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

“Perfect crime.” Burr shook his head. “There’s always some goof-ball like this Blinney to ruffle it up.”

“But you were worried back there for a while, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. The thing had some wide open edges.”

“All closed now, wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant?”

“You know it. Else we wouldn’t be sitting here, relaxing.” Burr sipped, put down his glass, half closed his eyes. “Perfect crime. I’ll admit the punk really figured out a good one. Started natural, but then it developed some real crazy wrinkles. Started natural — a chronic goniff, a charm-boy, catches up with a chick who’s a cheater. Started in the usual way.”

“And in the middle, a rather naive chap — Oscar Blinney.”

“You’re a lawyer, you call him naive. I’m a cop, I call him a goof, a goof-ball, a rube, a yoke. Oh! a nice sweet fella, I sure have nothing against him, you know? Okay. The charm-boy makes the cheater and he finds out the husband is a great big honorable shnook who brings back homework for study and, man, the guy really handles big stuff. The wife turns over a couple of those payroll sheets and the idea for the big heist is born. Of course, she’s supposed to be cut on the take.”

“But he’s going to cut her out because he’s working on a perfect crime. Perfect crime — there cannot be an accomplice.”

“Good enough. So today’s the day. Bill Grant knocks her off, and there’s no longer an accomplice. He’s not worried. If things work out — and I admit he planned an ingenious little masterpiece — there’s no longer a Bill Grant. We could comb the country — no Bill Grant. Instead there’s a William Granville, two inches shorter, smooth-shaven and bespectacled, living in London with a quarter of a million bucks working for him. If he’d have pulled it off, I think he’d have gotten away with it. But he didn’t pull it off, did he?”

“Thanks to your goof-ball — Mr. Blinney.”

“That’s just the point. There’s always some stupid stumble-bum who does the unexpected; a clown who bumbles into being a hero.”

“Do you think it’s ever happened, Lieutenant?”

“What?”

“The perfect crime?”

“I wouldn’t know, because if it was a perfect crime — who would know? There have been unsolved crimes, of course, but, actually for a perfect crime, you just wouldn’t know a crime was committed, would you?”

“True,” said John Rogers. “Fascinating concept, though.”

“Yeah, but so’s Oscar Blinney a fascinating concept. Here’s a clown who turns out to be a brave hero; actually a stupid goof-ball who might have killed himself, wrecked a bank, and killed maybe a hundred people with him. Turns out the guy was carrying a box of cigars instead of a box of explosives — but our bumbling hero couldn’t have known that, could he? Perfect crime? I nominate Oscar Blinney.”

“Yeah, there’s the one.” Rogers laughed.

“A perfect candidate.” And Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr, seized with his joke and relaxed with Scotch, laughed until the tears streamed. “And why not?” he managed between spasms. “After all, who would think that kind of idiot could have the brains, the nerve, the skill, the flair, the audacity? Would you?”

“I certainly would,” said John Rogers, and now he had made his joke, and he giggled, and then broke into guffaws caught in the contagion of laughter.

“Why, a chump like that would be out in front, right from the start.” And Lieutenant Burr doubled over, stabbing knuckles at his tears. “Oh, man, it’s a beautiful thought. Who could figure a boob like that could have it in him?”

“I could,” said John Rogers, paroxysms pealing.

And they laughed and laughed. They laughed at Oscar Blinney.

And Lieutenant Burr called for the check, and paid, and they laughed and laughed, hugely enjoying their joke. “All right, please, enough,” said Lieutenant Burr. “Let’s get out of here.”

On the fifteenth day of December, at the Grand Ballroom of the Commodore Hotel, to lengthy congratulatory speeches and enthusiastic applause, Oscar Blinney received the Heroism Award of the First National Mercantile Bank in the amount of $21,000. On the twenty-fourth day of December, Robert Allan McKnish, Credit Manager of the First National Mercantile Bank, tendered his resignation effective January the second.

On the third day of January, by unanimous vote of the Board of Directors, Oscar Blinney was appointed Credit Manager of the First National Mercantile Bank at a starting salary of $200 per week.

On the seventh day of January, Oscar Blinney married Adrienne Moore.

They lived happily ever after.

Death by Fright by Herbert Harris

A case of mistaken identity can be very serious... for a killer.

* * *

John Houck clutched at his breast, wincing with pain, his hands gripping a chair-back for support. It was useless to tell himself he should be accustomed to these agonizing pangs by now. Each time a sharp pain stabbed at his heart it made him gasp.