Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

The business of banking at his level was unadventurous and routine; he was a glorified clerk; a sales person behind a counter dealing in currency. Between one and two o’clock in the afternoon the men would come for their parcels of money; usually men in pairs, big and burly ex-policemen, smiling, and making their jokes. They would wait in line until their turn, slip their requisitions through the slot beneath the window, make their first joke, and wait.

He would raise the window, accept their briefcase, neatly stack the packages of money within its recess, listen to another joke, return the briefcase, lower his window, and see them again the next week, hopeful for a better joke. He was not impressed with himself, his business, or the high adventure it entailed.

And so, on the fifth day of May, at one o’clock, when the phone beside him tinkled, he lifted the receiver without enthusiasm. Flatly he said, “Hello?”

The female voice said, “Mr. Blinney?”

“This is he,” he said.

“Adrienne Moore.”

“Who?” he said.

“Adrienne Moore. This is Mr. Blinney?”

His voice took on timbre. “Oh yes. Of course! Gee, Miss Moore. So good of you to call.” But the line of customers stretched in front of him, impatiently buzzing.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said.

“As a matter of fact, you are,” he said. “May I call you back later?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry to have been of trouble.”

“No trouble. No trouble at all.”

“I’m in the phone book, Mr. Blinney. The address is Washington Mews. I’ll be in all day.”

“I’ll call you back. Thank you for calling.”

“Oh, not at all. Good-bye, Mr. Blinney.”

“Good-bye, Miss Moore.”

And as he cashed a check for a beaming rotund lunch-hour lady-customer, hope thrilled within him; there welled within him, unaccountably, an intuitive presendment of succor.

He called her, from a phone booth, at five-thirty. By then, he had made up his mind to skip, for the first time, target practice at the Gun Club. He had not talked with another woman, alone, since the advent of Evangeline Ashley. He had not talked with another woman, alone, since the trap had closed upon him, since despair had become a part of him, since his life, in so short a time, had narrowed to a sense-dulled despondent mechanical existence, somehow incomprehensible.

He remembered her, vividly. He remembered Adrienne Moore. He remembered the soft, feminine, sympathetic beauty, despite the drunkenness of that night, and despite the then overwhelming presence of Evangeline Ashley. He remembered the soft outlines of her face. He remembered her sweet smile. He remembered the muted, melodious, deep-toned, cultured voice.

And he remembered the respect she had engendered within him. Respect. Respect was a part of love. Respect had always been a part of his dream of love. Respect! How mad can you get? Respect! — his dream of respect — the woman on the pedestal — and he had married Evangeline Ashley!

He called, from a phone booth, at five-thirty. He asked Miss Moore to dinner and she accepted. He said he would call for her at seven o’clock. She said that would be perfectly lovely and he thanked her and he hung up. Promptly at seven o’clock he presented himself at her house in Washington Mews near Greenwich Village, but they did not go out for dinner.

She answered his ring, opened the door, and invited him in. She wore black pumps, black tapered slacks, and a black sleeveless sweater. She was tall and slender and well-figured and haughty of carriage, darkly smooth-skinned, high-colored in visage, high-hipped, round-armed, delicate-fingered, red-lipped, and tousle-haired.

“Hi,” she said in her serious deep voice. “So good to see you.”

“Hello, Miss Moore,” he said.

“Come in. Please do come in.”

He entered into a large living room which contained one of the rarities of homes in New York: a wood-burning fireplace — which was burning wood. It was a beautiful room, the walls entirely of a warm thin-stripped wood, the ceiling of a lighter wood with inlaid designs. She took his hat and said, “Would you like a Martini, Mr. Blinney?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She poured gin and vermouth and strirred with a long cocktail spoon. “You’re probably wondering about my motives,” she said. “I still want to do you, and I’d like to start tonight, so, by your leave, I took the liberty of preparing a bit of dinner which we’ll eat in. Was I too hold?”

“No, no, not at all.”

She smiled. “You wouldn’t think me an aggressive sort, now would you, Mr. Blinney?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “And please, not Mr. Blinney.”

“Well, I am, Oscar. And according to Kenny, you are of a — well, let us say — of a mild temperament.” She smiled again. “There’s nothing mild about me, Oscar. Perhaps then, with opposite natures, we’ll be good for one another; sort of complement one another.”

“Perhaps,” he said and sipped his Martini.

“Are you too polite to ask the question?”

“Question?” he said.

“If I’m supposed to be that interested in you — how come I took until now to be in touch with you?”