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

In the rear Blinney sat between John Rogers and the other detective. Assistant District Attorney John Rogers, Phi Beta Kappa, young, intelligent, ambitious, Harvard-trained, talked with Oscar Blinney, quietly, patiently, incisively, compassionately. He learned that Oscar Blinney had been married in Miami in March. He learned that Oscar Blinney’s wife had spent most of the month of June on vacation in Havana.

“We have proximity, two ways,” said John Rogers. “Evangeline Ashley may have become acquainted with Bill Grant in Miami prior to her marriage to you, or in Havana after her marriage to you. Did she ever mention the name to you?”

“No,” said Blinney.

“Neither Grant nor Granville?”

“No,” said Blinney.

“Did you ever talk with your wife about business affairs?”

“Of course,” said Blinney.

“Did she ever see those payroll sheets of yours, the ones that you brought home from time to time?”

“Yes, I’m quite certain that she did. Is it considered improper for a man to take his wife into confidence, to show her—”

“No, no. Please don’t misunderstand, Mr. Blinney. I’m not criticizing. Not at all. This is part of my job, as it is part of Lieutenant Burr’s job — acquiring facts and piecing them together, trying to make a whole of the parts. No criticism involved, Mr. Blinney. Quite the contrary.”

Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr wielded his compassion in his own manner. “Quiet in back, for Chrissake,” he said. “I’m trying to think up front.”

At the Silver Crest Motel, the experienced lieutenant and the bright assistant district attorney, assisted by the Mount Vernon police, quickly patched the parts into the whole. Blinney identified the dead woman as his wife. Her throat had been expertly severed by a switch-knife with a six-inch blade, found beside her body. Its blade was bloody but its hilt had been wiped clean of prints.

The room had been rented to Mr. Bill Grant who had signed in for Mr. and Mrs. Bill Grant. The manager identified Bill Grant from a photo taken from the manilla envelope. Residents of the Silver Crest Motel, especially the ladies, described Mr. Grant as quiet, unassuming, and so very handsome with that cute little beard and all; his wife had an important job in New York City — interior decorator, he had said — and she came up often in the afternoons, and sometimes she stayed over, and sometimes she stayed over in the city. Sometimes they both got a little drunk in the Silver Crest Tavern, but never offensive, always gay and charming.

This morning she had arrived at about nine o’clock in that little blue sedan. She had carried a suitcase. She had gone directly to her husband’s room. He had come out at about ten o’clock, also carrying a suitcase. He had asked at the office if he could use a typewriter. (Photostat of the bomb-threat note disclosed at once, by expert comparison, that it had been typed upon the office typewriter of Silver Crest Motel.) He had then called for a taxi and had been driven to the station.

At three o’clock the chambermaid had knocked upon the door. There had been no answer. She had tried the knob, found the door unlocked, entered, and screamed. Mrs. Grant was on the floor, red with blood. Police, checking the suitcase, discovered that it was heavily packed, as though for a long trip.

In her handbag they found a passport in the name of Evangeline Ashley, renewed and in perfect order. In her handbag they also found a cancelled bank book on the Mount Vernon Savings Bank. She had withdrawn, that morning, $8070. Inquiry at the bank had elicited the fact that it had been paid out in eighty one-hundred-dollar bills and seven ten-dollar bills. Seven ten-dollar bills — aside from two single dollars and small change — had been found in her handbag. There was no other money amongst her effects.

“That punk didn’t miss a trick,” said Lieutenant Burr. “She must have divided the money, keeping the hundred-dollar bills in the envelope furnished by the bank, and putting the tens, separately, into her purse. The punk grabbed the bank envelope, which we found in his suitcase downtown.”

“In a way, a break for Mr. Blinney,” said John Rogers. “That eight thousand, in view of all of the circumstances, found in the very envelope of the Mount Vernon Savings Bank, earmarks it as hers. Mr. Blinney won’t have any trouble in claiming it as part of the estate.”

“We are in agreement, Mr. District Attorney,” said Lieutenant Burr, raising a glass. “To your very good health.”

“Drink hearty,” said John Rogers, drinking heartily.

They were seated in a booth, alone, in the Silver Crest Tavern. They were imbibing refreshment of Scotch and soda. They were awaiting the return of Oscar Blinney who was assisting the Mount Vernon police in disposing of the details of a homicide in their district and who were, in turn, assisting Oscar Blinney in the arrangements for the disposal of the victim of such homicide.

“Punk or no punk,” said John Rogers. “The man had well-nigh worked out a perfect crime.”