Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

One of the greyhairs around the table looked down at Shayne and said with alarm, “My god, man, don’t make things worse. We’re dealing with Alpha Red.”

The name didn’t ring a bell, but the heavy bootheel clanged against his skull just before he lost consciousness.

The dark tunnel seemed shorter now. In the midst of a distant, dim light four faces hovered.

“He’s starting to come around,” a voice said.

Shayne dragged himself to his knees, then felt hands helping him to his feet.

“You O.K., fella?”

The redhead forced the pain to go away. He was still in the pre-fab building with the card players. The soldiers of Alpha Red had vanished. Picking McCord’s face out of the group, he started to piece together what he had seen.

Suddenly one of the men started banging his fists on the table. “They’re gonna kill us! I know they are. They’re gonna kill us.”

“Calm down, Jerry,” said McCord.

“We’d better fill in out visitor on what’s been happening here,” said another.

Rubbing the back of his swollen neck, Shayne interrupted the frightened speaker. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s been going down. McCord here has this development project. He needs some investors to get if off the ground. He chooses some of his friends from the club and brings them over here to check out the project.”

“How did you know Ed?” said a startled figure whose face looked vaguely familiar to Shayne. “And how did you find out about Mangrove Key? This was supposed to be a secret.”

“Somehow the Alpha Red group discovered what was going on,” said Shayne, “and moved in. My guess is they’re holding you for ransom.”

McCord stepped forward. “And just who are you?”

“Someone looking for a friend,” Shayne returned. “Did any of you meet a reporter from the Miami Daily News named Rourke?”

Each man shook his head. A frown formed on the redhead’s craggy features. “Are you sure? Rourke’s scarecrow-thin and drives a beat-up Ford.”

Nobody showed any recognition. Shayne was getting nowhere. All the evidence pointed to Tim’s being on the island. Why, then, had none of them seen his friend? Shayne tried not to dwell on the obvious conclusion that Alpha Red had found him first. He wouldn’t let his mind believe that Tim was beyond help.

“The first thing we have to worry about,” Shayne said, “is getting out of here in one piece.”

“Why should we?” asked McCord. “Right now my assistant, Remaley, is busy making the arrangements that will get us out of here safely. He should be able to put together the money by dawn at the latest. All we need do is to sit tight and wait.”

The typical mentality of the rich, thought Shayne. Money can buy anything, get you out of any situation.

“They’re going to kill us,” blurted the short, round man whom McCord had called Jerry.

“You’d better listen to him,” Shayne spat out. He was beginning to let his disgust show. “Kidnappers like our friends outside don’t leave witnesses. Once they get their money, you’re dead meat.”

“They gave us their word,” said one of the men.

“Did it come with a gentleman’s handshake?” Shayne asked sarcastically.

Suddenly the door burst open and a body came hurtling in. Staggering to his feet, a small man in a plaid suit tried to catch his breath.

“Remaley,” said McCord. “What happened?”

“Raoul is angry at how long it’s taking to get the ransom together,” the assistant said.

The man whom Shayne thought he had seen before spoke up. “Why is it that everybody thinks that wealthy people carry around millions as though it were pocket change. Don’t they understand investments, treasury bills, liquidity?”

“Guys like Raoul understand one thing,” said the redhead. “You’ve got the money and they want it, whatever way it takes.” The detective tugged at his earlobe. “Remaley, you were just out there. How many men are there?”

“At least twenty, maybe a few more.”

The redhead glanced around. It was going to be difficult. The only possible exits were the single window and door, which would be heavily guarded.

“Since we’re all in this together,” said the familiar-looking man, “perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m John Harrow.”

Instantly Shayne knew why he thought he had seen the face before. He had. John Harrow had been the movies’ favorite leading man till he grew too old to ride the range or board pirate ships. Unlike a lot of his contemporaries, he had not only found gold in those Hollywood hills — he had banked it.

“This is Jerry Stokes of Stokelectronic. The Japanese car company that bought him out made him an even wealthier man.” Harrow pointed to a mute figure still seated at the table. “This is Chad Phelps of the Massachusetts Phelps. He went from captain of the Harvard eleven to a captain of industry with graduation and now owns more land than most countries.”

Shayne looked at the four older men, each retired and each in his 60’s. A lot of help they would be. All they had to offer was money. He needed more.