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

Burr read, turned the sheet over to Rogers, said to Blinney: “The guy was a soldier of fortune type, a first-rate gambler, worked some of the big casinos in Havana. Also operated out of Miami. Was known as Bill Grant, no other name. A dangerous guy, quick with a gun or knife, and a bear with the dames.”

Rogers laid away the typewritten sheet, sat glumly.

A detective entered with a large manilla envelope. “Photos and photostats of everything,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Burr. “Put it on my desk.”

The detective complied and departed.

“You know what’s bothering me, don’t you?” said John Rogers.

“You bet I know,” said Burr. “The same damn thing that’s bothering me. This thing is wide open. Not closed by a long shot. Mr. Blinney got one — but there’s another ugly son running around somewhere: the guy who was going to use the second plane ticket we found at Grant’s.”

He sat down near the teletype machine, lit a cigarette, smoked thoughtfully. “It’s going to go one of two ways. We’re either looking for somebody who got those payroll sheets out of Mr. Blinney’s home — or it’s someone at the bank.”

“Someone at the bank?” said Rogers.

“Remember that Mr. Blinney isn’t certain that he took those sheets home. If he didn’t, then maybe someone in the bank copped them and turned them over to this Bill Grant. Then that’s Mr. Accomplice, and we’re looking for him.”

“Don’t forget about that three o’clock flight time,” said Rogers.

“Oh, I’m not forgetting. We’re going to have to do a complete check of that bank for anybody who would be free by two o’clock today. And also, Mr. Blinney — and I’m sorry if it will inconvenience you — we’re going to have to do a complete check on your household; all your friends; all your wife’s friends; servants; anybody who could have laid their hands on those payroll sheets, if you brought them home. I thought, for a change, I had an easy one. But this damned case is still wide open in my book. Understand?”

There was silence. Burr smoked. The teletype clacked. Burr’s gaze drifted toward it. Burr stopped smoking. The clacking continued. He read:

HOMICIDE. MT. VERNON. SILVER CREST MOTEL. VICTIM FEMALE. DISCOVERED BY CLEANING WOMAN. VICTIM FEMALE FOUND IN ROOM RENTED TO MR. AND MRS. BILL GRANT. VICTIM TENTATIVELY IDENTIFIED FROM EFFECTS AS ONE EVANGELINE ASHLEY. CHECK OF LICENSE PLATES OF MOTOR VEHICLE DRIVEN BY VICTIM FEMALE REVEALS OWNERSHIP BY ONE OSCAR BLINNEY. FOLLOW-UP REVEALS OSCAR BLINNEY, PRESENT RESIDENCE MT. VERNON, MARREID AN EVANGELINE ASHLEY LAST MARCH IN MIAMI BEACH. CONTACT OSCAR BLINNEY EMPLOYED IN FIRST NATIONAL MERCANTILE BANK IN NEW YORK CITY.

The machine stopped. The silence swelled. Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr, sighed, rose, squeezed out his cigarette.

“Mr. Blinney,” he said.

“Yes?” said Blinney.

“We have a report,” said the lieutenant, touching a finger to the teletype. “Just came in. Nothing definite.”

“Report?” said Blinney.

“Nothing definite, Mr. Blinney.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s been an accident.”

“Accident?” said Blinney.

“Worse, possibly.”

“What?” stammered Blinney.

“Report on a homicide.”

“Homicide?” said Blinney. “What has that to do with me?”

“Tentative,” said Burr. “Tentative. I don’t understand, sir.”

“Tentative identification of victim. Evangeline Ashley.”

“Oh no...”

“Tentative is no sure-pop, Mr. Blinney. You never can tell.”

“What?... Please... What happened...?”

“Silver Crest Motel up near Mount Vernon. Mount Vernon police request we contact Oscar Blinney at the First National Mercantile. The woman, it seems, was found in a room rented to a Mr. and Mrs. Bill Grant.”

Suddenly the lieutenant moved. He went quickly to the wallet of Bill Grant, extracted a color-photo, and brought it to Oscar Blinney. “Do you know this woman?” he said.

“Yes,” said Oscar Blinney and for the second time that day he fainted.

“The poor goof,” said Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr, bending to the stricken Blinney. “He’s sure having a rough afternoon, isn’t he?”

XIV

The same group sped north, siren open, on the West Side Highway: Burr, Rogers, Blinney, the two detectives, and the uniformed policeman. The policeman drove. Beside him sat one of the detectives, the manilla envelope in his lap. Beside the detective sat Burr, plucking upon his lower lip.