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

Old Buck Smith’s eyes glittered with a fanatic light. “They’ll be coming for it now. They and their ghosts. That old house will be full of them. You watch out, Mr. Shayne. They’ll be coming. Just like the devil come for old John’s soul last night. I seen him, Mr. Shayne, with his horns up black against the moon.”

VII

Mike Shayne went back up to the old Wingren house. This time he didn’t need a key for the front door, but just reached through the gaping hole where the glass had fallen out and turned the knob. The first thing he did was to correct that situation. He found some boards in the garage as well as a tool chest and nailed them over the inside of the door. At least anyone coming after him that night would have to break in.

Unfortunately that would be hard to prevent. Like so many old boomtime Miami mansions this one had several doors on the ground floor leading out to the grounds. They all had locks and chains, but nothing that would prevent a serious problem to a professional thief.

There was an old, brindled grey cat on the back steps. She wouldn’t come into the house, but lingered by an empty plate set there and obviously expected to be fed. Shayne put out scraps from the refrigerator and a dish of water.

“The old devil must have had at least one soft spot,” he said to the cat. “I guess you would have been it. Well, we never know.”

The cat accepted the food and drink with an air of regal condescension and then padded silently away into the dusk.

The electricity was still connected throughout the house and Shayne turned on lights in the upper and lower halls and in whichever room he was in at the moment.

He didn’t light up the whole building or turn on any exterior lights. It was part of the plan he’d formed that the killer should be able to get back into the building without too much trouble. Too many blazing lights might have scared him off.

Shayne was sure that by now everyone for blocks around would be sure that he was spending the night inside the house and also that he would be looking for hidden treasure.

Unless the killer had already made off with the treasure — and every instinct told Shayne that he hadn’t — that would prove a bait that couldn’t be resisted.

Shayne went back into the living room for the first time since that afternoon. When he turned on the light the three stuffed animal heads stared solemnly down at him from above the mantel. Shayne looked again. Someone had pinned a sheet of yellow note-paper to the nose of the moose in the middle.

He went over and pulled it down. Someone had printed a message in crude block letters, using a red crayon for a pencil.

“MIK SHAIN,” the message read, “GET OUT. I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO KILL YOU.”

“Sorry, friend,” Shayne said to the ugly face of the moose. “I don’t want to be killed either, but I can’t get out of here just yet.”

There was no way of telling who had written the message. Anyone could have gotten into the house easily enough while he was gone during the afternoon. The paper had been wiped clean of any fingerprints or smudges he could have spotted without dusting professionally. He folded it and put it in his pocket.

Then he sat down, being careful to pick a chair that was out of line with the windows, so he couldn’t be watched from outside the house.

It was just getting dark, the brief tropic dusk that would last only minutes. He didn’t expect any attack until full dark had fallen. This would be a good time to do some hard thinking.

The thing that had him puzzled him the most was the fire that had been set inside the house the night before.

The fire department had positively identified it as arson. It was the old trick of a candle set to burn down and ignite kerosene-soaked rags. There wasn’t a chance in the world of this one being accidental.

Then why had it been set? Shayne would have expected the killer to spend the balance of the night hunting for the treasure. In that case the last thing he’d do would be to set a fire that would attract outside attention. And sup pose it hadn’t attracted attention, but had really set the big house ablaze. Pouf. Up would go the treasure in smoke along with everything else. Why take a chance like that?

Maybe the killer had already found the treasure and just wanted to cover his tracks and destroy all evidence. That would make sense, but not in connection with the shot fired at him that afternoon and the note left pinned to the nose of the stuffed moose head. Both those things indicated that the killer was still very much in the picture and wanted Shayne out of the way so he could get at the business of finding the money.

Either that or the killer was an utterly insane person whose actions were not limited by reason.

“None of it makes sense,” Shayne said to the uncaring moose. “On the other hand I know there must be a reason back of it all. If I could just see what it is.” Once again he tried to put himself in the place of the killer and think as that person must have done.

It didn’t work.