”

Angrily, she marched across the kitchen and laid her packages on the counter. Then suddenly, fear swept over her. Somebody could be in her house. She spun around, and there he was, crouching behind the open door.

At first he seemed to be all shoulders, just one big pair of shoulders in a wrinkled, dirty trench coat.

He made no sound. He simply crouched there, staring, holding her yellow-handled carving knife in his enormous gloved right hand.

Myra couldn’t move. Her legs were paralyzed, her feet riveted to the floor. “Who—?” she demanded. “What—?”

He took one step, forward, and she saw beady little eyes peering from beneath a battered rain hat, the blue-black stubble of a beard on fatty jowls, the thin, pale line that had to be his lips. She opened her mouth to scream but he rushed at her. A slash of sudden pain shot through her body, and as she slumped forward on to the floor, she heard her scream come out a moan.

He hesitated. She could see his big, ugly work shoes, planted inches from her face, and she could hear his heavy breathing, but the knife had fallen under her and he made no attempt to get it. Instead, he must have panicked, because the shoes turned suddenly and pounded away, and the side door slammed so violently that the whole house seemed to shake. She could hear his foot steps fade as he ran across the carport.

A long time later, Myra stirred and heard the living room clock strike five. She raised her head. The pain in her side was excruciating and she found that her legs refused to obey. Tears rushed to her eyes. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Panic rose in her throat.

Myra laid her head down on her arms. Think! she told herself. Think!

It would be at least an hour and a half before Charles got home, and she wasn’t at all sure she could last that long. The pool of blood beneath her was getting bigger with every heartbeat. Instinctively, she knew that life was draining out of her.

The phone was across the kitchen, high up on the wall. She judged the distance at about eight feet. Too far, but she had to try. Forcing herself up onto her elbows, she started edging towards it, dragging her legs behind. In the middle of the floor she collapsed, her elbows crumpling under her and her head bumping hard on the cold and unyielding stone. Tears came to her eyes again and streamed down the sides of her face.

“Why?” she demanded of the empty room. “Why should this happen to me?”