Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

Shayne was still in the lobby, talking with the doorman, when the message came. “Someone’s in her apartment now!” the doorman cried. “She’s screaming!”

Shayne was in the elevator in seconds, and scant seconds later, on Ann Waterman’s floor. He raced to her apartment, crashed through the door, gun in hand. Jerry Trane, engrossed in his efforts to drop Ann over the patio rail, didn’t hear the redhead come in.

Mike Shayne moved quickly behind Trane, threw an armlock around the hit man’s neck and pulled him backward into the living room. Ann’s unconscious form fell to the floor.

Trane yanked a gun from the holster under his jacket. Shayne pointed his weapon down at Trane and pulled the trigger. The slug nearly tore Trane in two.

“You bastard!” Trane screamed.

Through the burst-open door Patterson, Wilson and two uniformed cops raced in.

Shayne said to Sergeant Patterson, “Call an ambulance. Our boy took a slug in the belly.”

The redhead knelt and picked Ann from the carpet. Blood was still flowing from her nose and, mouth. He put her down gently on the couch, got a towel from the bathroom and washed the blood from her face. Shayne then went to the phone and called a medico friend, Dr. Sterling.

“Very important, Doc. A friend of mine, a woman, seriously hurt, shock. She’s been beaten.” He gave Dr. Sterling the address.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes, Mike. See if there’s any whisky in the apartment. Give her some and keep her warm till I get there.”

“How the hell did you foul up like this, Shayne?” Patterson asked. “I warned you it would happen. This mug is Jerry Trane, a real mean character. We knew he was in town but didn’t know where.”

“After he’s patched up I’d like to talk to him.”

“Okay by me, Shayne, but now you’ll have to clear it with the D.A. or one of his assistants. We’ve got him for aggravated assault and attempted murder.”

“That’s fine,” Shayne said, “but we’re after bigger fish, and this could be our bait. Let’s see.”

Doctor Sterling came and attended to Ann, gave her a tranquilizer and put her to bed. “She’ll sleep until morning,” the doctor told Shayne. “Is there someone who can stay with her?”

“Yes, Doc. I’ll stay with her.” Shayne said.

Ann awoke about seven the next morning. The October sun was struggling to rise above the rim of the Atlantic. Veils of shimmering heat forecast a hot day. Below, as Shayne looked from the patio, he saw several tenants spreading towels over chaises and chairs to establish ownerships for that morning. Squatters’ rights. It was a daily ritual.

Ann said, “Good morning, Mike. Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure would. How do you feel?”

“As if I’d been put through an emotional wringer and all my juices squeezed out of me. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.”

“Sure you will,” Shayne assured her. “Like all nightmares, this one too will fade in time.”

“Perhaps. But I’m sick of this place, the area, the people. I’m going back to New York.”

Ann brought two cups of coffee, which they drank on the patio. She looked out across the water and said, “I’ll be glad to get away from here, and yet I’ll miss it. I love the ocean and the sun. Is that paradoxical?”

“Not really. There are two different yearnings there. It’s not hard to understand.”

She pointed to two young girls, swimming in the ocean, the glint of the sun bobbing on their blond hair like blinking stars.

“They’re happy,” Ann said. “Sun and salt water and sea air, and no memories of near-catastrophes to mar their thoughts. I wonder if I’ll ever be happy again?”

Shayne didn’t reply. She was ruminating, looking back on the last twenty-four hours and equating them with her future.

At nine o’clock, Sergeant Patterson and Detective Wilson came to the apartment. They greeted Ann and inquired how she felt.

“I’ll be all right, I guess, so long as the army and navy here — she pointed to Shayne — stick around to protect me.”

“We’ve taken care of that little matter. There will be detectives in the lobby and outside your door, twenty-four hours a day.”

“Thank you,” Ann Waterman said. “That’s a relief.”

“Mike,” Patterson said, “a woman who gave her name as Diane Wallace called this morning, said she was induced to check into the hotel here with Jerry Trane. She heard the news about his being shot, and, of course, that he was a notorious hood. She volunteered the information that Trane lived at the Diplomat Towers. I thought you might want to check there for calls or contacts Trane may have made.”

“I certainly do,” Shayne replied. Then, “What’s with Trane?”

“He’ll live, dammit!” Patterson said. “He’s in intensive care but can be interviewed. He’s your baby. I explained things to the D.A. He said it was okay. Grab the big fish and we’ll throw the bait back.”

“Good enough, Pat. Who’s going to be on duty downstairs and up here? Until I get back?”

“A couple of good men. They’ll be here at ten. We’ll stay until they come.”

Ann Waterman said, “I’m a lot of trouble, aren’t I?”