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

“Yes. After he hit you I heard a noise like somebody calling out some place in the house. I think that’s why he was in a hurry and careless when he tied you up. He had to go see. Anyway, he had a knife and he knocked me down. He asked where the money was and hit me. Then he brought me here and tied me. He was going after you, but we heard you on the kitchen floor over us.”

“Wonderful,” Shayne said. “Just fine.”

“All the time I remembered the way you looked when I left the living room. Just a dark column,” Cal Harris said, “in front of the fireplace. It looked like the moose head was yours. It made me think of old John.”

“Careful with that broken glass,” Shayne said. “What about old John?”

“He stood like that times when he didn’t know I watched. I think he prayed to that moose.”

“Nobody prays to a stuffed moose head,” Shayne said. “You must have been mistaken.”

“Anyway, I sure caught him talking to it a couple of times. What are we gonig to do now, Mr. Shayne?”

The last cord around the detective’s wrists cut through and he began to untie his ankles and then take the wire bonds off Cal Harris.

“Somebody just about broke my head,” he said. “The first thing I’m going to do is find him and do a one hundred per cent job on his noggin. You better wait here where you’re safe.”

“I’m not safe except with you,” Harris said. “You know that. Sally said you promised no harm would come to me. Besides, I might be of help.”

Shayne thought that over. “I guess you might as well come along. If I leave you here he’d just as likely come back.”

They groped around on the floor and found the cane Cal Harris had brought and the other one Shayne had been holding when he was slugged. For himself the big man took the length of iron pipe that had been used on his head. His gun was gone, of course. Add that to the killer’s knife, he thought, but didn’t mention it to Harris.

“Did you recognize the killer?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t. It was dark and I was half stunned and scared of his knife. Besides, he had a stocking over his head for a mask. His voice was muffled like. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t anybody I know, though. Where are we going now, Mr. Shayne?”

“We’re going back to the living room,” Shayne said. “I think you’re right about the hiding place being there. Are you sure it wasn’t a woman caught you instead of a man? A woman pretending to be a man, I mean?”

“To tell you the truth I’m not real sure of anything. Like I said, it was all quick and dark and I was scared. I just don’t think it was anybody I know, though.”

They were both standing on the small landing at the top of the basement stairs. The kitchen door was locked, but that was no problem for Shayne. The killer had taken his gun, but in his haste and in the dark had left the key ring of passkeys and delicate lock-picks which the detective always carried.

Even in the pitch dark he had the door open in less than fifty seconds. After the cellar, the reflected night light through the windows made vision easy in the kitchen.

They didn’t have long to look about.

There came a sudden pound of running feet on the second floor above their heads and what sounded like the thud of blows. A voice or voices cried out. Then there was the thud of a heavy fall and feet on the stairs coming down.

Shayne bolted for the door to the hallway, hit a patch of grease on the dirty floor and felt his feet shoot out from under him. He lit all sprawled out and skidded into the side of the heavy old gas range, almost knocking himself out. The sound of running feet was drowned by the roar of jet engines coming in low overhead.

By the time Cal Harris had helped Shayne back onto his feet the house was once again silent.

“What’s going on?” Harris asked.

“I’m busy making a damn fool of myself,” the redhead said. “Just shut up and let me do it. I’m doing a real fine job so far.”

“It ain’t your fault,” Harris said. “Old John was a dirty old man.”

“Come on. Let’s go back to the living room. That’s where we were headed for. No reason to change our minds now.”

They went quietly and cautiously up the hall, not seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary. The living room door was shut but not locked. Shayne eased it open very quietly.

At first the room seemed to be just as he had left it only a few long minutes before. Then he made out a deeper shadow where no shadow was supposed to be, and a very slight flicker of movement in the darkest part.

He was across the room with the speed and concentrated ferocity of a big jungle cat making its leap to kill. This time nothing tripped him or slowed him down. He was across the big room and had his hands on a wiry figure that twisted and fought under his grip. Fingernails raked his face and feet kicked viciously at his shins.

Then the sheer bulk and hard muscled in-fighting skill of the big man prevailed. The figure under his hands stopped its struggling.

“I’ve got him,” Shayne said. “Hurry up, Cal, and put on one of those lights. Let’s see what we got.”