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

“He must have made it up the stairs before she could get to it from the bed,” Shayne said bitterly. “I told her to lock herself in.”

The other policeman said, “Nobody in the bathroom. Let’s check the other rooms.” He looked at the redhead curiously.

“Mike Shayne,” Gannon told him. “You’ve heard of him.”

“Oh, sure,” the policeman said. “How are you, Mr. Shayne?”

“Sore,” Shayne growled.

As both officers went off to search the rest of the house, the redhead bent over the dead woman. The nail of the ring finger on each hand was broken, he noted, indicating that she had struggled to tear the throttling grip from her throat. Close examination of the nails failed to show any skin particles or blood beneath them, however, as would have been the case had she managed to scratch her assailant’s flesh. Shayne could not be sure, but it seemed highly probable that the killer had worn long sleeves, and possibly gloves.

He moved out into the hall just as Officer Bannon came from another room.

“Nobody up here,” Gannon said. “Let’s see what Joe found downstairs.”

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the other officer came from the back of the house.

“Nobody but him,” he said, jerking a thumb at the man in the wheelchair. “I phoned in a report, so Homicide will be along soon.”

He looked at the redhead. “What do you know about this, Mr. Shayne?”

“She was a client of mine,” Shayne growled. “You can phone in another report. Get out an APB on Barry Trimble. They can get his description from his card downtown. He was released from prison yesterday.”

The officer named Joe hiked his eyebrows. “You think he did it?”

“He phoned my client that he was coming over here to kill her. You can add to the description that he’s drunk. If you get it on the air fast, you may still net him in the vicinity.”

The policeman headed for an extension phone on a small table next to the stairs.

It was midnight before the homicide team showed up. It consisted of a plump, middle-aged lieutenant named Sam Mosby and a gaunt detective named Allen Buck. They brought a medic and a lab man with them.

The lieutenant did all the questioning, while his gaunt partner took notes. After the medic and lab man went upstairs, Mosby got the stories of the two officers first on the scene, of Harlan Wright and Mike Shayne.

When he had all the essential information, Mosby said, “We’ve got fifty cops searching the area. If he’s still around, we’ll get him.”

“Send anyone to his home address?” Shayne inquired.

Mosby looked at him. “Naturally. His room door’s locked and the manager doesn’t have a duplicate key. The place is staked out. If the dragnet doesn’t snare him and he doesn’t show at home, I’ll run over there after while and break the door down. Maybe he’s hiding in the closet.”

George Gannon came in the front door leading Norbert Cole by the arm. “This guy says he lives here, Lieutenant,” he announced. “Says he’s the woman’s husband.”

“What’s happened?” Cole inquired, looking from Mosby to Shayne. There was a sharp anxiety in his stare.

Ignoring the question, Mosby said, “Where you been tonight, mister?”

“It’s my bowling night. What’s happened? Is my wife all right?”

Harlan Wright said in a harsh voice, “She’s dead, Norbert. Barry broke in and strangled her.” Then he lowered his face into his hands and suddenly began to sob.

Everyone stared at the weeping man in the wheelchair. The police officers looked vaguely embarrassed at seeing a man in tears. Norbert Cole seemed too stunned by his brother-in-law’s announcement to be affected by his sobbing. Shayne’s primary reaction was puzzlement at Wright’s display of grief over the death of a sister he had obviously disliked.

Wright cleared up his puzzlement by dolefully inquiring through his tears, “Now who’s going to take care of me? I’ll have to go to some home.”

It wasn’t grief, the redhead realized, making no attempt to conceal his disgust. It was merely sudden understanding by the cripple that he had lost his only source of support. He seemed to possess the same self-interested philosophy that his sister had.

The medic came down the stairs and said, “Death by strangulation, all right. Within the last hour, I’d guess.”

Lieutenant Mosby said, “We’ve got the time of death pretty well pinpointed, Doc. She talked to Shayne here on the phone at eleven thirty. When the boys arrived seven minutes later, she was already dead.”

“Then why’d you call me out of a poker game?” the medic rasped. “Just to tell you she was dead? Any moron could have looked at her and have told that.”

He stormed out of the house.

“I’d hate to have his disposition,” Mosby said. “Al, see if the dragnet has snared anything.”

Silently his gaunt partner crossed to the phone by the stairs and dialed. After a brief conversation, he hung up and shook his head.

“Then I think I’ll hit the guy’s apartment,” Mosby said. “Gannon, you and Joe can come along. You both have door-breaking shoulders. Al, you stay here for the lab report and until the morgue wagon shows up.”