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

“Oh, I suppose,” Hannigan said. “But hell, Mike, haven’t you ever wished for something big to break? Something really big? Something to put Summerville on the map, get our names in the papers from coast to coast?”

“Like what?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Hannigan said. “Maybe a couple of escaped murderers holed up over at the Summerville Hotel, and we take ’em after a gun battle. Or the bank getting robbed. Something like that.”

“I guess I wouldn’t mind capturing some escaped murderers or some bank robbers,” Cameron said wryly, “but you can leave out the gun battle, thank you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure, I know.” Cameron sighed softly. “But things like that aren’t going to happen. Nothing of national interest, or even state-wide interest, has happened in Summerville since the old man founded it in 1884. I don’t imagine things are going to change for us.”

“Well, I still wouldn’t mind being famous.”

“Neither would I,” Cameron said. “But we might as well face it, Jack. We’re just doomed to a life of anonymity, and that’s that.”

Both men were silent for a time, pondering. Crazy Henry said suddenly, “I know a way.”

They looked at him. He was sitting in his chair, smiling at them, his wide blue eyes shining. He had been listening with rapt attention to their conversation. He was a tall, lanky man with a great moss-like tangle of brown hair and long, powerfully-muscled arms. He wore a blue denim shirt and a pair of faded, worn dungarees.

It was his job to sweep up every now and then, and do general odd-job chores around the jail. He wasn’t officially on the city payroll, but Cameron gave him ten dollars a week for food and essentials. He sleep on a cot in the woodshed out back.

“I know a way,” he said again, his eyes flicking back and forth between Cameron and Hannigan.

“Well, that’s fine, Henry,” Cameron said gently.

“It’s a real good way, too,” Crazy Henry said.

“Sure it is.”

“You been nice to me, Mike. Real nice. I want to do something for you and Jack. Something for Summerville, too.”

“All right, Henry,” Cameron said. “Tell you what you can do. You can watch things here while Jack and me go over to Elsie’s for some coffee. You run and fetch us if the phone rings.”

“Okay, Mike.”

“I’ll bring you back some pie, how’s that?”

“Blueberry?”

“Sure.”

“That’s my favorite.”

“Mine, too.”

Crazy Henry grinned and nodded. Cameron and Hannigan got on their feet and put their hats on. “Another hour, and Bert comes in to relieve, thank God,” Cameron said, and they went out and shut the door behind them.

Crazy Henry stared at the door for a long moment. It’s not a bad thing, he thought, because it’ll be real good for Mike and Jack and Summerville. The television and the comic books say it’s a bad thing no matter what, but they’re wrong. It’ll put Summerville on the map, and that’s real good. It’ll make Mike and Jack famous, and that’s real good. Okay.

He nodded his head, his eyes shining brightly. He got to his feet and went out to the rear of the jail, to where the shed was located. He entered, and moments later came out again with the huge, double-edged woodsman’s axe he used sometimes to chop small logs into cordwood. He went back into the jail.

The ring of keys was on Cameron’s desk, where he’d put them, and Crazy Henry picked it up. He went to the block door and opened it.

“I know a way,” he said, with a secret smile.

And with the keys in his left hand and the big sharp woodsman’s axe in his right, Crazy Henry started down the corridor to the cell with the eleven drunks...

Blood Money by Edward D. Hoch

Who was she, the shadowy lady of the evening, who found her love at last — to lure him to his death?

* * *

Walt Neary was tired. He’d been driving for eight hours straight when he turned into the familiar tree-lined street that was home. He’d been away three nights, covering the southern part of the state on his monthly swing.

Usually he took a fourth night for the trip, breaking up the long drive home, but this time he’d come right through, anxious to be back home with Ellen.

Though it was after eleven, there was still a light in the living room of their little ranch home, and this was the first thing that struck him as odd. He knew Ellen usually liked to read in bed while he was away, curling up beneath the covers with the latest best seller.

Usually she turned out the front lights and went to the bedroom at ten-thirty, reading for an hour or so before sleep overcame her.

But this night it was different, and he swung into the driveway wondering why. Almost at once he had his answer. The front door and side door both faced the street, and now, with the sudden impact of a thunderclap, that side door by the garage was thrown open.

A man ran from the house, in almost the same instant that Ellen’s scream split the night air.