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

“Okay.” Norton smiled down at her. “Don’t give up hope until we see how Forbes reacts to the black disc!”

She returned the smile with steady lips. “Don’t worry about me. I’m no quitter. Can I drop you anywhere?”

Norton’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. He saw a man standing just behind him. The face was in shadow, but there was something unpleasantly familiar about the short, heavy body wrapped in an overcoat too broad across the shoulders and. too narrow at the waist. Norton’s one idea was to get Jean out of the way.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I want to explore the city on foot.”

“All right.” Her car moved forward. The light from a street lamp turned her light brown hair to bronze and touched the chromium fixtures of the car with the shine of silver. Then darkness swallowed both.

Norton started to turn around. Something hard and round prodded his back just over the kidneys. A heavy hand pushed him toward a car parked at the curb. It was all done quietly, neatly, professionally.

Norton had read and written about things like this. But nothing of the sort had ever happened to him before. He looked at the dark street bright with lights, mobile with men and women who hurried about their business unaware of his plight. He wondered if he would ever see all this again.

The car was sleek and long and black. The man with the gun prodded Norton inside and pulled the door shut. It wasn’t like a car. It was more like a large taxi with its two extra seats.

The car did not move. The man with the gun shoved Norton into one of the little seats and sat himself in the other. He was the mute whom Norton had fought with in his hotel room. He didn’t bother to look at Norton.

Facing them both, on the back seat, was a man with a puffy, pasty face; white hair, brows and lashes. His dull, round black eyes were like two raisins set in floury white dough. “What is your interest in the Diana Clark case?” he asked softly.

“Nothing personal.” Norton was a little surprised at the firmness of his own voice. “I’m a reporter for the Syndicated Press doing a modem crime series and it’s one of the crimes.”

“Is that the only reason you insisted on occupying suite eleven-o-five at the Hotel Westmore last night?”

“The only reason.”

Before Norton could go on, a voice came from outside. “What do you think this is? A parking lot? You’ve been here thirty-five minutes if you’ve been here a second! Don’t you know nobody can park on Water Street longer than twenty minutes?”

The man on the back seat lowered the window. A big policeman stood just outside. “Were you speaking to me?” said the man on the back seat.

“Oh—” Norton had never seen a blustering cop so swiftly deflated. “I sure am very sorry, Mr. Benda.”

“You should’ve recognized my license plates.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Benda. I’m sorry.” The cop saluted and retreated, yelling at a truck driver to cover his own confusion.

“So you are Leo Benda!” murmured Norton.

“Yes.” A smile hovered around the colorless lips. “I am Leo Benda, thirty years ago a poor immigrant boy and now—” His gloved palm stroked the rich fur of the laprobe that lay across his knees. “And now one of the most successful business men in Pearson City.”

Alec Norton suppressed a grin. Business man was good.

Benda went on, “Let that little incident be a lesson to you, Mr. Norton. The police have great respect for my judgment, and they know that I am entirely satisfied with their conduct of the Clark case.”

“How did you know my name?”

“I took pains to find out all about you after Max reported your presence in the hotel last night. He had visited the suite the previous evening and found it vacant, so he was greatly surprised to encounter you when he returned last night to search the place more thoroughly.”

A sardonic smile touched Benda’s lips lightly. “My men have been watching you all day, Mr. Norton. I am disturbed by their reports. I hope that I may persuade you to leave Pearson City at once. If you are wise, you will forget that you ever heard the name Diana Clark.”

“And if I don’t?”

“It would be a pity — a great pity.” The black eyes in the blanched face looked straight at Alec Norton. “I’m afraid you’re not taking this seriously enough, Mr. Norton.”

Norton knew that Benda was trying to frighten him. For that very reason, he no longer felt afraid. If Benda had wanted to kill him, he would have been a dead man by this time. Obviously Benda wanted him out of the way but Benda didn’t want to kill him — for reasons of his own.

“Do you expect me to take this seriously?” he asked.

“You are a brave man.” Benda’s voice was softer than ever. “I am sorry. I had hoped you would have what Meredith calls the grain of common sense at the heart of all cowardice. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to leave Pearson City, Mr. Norton. There’s a New York plane tomorrow evening at five fifty-three. I sincerely hope you will decide to take it. Max!”

Benda turned to the mute and spoke in a foreign language Norton did not understand. Max opened the door and got out.