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

Vivian walked into the police station promptly at nine the next morning and set her tape recorder on the table in the interrogation room. Grimes, looking nervous, was standing next to an angry-looking older Matson while young Matson in dungarees and sweatshirt stood next to his father.

Matson glared at her. “As you know, I’m a lawyer, Madam — and a good one. Tape recordings of innocent victims are not acceptable in a court of law unless the victim has given his permission to be recorded. You are doing something illegal.”

“Just keep quiet and listen to your innocent son.”

An expression of fear covered young Matson’s sallow face. “Dad! She’s a liar! I never made any phone calls.”

“Don’t worry, Son,” Matson said. “She’s just an old lady with an over active imagination.” He eyed Grimes. “Grimes, I object to this.”

Grimes shook his head. “I’d like to hear it. There’s no law against playing the tape in here.” He smiled suddenly at Vivian. “Go ahead.”

She set up the recorder to play and pushed the button. The Matsons and Grimes listened in shocked silence as the sneering voice repeated the filthy, obscene wordage. The final recording was her dialogue with Grimes.

He reddened and his face tightened. “If you prefer charges against my son, I’ll sue you. The poor boy is having a tough time finding himself.”

Vivian was smart enough to see that Matson, with the weight of City Hall behind him, could wipe her out with legal proceedings — and all for five dollars arid fifty-six cents.

“I’ll let it go this time.”

Matson did an about face and put on his best vote-getting smile. “I’m glad you see your mistake, Mrs. Van Leer. Now, I don’t like to see you elderly people living alone. I know of a nice retirement home in the Bay area where—”

She stood up. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”

Grimes smiled at her. “If you need help sometime, you be sure and call me.”

“Yes,” chimed in Matson. “We are here to serve the public.”

She eyed them for an instant. “Coming in here to complain about something is similar to a German Jewish citizen in the thirties complaining to Goering about something that Hitler did.”

She walked out.

For the next two days, Vivian led a trouble-free life — a movie, art show, and a baseball game. One night when she was feeding George, the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“I’m gonna get you, ole lady,” snarled a voice into her ear. Young Matson. “Call in the cops, did you. Next time I’m gonna drag you into an alley and—”

“Matson, I’m calling them again.” She hung up and immediately dialed a number Grimes had left.

Grimes arrived at the apartment a half hour later.

“Ma’am,” he said sadly. “Young Matson said he didn’t make any phone call to you. And his father’s pretty mad.”

“It was young Matson,” she said. “I recognized that voice.” She sipped the drink in her hand. “He even mentioned my calling in the police.”

Grimes sighed. “You drinking liquor?”

“A martini. I have one every night. Been doing it all my life.” She paused and looked at the drink thoughtfully. “My husband and I used to have delightful little conversations over a martini.”

Grimes took a deep breath. “I can’t arrest him on such flimsy evidence. His father would tear it apart.”

She nodded. “I suppose he would. You’re afraid of Matson, aren’t you, Sergeant?”

He frowned. “No, I’m not. It’s just that our legal system is so complicated and—”

“Full of loopholes,” she continued, “that it’s difficult to make a charge stick, especially when the accused has a father in the DA’s office. All right. Forget it.”

“Well, now, for example, he could make something big out of you drinking a martini, like you’re imagining things—”

“Do you think I’m imagining things?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Good night, Sergeant. Sorry I wasted your time.”

“It’s my job to look into these—” He sighed and shrugged. “Goodnight, Mrs. Van Leer.”

After he had gone, Vivian pulled the cover off George’s tank and smiled sadly at the furry creature. “What can I do, George?”

Then, an idea dropped into her agile mind. A tape recorder. Of course. She’d buy one tomorrow.

The next morning she went to an electronics store and bought a small tape recorder and a microphone that could be attached to the base of the telephone. After buying several tape cassettes, she went home and quickly attached the microphone to the telephone, plugged in the recorder and grinned at George.

Young Matson’s face was a blend of anger and fear. “It’s a fake! She faked it! That ain’t me!”

Lawyer Matson seemed to have turned a shade of gray. “Of course it’s a fake. What are you trying to do to my son, Madam?”

Grimes, also visibly affected, shrugged. “That sure sounds like me in that last recording.”

Vivian removed the cassette from the recorder and dropped it into her purse. “I suggest you put a voice analyzer on it. I think you’ll find that young Matson’s voice and the voice on the recorder are the same.”

Grimes looked at Matson. “Are you willing to have it checked?”

Matson hesitated a few seconds, then nodded. “All right.”