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

Her husband, dead ten years, had been a detective story writer with a small but faithful following. As her eyes panned the street ahead, she thought about Tom and his battered old typewriter. Wherever he was, He was probably devising a diabolical plot of murder and mayhem. Yet, he’d been a gentle, loving man whom she had loved dearly.

Now, her only love was George — which was unique because tarantulas don’t, usually have lovers, even among the spider set.

As she walked, her purse dangled loosely from her hand.

Suddenly, a figure appeared and a quick hand yanked the purse out of her grasp. There was a rush of feet, and the purse snatcher sped down the street.

She staggered but quickly recovered. She had gotten a glimpse of his face and his hair! Especially his hair. His picture had been in the paper a week ago — a suspect in a drug bust. Greg Matson. His father was a lawyer and an official, in the city administration.

She quickened her step and ten minutes later stepped into her second story apartment. After closing the door and flipping the lock in place, she turned on the lights and called the police.

Then, she caught a silverfish in the bathroom and fed it to George.

George was a South American tarantula — the clerk in the pet Central America, as a bird spider. He was about three inches long, he could spread his legs out to six inches and his bite could create a serious problem in the human body — like maybe death. In the jungle he would be living in a tree and feasting on small birds, but in the apartment he resided in a large glass tank among rocks, dirt and exotic plants. Vivian kept him well fed with roaches, silverfish and other bugs that inhabited the nooks and crannies of the apartment. Thinking that George might need some female company, she had bought a smaller California tarantula, known in his homeland, store had assured her it was a female — and put the eight legged beauty in with George. The romance never got off the ground. Perhaps the small spider was actually a male or George, a female. George had promptly pounced on the hapless intruder and had him or her for supper.

George’s entrance into the United States was unexpected. One minute he had been eating a bug on a bunch of bananas and suddenly he found himself on a banana boat headed for the United States. He had surfaced in the fruit section of the local supermarket, luckily, just as Vivian was checking the oranges. She had lured him into a paper bag and taken him home.

They were great friends. He let her stroke his back, and he liked to walk on her hand and arm.

“You’re a nice guy, George,” she mused as she stroked his fuzzy back while he disposed of the silverfish.

The doorbell rang. That should be the police. She pulled her arm out of the tank and put the cover in place. Then, after covering the tank with a cloth, she opened the door.

Sergeant Al Grimes was a tall, thin, tired-looking man who looked older than his thirty-nine years. He had a narrow, prematurely-lined face that reminded Vivian of a hound dog she had as a child. He was bald and wore a nondescript gray suit.

They sat down and she told him about the purse snatching.

“I see.” He took out a notebook and a pencil. “What was in it?”

“Five dollars and fifty-six cents, a bottle of vitamins, a handkerchief, a comb, a ticket to an art show, and a package of mints,” she said promptly.

He wrote in his notebook for a moment. “Now — you say you know who the purse snatcher was?”

“Certainly. Greg Matson. I saw his picture in the paper last week and I’m certain he was the one.”

A look of pain crossed Grimes’ face. “Are you sure, Ma’am? We just got through a session with him, and he was found innocent.”

She eyed him closely. “Innocent? Charges were finally dropped, weren’t they?”

He shrugged. “Lack of evidence.”

“As I understand it, you people had a pretty good case against him,” she said, “then suddenly you didn’t.” She paused. “What does his father do in City Hall?”

“Right now, Mr. Matson is working for the DA, and I think he’s going to run for Supervisor in the next election.”

She smiled mirthlessly. “Very interesting. Here’s a lad, caught with drugs on him — and suddenly there’s no evidence. Mr. Matson must have been pleased with the outcome.” She nodded her head briskly. “Well, you get young Matson, and I’ll identify him as the purse snatcher. We’ll see if that pleases Mr. Matson.”

Grimes shifted in the chair as though suddenly uncomfortable.

“Ma’am, are you sure it was young Matson? Sometimes in the dark, faces look like other faces. You aren’t as young as you used to be and—”

“Grimes,” she interrupted in cold tones, “I’m not young but I’m not senile. My eyesight is excellent and any time you want to take me on in an IQ test, I’ll be glad to comply. That thief was young Matson. My God, with a rat face like that and a mop of shaggy hair, he couldn’t possibly be mistaken for anyone else.”