Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 12, No. 6, May 1963

He caught the movement almost before it happened. Something was coming close to him, moving cautiously, stealthily, coming closer. His hairs bristled as he awaited whatever it was, he wanted to cry because he was so helpless.

He felt something tug at his hands and in a few seconds the tape that had bound his hands was off. As he worked his stiff fingers, slowly, stubbornly, he felt the tape being removed from his feet. He was tired, physically, mentally, he didn’t know what was happening but he was sick. He winced painfully as the suction cups were pulled from his eyes and the gag removed from his mouth.

Everything hurt, every bone in his body ached, every muscle felt torn and bruised and his eyes filled with tears from the pain. His throat was on fire and someone was going to have to pay dearly for this and then he stepped into the pit and it seemed to be deeper and deeper the more he fell. And then he got the idea that it was moving with him and this upset him because he could not keep up with it...

The local news in the afternoon paper was mostly routine. Probably the most dramatic item was a boxed column on page two. For the vast majority of the city’s populace the death of Matthew Fleming meant nothing. To his colleagues and acquaintances it brought, in varying degrees, shock, grief, consternation and joy. To a young widow, who heard of his death some hours later in her cell, it brought a sudden collapse that required immediate hospitalization.

For those who read the account with any degree of interest, the details were brief and, as is customary, quite coldly put down.

“Matthew Fleming, an associate of Bleeker, Stone and Merriman, local law firm, returned to his office in the Simpson Building last evening, ostensibly for some last minute work on the Vito trial which had been scheduled to begin the day after tomorrow before Judge Peter Cushman. Sometime later he apparently took the self-service elevator to the top floor of the nineteen story building, then climbed a metal ladder and crossed a false ceiling catwalk to get to the elevator machinery room located in a small windowless alcove directly underneath the main roof.

“This room houses the complete mechanism for the building’s four elevators, as well as the electric pulse system for the famed flashing beacon light atop the Simpson tower. Evidence indicates that he remained in the room for some appreciable time before casting himself into one of the open elevator shafts. As is the nightly practice, all elevators remain on ground level until called into service.

“The body was found at 7:40 A.M. Exact time of death is uncertain although it is known to have occurred after 11:00 P.M. since all building personnel leave for home at that hour.

“No note was found on the body or in the room. Police could establish no immediate reason for the suicide, but it was pointed out that the deceased had recently been consulting a psychiatrist.

“Mr. Fleming was unmarried.”

The day after the suicide of Matthew Fleming two men stood in the bedroom of a modest cabin on the outskirts of the city. It was still early afternoon but gray somber clouds hung overhead. Both table lamps in the room were turned on.

The taller of the two men was in his forties, heavyset, balding, accustomed to responsibility and not much given to idle talk, his name was George. His companion was of an indeterminate age, very short, thin, almost frail. He had a nervous disposition, fingers always moving, eyes constantly blinking. He spoke with a lisp.

Someone walked into the bedroom, behind him the bathroom flushing sent a shudder through the cabin. The man slowly withdrew some bills from his wallet. He gave these to the heavyset man, who accepted the money with a gracious ease, as though it were something he had done many times before.

He expertly counted the money, then folded it once and inserted it in a small leather pouch which he carefully placed in his topcoat pocket. He buttoned the coat, adjusted his hat in the dresser mirror, and walked out of the cabin onto the three-step porch.

His companion followed. With a last nervous gesture he looked back into the room at the one remaining occupant before he slammed the door shut. He stepped over a child’s rollerskate as he hurried down the steps to the car, where George was already gunning the motor.

Several minutes later the third man came out of room 49 of the Highcrest Motel, absently kicked aside a skate that someone had carelessly left on the porch, and walked over to his automobile. He was highly pleased with himself. His brother’s death had been avenged, or at least partially avenged.