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

He fingered the folded slip of paper that was in his overcoat pocket. It had two names on it, given to him by his brother on a hunting trip the day before he was murdered. He knew the names by heart, knew that both had been lovers of his brother’s wife. It didn’t matter which one of them had done the actual killing — that the woman hadn’t done it herself was clear in his mind, he knew she didn’t have the nerve.

It was one of the two men but he didn’t care which one, they were both equally guilty in his eyes. One down, one to go. It was as simple as that. If his sister-in-law were Sicilian, she would understand that a man needs to be avenged.

He stepped into his Buick and turned the engine over. He let it idle for a few minutes, thinking of the woman. He would let her live, let her think about what she did. Whatever happened to her didn’t matter to him, he had never liked her. She was not of their country, not of their blood. He shrugged. The only thing of importance was the piece of paper.

He took it carefully from his pocket and read the names for the thousandth time. Everything was arranged. Now it was just a small matter of time.

As he eased the big automobile down the sloping driveway, Joe Vito knew that very soon somewhere in the city a man would open his door and come face to face with death. He smiled.

There was nothing more anyone could do.

Partners of the Dark by Alson J. Smith

“The Block” was famous up and down the east coast — you could get a girl, a beer, dirty pictures, a heroin fix. If you were a Cop, you could even get underworld informants.

I

The phone rang in the office of captain Mike Casey of the Criminal Investigation Detail, Baltimore Police Department. The Detail had been set up a year earlier to answer newspaper criticism that the Department was soft on crime syndicate hoodlums. The smartest, toughest cops in town had been pulled into it and Captain Mike Casey, 57, a grizzled, hard-boiled ex-pavement pounder had been called downtown from the North Avenue Station to head it up.

Casey picked up the phone. “Yeah?” he barked. Then, “Oh, hello, Commissioner,” in a more subdued tone.

For a full three minutes he listened, participating in the conversation only to the extent of a guarded “yes” or “no” now and then. Finally he sighed and said: “Well, we’ll do our best, Commissioner.”

As he hung up, Casey said, “Damn!” to nobody in particular.

He paced the floor for a few minutes, rubbing his chin with his big paw, looking broodingly out at the traffic on Fayette Street. Finally he buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Alice,” he said, “tell Phil Egan to step in, will you?”

A few seconds later Lieutenant Phil Egan stuck his head in the door. He grinned. “Hi, Mike. What’s the good word?”

“Come in and close the door,” rumbled Casey. “And the word isn’t good. It just came down from the Commissioner, and it couldn’t be worse!”

Phil Egan was a thirty-nine year-old career cop who had graduated from the University of Maryland with an A.B. in Social Science. He had spent a year studying criminal law at Georgetown Law School and was considered a comer in the Department. He stood 5-11, weighed 180, and was a black belt man in judo. He had a square, high-cheekboned, tanned face with clear light blue eyes. His black hair was beginning to gray at the temples. He had been brought into the C.I.D. from the Detective Division because he was considered smart, tough, and resourceful.

Egan lit a cigarette. “Don’t tell me they want us to bring in Johnny Unitas and Weeb Eubank just because the Colts blew one to the Steelers Sunday.”

Casey snorted. “It’s no joke, Phil. It’s those goddam jewelry heists. The Commissioner has decided they’re syndicate jobs, so he’s taking them away from Burglary and dropping them in our laps.”

Egan whistled. “That is the dirty end of the stick. How come?”

“He figures that nine successful heists in as many months means syndicate. Either that or the heisters are old pro’s who are cutting The Mob in for a big percentage. Major league thieves couldn’t work here for nine months without syndicate okay.”

Egan took a long drag on his cigarette. “That’s for sure. Nine heists? I thought it was eight.”

Mike Casey picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “Nine. Forty minutes ago a New York jewelry salesman by the name of Norman Feldman was slugged while getting his sample case out of the trunk of his car in front of the Hearn Jewelry Store on West Saratoga Street. The case had fifteen thousand dollars worth of ice in it. Feldman is in Johns Hopkins Hospital with a concussion.”

“Any clues?”

Casey shook his head. “Nobody in the store or on the street saw it, or at least we haven’t located anybody yet who will admit he saw it, and the guy is still unconscious.”