Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“That was a woman from Mercy Hospital, probably the night supervisor,” I finished. “Susan’s unconscious with a concussion, but Ashton was able to talk, give them our name before they took him into emergency surgery.” I swung toward the coat closet. “I’m going over there.”

Julie said nothing, but was right on my heels. I checked her. “There’s no need for you to come.” I said simply. “You’re all upset now—”

“I’m going, Paul. Please, can’t we hurry?”

I’d anticipated as much, for all my attempted dissuasion, and said no more as I helped her into her coat. At that hour, traffic was light; we reached the hospital in ten minutes.

The nurse on duty at the lobby desk directed us to the proper wing, and we’d just come off the elevator, were seeking the floor supervisor, when we were spotted and quickly approached by a stocky man in civilian dress: Detective Lieutenant Ed Talbot, Julie’s brother.

“Hello, Sis; Paul.” Talbot’s greeting was somber. “Good of you to come.”

Julie’s query was strained, anxious. “Are they going to be all right, Ed?”

Talbot nodded tightly. He was some five years older than Julie, a well-built, well-groomed man with a keen mind. Ordinarily, I knew, he would have assigned an underling to follow through on the hospital’s report, but knowledge of Julie’s and my indirect involvement had brought him personally into the affair.

“We hope so,” he said. “The girl’s still unconscious. They’re taking pictures, holding her for tests. And Ashton’s wound is serious, but I understand the prognosis is favorable.” He shifted his gaze to me. “They both were your dinner guests?”

“That’s right,” I said. I went on, acquainted Talbot with the evening as it had evolved. I mentioned only my invitation to Bill Ashton, made no reference to Julie’s ploy with Susan, and if Talbot understood or suspected the latter, he gave no sign.

“I imagine they stopped at that tavern for a final drink,” I wound up, “and Ashton flashed his wallet too much, gave an idea to some punk with a gun.”

Talbot nodded again. “From what Talbot was able to say, he didn’t know the hood had followed them outside until he accosted them, demanded the money. The street’s badly lighted at that spot Ashton couldn’t even approximate a description.”

Julie had been listening attentively.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“For now, nothing specific unless we get a break,” Talbot said quietly. “The hood abandoned the girl’s car a dozen blocks from the tavern. Ashton couldn’t give the license number, but we know it’s the car from Miss Shepard’s identification in a sample case she’d left on the seat.”

The lieutenant paused reflectively. “The punk probably won’t risk holding on to what could be a murder weapon, will likely throw it down a sewer. But a wad of cash could be something else.”

Julie’s hazel eyes were intent. “You mean once he figures he’s clear, he’ll still have the rest of the night ahead of him?”

“Something like that,” Talbot conceded. “I’ve already got men checking all the bars within a six-block radius of where we located the girl’s car, but after I’m through here I figure to make the rounds myself, see if any barkeep’s spotted a late arrival with some excess money.”

Julie’s close look held. Abruptly, she said, “I’m going with you.”

I had a sudden notion that undercurrents of which I was not fully appreciative were at play, but, such suspicion aside, I didn’t relish the thought of Julie traipsing around strange bistros and taverns late at night, even in the company of her detective brother.

I said, “Now, wait a minute—”

Talbot interrupted me.

“Relax, Paul,” he said. “Julie isn’t going anywhere except home with you.”

Julie’s chin lifted. “You can both relax, because I’m doing nothing of the sort,” she declared firmly. “I know — neither of you have said as much, but you’re thinking I’m responsible for this awful affair. Well, perhaps I am in a way, having Susan meet Bill, but I certainly couldn’t have foreseen the rest.”

She stopped, eyes sparking. “And I’m not about to go quietly back home now.”

That vague notion of an unvoiced-motivation nibbled stronger, but I still couldn’t pin it down. So when Talbot made no direct rebuttal to his sister’s pronouncement, but only looked askance at me, I tucked Julie’s arm in mine, said, “I guess that makes two of us, Ed.”

Talbot made a final check with the doctors in charge, arranged for immediate reports on the outcome of Ashton’s surgery and Susan’s tests to be relayed to his office, and then we started out, riding in Talbot’s official car.

It was a slow, methodical business. I found myself doubting the validity of the town fathers’ constant lament over lack of funds; the liquor licenses alone, it struck me, should have had the coffers overflowing. Bars, taverns, cafes, clubs — I’d never suspected their multiplicity.

In each, Ed Talbot’s procedure was the same: a sharp survey, unobtrusive but penetrating, of the patrons, a quiet questioning of barkeep or manager.