Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“It would be less charge than for what you’re wanted now.”

“Lay off the cracks or you’re dead,” I said savagely. But I didn’t mean it. I hadn’t wanted to kill the old guy. I hadn’t wanted to kill anybody. But I’d always known I would if I had to — my kind of life meant no holds barred, no stops.

If I hadn’t been picked up, tried and convicted on that bank caper, I might already have knocked over somebody else. The old geezer’s death was an accident, but it did prove what I’d known all along, that I was capable of killing.

A little later I felt better and asked, “Which way you heading?”

“East, I believe.”

“Good. Just the way I want! Into the city. You know the way. Let’s get there.”

“I told you, there are road blocks. It’s impossible.”

I thought about that for a minute. She did have a point. Even if she were willing to help me, the car would be searched at the first road block and I’d be spotted immediately. Which left me only one choice. Not a bad one at that, I grinned, staring at her in the darkness.

I’d have to hole up somewhere. But not alone. Oh no, not alone. The cops were looking for an escaped convict, not a young honeymooning couple from out of state. It was a perfect cover. And there were extras, maybe. I nodded. Those months in jail had been lonely.

The first motel we approached had a vacancy sign, so I pushed my rod into her back.

“Turn in here,” I ordered.

She smiled, oddly, but she did as she was told.

“Don’t get no funny ideas. Play along and don’t try to warn nobody, or I’ll shoot you and them too. You’re my wife from now on. Get me?”

“I get you,” she replied, but she still didn’t sound the least bit frightened.

The clerk eyed us suspiciously while I signed the register. He brightened when I paid him in advance from the money I’d taken in the Happy Hour, which had turned out to be more than I’d expected, more than two hundred dollars. The old guy must have kept a whole week’s receipts stashed in the joint.

“Just leave your key in your room when you go in the morning, Mr. Hudson,” the clerk said as we left the office.

“All right. We will.”

Our room was way down at the end. There were only a few cars on the parking area; the place was practically deserted. So much the better, I figured, just in case my little wife decided on any funny stuff and I had to make some noise.

After the lock clicked on our unit, sealing us off from the outside, I relaxed. Everything had gone so easy, I felt like a little bragging.

“Worked just dandy!” I said, tossing my phony rod on a chair and twisting the cap off the bottle of whiskey.

Her eyes went to the gun.

“Don’t get no ideas.” I laughed. “That’s part of it. You won’t get nowhere if you try grabbin’ it.”

“Part of it? What do you mean?”

I chuckled some more. “Mean just what I said, babe. That’s a phony. It worked like a charm, but now I don’t need it no more, because when I’m finished with you I’m gonna tie you up anyway. And if you scream, I’ll just choke you with my bare hands. Get it?”

Strangely, she smiled. “You mean you haven’t even got a real gun?”

“Nope.” I was proud of myself. I took a long drag on the bottle, then blew out air. “Look what I’ve managed to pull off with nothin’ but a hunk of iron and guts,” I added when the whiskey stopped burning my throat enough so that I could speak again.

She laughed. I was surprised. I’d expected her to be disgusted with herself for being as fooled as everybody else. But she didn’t appear disgusted at all.

“Well, that’s fine, that makes everything very much easier,” she said. “I don’t need to wait until you’re not looking, now, do I?”

“Wait? Wait for what?” I muttered, starting toward her as I saw her hand go into her purse.

But I’d started far too late. A neat little .22 Minx Berratta suddenly came out of the purse and ended up pointed right at me.

“Hold it right there,” she said.

I did.

“That’s fine,” she continued. “Don’t do anything foolish and you won’t get hurt. I have nothing particularly against you, so if you’ll just empty your pockets of that money and push it over the bed to me, I’ll say good-by to you and let you go on and play your own game with the police.”

“The money! You want the money, and you’re not going to turn me in!”

“Of course I want the money. Why do you think I drove all the way out here at this hour? And no, I won’t turn you in. You’re nothing to me, except that you barged in when I was about to rob that poor old man you killed. But that’s a rap that’ll be hung on you and you alone, and I’ll have what I came for anyway.

“Now, let’s not waste any more time. The money, quickly, or I’ll put little holes all through you. The police will no doubt find you easily enough by morning, since you’re losing me, your cover, but I don’t think they’ll particularly want to find you like swiss cheese.”

They did, too, find me by morning. And they just laughed when I told them about the aftermath of the Happy Hour holdup — laughed as if they’d never heard anything so funny, and didn’t believe one word I said.