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

I drove on to home base, took the money inside and then the girl. “You almost got me into trouble back there,” I told her. I pulled up the hidden trap door and pointed at the stairs. “There’s a bomb shelter down there,” I explained. “A comfortable room to keep you in until the heat clears off.”

I motioned for her to go down the stairs.

She shook her head no.

I said, “please?”

She mumbled something beneath the bandage that sounded like a no and didn’t move.

We must have picked the toughest teller in the bank.

“If you don’t walk down the stairs, I’ll hit you on the head and roll you down while you’re unconscious.”

I thought the threat would work but her face reddened with anger, she glared and growled something beneath the gag that sounded like a threat. I walked around and goosed her with the barrel of the .25.

She squealed and then moved under her own steam.

When Sam arrived an hour or so later, we divided the money. Over a hundred thousand dollars apiece — not a bad haul if we didn’t have to pay with our lives. As each hour went by, it looked as if there was less and less likelihood we’d have to pay in any way. We listened to the police radio band and learned they were apparently chasing us in the next state.

“It worked,” Sam said with a smile as we sat there, looking at each other over the two stacks of money on the table.

The plan had started when Sam’s father died and we began renovating his summer cottage for either sale or personal use. We couldn’t quite decide which. In the process of working on the cottage, we’d discovered the hidden trap door and the bomb shelter beneath. We’d started by speculating it would be a good place for someone to hide the loot if they pulled a robbery. The speculation had led to the actual plan. We had a perfect reason for being at the cottage. Everybody in the country knew we were renovating it.

“Now we let the hostage loose and we can relax.” Sam looked at the girl as she sat there tied to the chair and the smile slowly faded from his face.

At first I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. The gag was still around her mouth. Nothing wrong with it. I’d done a good job of tying her to the chair.

Her blue eyes kept watching us, growing wider and wider.

“We made a mistake,” Sam said. “We forgot to blindfold her.”

I was glad he said we.

Hell of a mistake to make. We’d planned a blindfold.

“We’ll have to kill her,” Sam said. “She knows what we look like.”

“I’ll do it,” I volunteered. “She’s a royal pain, almost got me in trouble for having a bad muffler... You know that law about mufflers? She was kicking like hell in the trunk. And she wouldn’t come down the stairs.”

I took my gun, released the safety and aimed at her head. Sam turned the other way. He didn’t want to watch.

The girl began to cry. Not much sound but those big blue eyes were spilling tears that rolled down her cheeks. She began to shiver.

I lowered the gun. “I can’t do it.”

“Huh?”

“She’s crying. Look at her. She’s scared silly.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Sam said, turning in his chair to face her. “It’ll be so fast you won’t feel a thing. Just think... you won’t have to pay taxes. No worries about anything.”

The girl began to cry harder.

“I don’t think she’s sold on death, Sam.”

“I’ll do it.” Sam took his gun and aimed at her head. He closed his eyes and for a moment I thought he’d pull the trigger while he wasn’t looking. But he opened his eyes again and dropped the gun on the table. “Let’s think of some other way. A gun is so damned messy.”

“We don’t have any.”

“Suffocation?”

Sam looked at the girl and wrinkled his nose. “That might work but she’ll make some sickening sounds while she’s suffocating.”

He didn’t have to elaborate. I knew he meant we were both too soft-hearted to listen to the sounds of her dying. “The same goes for strangulation...”

“Why can’t you do it with the damned gun?!” Sam said suddenly, slamming his fist against the table. He glowered. “You killed so many men in combat, what’s one life more or less?” The glower turned to a reproachful expression.

I shrugged. “They were men, not women. They weren’t crying like she is. And they were trying to kill me. That makes a hell of a difference, you know. She’s as helpless as a kitten.” I wondered if I could turn the tide. “Why’d you shoot that cop in the chest? I thought we agreed to aim for the stomach. If you like to kill so much, why can’t you kill her?”

Sam shook his head. He grimaced. “You said you’d aim for the stomach. I didn’t say I would.” He shut his mouth and I thought that was the end of it. He crossed his arms and settled into a stony silence as he relaxed in the chair. About four or five minutes later, he added, “I was aiming at the cop’s stomach. I’m a lousy shot.”

“Hit her over the head?” I suggested.

Sam’s face whitened. “Can you imagine the sickening sound that would make?”

“I don’t think it’ll make much sound.”

“I read a book once where—”

“OK, OK, OK. How about breaking her neck?”

“No! I couldn’t stand that snapping sound!”