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

Trimble hiked thick eyebrows. “Don’t you know how I am? I’m a Jekyll and Hyde drinker. Sober, I’m a pretty nice guy, even if I do say so myself. Drunk I’m a slob. I might look her up and* bat her around if I got drunk. I might do almost anything. But I’ve already spent five years behind bars for getting drunk. You couldn’t pay me ever to take another drink.”

Shayne looked him up and down. “Think you can stick to that resolution? When you’ve been hitting the bottle for a long time—”

“I’m certain of it,” the man said in a definite tone. “I’ll never take another drink as long as I live. You can assure Marie of that. And tell Norbert to rest easy too. I haven’t got any grudge against him. All he has is my sympathy.”

“Oh, you know she’s remarried then?”

“Sure. We got the Miami papers in stir.” Suddenly he grinned. “I thought about sending them a wedding present, but I couldn’t get hold of the materials to build a bomb.” He shrugged and the grin was gone.

Shayne rose and killed his cigarette in the ash tray. “Okay, Trimble. I’ll report to my client that you’re willing to let bygones be bygones. Need a job?”

“I start as dish washer in a joint up the street today,” Trimble said. “I could use a better one.”

“I’ll speak to a couple of business acquainances,” Shayne said. “Maybe I can turn you up something.”

“I’d certainly appreciate that,” the man said, rising also. He glanced at a wrist watch. “Hey, I’ve got to report to work at noon. I’ll walk down with you.”

They went down the stairs together. Outside Trimble pointed to a sign up the street which read: SWARTZ’S CAFE.

“It only pays a dollar an hour,” he said. “But I get three meals, so it’s enough to tide me over. The food isn’t too hot, but at least the place is clean.”

They talked for a moment or two more, then Trimble walked up the street and entered the restaurant. Shayne climbed into his car and drove away.

III

Shayne stopped for lunch before driving to South Miami, so it was nearly two P.M. when he arrived at the home of Norbert and Marie Cole. It was a neat, two-story stucco building with a spacious lawn studded with palm trees.

When he rang the bell, a masculine voice from the front room called, “Come on in.” A television indoors was blasting so loudly, he barely heard the invitation over it.

Opening the door, the redhead stepped into a wide front room comfortably furnished with good quality furniture. Opposite the front door stairs led to the second floor. Just left of the stairs a blond, sullen-faced man of about thirty sat in a wheelchair with a shawl over his legs, facing a television screen.

A quizz program was on, and just as Shayne entered, the idiot M.C. emitted a hyena laugh at some joke he had just made. Shayne winced, partly at the volume but mostly at the M.C.

The man in the wheelchair lifted a small remote-control box from his lap, aimed it at the television set and pushed a button. The sound died and the screen went blank.

“I agree with your expression,” he said sardonically. “The worst loss to show business when vaudeville died was the hook they used to use to jerk lousy performers offstage. But I have to watch it because there isn’t anything else to do. You must be Mike Shayne.”

“Uh-huh,” Shayne said. “And you must be Mrs. Cole’s brother.”

The man in the wheelchair nodded. “Harlan Wright. If you’re looking for my sister and brother-in-law, they should be back any minute. They ran over to pick up Lydia Mason. She’s the writer responsible for the corn they inflict on the long-suffering public every morning. They meet here every afternoon to plan the next day’s horror session. Today Lydia phoned that her car broke down, so they had to go after her. Have a seat.”

Crossing the room, Shayne dropped his lanky frame into a chair and produced cigarettes. He gave Harlan Wright an inquiring look.

“No thanks,” the man said. “I don’t smoke. There’s a ash stand right behind you. Did you locate Trimble?”

Shayne nodded. Lighting a cigarette with a paper match, he twisted in his chair to move the ash stand behind it around in front of him. He dropped the dead match into it.

“How is my punchy ex-brother-in-law?” Wright asked.

“Seems in good spirits,” Shayne said laconically.

The man chuckled without humor. “So my lovely sister is worried that Barry will come after her, is she? He ought to. If ever a bitch deserved a clobbering, Marie does.”

Shayne hiked shaggy eyebrows.

“She railroaded the poor slob,” Wright said. “It was the easiest way to get rid of him. She had her greedy little eyes on Norbert.” He chuckled again. “Then she almost didn’t land Norbert after going to all the trouble of getting rid of Barry. It took her a full year to sink her hooks into him.”

Shayne said with a frown, “You mean Trimble’s conviction was a frame?”