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

He stood still, red knife in hand. He breathed deeply until he recovered his wind. Then he laid the knife on the floor and turned the faceless man over. He took the key from the pocket of the slacks, went to the door, unlocked it, returned, threw the key on the floor, and picked up the dripping knife.

He went through a corridor to the bathroom where, first, he washed the knife. He dried it on a bath towel, folded it, and replaced it in the pocket where he always carried it. Then he removed his jacket and shirt and washed himself thoroughly. He combed his hair, re-dressed, went back to the study, skirted the dead man, and explored the desk-drawers for money. Of course there was no money. He left all the lights burning and went out to the car.

He drove to his apartment and packed quickly. He took sixteen hundred dollars from its hiding place in a closet and placed it into his wallet. He turned off the lights, went back to the car, and drove to the airport. He spread a bit of bribe-money, talked about an emergency involving an acutely ill mother, and procured a ticket to Havana on a flight that was leaving in forty-five minutes. Then he went to a booth and made a phone call.

IV

On the third day of March, at seven minutes to eleven of a humid moonless evening, Evangeline Ashley sat in a soft chair in Room 203 of Hotel Cascade reading a three-paragraph gossip-column on a back page of a daily newspaper.

She was nearing the end of the last paragraph when the phone rang. She laid the paper aside and went to the telephone. She was wearing a grey gabardine suit, grey stockings, black patent-leather pumps, and a frilly-fronted white blouse. She lifted the receiver and said, “Yes??”

“Eve? This is Bill.”

“What’s the matter? What—”

“Shut up. Listen. I’m at the airport.”

“You’re where...?”

“Airport. I’m leaving soon. Next forty minutes—”

“For where?”

“Havana. Now shut up. Listen to me, will you please? Get into your car and drive out here. Fast. No time for fooling around. Hang up, get into your car, and drive out here. Important. I’m waiting. Bye now.”

He hung up. She hung up. She turned off the lights, left the room, locked the door, ran down the stairs, ran to the garage, got into her powder-blue convertible, and drove without event to the airport.

She parked, ran in, and he was there waiting. He took her to an uncrowded spot and told her what had happened.

“Take me with you,” she said. “Please take me.”

“Forget it.”

“I love you, Bill.”

“Forget it.”

“Will you send for me?”

“No. Now look, you’re in a spot.”

“I’m in no spot.”

“Senor.”

“I can handle him.”

“I don’t think you can. That creep has popped his cork, I tell you. And when he finds out what happened to Little Dee, he’ll really flip.”

“I can handle him.”

“But he knows about us.”

“He hasn’t seen us together, has he? He hasn’t seen us in bed, has he? So he knows we’ve been out together. So he knows I came visiting you. So he knows, even, that I stayed over. I can talk him out of all of that. I’m a woman. He’s a man. I can handle him.”

He drew out his wallet, pinched out money. “Here’s three hundred bucks. Pack up and git. You can always take out the five thousand you have in the Savings Bank by mail or something.” She held back. “Take it,” he said. She took the money. He put his wallet away. “That’s my advice. Pack up and blow. Tonight.”

“I told you I can handle him,” she insisted.

“Look.” He talked rapidly, quietly. “I gave a guy his lumps tonight. I’m running. I’m hot I figure to be hot for quite a while. Even if I wanted you, I wouldn’t let you come with me. I’ll be moving around, like looking over my shoulder. For a while, anyway. Until it simmers down. Even if I wanted you, I wouldn’t let you come. And I don’t want you. It’s been nice, but I’ve had it. I’m a loner. I’m a loner, looking for the big score. I’ve got to go my own way, and I’ve got to go unhampered. That’s it. I don’t like long good-byes. I’m going to turn around and walk away. You go back to your car.”

“Billy, please.”

“Honey, there’s a dead man around, and I killed him. It may blow up big, it may not blow up at all, depending on whether Senor pipes. If it blows big, there’ll be cops looking for me. They inquire at airports. There’s no sense somebody seeing us and tying you into it. There’s no sense in your being an accessory. I don’t want you hanging around here with me. Good-bye, Evie.”

“Billy, say one nice word.”

“Good-bye, baby.”

“Billy, do you love me?”

“No.”

He turned and walked, gracefully, on his high heels, into gloom. She restrained an impulse to run after him. You did not run after Bill Grant. You did not make scenes with Bill Grant. You gave him all the love you were capable of. You gave him money to nurture his expensive tastes. You held him and you made love to him and he made love to you, but you knew all the while he was gossamer, you had no sense of possession, you knew one day be would go away. Now he was going away.