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

McKay shook his head. “Willy was using a code name he was perfectly familiar with. There’s no reason why he should know anything about Sanders’ theatricals. Hell!” he exploded. “Why did he have to be so cute with his word games? Why not simply write the name?”

“Probably afraid the murderer might still be around to see and destroy it,” said Herndon. “Willy wanted to leave a message that would ring a bell with us, but not with his killer.”

There was a long silence and Herndon, looking up, was surprised to see McKay frozen in an attitude of scowling concentration, his eyes fixed unseeing on the top of Willy’s desk. Herndon started to speak, only to be silenced by an imperative gesture from his partner.

“Damn!” breathed McKay at last. “I wonder if—”

“What?”

McKay snapped back to attention. “You just gave me an idea, Dan. Send Harrison in here and give me about fifteen minutes,” he said. “Then bring everybody into the living room. I want to try an experiment!”

A gabble of conversation, with Nicky Preston, Jim Sanders, Garrick and Dr. Sonntag all demanding information from Herndon at once, died quickly when McKay came into the living room.

“This is Willy’s account book,” he explained, as four pairs of eyes fastened on the small red book he carried. “No details in it on any of you, of course. Willy was too smart to keep his inventory so accessible. It will probably turn up in a safe deposit box somewhere. But this book does tell how much he collected, and when, and who from.

“The only trouble is, Willy used a code of his own for the names of his victims. In his last minutes he wrote the code name of his murderer in his own blood on the kitchen floor.”

McKay wrote on a sheet of paper.

“Kwixote?” said Nicky Preston, uncomprehending.

“We’re pretty sure one of you is kwixote — and if I’m right, we’ll know in a moment. You see, Willy was not only hung up on word puzzles; he was a telephone freak! It was remarked several times that he made practically all of his contacts by phone — and there are telephones in every room of this house.

“Now,” McKay continued, “there are two letters that don’t appear in any of the code names in Willy’s records — Q and Z. And it struck me a few minutes ago when I happened to be looking at a telephone dial that you find no Q or Z there, either. So I think Willy left us not a name, but a telephone number. Shall we give it a try?”

He picked up the phone, listened for a dial tone. The click of the dial sounded unnaturally loud as he sought the letters K-W-I–X-O-T-E. Relays clicked. McKay held the received slightly away from his ear so that everyone could hear.

There was a suspenseful moment or two of silence, then the ringing signal sounded. One ring. Two rings. Three...

Then there was the sound of a receiver being lifted and a man’s voice, tinny but distinct, said, “Dr. Sonntag’s residence.”

The professor leaped to his feet. “No, no!” he cried, his face ashen. “It cannot be — it’s some kind of trick! It’s... it’s...” His mouth worked soundlessly, then all at once he buried his face in his hands and collapsed back into his chair.

McKay spoke a few more words into the telephone before hanging up. “That was Sergeant Harrison in Dr. Sonntag’s apartment,” he explained. “I sent him over as soon as I figured out Willy’s code, to see if there was any corroborating evidence. He says there are some bloodstained clothes in the laundry hamper — and a necklace that could very well be Mrs. Garrick’s. Guess the doctor couldn’t resist taking things like that — maybe that’s what Willy had on him.”

He nodded to the doctor then to Herndon. “Let’s take him in. The rest of you are free to leave.”

He wondered whether Nicky Preston and Jim Sanders even heard him.

A Time to Cry by Edward van der Rhoer

Gerald plotted to commit a murder that would virtually defy detection. There was only one flaw in his near-perfect crime. He somehow managed to kill the wrong girl.

* * *

Gerald Coffin liked to joke that he had grown up with coffins. He meant that his family had been in the coffin business as long as he could remember. In fact, the Coffin Casket Co. had been established by his grandfather, long since deceased. But there was no one who knew more about manufacturing coffins than Gerald did, and he resented the way in which he had been kept from running the family business for so many years.

That mean old buzzard, his father, had had the good taste, as Gerald saw it, to die rather early. However, his mother, who never failed to make him squirm under her cold, probing slate-eyes, clearly had the intention of living forever. Yet even she, for all her toughness, was no match for cancer, and now she lay in her coffin in the parlor of their big old house.