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

The investigation would inevitably bring to light her current shoddy affair with the young tennis pro; her prim, virtuous facade would crumble in the scandal. He put his watch down precisely on top of the wallet.

Then he leaned over the wall, reached into the car and pulled out a pack, bedroll neatly tied on top, a worn plaid lumber jacket and a slouch hat.

He zipped into the jacket, shrugged on the pack and adjusted the hat. Reaching into the jacket pocket, he extracted a small battery-powered razor and, whistling a cheerful song, began to shave as he strolled off into the fog.

A Real Nice Guy by William F. Nolan

They called him “Deathmaster” — an accurate title. He never missed a target, never wasted a shot. Every city street was his personal shooting gallery.

* * *

Warm sun.

A summer afternoon.

The sniper emerged from the roof door, walking easily, carrying a custom-leather guncase.

Opened the case.

Assembled the weapon.

Loaded it.

Sighted the street below.

Adjusted the focus

Waited.

There was no hurry.

No hurry at all.

He was famous, yet no one knew his name. There were portraits of him printed in dozens of newspapers and magazines; he’d even made the cover of Time. But no one had really seen his face. The portraits were composites, drawn by frustrated police artists, based on the few misleading descriptions given by witnesses who claimed to have seen him leaving a building or jumping from a roof, or driving from the target area in a stolen automobile. But no two descriptions matched.

One witness described a chunky man of average height with a dark beard and cap. Another described a thin, extremely tall man with a bushy, head of hair and a thick moustache. A third description pegged him as balding, paunchy and wearing heavy hornrims. On Time’s cover, a large blood-soaked question mark replaced his features — above the words WHO IS HE?

Reporters had given him many names: “The Phantom Sniper”... “The Deadly Ghost”... “The Silent Slayer”... and his personal favorite, “The Master of Whispering Death.” This was often shortened to “Deathmaster,” but he liked the full title; it was fresh and poetic — and accurate.

He was a master. He never missed a target, never wasted a shot. He was cool and nerveless and smooth, and totally without conscience. And death indeed whispered from his silenced weapon: a dry snap of the trigger, a muffled pop, and the target dropped as though struck down by the fist of God.

They were always targets, never people. Men, women, children. Young, middle-aged, old. Strong ones. Weak ones. Healthy or crippled. Black or white. Rich or poor. Targets — all of them.

He considered himself a successful sharpshooter, demonstrating his unique skill in a world teeming with three billion moving targets placed there for his amusement. Day and night, city by city, state by state, they were always there, ready for his gun, for the sudden whispering death from its barrel. An endless supply just for him.

Each city street was his personal shooting gallery.

But he was careful. Very, very careful. He never killed twice in the same city. He switched weapons. He never used a car more than once. He never wore the same clothes twice on a shoot. Even the shoes would be discarded; he wore a fresh pair for each target run. And, usually, he was never seen at all.

He thought of it as a sport.

A game.

A run.

Avocation.

A skill.

But never murder.

His name was Jimmie Prescott and he was thirty-one years of age. Five foot ten. Slight build. Platform shoes could add three inches and body-pillows up to fifty pounds. He had thinning brown hair framing a bland, unmemorable face and shaved twice daily — but the case of wigs, beards and moustaches he always carried easily disguised the shape of his mouth, chin and skull. Sometimes he would wear a skin-colored fleshcap for baldness, or use heavy glasses — though his sight was perfect. Once, for a lark, he had worn a black eye patch. He would walk in a crouch, or stride with a sailor’s swagger, or assume a limp. Each disguise amused him, helped make life more challenging. Each was a small work of art, flawlessly executed.

Jimmie was a perfectionist.

And he was clean: no police record. Never arrested. No set of his prints on file, no dossier.

He had a great deal of money (inherited) with no need or inclination to earn more. He had spent his lifetime honing his considerable skills: he was an expert on weaponry, car theft, body-combat, police procedures; he made it a strict rule to memorize the street system of each city he entered before embarking on a shoot. And once his target was down he knew exactly how to leave the area. The proper escape route was essential.