Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

“Well,” Shayne said, “do you have any idea who old John meant when he said ‘young feller?’ Has anybody you know been hanging around here lately? Acting suspicious? Anything like that?”

“Not like you mean, Mr. Shayne,” she said. “Of course there’s been young Cal Harris, but everybody knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t,” Shayne said. “What does he do?”

“Oh, three — four times every week he comes by here and puts a curse on the old man. Course he don’t say, but we all know that’s it. He comes hobbling up the street on them two canes of his and just stands and looks at the big house with his face all black and hard. Cursing old John he was for sure.”

Shayne thought: “No wonder the cops are after that boy.” Aloud, all he said was: “Anything else?”

“Not unless you count Crazy Smith’s prowlers.”

“Who are they?”

“Lord knows. Old Corporal Smith says he sees them prowling all through here in the dark of the moon. Murdering, thieving robbers he calls them. Once in a while he even takes a shot at them with that old army gun of his. Never hit none, though. Not far’s I know anyhow.”

“Doesn’t anybody call the police when he shoots at things?”

“Lord no, Mr. Shayne. Ain’t no harm in old Buck. He just sees things. No crime in that.”

“Have you ever seen these prowlers? Last night for instance?” Shayne pressed her.

She turned her face away. “No. sir. I told you all I know about last night. You better believe me too, because it’s the Lord’s living truth. Every bit of it. Now go on and get out of here. Let an old woman get time to fix herself some supper. Get out now.”

Shayne could tell that was all she was going to say, so he left the house and walked across the street to old Buck Smith’s place.

The old veteran was in the kitchen boiling up grits and collard greens with fat pork. He let Shayne follow him back and sit at the kitchen table while he continued his cooking.

“Have a glass of cold buttermilk, Mr. Shayne,” he offered.

On his way to the kitchen Shayne had noticed that the old man’s Springfield rifle was missing from its place in the front room.

Mike Shayne accepted the buttermilk. He didn’t want it, but the gesture would relax the old man.

“I’ve just been talking to Mrs. Mullen,” he said. “She says you protect the block from prowlers.”

“I do what I can,” old Buck said. “Somebody’s got to watch out these days with all the young ones taking dope and fornicating out of wedlock and such like. Somebody got to be on the watch.”

“Too bad you didn’t see the killer go in or out of the big house last night,” Mike Shayne said casually.

Buck Smith was spooning out grits onto his plate. The big iron spoon clattered against his plate and he almost dropped it. At first Shayne thought the old man was going to faint. Then he pulled himself together.

“No, sir,” he said. “I sure didn’t. Man can’t be watching all the time. Dunno if I’d a done anything if I had. Oh, if I’d known it was a killer, then sure. But just a thief. Let him help himself. Old John had plenty and to spare.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“Nobody liked old John. A mean, grasping, hateful old scoundrel he was.”

“It’s a good thing somebody was watching last night,” Shayne said. “If he hadn’t raised the alarm before the house really caught. Some of your other houses might have burned too in that case.”

“I heard on the radio,” Buck said. “Funny it was that young Smulka raised the alarm. He got no cause to love old John either.”

Here we go again, Shayne thought. He said: “What do you mean by that?”

“Didn’t he tell you? Well, maybe he had no real reason not to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Tell us what?”

“Why, twenty years back his old man and John was partners in a construction firm. This feller was just a boy then. Well, the firm failed but old John got his money out first like he always done. It was Smulka was ruined. Shot himself over it, he did. There’d been some hanky-panky on Wingren’s part, and Smulka might have gone to prison even.”

“No,” Shayne said. “He didn’t tell anybody about that. Not that I know of.”

“Like I say, maybe he felt no cause to.”

“What I came to say,” Shayne said, “if you see anybody in that big house tonight it’s me. So don’t fire that cannon of yours. I have been hired by old man Wingren’s granddaughter Anna to stay there a night or two and keep any more prowlers out.”

“Have some grits and greens,” Smith offered hospitably. “I suppose you mean keep prowlers out if they come looking for old John’s treasure. That there wicked old man lived up there with his stolen money. They’ll be coming for it now.”

“What money?” Shayne asked.

“All that he stole, of course,” Smith said. “Diamonds and rubies and gold pieces and the money he wrung out of widows and working men by usury and cheating. Like an old spider he was those years, sucking the blood and the money out of everyone’s veins.”