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

He tried the knob. The door wasn’t locked. He pulled it open and stuck his head in. He knew instantly that this wasn’t just another closet. His head was in darkness, but it was a darkness full of smells and the sound of water dripping some distance away. A draft blew outward as he stood in the door, and he realized there must be a cellar of some considerable size — an unusual thing to find in an older type Miami home.

He still couldn’t see a thing. He stepped inside, this time being careful to slide his feet at floor level. His hand touched a wooden rail as he groped in the dark. He couldn’t see a thing.

Somebody could, though.

The only warning Mike Shayne had was from instinct. He didn’t hear anything or see anything. As long as he lived he’d never know what primal, purely sub-sensory impulse it was that made him flinch and try to draw back.

Whatever it was — it saved his life.

The piece of heavy iron pipe struck a glancing blow on the side of his head instead of a spine-shattering smash at the nape of the neck as it had been intended to do. The difference in point of impact was all-important.

For Mike Shayne, at the moment, it was no difference at all though. The skyrockets exploded inside his skull and then he went down into the deep, dark well of unconsciousness.

Dimly, in a far corner of the brain he felt himself kicked or tumbled down a short flight of steps. At the same time he thought he heard a voice calling, not nearby but a long way off. Then the pain rose to crescendo and the merciful blackness took its place.

When he began to struggle back up the long, long spiral stairway to full consciousness it was because of a thumping, a moaning, and a persistent tapping against the upper left hand part of his back.

At first he didn’t really want to wake up. It meant going back into and through all that pain again. Mike Shayne was a hard man to kill, though. He was even harder to put down and keep down. Way deep inside he knew that he had to come back to consciousness, and so he did it bit by bit and second by second.

His hands and feet were tied with what felt like clothes line and he was lying on his face on a dirty cement floor in complete blackness. A heel was jabbing at his shoulder and the moaning, mumbling sound he heard was someone trying to talk to him through a gag.

Shayne opened his mouth and groaned. To his immense surprise he realized that he wasn’t gagged.

“Stop kicking me,” he said to the darkness. “I’ll be all right again in a minute. Then I’ll see about getting loose.”

The inarticulate sounds redoubled in frequency and volume.

Shayne was thinking again.

“Stop that or you’ll choke,” he said. “Are you Cal Harris? If you are rap on the floor three times with your feet.”

He was answered by three raps.

Shayne managed to sit up. Whoever had tied him had done a careless job of it. Not only had he forgotten to gag the big man, but he’d used old and half-rotted clothesline instead of wire or strong cord.

The big man began to feel better. Given time, he was confident that he could work himself loose again.

First he managed to crawl over to where Cal Harris lay. It wasn’t easy in the dark but he got his head at the back of the boy’s neck. Some cloth had been stuffed in his mouth for a gag and then another piece of rag knotted at the back of the neck to hold the gag in place. Shayne worried that knot with his teeth until it came loose.

Then Harris was able to spit out the gag.

“Mr. Shayne,” he said, “I thought you’d never find me.”

“You were almost right,” Shayne said. “Why didn’t you bump or something to warn me when I opened the door?”

“He had a knife. Besides, I couldn’t be sure it was you.”

“What are you tied up with?”

“It feels like picture wire,” Cal Harris said.

“Then you better work on me,” Shayne said. “If we could sit up back to back you can get your fingers on the cord around my hands.”

“I can do better than that,” Harris said. “I’m lying on top of what feels like a Coke bottle.”

“Good boy,” Shayne said.

With much difficulty they managed to get into a sitting position, back to back. Shayne took the Coke bottle and managed to break it on the cement floor. After that Harris sawed at the bonds around Shayne’s wrists with a piece of the broken glass.

It was slow and chancy work. Harris had to be very careful not to cut Mike Shayne’s wrists.

“How did he get you?” Shayne asked as he worked.

“He was waiting in the dining room by the door. When I came in he grabbed me. I tried to yell but there was a plane going over.”

“So there was. I couldn’t hear you. How did he get in there ahead of you from outside?”

“He didn’t,” Harris said. “He was there already. I remember I could still hear somebody moving outside the window. I think he could too and he didn’t like it.”

“That’s fine,” Shayne said, “at least two of them.”