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

Shayne said, “Mind if I trail along, Lieutenant?”

Mosby shrugged. “Suit yourself, Shayne. If he’s locked in that room and he’s drunk, it may take four of us to subdue him. I’ve seen Trimble in the ring, and he’s strong as a bull.”

He strode out the door trailed by the two uniformed policemen. Shayne followed them out, climbed into his car which was parked behind the police car. The two policemen got in the front seat of the radio car, Lieutenant Mosby got in back.

Shayne kept behind them all the way to South Portage and Labat. It was a fifteen-minute drive, even with the police car’s siren open. As Lieutenant Mosby’s investigation had taken nearly an hour at the scene of the crime, it was past one A.M. when they got there.

V

The stakeout car in front of the rooming house was an unmarked undercover car with a single plainclothesman in it. Lieutenant Mosby stopped to have a brief word with him before going inside.

They found the outside man’s partner posted in the hallway outside of room 212. He straightened up from a slouching position when he saw the lieutenant.

“I don’t think there’s anybody in there, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ve listened at the door a half dozen times, and I can’t hear a sound.”

“Go get the manager,” Mosby ordered.

The man went down the stairs. The lieutenant, Shayne and the two uniformed officers waited as a good five minutes passed. While waiting, Mosby went over to lay his ear against the door, then shrugged and leaned against the wall. Eventually the stakeout man reappeared with a thin, elderly man wearing a robe over pajamas.

“You the manager of this place?” Lieutenant Mosby asked.

“Yes, and this is the second time I’ve been routed out of bed,” the man complained. “What is it this time?”

“What’s your name?”

“Henry Fellinger.”

“How come you don’t have a pass key to all the rooms, Mr. Fellinger?”

Fellinger said in an aggrieved tone, “Like I told this other officer here, I had one, but I lost it last week. You’ll just have to wait until Mr. Trimble comes home if you want to get in there.”

“I don’t think so,” Mosby informed him. He turned to his two uniformed companions. “Break it in.”

“Hey!” the manager protested. “You can’t do that!”

“Watch us,” Mosby said. “Go ahead, boys.”

George Gannon examined the door, which was held by a spring lock. Then he backed across the hall, charged forward and threw a beefy shoulder against it. The door shuddered but the lock held.

Rubbing his shoulder, Gannon stepped aside as his partner Joe hurled himself against the door. There was the rending sound of screws being torn from wood and the door crashed inward against the inside wall.

Lieutenant Mosby entered the room, followed by Shayne. The center light was off, but a small light burned over the corner washbowl. There was a strong odor of whisky in the room. An empty pint bottle stood on the dresser. A second, also empty, lay on the floor. A wet stain on the rug around it explained the odor. Apparently it had been at least half full when it spilled.

A straight-backed chair lay on its side near the room’s center. A section of doubled clothesline was securely tied to the overhead light fixture and hung downward.

Hanging limply from the end of the rope was the body of Barry Trimble.

The men in the hall had now all crowded in behind Mike Shayne. Everyone stared at the dead man.

Henry Fellinger squeaked, “He’s dead! He hung himself!”

Swinging toward the rooming-house manager, Lieutenant Mosby snapped, “We won’t need you any more, Mr. Fellinger. Go on back to bed.”

The man continued to stare open-mouthed at the dead man. George Gannon took his arm and gently steered him from the room. He stood watching from the doorway until he was sure the manager had gone back downstairs, then re-entered the room.

Lieutenant Mosby moodily circled the dangling corpse. “Well, I guess that’s that” he said. “Murder and suicide.” He glanced at his watch and his expression turned from a moody look to one of satisfaction. “Both neatly tied up in less than two hours.”

Shayne went close to examine the body. Trimble’s face was as congested as Marie Cole’s had been, his tongue was equally swollen and his eyes were distended. The knot of the noose was expertly placed to the side and slightly to the rear of the man’s neck, in the traditional spot that hangmen place it, but it hadn’t succeeded in breaking the neck. Trimble had strangled to death, by all appearances.

Mosby said, “He stood on the chair, tied the rope around his neck, then kicked the chair from under him.”

Shayne went over to examine the broken door lock. It was a simple spring lock, with no extra bolt which could be thrown from the inside.

The lieutenant asked, “What are you looking at, Shayne?”

“It’s too pat,” the redhead growled. “It looks rigged.”

“Rigged?” Mosby repeated with a frown. “He was locked in.”

“It’s a spring lock, Lieutenant All you have to do is pull the door closed from outside.”