Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

“A girl. He fell in love with a German National. The poor bastard planned to marry her, but she turned out to be a tramp. She dumped him for a kraut from a well-to-do family. I can’t help feeling somewhat responsible for what happened to him. Maybe if I hadn’t taken him to that tavern he’d still be alive today.”

“You took him back to the billets?”

The Captain nodded.

“And did you escort, him to his room?”

“No. The CQ did, I suppose. At least, I told the NCO in Charge of Quarters duty to see to it he got upstairs. Lundy was so drunk tie could hardly walk and his speech was just an unintelligable slur.”

“I see,” Lansing commented. “But he did fix your TV?”

“I don’t know why you’re curious, but yes, he did.”

“One can never have too much information when investigating a homicide case, Captain.”

“Are you talking about Lieutenant Benton’s death or Specialist Lundy’s?”

“Maybe both.” The Major replied as he rose from the bar stool.

Lansing found a telephone in the vestibule of the officers’ club. Dialing the number to his office, the CID investigator stared out a nearby window, observing the dimness of twilight giving way to the darkness of night. SP5 Wendy Davis answered the phone at the other end of the line.

“How’s the investigation going, sir?” she asked.

“I seem to be finding more questions and no answers,” Lansing said. “How have you been doing?”

“I’ve been trying to find out what happened to Spec. Four Robert Lundy’s corpse, but nothing has come back to me yet. I did a little checking on the late Lieutenant Benton, however. Considering the high status of S-2 personnel, I decided to try the Adjutant General’s office. It seems Benton had arranged for a meeting at the end of the month with the A.G. concerning certain suspicions regarding one of his fellow workers, but he didn’t want to say who it was until he had some more solid evidence.”

“I suppose this is too much to hope for, but did he specify what kind of suspicions he had?”

“Afraid not, sir. He only said it was a critical matter.”

“Hmmm, it’s beginning to look like you should be the investigator and I should be pounding the typewriters,” Lansing mused. “I think you’ve put in a long enough day’s work, Wendy. Get some sleep and maybe some news about Lundy will be waiting for us in the morning. I’ve still got a couple things to do here. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

He hung up and walked outside to his car. Climbing into the Volkswagen, Lansing unlocked its glove compartment and extracted a pair of steel handcuffs. Slipping them inside his belt, he turned on the engine and drove to the Headquarters Battery across the street from the head shed. He entered the billets and asked the CQ if Spec. Four Smothers was in his room. As Lansing suspected, Smothers had left Montgomery Barracks in the early evening and had not returned. Lansing thanked the CQ, then left the billets, returned to his car and waited.

Smothers finally returned to the base at 0127 Hours. Although Smothers was dressed in civilian clothes (a flowery shirt, checkered bell-bottoms and platform shoes), Lansing recognized him. Emerging from his car, the Major beckoned to the Spec. Four, urging him to approach the Volkswagen. Reluctantly, Smothers obeyed.

“Yes, sir?” The enlisted man’s eyes were wide open and his speech nervously rapid.

“Please take everything out of your pockets and place it on the hood of my car,” Lansing told him.

“What for?” Smothers inquired.

“We’ll discuss that after you’ve emptied your pockets.”

With trembling hands, Smothers obliged. He removed a wallet, some coins, a pack of chewing gum and two keys from his pockets.

“Now take off your shoes.”

Smothers’ tongue slid along his dry, colorless lips as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Bending slowly, he untied his left shoe and pulled it off. Suddenly, he shot upright and swung the foot gear across his body, the shoe held by the toe, the thick heel a club-like weapon.

Lansing met the attack, the sides of both hands striking Smothers’ forearm. The twin shuto strokes chopped down hard, stopping the arm and forcing the shoe to fall from numb fingers, moving quickly, Lansing caught the EM’s arm and twisted it behind his neck as he propelled him into the car with a knee to the rump.

“Figured you might do something stupid,” the Major rasped as he held Smothers’ wrist between his shoulder blades with one hand to draw the handcuffs with the other. Keeping a knee between his prisoner’s legs to discourage any attempt to stomp or kick backward, Lansing expertly cuffed his hands behind his back.

Using a knee to check Smothers’ left leg. Lansing seized his right ankle and hauled the prisoner onto the curve hood of the VW, scattering the former contents from Smothers’ pockets. Untying the remaining shoe, Lansing removed it. A small package wrapped in brown paper fell to the pavement.