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

Cole looked a little embarrassed. “Probably I was being over-cautious. But we’re so concerned about the possibility of publicity, I didn’t want even the prison officials to know there was any connection between Breakfast with the Coles and Barry Trimble.”

Shayne grunted. After reflecting for a moment, he said, “I can probably locate him if he’s in the Miami area. I’m willing to look him up for a talk and then give you my opinion of what you should do. That’s the best service I can offer you.”

“We appreciate you taking even that much action,” the blonde said fervently. “Frankly, Mr. Shayne, I’m badly frightened.”

“Where can I reach you?” Shayne asked.

Cole gave an address and phone number in South Miami. Lifting a small scratch pad from a desk drawer, Shayne jotted the information down, tore off the sheet and thrust it into a pocket. He dropped the pad back into the drawer.

“I’ll try to have a report for you by this evening,” he said, rising from his chair in indication that the interview was over.

The couple rose too. The woman said, “If you phone when we’re not there, you can leave a message with my brother Harlan, Mr. Shayne. He lives with us and he’s always home.”

“He can’t go out,” Cole amplified. “He’s confined to a wheelchair. Paralyzed from the waist down. That’s why Barry drew such a stiff sentence. He broke his back.”

Shayne accompanied them to the door, watched as they crossed the outer office and left. Then he said to Lucy, “Get me Will Gentry on the phone, will you, angel?”

A few moments later the inner office phone buzzed and Lucy informed Shayne that Police Chief Will Gentry was on the phone.

Shayne said, “How are you, Will?”

“Fine,” the chief said cordially. “What’s up, Mike?”

“I need a little information. A five-to-ten felon was released from the state penitentiary yesterday after serving five. Probably it was an unconditional release, inasmuch as he served the full lesser term, but it may be just a parole. He went in from here, so you’d automatically be informed of his outside address, wouldn’t you?”

Gentry said, “If he returned to Miami, we’d automatically get it even if he isn’t on parole. What’s his name?”

“Barry Trimble.”

“The ex-fighter?” Gentry asked in a surprised tone. “I remember that case. He made a cripple out of some guy. Just a minute, Mike.”

The chief was gone from the phone about two minutes. When he returned, he said, “It was an unconditional release, Mike. He’s not on parole. But he returned to Miami, so they sent us his local address. Ready?”

Shayne poised a pen over his scratch pad. “Shoot. It’s what I need most right now.”

Gentry reeled off the address of a rooming house on South Portage, and the redhead wrote it down.

“Thanks,” Shayne said. “See you, Will.”

“Wait a minute, Mike. What do you want with Trimble?”

“Just a welfare report, Will. An old friend wants to know what his prospects for the future are.”

“Oh. Well, you can let us know if you think he’s a problem case. We’re interested in knowing how ex-cons get along too.”

“Sure, Will,” the redhead said, and hung up.

He left the office, telling Lucy not to expect him back until after lunch.

II

Mike Shayne’s first stop was at the office of the Miami Daily News, where he got his reporter friend, Timothy Rourke, to dig out of the newspaper morgue both the story of Barry Trimble’s assault on a reporter and the later assault for which he had drawn his prison term. In both cases it seemed the man had been so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing.

In the latter case Marie Cole’s brother, whose name was given as Harlan Wright, apparently had been drunk also and couldn’t recall what had happened beyond a vague recollection of having an argument with his brother-in-law. He had fallen down a flight of stairs, fracturing his spine. The only witness was Trimble’s wife, who testified that Trimble had knocked her brother down the stairs in a drunken rage.

From the newspaper office Shayne headed for the rooming house on South Portage. He arrived about eleven thirty A.M.

The place was a two-story frame building badly in need of paint. A dim hall contained a double bank of mail slots with cards beneath them. A brand new card beneath slot number 212 had Barry Trimble inked on it.

Shayne climbed carpeted stairs to the second floor, located 212 halfway down the hall. His rap brought a burly, cheerful-faced man in his late thirties to the door. The man had a somewhat battered face and one cauliflower ear, but nevertheless there was something pleasant about his appearance. Years back Shayne had seen him in the ring a time or two and had liked his roughhouse style. Today, after reading the news accounts of the brutal beatings he had given two men, he had been prepared to dislike him on sight. But the ex-fighter gave him such a disarmingly friendly grin, he found himself instinctively smiling back.

“Barry Trimble?” the redhead asked.

“Uh-huh. What can I do for you?”