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

“Fine.” Her hands were twisting a handkerchief. “Walt, I think we both need to get away. After what happened the other night, I think it would do us both good.”

“You’re right, I suppose,” he said.

“Could we, Walt? Could we go away tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Well, that’s a bit soon for me. I’d have to clear it with my boss and all.”

“Walt, I’ve never asked you anything, have I? I’ve never complained about all those nights you were on the road, away from home.”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then please, can’t we go away tomorrow?”

He sighed and patted the envelope in his pocket. “Let me talk to the boss in the morning. I’ve got an afternoon appointment but maybe we can get away tomorrow night.” Later, while she was getting ready for bed, he counted out the remaining money into two bundles. A thousand dollars would be enough for Tony Ancona’s mysterious girl friend. The other nine hundred could take him and Ellen away for two weeks’ needed vacation. After all, he’d earned that much.

Shortly before noon the next day Detective Bryant phoned Neary at his office. He was getting his desk in order for the vacation trip the sales manager had approved.

“How are you today, Mr. Neary?” he asked.

“Oh, fine. Is anything wrong?”

“No, not a thing. But I just thought you’d be interested in knowing we’ve arrested Ancona’s brother, a florist here in town.”

“What... what for?”

“Seems he was tied in with this whole narcotics ring. We think he might have even put up some money for his own brother’s killing. But he’s behind bars now.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Walt Neary found that he was sweating, though he didn’t know why. “Look, the wife and I are going away for a week or two. The excitement’s been a bit too much for us both.”

“Good idea,” Bryant told him. “Wish I could do the same.”

Neary finished straightening his desk and left the office at noon. He knew he should go home to Ellen and forget his three o’clock appointment at the Sunnyside Lounge, but it was a loose end he couldn’t leave dangling. Certainly the girl Marge Morgan had spoken to on the phone was not responsible for anything that had happened. She deserved a little of the blood money that had come from Tony Ancona’s killing.

He killed a couple of hours time until it was getting near three o’clock. Then he drove downtown and parked next to the Sunnyside Lounge. Marge was inside, serving drinks to the scattering of customers.

“Hi, there,” she greeted him. “Back again?”

“To meet this girl. You’re sure she’ll show at three?”

“She’ll show, because she’s scared what I’ll do if she doesn’t.”

“How’d you find out who she was?”

Marge looked away, wiping the wet from a table. “I saw her picture somewhere, and it gave her name. I said to myself, now that’s the girl Tony picked up in here.”

“But how’d you know she was still seeing him?” Neary asked, but Marge had already moved off to serve another customer. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was five minutes to three.

The street door opened and Walt Neary tensed himself. But it was not a girl. It was the dark-haired man who’d given him the envelope. Neary turned his head and hoped he wouldn’t be seen, but it was no good. The man had followed him here, of course, or else recognized his car.

“Neary” he said, coming closer. “What in hell did you do?”

“I... I don’t know what you mean.”

“You turned in Mike to the cops, didn’t you?”

“No. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought he was just a florist. I thought—”

“You’re done thinking,” the young man said. His hand came out of his jacket, holding a gun.

“Look, take back your money! I never wanted it. Take it back!”

“It’s too late for that, Neary!”

The gun was coming up fast when Marge hurled her tray of drinks at the young man. It spoiled his aim, and he had only an instant for a quick shot at her before Neary was on top of him, beating him to the floor. He hit him once, twice, three times, before someone was pulling him off, before a policeman was handcuffing the dark-haired man.

They helped Neary to his feet and he looked around, and the first person he saw was Ellen, standing in the doorway. “My God, Ellen, what are you doing here?”

Her face was as white as the tablecloths, and she clung to the door frame for support. She was in near collapse. After a few moments of hesitation, she managed to say, “I... I was shopping and thought I’d stop in for a drink. What happened here?”

“Never mind that. Never mind anything. Let’s get out of here.” But then he remembered Marge Morgan and walked over to where she sat bleeding on the floor. Another waitress was trying to bandage her arm. “Are you all right?”

She looked up at him and smiled. “Hell, yes. He only nicked me with that shot.”

“I guess you saved my life.”

“I guess you saved mine too.” She glanced over to where Ellen stood. “Why don’t you take your wife and get out of here? I’ll answer their questions. Take her and go, and tell her there’s nothing to worry about.”