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

“He listened on the extension to her conversation with me. As soon as he was satisfied that the plot was working, he let the receiver dangle, walked out on the porch and broke the door pane. That was a fine touch, because I could hear the glass shatter in the background in the extension pickup.”

“Who?” Norbert Cole asked tensely. He shifted his gaze to the man in the wheelchair.

Shayne gave his head a sardonic shake. “It won’t work. Cole. I talked on the phone to Dr. Bacon. Harlan is permanently paralyzed from the waist down, and nothing in the world could ever make him walk again. Did Marie manage to get her bedroom door locked before you got upstairs? It wouldn’t matter, of course. She would be so relieved at hearing your voice assuring her that it was only you, she’d unlock it again.”

Cole’s face had paled. “You’re crazy, Shayne. You can’t pin this on me.”

“Yes I can,” the redhead assured him. “You managed it beautifully, but it didn’t quite work. Not wanting publicity because of your pending contract renewal was a particularly fine touch. You handled all the business arrangements for the team, so Marie didn’t know your option wasn’t being picked up. I talked to the station manager this afternoon. Breakfast with the Coles was leaving the air permanently in two weeks. You knew that Marie could make your life a hell, Cole? You knew what kind of woman she was. She’d never divorce you and every cent you earned would go to her. With Marie out of the way, you could go back to the night club circuit. You’d have Lydia to write your material for you. And you’d be free to live a life free of recrimination and petty tyranny. Even the brother would be off your neck.”

Lydia Mason said in a faint voice, “Is this true, Norbert?”

“Sure it’s true,” Shayne shot at her. “Still want to furnish him with an alibi, Lydia?”

The woman was staring at Cole. “You said it was just to avoid bother,” she whispered. “You said her first husband killed her, but it would be awkward to explain your movements. You swore to me you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Shut up, you little fool!” Cole yelled at her.

Will Gentry said, “I’ve heard enough. You’re under arrest for murder, Cole.” He took a ponderous step toward the man.

“Wait,” Cole said, raising one palm. “I can prove I’m innocent. Look at this. If you’ll just wait—”

Quickly Cole moved toward a desk against the wall and started to open a drawer. Shayne moved right behind him. The man’s hand dipped into the drawer and came out again.

He was pivoting with a gun in his hand when the redhead’s large fist crashed into his jaw. Shayne expertly plucked the gun from the air as it fell toward the floor, stepped aside and let Cole topple forward on his face. He tossed the pistol to Gentry.

“Probably the gun he held on Trimble to make him drink,” he said.

Lydia Mason started to cry.

I’m Tough by Davis Dresser

The tough private eye — and Mike Shayne has often been coiled the toughest of them all — has come in for some good-natured ribbing of late by friends and opponents alike. But for a witty tour-de-force on that very theme it would be hard to surpass this satire-barbed short story by Mr. Dresser, the famed redhead’s creator — the secret’s out — Brett Halliday himself!

* * *

It was late and it was raining. The streets were sleek, black and dismal. I was wet outside and dry inside. I went into a bar.

It was empty except for a thin man behind the mahogany. He was polishing glasses and he looked over his shoulder at me like he didn’t want customers. I dripped water on his clean floor toward the bar. I said, “A double whiskey,” to his back.

He turned, shaking his head. “Closing up, chum.” He had a thin face shaped like the hatchet Lizzie Borden chopped up her mama with. And with funny ears sticking out on each side that looked like the shrivelled hands of a baby that was born dead.

I slid onto a stool and said, “A double whiskey.”

He had a long thin nose and there was a glob of snot forming at the end of it. He shook his head and the end of his nose twitched and the snot started to fall. He reached up and swiped it off with his cloth and went back to polishing the glass. Only it didn’t polish so good now. He said, “Closing up.”

I got out my gat and laid it on the bar. He looked at the gat and then at my face, and then put down the glass and got a bottle of bonded stuff and a double shot-glass. He said, “Pardon me,” and gurgled bourbon to the brim.