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

The hostages filed out of the building to be reunited with their families; in blind Declan Fogerty’s case, a joyous Alsatian named Mannix. An ambulance took Condon, under guard, to hospital. The bomb disposal expert shouted that Sandra had been loaded with nothing more lethal than a cloth wrapped box of water colors. And then the Clinic was almost deserted.

As quickly as forces had gathered when the crisis had developed twenty-two hours before, vehicles and people evaporated until, at last, only a small nucleus of police remained.

After firing the shot that had dropped Arne Condon, Shay Kelly had sprawled full length on the roof limp with relief that his aim had not gone astray, thanking God his shot had not killed. He listened as the area below cleared, dreading the chewing out that would come his way for disobeying orders, wishing nothing had been said to the Superintendent. He knew Maura would be waiting for him with Declan and Mannix in tow but he didn’t feel like moving. The sun came out and was warm on his face. It was as though the whole world rejoiced now the crisis had passed. Soon the 727 would be put to bed and the crew would wander off to wherever crews went when they were off duty and all the money would be put back in the bank.

“Guarda Kelly! Seamus Kelly! Are you up there on that roof?” A voice boomed through a loud hailer. Shay rose and stood silhouetted against the sky, rifle looped in the crook of his arm.

“Yes, Sergeant Clancy,” he answered.

“Get down outa there and get your ass over to the Barracks.” And his Sergeant walked over to the Superintendent’s car where he stood, head near the window, talking to Foley. About me, no doubt, Shay thought, making his way down to the ground. About not following orders, but surely if a man had an idea he should be given a hearing. Foley had heard. Foley had said no. Guards were supposed to obey orders, not think. If, for appearances sake, they got around to giving him a metal for bravery, he knew darned well what would be engraved on the flip side: Seamus Kelly, foot patrolman in the Garda Siochana, Irishtown Barracks; Suspended for thinking in the line of duty.

Three Dead Deadbeats by Robert Fester and Joe R. Lansdale

Three death claims had been filed against the insurance company. All three listed the same beneficiary. And all three deceased had died in exactly the same way. Was it coincidence — or was it murder?

* * *

I was at my wits’ end. I’d studied the problem for hours, but still no answer. I crumpled my scratch paper and tossed it in the general direction of the waste can.

I touched my intercom button and called into the outer office. “Hey, Debbie, can you come in here? I need some advice.” I turned my attention back to the newspaper.

I didn’t look up from my Post Dispatch, but I knew the moment that shapely brunette secretary of mine entered the room. I’d know that Eau De Roma anywhere.

“Yes, Mr. Hunter?” she asked, leaning over my desk.

I tried to ignore her big blue eyes and the other endowments that the tight brown sweater advertised. “What’s an eight-letter word that means ‘a bitter denunciation’?”

She looked at the half-filled-in puzzle. “Hmmmm... How about diatribe?”

I looked at the squares. “Yeah, that’s good. That’s sort of what I thought.” I wrote it in. “Any calls?”

“Oh! I almost forgot. Mr. Capella from International Underwriters called. You’re to call back after lunch.”

Since it was well after lunch, I suggested that she get in touch with him immediately. Insurance cases are hardly glamorous, but the companies pay well and promptly — traits conspicuously absent in a good many clients.

The white light below the dial on my phone lit up. I picked it up. “Leif Hunter.”

Frank’s soft Italian tones greeted me with, “Leif, ma boy. I was afraid you wouldn’t get back to me before I left the office.”

“What’s up, Frank?”

“Got a little problem I hope you can help me with.”